Blood to Dust (37 page)

I don't know how I managed to hold off for more than a second knowing she could be in danger. What was probably only ten minutes seemed like a fucking century.

Yeah,
guns are for pussies
, but when it comes to Cockburn’s life, I’m not brave.
I am a pussy
. I can take a gamble with my own life. Take the gun we stole from Sebastian and figure shit out for myself. But Prescott? I’ll use every dirty trick in the book and out of it to make sure she’s safe.

I count the bullets in the gun before I go in. Six rounds.

Six. That means I’ll still have to handle at least some of them with my fists. The first two to go down are the Aryan Brothers standing at the front door. I’ve never used a gun but my aim is good. I have steady hands and a knack for doing all things violent.

In all probability, people from neighboring houses heard the shots. There are only two houses on Godfrey’s cul-de-sac, and judging by the fact that they let a bunch of criminals hang out here for hours without calling the cops, there’s a chance I might have a bit more time to pull my shit together. Maybe they’re not home this time of year, those rich bastards. Here’s fucking hoping.

I storm into the house and two more assholes run toward me with fists and knives.

Boom. Boom. Gone.

“Pea?” I call out, looking around the open-space foyer. I can see most of the kitchen from this angle, and it’s empty. I hop up the stairs, taking two at a time, my quads burning.

“Prescott!” I boom, kicking the first door in the hallway open. Nothing.

“Baby-Cakes?” My voice breaks. Two more Aryan Brothers appear from the far corner of the hallway and I shoot them down immediately.

I’m out of bullets, but I don’t give a fuck.

“Try and kick something, make some noise,” I prompt her.

If she’s dead, I’m burning down this whole house, with me inside. But she’s not. She’s tougher than Godfrey, and he doesn’t even know it.

Maybe he found out.

I’m just about to kick the second room’s door when it swings open, and I take a step back on instinct, only to find the face of the love of my life staring back at me. Wide-eyed, shocked and trembling. . .but healthy and still standing.

Thank God.

“Jesus fucking Christ, Cockburn. Why didn’t you answer me?”

“I ran and hid in his closet when I heard gunshots,” she murmurs and throws herself into my arms. I pull her into a suffocating hug, one that’d hopefully glue her back together. When we break away, I run my fingers over her face, her nose and her mouth, then touch her hair. Doing inventory, making sure they’re all still there. “Where’s Godfrey?” I ask. She takes a step sideways and I see him on the floor, his Hawaiian shirt torn around his neck. She killed him with her hands.

“Guns are for pussies.” She grins, pressing her hot, sweet mouth into mine, and I feel like fucking her right here on the floor, but that’ll have to wait.

“Come on,” I grab her hand. “We need to rethink this law on guns. If you see someone coming, shoot them. We don’t have time and I don’t have bullets.” I gesture toward the gun she’s clutching.

Descending the stairs, she halts near the first step of the staircase, takes my sleeve and wipes the railing.

“Fingerprints?” I ask. She nods. I grab one of the Nazi bastards who are lying dead at the foot of the stairs and crash his head against it. Blood splatters all over the railing. “That covers it.”

We storm out of the house and into the car in record time. When I rev up the engine, my girl tells me, “We have one more stop. London, England.”

“What about Vallejo?” I ask.

“Preston is with Camden.” She smiles. “I can feel it. Besides, you’re right, if he’s in Vallejo, I can come back for him when we’re no longer wanted.”

I tilt an imaginary hat down.

The drive to SFO is so quick, we barely have time to catch our breaths.

My baby has just one final piece to glue together before her soul is whole again. I intend to help her in any way I can.

Fake passports or not, both Nate and I are a wreck when we show our IDs at the security check-in point. Every law enforcement official in the state is probably looking for him by now, and unfortunately, his good looks, endless tattoos and huge frame only work against us in this case. His face is ridiculously memorable.

We ask the girl behind the United Airlines counter for two tickets to London, first flight out. I shift my weight from foot to foot, chewing on the inside of my cheeks and gawking at everyone and everything like they mean me harm.

Nate is stoic, quiet and peaceful, but he’s also human. There’s a storm inside him too, he’s just better at hiding it.

“Ma’am?” Her forehead crinkles, and I shake my head.

“My father’s just died and I need to hurry make it for the funeral,” I tell her from behind my big shades, even though it’s nearly dawn. That’s the only way I can justify the sunglasses.

“I’m sorry to hear that.” The young woman puts one manicured hand over her chest and moves her attention to my companion. Her eyes glint with something, and for a second, I worry that she recognizes Nate. But no. It is not recognition that peaks her interest. It’s the fact that he is a walking, talking masterpiece.

“Sir, may I have your passport please?” She offers a smile, and he hands her Christopher Delaware’s passport.

“Mr. Delaware,” she mumbles to herself. He nods once. She begins punching information into her touch screen monitor, her gaze scrutinizing. I want to yell at her to stop, but know that it’s a less than stellar idea.

My heart pounds violently, and I feel it everywhere in my body, down to my fingertips. Behind the shades, my eyes land on a photocopy taped to the woman’s workstation. It is one of several labeled as “no fly,” staring up at her—Nathaniel Vela’s face is included.

Shit, shit,
shit.

I’m trying to tell myself that he looks different now. He hasn’t shaved in weeks and his slicked back hair is a tousled mess of curls. Nate has changed after what we’ve been through. He’s older, colder.

