“Fuck you, bitch!” screams Fernandez, going down hard, but I’m too busy aiming the muzzle at the second sicario as he’s still cursing and reaching for his gun.
Again, I’m too quick for him. A spray of crimson explodes from the back of his head, messing up Vi’s squeaky-clean shelves.
The power is all in my hands now. And damn it feels good. I’m not numb anymore; I’m drunk on it. Fucking loaded. Meanwhile, Gustavo has pushed Vi away from him, but I shoot to kill while his dick’s still hanging out of his pants.
Five bullets to change a life.
Five bullets to calm the storm.
Let’s make it six…
Fernandez isn’t dead yet. He’s dying as loudly as possible at my feet. I don't know much Spanish, and now isn't a good time to learn more. I kneel down beside him, my hand completely steady as I point his own gun at his head, and then I reveal my truth to him,
“I’m running from El Asesino, you rapist motherfucker,” I tell him, watching his eyes grow wide with shock before they’re dimming for good. “But I’ll never run from men like you again.”
14
Anna
“Anna, we need to get the hell out of here.” There’s a frantic tugging on the back of my T-shirt. “Anna, did you hear me? We have to get our shit together and leave now!”
It takes me a second to drag my eyes away from the smoking gun and the gaping hole where Alberto Fernandez’s head used to be. Vi’s standing right behind me. Her face is a mess of tears and blood. The front of her white dress is in the same state. She’s already clutching her keys and purse.
How long have I been kneeling here? I stare down at the gun again. It’s like it appeared from thin air. I don't recognize the bitten fingernails wrapped around the grip. Do I make it a lucky seven? I glance back at Vi. She’s the one who dragged me into this mess, but I can't bring myself to hate her anymore. I guess I annihilated that emotion when I shot down three Colombian criminals in cold blood.
Holy shit.
What have I done?
There’s blood everywhere—the floor, my arms… Even my pink Chucks have been dip-dyed the color of murder.
There’s another tug on my T-shirt. “Anna!”
I can’t breathe. “Oh my God, Vi—”
“There’s no time for that!”
Tears are trickling down her cheeks. She’s biting her lips to keep her composure, fighting hard against the waves. But Vi isn't Moses. She can't part shit. She’s just another beautiful broken casualty of the Colombian cartels.
The full horror of her ordeal hasn't hit home yet, and as crazy as it sounds, I want to be there for her when it does. We’re in this together now. We’re blood sisters, whether we like it or not.
“Hang on. I need a moment to—” To what? Think? Hide the evidence? Stop wishing with every fiber of my being that my shadow was here to make all of this go away?
“Listen, Anna, I deserve every piece of shit you want to throw my way, but save it for the car, okay?” Her swollen dark eyes are pleading with me. “The whole village would have heard these shots. Fernandez’s spies are everywhere and his son is lying dead on the floor of my bar. We have ten minutes before the Cartagena Costavo are all over us. They'll slit our throats and hang us from a bridge, and that’s if they’re feeling generous.”
Her words seem to zap my frozen body into life. “What do we do with the—?”
“We leave them! Come on!” Her urgent tugging turns into full-on dragging, and I stumble to my feet after her, still clutching the gun.
Avoiding the front door, she leads me out into the yard and through a side gate. The narrow dirt path doubles back to the street and close to where her car’s parked. People in various states of undress are standing outside their tiny red and orange houses, watching as two women fall upon the doors of the small red Renault like wild animals.
“Quickly, Anna!”
“Okay, okay!”
Vi’s already hitting thirty before I’ve found my seatbelt.
“Slow down!” I cry as she swerves to avoid an oncoming black SUV.
“Are you insane?” She drags her wild eyes away from the road to glare at me. “We have five minutes, max. They have a fleet of top-of-the-range Jeeps. We have a shitty old car that doesn't do more than sixty on a good day.”
We’re back on the same road with all the potholes again—the Renault traveling so fast that every bump and jerk is like a mini explosion going off under the suspension.
“Where are you taking us?” I yell above the whining engine.
“Somewhere safe. Somewhere we can get our crap together.”
“Somewhere you can figure out a way to betray me again?”
I can't help it. It just slips out.
“No!” She slams the wheel to the left as we hit a T-junction, the speedometer barely dipping below forty.
It’s pitch black outside. The crescent moon is fading and the stars are in hiding. It’s like they’re ashamed of me, and what I’ve done, but I’m past caring. Killing those men has bought me my first peace in months. I’m too pumped with adrenaline to analyze the wrongness of that right now.
“Why did you do it?” I demand. “Why did you sell me out?”
“I didn’t. I-I… Mierda! Look, I know you don't want to hear it, but I wasn’t trying to sell you out.”
“Bullshit!” I brace against the door as she swerves again, this time onto the main road, the pedal still flat to the floor.
“It’s not, I swear it! I’m sorry I brought you into my mess, but I was fucking desperate. Let me explain.” I can tell she’s trying really hard not to cry again. “You were a guarantee for the debt, nothing more. I never should have mentioned you, but I was in that car and he wouldn't stop touching—” She slams the heel of her hand down on her thigh suddenly. “Motherfucker!” she screams, slamming it down again and again, and I know she’s picturing Gustavo’s face as she’s doing it. “That fucking bastard! How dare he violate my body!” She slams the brakes on and the Renault goes skidding across the asphalt. A second later, she’s kicked her door open and is puking her guts up as I’m left pivoting across both seats to catch her hair.
“Mierda,” she groans out, going down again. “Men are like fucking poison.”
“And puking them up seems to be a recurring theme for us.”
Just then, a car shoots past, rattling the metal framework and setting her off again. After a while she lifts her head with another groan and I pass her a bottle of water I find stuffed in the side pocket.
“For two women who only met a couple of hours ago, we’re making up for lost time,” she croaks, unscrewing the cap and taking a sip. “I’m good now. The sickness has passed. We need to get going.”
“Not like this, move over,” I say, taking charge, attempting to push her gently out of the car. “There’s no way you’re driving. I think you have a concussion.”
“Do you have a license?” she says, refusing to budge.
“Do you honestly give a shit about that?” I yell. “I just committed a crime that’s way worse!”