Page 81 of Imprisoned

“We’re gonna hit the tarmac soon,” I announce, feeling Tommy tense beside me. “Less than a mile to go.”

Willow leans forward. “Are there checkpoints?”

“Probably by now.” I squint at the GPS. “News of the breakout will have them setting up roadblocks on all the main routes toward the border.”

Tommy shifts in his seat. “So what’s the plan? We can’t exactly roll up to border patrol with smiles.”

The car jostles over a particularly rough patch, sending pain shooting through my bruised knuckles, still gripping the wheel. Blood from Marcus’s men has dried in the creases of my hands.

“Just a little further,” I mutter, eyes fixed on the road ahead. The headlights cut through the blackness.

Willow shifts beside me, her profile illuminated by the dull glow of the dashboard. She turns to look at Tommy in the back seat.

“The first safe house is about ten miles from here,” she says, her voice steadier than I expected. “I’ve got a contact meeting us there who can fly us out to Brazil.”

Tommy leans forward, wincing as the movement jostles his injured arm. “Brazil? I thought we were heading to Mexico.”

I tighten my grip on the wheel. “That was the original plan. Rico and you were supposed to split off to Mexico.”

The mention of Rico hangs heavy in the car. No one acknowledges his absence.

“Things changed,” I say flatly.

Willow reaches across and places her hand on my thigh. The touch instantly quiets the whispers starting to build again in my mind.

“I only have fake IDs arranged for Axel and me,” she explains to Tommy. “I didn’t know you’d be coming with us.”

Tommy’s eyes widen. “So what happens to me?”

“You’ll still come,” Willow says quickly. “We’re leaving from a private airstrip. They won’t look twice at someone without papers. Once we’re in Brazil, we’ll get you sorted.”

I glance at her, impressed yet again by her planning. She’s thought of everything—a natural criminal mind.

“You sure about this?” I ask her softly.

Her eyes meet mine. “I’ve never been more sure of anything.”

The GPS beeps, indicating a turn ahead. I ease off the gas, preparing to navigate the sharp bend that will take us closer to freedom.

I’m driving silently when Willow instructs me to turn onto a dirt road nearly invisible from the main highway. The path winds through dense pines before opening to a small clearingwith a small agricultural barn. The smart girl picked a well-hidden safehouse.

“We’re here,” she announces, relief washing her face. “My contact won’t arrive until tomorrow morning. We’ll rest until then.”

Tommy moves inside while I scan the perimeter, that familiar tingling at the base of my skull warning me to stay alert. The barn has been converted—two bedrooms, a bathroom, kitchen with canned goods. Better than prison, but not by much.

“Get some rest,” I tell Tommy, who collapses onto a threadbare couch, his face pale. Willow tends to his wounds with supplies she’d packed.

I lean against the doorframe, watching Willow work on Tommy’s arm. Her movements are precise and clinical—a stark reminder of the life she left behind. Tommy winces as she splints his broken forearm but doesn’t make a sound.

“You’re good at that,” I say.

Willow doesn’t look up. “Had to be. ER rotation during residency was brutal.”

Something is calming about watching her work. Tommy’s phone buzzes on the table beside him, and I tense immediately. Nobody should have this number.

Tommy reaches for it with his good hand. “It’s Dante,” he says, surprised. He puts it on speaker.

“Tommy? You there?” Dante’s voice sounds strained, distant crackling in the background.

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