Page 23 of Mercenary
It rings five times in what seems like an eternity. Until I’m sure it’s the wrong number.
Then it stops ringing.
I hear a sharp exhalation on the other end, then silence. Uncomfortable seconds pass.
I swallow hard. “It’s me, Madelyn. From Shelby. I’m in Tucson at the Saguaro Hotel. I . . . um . . . need your help.”
Silence ensues. “Hello?” I frown down at my cell. Then I remember what he’s written. “It’s an emergency.”
I hear a noise, a clicking sound.
Disconnect?
* * *
He’s forgotten me.
I pull back the hotel curtain and peer outside. I’ve waited four days for my stranger to arrive, and with every passing hour it becomes clearer that the only person I can depend on to help me is me.
You’re a survivor, Madelyn. Trust your instincts. And my instincts tell me I’ve stayed here too long. My instincts urge me to get far away from Arizona. That time matters, and that the time I’ve spent waiting on a stranger—a man who may or may not remember me or, worse, may not care—is precious .
But my instincts also caution me. Before acting, you need a plan. Or in this case, a Plan B, seeing how a frantically formed Plan A, my stranger, didn’t work out.
My sister might accuse me of being naive but I’m no fool. I’m not equipped to go on a find-Kylie spree alone. I need to survive and start over before I figure out a way I can discreetly search for her without chaos erupting around me. Thanksgiving taught me that.
Step one means getting as far away from the blood and death of Cabo as possible and finding a place where I can fit in and lay low. To do that, I need a car and a destination. As I pull up a map on my phone, I can feel my control slipping; it would be so easy to just give in and give up. What do I know about laying low?
Arizona is out. I’ll never be able to come back to Arizona again after all this. I release a long exhalation. California? Too close to my old life. New York? I could get lost in a city that big, but am I ready to give everything up about my life? Continuing my studies in San Diego is not an option, I know that. I’ve been forced to drop out of school as well as drop out of sight.
Diego’s advice circles my head: Don’t go anywhere you’ve been before.
But I’m still clinging to an optimism that all my work is not lost, that even if I can’t have my old life, I can have a life. My eyes fix on Texas. A former biology professor had shared his experiences in helping wildlife recover from a devastating Gulf Coast oil spill there. I pull up directions to Corpus Christi. If I can’t finish my degree yet at least I’ll be somewhere where I’ll get some hands-on experience.
With a destination in mind, I don’t want to wait. The hotel is more active now that it’s Friday night. I can hear a party going on somewhere close by. The hotel clerk seems distracted as I thank him over the phone about allowing me to stay past checkout. Cold, hard cash talks, right? And fortunately, I have enough emergency money on hand that I don’t need to use a bank card to pay for the rental.
I patiently wait until nightfall begins to settle in, counting the minutes until just before Made Good Again Car Rental closes at eight p.m., then walk the few blocks to pick up my rental. But I’m surprised when they pull a refurbished Pontiac convertible around after I went through a list of more conservative vehicles. Not wanting to create a fuss and draw too much attention onto myself, I take the keys.
It’s only when I take the last turn out of Tucson and onto a highway leading me into the vast desert ahead do I relax. I lower the convertible’s soft vinyl hood, the blackness of night blanketing me from the eyesight of the few cars I pass heading in the opposite direction.
Besides, Texas is the size of France. There’s a lot of land for me to cross over and disappear into, and the Gulf Coast to lose my troubles in as I move on with my life.
An hour later, I notice headlights way behind me on the long expanse of roadway. A prickle of fear courses up my spine and I instantly regret my decision to put the top down. Not that a hardtop will stop a bullet, if whoever is after me chooses to use a gun next time.
A . . . gun.
Reaching into the backseat, I grab the pink duffle and deposit it on the passenger seat, the gun tucked inside the outer pocket now easily accessible. Point and pull the trigger, right?
You hope you never find out.
We follow Interstate 10 and cross into New Mexico. The dark road ahead is straight, flat, and uneventful, and the driver behind me keeps his distance. I assume his car is on autopilot. And as I head toward Texas, I’m feeling less and less stressed, like I’m on autopilot too.
According to the Internet, the ride from Tucson to San Antonio is twelve hours. The Internet never lies—well, thankfully not in my case—because at exactly eight-fifteen in the morning, I pull into Made Good Again’s Sister Rental. As a precaution, I’ve decided ahead of time to switch vehicles, though have a slight pang of regret after the sales clerk frowns at my trading down to a cheaper compact car. His eyebrows raise as I remove and place my duffle bag into the new rental, and I decide to play up the poor woe-is-me woman, down on her luck and who can no longer afford the trade up in rental cars. A role that’s not hard to pull off because that woman is there, lingering just beneath the surface. I just choose to keep her under tight lock and key. A panicked, grief-stricken, shaken-to-her-core woman like her would be no help whatsoever.
Made Good Again is my one and only stop. No one but that sweet guy to confirm who he’s seen, if anyone inquires. It doesn’t hurt to err on the side of caution, even if my company for the better part of the trip turned off somewhere mid-Texas.
The second leg of my journey takes longer than the two hours anticipated. Internet maps haven’t taken into consideration the old Toyota’s lack of enthusiastic pep. Anonymous? Incognito? Low on the radar? The vehicle chugs along so slowly a little old lady gave me the finger as she passed around me.
My lips twitch, my sense of humor kicking in. There’s only so much you can control, right?
