Susan Andersen - Running Wild

“Yeah. Did I hear Joaquin’s name?”

“Yes. We gotta get out of here.” She relayed the senora’s news.

He was a shadowy figure sliding off his sleeping bag, and she rose onto her knees to turn on the lamp. Blinking against the sudden light, she saw him crouched in front of his bedroll, readying its two pieces with swift efficiency for a return to their respective places on his pack.

He glanced at her over his shoulder. “Tell Mrs. G. that when Joaquin shows up here she needs to tell him the truth—that she rented us a room. And for her own safety, she should try to act surprised when he finds us gone.”

Mags interpreted for Senora Guerrero as she scrambled into her clothing, then translated Mrs. G.’s reciprocal warning to be as quiet as possible because Hector down the hall was both a light sleeper and an incorrigible gossip. Looking at her watch, Mags saw she’d slept longer than it had felt like. It was almost 1:00 a.m.

Finn finished dressing before her, and the instant he had his shoes tied, he carried his gear over to the backpack. After storing it, he glanced over at Mags’s suitcase, then turned those dark eyes on her. For a single brief, hot moment his gaze slipped over her still bare legs before rising to meet her eyes.

“We might not be able to get to the car and if that turns out to be the case it’s gonna be difficult to move fast hauling a suitcase. I have a little room in my pack for some of your stuff. You think maybe you can fit part of it into your purse?”

She nodded and grabbed a change of clothing, a sweater in case the evenings grew cooler than tonight, clean undies, socks, a pair of shoes to supplement her sandals and, after a brief internal debate, her performance gear. She handed a share of it to Finn and stuffed the rest into her tote. She pinned up her braid, tied another scarf around her head to disguise her hair color and used a pencil to quickly darken her eyebrows and draw a beauty mark next to her upper lip.

Finn swung the rucksack onto his back and came over to the senora. “Muchas gracias,” he said with palpable heartfelt appreciation and bent to press a fleeting kiss upon the older woman’s forehead. Then he turned to Mags.

“Let’s move,” he said briskly, and headed with long-legged strides for the door.

She followed in his wake.

The senora was right behind her. “Leave through the kitchen,” she said in a low voice.

Finn had already entered the room before Mags could finish speculating how much she dared raise her voice to translate Senora Guerrero’s instruction. He made a beeline for the back door, but Mrs. G. raced to place herself between him and the exit. She put a hand on his chest and pointed first to herself, then out the door.

Stepping back, he nodded, and the senora grabbed a lidded earthenware pot from the counter, turned off the kitchen light and opened the back door. She carried the pot over to a compost heap and emptied the kitchen waste onto it, glancing casually around the small yard as she did so. Straightening, she made a small, close-to-her-body hand gesture to indicate they should come out.

She and Finn had no sooner stepped into the yard when a pounding commenced on the front door and for a second Mags thought her heart had stopped. Then it thundered in her chest with such force she was surprised the entire neighborhood didn’t start yelling for her to keep it down out there. Mrs. G. scuttled past them into the kitchen and quietly closed the door behind her. Mags jumped when Finn’s work-roughened fingers suddenly wrapped around her wrist.

He placed the knife he’d liberated from Joaquin in her hand, and she saw that he’d retrieved the gun as well.

“Come on,” he breathed and edged around the corner of the house.

For a second she stared down at the knife in horror. Then she gave herself a mental shake and took a giant step to catch up.

He put a hand back to halt her when they reached the front corner of the house and cautiously he craned his head to look around its edge. Almost immediately, he pulled back and lowered his mouth to her ear. “There’s a guy keeping an eye on our car,” he said. “And there’s an SUV in front of it that’s too shiny and new to belong to anyone but city guys.” He hesitated, then asked, “What are your thoughts on distracting him while I disable it?”

Her stomach went queasy and she wanted to say, “Are you out of your freaking mind?” Instead, she whispered, “No problem,” and handed him back the knife. She yanked her tank top down to showcase some cleavage and tucked it into her shorts to keep it low and tight. “I’d better cut through the neighbors’ yards, though. Coming out of this one won’t help our cause.”

“Wait.” He gripped her arm. “I don’t know what I was thinking.” His voice was surprisingly fierce for a tone so low-pitched. “Because on second thought, putting you in danger doesn’t seem like such a hot idea.”

No shit, Sherlock , her mind agreed, so relieved she wanted to break into a dance. Because it really was a lousy idea. But her big mouth said, “And yet, it’s the only idea we have. And I really like the thought of you disabling their car. Otherwise, they’ll be right on our tushies, and if that’s the case I don’t think we’ll have a prayer of shaking them.”

He was quiet for a moment. “Here, then.” He thrust the gun at her. “Take this.”

Her hands flew back, palms out, in repudiation. “I’m not going to shoot the guy!”

“Then use it like a hammer if you need to,” he said in a hard whisper. “Because, baby, if it comes down to you or him, better that you’re the one who walks away.”

True. But still—

“I’ve never handled a gun in my life, Finn. He’s more likely to take it away and use it against me.”

“Then, here.” He held out the knife. “Take this back.”

“No. It’s too big and the same thing applies. Plus, you might need it to disable the car.”

He studied her for a nanosecond, then nodded. “Okay. You have anything small and sharp in that behemoth purse?”

“Yes!” She dug out a pair of pointy little manicure scissors and immediately felt better to have some kind of weapon she could easily hide.

Finn looked less than impressed with her choice, but he didn’t say anything. Instead, he bent down and pressed the same kind of kiss to her forehead that he’d given Senora Guerrero. She felt surprisingly strengthened by it.

Then he stepped back. “Good luck, Magdalene.”

“Mags,” she insisted.

“Mags,” he agreed and repeated, “Good luck. And be careful.”

“You, too.” She turned and went to the back of the yard before crossing to the one next door, then slipped through that and a couple more fenceless adjoining yards. As she crept along the side of a little house several down from Senora Guerrero’s, she pulled out a richly pigmented lipstick and dabbed some on her mouth, rubbed her lips to give her what she hoped was a just-been-thoroughly-kissed look, then massaged the color that had transferred to her fingertips into the apples of her cheeks.

She waited until the man standing guard over their rental car turned his back, then stepped out onto the narrow concrete sidewalk bordering the packed-dirt road that ran through the village. She was only two buildings away from the cantina and as she began walking back toward the boardinghouse, she drew in a calming breath, then slowly eased it out.

She could do this. She’d spent practically every Saturday since she was nineteen years old performing on the streets. Of course it was more posing than true acting.

She swallowed a snort. Because she’d been acting, one way or another, since five months, two weeks and three days after her thirteenth birthday. This was simply more of the same, only with more physical risk at stake. So she shook out her hands.