Taming Cross

I was right about the drive. Slightly more than five hours later, we’re nearing the end of our sprint to safety, on the outskirts of sprawling, dirty, sophisticated, dangerous Ciudad Juarez. Up until about thirty minutes ago, we’d seen almost no one.

We make a quick stop at a gas station and after we study the map for a few minutes, I walk Merri to the ladies’ room, counting down the seconds until we’re back on the bike. Before I pull back onto the road, she squeezes my waist.

“We’re almost there, Evan!”

I nod, glad she can’t see that I’m not smiling.

I’m a selfish ass.

As we work our way through almost an hour of thick mid-city traffic, I’m tense with wanting to get her somewhere safe, but a part of me is also glad for every minute spent without her knowing who I really am.

You need to get over it. Forget about her. The sooner the better.

I know that’s the logical thing to do, but logic means nothing to me. I can’t think straight when I’m near Merri. That she’s the one girl I can’t have: that’s a curse I f**king earned. I tell myself I’ll have to tough it out, and when I feel the hollowness inside my chest, I just ignore that shit. Nothing else I can do, right?

There are a couple ports of entry into El Paso, and we’re headed toward the one Meredith thinks will be the least busy. It’s a tiny bridge near some farm land, and by the time we reach it, my heart’s pounding hard enough to make me sweat despite my lack of bike helmet.

Merri’s grip tightens on my waist, and she presses her cheek against my back. I inhale deeply, trying to save the moment onto my hard drive. I have the sinking feeling I might need it later. For the next five minutes as we wait on a transfer truck to pass, my neck aches and my arm feels strange, but I know it’s just from stress. Nothing weird going on here. I’ve got the appropriate papers, plus our passports. As soon as we get through the checkpoint, Merri will be home free.

I try to find happiness in that.

When the wooden bridge spits us out at a rickety plywood wall topped with barbed wire and outfitted with a rusted metal tower, my stomach clenches so hard I think I might be sick.

Merri’s hands stroke my back. She’s feeling grateful, I realize. She lets out a little whoop, and as a black van is waved through the gate, I’m washed in cold sweat, kind of like the feeling you have when you’re in opiate withdrawal.

We roll closer—close enough so I can see two dark-haired border patrol guards with automatic rifles—and I tell myself again that I’m just being paranoid. Feeling nervous because I had to ditch my gun at the last bathroom stop before the chekpoint. Anticipating what’s going to come next, with Merri.

I swallow hard as we get close enough that I can see the tallest guard’s eyes. They go right past me, seeking Merri’s face behind the helmet. Sweat breaks out on my chest, and I have the overwhelming urge to gas it right past him.

I slow down, though. Automatic rifles make big holes in bare skin, and Merri is behind me.

I slow down, and both guards lunge at us. Before I can even stop the bike, the larger one’s hand is locked around my left arm. The shorter one shoves his gun into my face.

My arms around Evan’s waist go numb as the barrel of the semi-automatic is shoved into his face. Before I can scream or even flinch, the larger guard points his own gun right at my nose.

“Get off the motorcycle!” he screams in Spanish. He waves the gun, his torso bobbing up and down as his face twists furiously. “You are coming with us!”

I blink at him. Logically, I understand why this is happening, but some part of my mind—the innocent part, the part that still has dreams and wants—is stunned to stillness. This just can’t be real.

“GET OFF THE BIKE!”

I shut my eyes as the cold, hard muzzle digs into my forehead.

I know I should go with these men. I should spare Evan. We’re still in Mexico, and even in a big city like Ciudad Juarez, the Cientos Cartel has sway. Enough sway to install two cartel lieutenants at a rural border patrol post. But my fingers won’t let go of Evan’s shirt.

“This is the girl! I have seen her before!” The muzzle slides down my forehead, bruising my temple. “Come on, bitch! Or you’ll have a hole in your head!”

Somewhere in the back of my mind, like crickets singing in the background of a Southern front porch conversation, I can hear Evan imploring the other guard to listen to him. He says that I’m his wife, and we’re headed back to our house in California.

I want to cry, because I want it to be true. But my emotions have dried up. My mind is only capable of processing the simplest facts. The one that stands out is: Evan will fight them for me. He won’t let them take me; he’ll fight, and he’ll get shot. This gives me the strength to hold my hand up, signaling my gunman to lower his gun, and swing shakily off the bike. Despite my determination to surrender, my legs are weak as jelly. I collapse into the guard, who scoops me up under his arm and starts to run.

I shut my eyes. This can’t be real. This isn’t real.

I picture Evan and me, back on the motorcycle, both wearing bullet-proof vests. In my re-creation of our fate, when the faux guards pull out their guns, Evan just jets past them, through the gate that would have swung down over us. They’re lousy shots and all their bullets miss us. In real life, I’m panting, probably close to passing out from fear. I’ve surrendered fully, accepting my fate, but I want to stay awake. I combat my near-debilitating terror by remembering the feel of Evan’s warm, hard abs underneath my hands.

From somewhere close, I hear screaming. The shrieking peel of rubber on asphalt. Gunfire. Evan!

Don’t open your eyes.

I tell myself the sound of whirring tires was Evan, jetting past the border.

It’s time to go. Time to go to God.

I open my eyes with a plan to fight my captor. That way, I’ll get shot and die without the rape I know is coming.

The guard whose gun was in my face is bleeding all over the ground, his forehead ripped open like a busted watermelon. The other still has Merri. She’s tucked under his arm like a football. He is running toward another fence, behind which is a navy blue Range Rover with shiny rims. As I gas the Mach and fly toward Merri, thugs dressed in military gear pour out of the Range Rover and start to run toward her, too.

Fuck no they won’t. She’s mine!

I lean forward, pressing the weight of my body against the handles so I have better balance, and with my right hand, I raise the stolen semi and spray all of them with bullets.

It’s a risky move. One, because I wobble on the bike and almost crash. Two because the ones that don’t fall, fire back. I feel a searing pain in my right calf but I can’t think about that now. One of the car’s passengers—a woman with long, black and white striped hair and a bullet-proof vest—is almost to Merri. It takes everything I have to raise the gun again with only my right hand and aim at just her.