She takes my passport again and examines the picture, lifting her eyes back to me and dropping them down to the picture. Chills run down my arms and back. I
am
the person in the picture. Then why is it so difficult to breathe?

My eyes are twitching and I want to scratch my face until I peel it off completely. She could put a stop to our whole journey. I can’t let that happen.

Another glance at the passport.

Another glance back at me.

Happy thoughts.

Listening to The Lovecats by The Cure on repeat.

Being kissed by a puppy, wet, smelly tongue and all.

Nate looking at me.

Nate smiling at me.

Nate inside me.

Nate, Nate, Nate.

Why didn’t we cross the border to Mexico by car? How could I have been such a fool?

She picks up the phone at her station. No. Please don’t do this.

She speaks into the phone, but I can’t hear what she’s saying. The air around me is white and thick with panic. Nate grabs my hand and squeezes it hard. This can’t be happening to us.

I want to scream, to go back in time, to choose another desk, another flight.
Another plan
. I should have paid more attention to who would be serving us.

No. No. No.

Her manager arrives. He’s a man. I can’t see anything else about him through the blur of tears. He’s asking me questions. My date of birth and other stuff I answer on autopilot. I remember Cockburn’s date of birth because I did my homework.

Long minutes pass, but they let us go. When they do, I’m dripping in cold sweat. I’m so clammy, my sockless feet squeak inside my ankle boots.

When we get the passports back with the tickets tucked inside, I shriek in relief. We pass security, despite our backpack being stuffed full of cash. My boyfriend grabs me by the waist and guides me to the terminal. We jog across the airport. We don’t have any bags. Just my one backpack. This could probably raise some questions, but no one seems to notice. We just need to get on that plane and everything will be okay.

Time.

I want it to move quickly and see me through to the other side of the planet.

Nate slumps into one of the plastic chairs at the gate as we wait for our flight to board and I buy us some Jamba Juice. His face is covered by the hoodie and he keeps quiet. I rest my head on his thigh and curl into a ball. We’re too nervous to talk. Too nervous to even blink. We just sit there. Two mute people, wishing we were invisible for the duration of the flight.

Once we get on the plane, I release a huge breath and close my eyes. It isn’t until our plane is in the air that Nate visibly looks well again. From erect and alert, he returns to his normal self. The hardness is gone, replaced with the charmer look he was born with. When we cross California’s border and the little screen on the headrest shows that we’re above Nevada, I let loose a little smile. His lips find my ear, and he doesn’t care that a flight attendant is passing by us with her cart, offering drinks.

“The minute we land in the UK, we’re checking into a hotel and fucking the shit out of each other. I still owe you a punishment for going all G.I. Jane on those Aryan Brothers’ asses.”

I lick my lips and turn around, my teeth grazing his chin lightly.

“You like ‘em dangerous, don’t you, Delaware?”

“Yes, I do. And what’s more dangerous than a Cockburn?”

He falls asleep in the tiny, narrow chair, and I spend hours just staring at him. I love him so much, I can feel the weight of this love on my body. I swear it’s like I’m pregnant with feelings.

In a lot of ways, he’s the only thing that’s kept me sane. In the past three weeks, I’ve been kidnapped, thrown into a basement, seduced my captor, ran away with him, fell in love with him and killed two people. And I know Nate killed at least six more at Godfrey’s house.

This is not a joke. It
is
a blood bath. Godfrey said Camden holds the answer to Preston’s disappearance. The burning question is—
does he actually hold Preston?
The old Prescott wouldn’t take any chances. She’d go to Vallejo before boarding a plane, consequences be damned, to do whatever she could to find her brother. But I’m not the old Prescott anymore. Nathaniel Vela changed me. He changed my priorities. He changed my heart.

What’s keeping me sane is the knowledge that what we’re doing is right.

I killed Sebastian, Godfrey, and now I’m going to kill Camden, because they don’t deserve to live. They took life from me. Not just in the spiritual sense. They literally ripped me open with a hanger, shoved it deep inside of me and plucked out the life I was growing. The life they themselves put inside me.

An eye for an eye. A life for a life.

We land at Heathrow, greeted by a slight London chill. It’s enough to make me shudder in my ragged red mini dress. Nate, who woke up after eight hours of sleep, notices and pulls his hoodie—filthy from everything we’ve been through—over his head and offers it to me, then proceeds to wrap his arm around me.

We stand in customs for forty minutes before they let us out, but when they do—when we walk through those sliding glass doors, pass the Duty Free shops, pass the meeting point where dozens of people wait behind barriers, clutching balloons and flowers and signs with names we don’t know—we laugh. Happy, joyous laughter.
We made it
. Hand in hand, our chests rattle. A symphony of bliss. We’re free.

No longer on US soil.

No more Aryan Brotherhood.

No more FBI.

No more Sebastian Goddard.

No more Godfrey Archer.

My fingers dig their way into his back for another grateful hug. Amid all the chaos of the airport happening all around us, he stops, faces me, pulls my hands into his, and levels those honey browns on mine.

“My fault, my failure, is not in the passions I have, but in my lack of control over them,” he says, repeating the words from his diary. The words to his first ever tattoo. The words he so badly wanted to relate to. “Thank you for helping me find my passion, Cockburn. My passion, as it turns out, is you.”