Page 15

When the worst of the nausea subsides, I lean back, drained.
Scotch looks distressed as fuck. Like he’s about ready to chew through the railing on the side of the hospital bed. His brow heavy as a thundercloud, he says, “I hate to ask you this, but are you ready?”
I swallow the god-awful taste in my mouth. “Do I look flipping ready?”
His eyes soften for a beat before the hardness returns. “That’s my girl. Now I know you’re okay. When you’re angry at me, I feel better.”
Wrapping the sheet around my shoulders, he says, “There’s movement outside the hospital I don’t like. There’s some kind of coup in the works. We need to get to the safe house, now.”
I groan and swing my feet toward the side of the bed. But before I can move very far, he scoops me up in his arms.
“Great. Here we go again,” I mutter.
But Scotch doesn’t answer. And Andre looks like he’s ready to mow someone down if they even throw a glance in his direction.
I close my eyes and fight back screaming in pain as Scotch storms down a corridor and out into a back alley where our SUV is waiting.
It’s daylight. And I have no idea what day or time it is. The sweltering heat wraps around us.
Andre closes the car door behind Scotch, then hurtles himself behind the wheel.
When we start bouncing along the road, I can’t hold the curses in any longer.
Scotch, pistol gripped in his hand, swivels and scans the windows as Andre flies through the alleys. “You’ve got the address for the curandero?"
Wiping the cold sweat off my face, I ask, “Is that the medicine person?”
“The local native healer. The nurse said he’s the one that will have something to give you for pain.” He cuts me a glare, and says, “Don’t even say you don’t need anything because you do. You wouldn’t be vomiting your guts out if you had something.”
Through gritted teeth, I say, “I’ll live.”
“That’s the plan.”
The road surface changes beneath the car, and for a few moments, I get relief, then it changes to rutted dirt, and the pain increases tenfold.
Panting like I’m giving birth, sweat dripping off my face, I yell at Andre, “You’re killing me!”
The man glances in the rearview mirror and back at the road. For some reason, I have a feeling he’s seen people in far worse pain than me. He doesn’t let up.
After another half-hour of pure hell, he slows the car. Scotch pulls a loose shirt over his body armor as we turn onto an even smaller road. Finally, we come to a makeshift gate made of tree limbs.
“Lay down.”
“What?”
“I want your head down, below the glass.”
“For Christ’s sake, you—”
His gaze is so hard, I know what’s coming. Either I lie down or he’s going to put me down on the seat. Planning all the ways I’m going to hurt him, I slide down to the floor. “Happy?”
“No.” He climbs out of the car, adjusting his ball cap low, shutting the door, leaving Andre and me.
“I’m not licking some frog.”
From the front, Andre chuckles. “We’ll see about that.”
Dropping my head back on the seat, I mutter, “Great. Thanks for taking his side.”