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There’s no time for second guesses, no room for doubt. I keep going until I reach the main floor of the house, sticking to the shadows as I sprint for the back door. There’s only one guard on duty here; the rest are up front with the cars or upstairs trying to figure out how on Earth I supposedly managed to jump.
The guard doesn’t see me coming, doesn’t have time to process what’s going on when I throw myself at him. We both go tumbling down, his head smacking against the polished marble floor.
“I’m sorry,” I wheeze, meaning every word. I may be the daughter of a cartel lieutenant, but I didn’t inherit my father’s taste for violence or inflicting pain.
The poor guy is out cold beneath me, but at least he’s breathing. He’ll likely wake up in a little while with a headache to end all headaches.
I swallow my unease. There’s no time to feel sorry for him. I reach beneath his suit jacket and feel around for his holster. They all have the same standard issue Beretta on their person. I take his gun and shove it into the waistband of my jeans behind my back before moving on, not bothering to shut the door as I race outside.
The sky above is an inky black, the moon only a sliver. The cool air soaks into my skin, nipping at the tip of my nose. I’m thankful it probably won’t get any colder than this. Los Angeles isn’t known for its cold winters, but I’m not abandoning my coat any time soon. There’s no telling where I’ll end up sleeping tonight, and I’d rather not risk hypothermia.
Behind me, the sound of frantic shouting.
They’re looking for me.
I can’t stop.
While the guards search the front of the property, I escape by climbing the fence in the backyard. I make my way to the street, walking for about five blocks at a brisk pace. I throw a cautionary glance over my shoulder more than once. Nobody’s following me. The coast is clear.
For the moment.
I walk and walk until the arches of my feet are sore. Nobody even blinks an eye when I stride past, but it’s a liberating feeling instead of a lonely one. It takes me a minute to figure out where I’m going. I didn’t bring my phone with me because my father can easily have it tracked. I’m not worried about getting lost. Anywhere I end up is better than being shackled to that madman Esteban.
It’s a little past ten in the evening by the time I wander past a Greyhound bus station terminal. The wedding should have happened by now. I’ve no doubt thrown a massive wrench in my father’s plans, but I don’t care. I’m out and free, a world of endless possibilities to discover.
I walk up to the ticket booth, still jittery from my getaway. “Excuse me?” I call to the clerk behind the desk.
The man gives me a disgruntled once over, looking very stupid in his red Santa hat corporate probably forced him to wear. “What can I help you with?” he asks flatly. Buddyclearlyloves his job.
“I need a ticket.”
He huffs, resting his elbow on the counter before jerking a thumb up at the screen above his head. “I’m gonna need to know where, sweetheart.”
I study the destinations listed with wide eyes. I’ve never been allowed outside of my home, let alone Los Angeles, without an escort. Now I’m paralyzed at the thought of going to Phoenix, San Diego, Anaheim, Salt Lake City, or maybe even San Francisco. I could go even further if I wanted to, but…
I only have two thousand dollars to work with. Even then, I won’t know how far I need to go to escape the Becerra Cartel’s reach.
The clerk clears his throat. “I don’t have all day, toots. Shit or get off the pot.”
His vulgarity makes me wince. “What’s your cheapest ticket?”
“Vegas. It’s thirty bucks one way. Next bus leaves in ten minutes.”
The information echoes around inside my skull.
Las Vegas. Everything I know about the city is based on what I’ve seen in movies. Big, bright, boisterous. Lots of people, plenty of places to stay, easy to get lost in the crowd. The fact that it’s only going to cost me thirty dollars out of my remaining two grand is also an attractive bonus. Not to mention that leaving the state might help me escape Esteban’s clutches.
“I’ll take it,” I say, reaching into my backpack to pull out my wad of cash.
The clerk eyes me up and down, no doubt suspicious. In the end, though, he doesn’t ask unnecessary questions. He probably doesn’t get paid enough to care. Besides, this is a simple exchange. I give him the money; he gives me the ticket. I’m on my merry way.
I board the bus in a hurry, choosing one of the seats in the back. When I sit, the hard outline of the gun tucked away under my shirt startles me. I’d almost forgotten I was carrying it.
Quickly glancing left and right to make sure the coast is clear; I pull it out and shove it into the bottom of my backpack. I consider ditching the thing entirely, but I’d rather play it safe.
It isn’t until the bus pulls out of the terminal and hits the road that I finally allow myself to relax. Exhaustion races through me, relief soaking into my bones. Soft Christmas jingles play over the bus speakers, but the rumble of the engine is so loud I can’t quite hear. It doesn’t really matter.
In another few minutes, I’m fast asleep with the taste of freedom on my tongue.
