Keeping Allie (Breaking Away #3) (8 page)

If I don’t escape, I’ll never heal.

“Okay. Good. The helmets will buy us about three seconds of time before people get suspicious.”

I look down and say, “You’re wearing Chase’s belt buckle.”

He smirks. “You always look at a guy’s crotch when you meet him?”

I smirk back. “Only when he’s saving me from getting raped by a guy who thinks I can cure his AIDS.”

Mark’s smirk turns into a scowl.

“No way that bastard’s getting his hands on you. I’ll make sure of it.”

Oh, he’s definitely Chase’s brother.

“So here’s the plan.” It’s hard to hear him through the helmet, but I strain. When I swallow, my ears pop. I can hear better.

“Allie? You with me?” he asks.

“Yeah.”

“Now that you’re dressed like someone else, that might make it easier to get out of here. We’re just going to act like we’re Chase and...whoever you are,” Mark explains. 

“Jackie.”

“Right. Jackie.” He shoves his helmet on. “You ready?” He claps a hand on my shoulder and looks at me through the helmet’s visor. It’s like Chase’s eyes, only without the fire for me.

“Yes.”

“Then let’s go do this. You’re going home.”

Home.

What’s home?

Home is anywhere but here.

I walk on rubbery legs behind him, no shoes to wear. That’s the part that is most suspicious. Jackie wouldn’t walk around barefoot, would she?

The ten motorcycles outside have riders on them, and I see Frenchie with my mom dressed as me on the back of his, the pink gown billowing out as exhaust gets caught under the skirts. Frenchie grabs my mom’s boob and I see her hand twitch, like she wants to smack him, but then her head turns. Just a tiny bit toward me. She sees us.

I can’t see her eyes, but I know it. Mom wants to make sure I can escape. She said she’d do anything to get me free. 

She lets Frenchie fondle her.

White anger shoots through me like a jolt of electricity, and suddenly I have all the power in the world in my bones, my skin, my heart. Mark leads me out into the courtyard and he makes a sharp left, going to a bike I see parked behind a storage shed.

It’s Chase’s bike.

I want to ask where Chase is. I want to make sure he’s safe and out of harm’s way, but I can’t say a thing. I’m a numb piece of flesh being guided out of here by someone Chase sent for me. I don’t make decisions right now.

I follow orders.

“Jackie!” someone shouts as Mark and I turn the corner. 

“Ignore him,” Mark says, louder than he should.

“JACKIE!” I hear footsteps running from behind.

“RUN!” Mark shouts, grabbing my hand and yanking me, hard, toward the bike. He lets go so he can get there first, jumping on it like the bike is a part of him. He starts it with one swift kick from above and I’m running so hard, my feet slapping against the dirt.

I get to the bike and a hand grabs the black curls poking out from under my helmet.

“What the fuck are you doing?” snarls a bald dude with tattoos all over. “You listen to me, old lady.”

This must be Loogie.

My new stepdad.

Mark kicks him in the gut, heel first with his boot and Loogie staggers back.

But he doesn’t fall. He’s a huge guy, a wall of muscle and fat. He looks like a bald teddy bear, chest hair poking out from the collar of his shirt. A look of rage makes him seem like a black bear ready to attack. A snarl completes the resemblance. 

He comes at us again just as Mark gets the bike in motion. He guns it and we lurch forward, my arms reaching out to knot themselves around Mark’s waist. 

And I fall off.

Chapter Twelve

A hissing sound in my ear and a feeling of sudden icy coldness come at the same exact time my head smashes into the silky dirt, my leg caught on some piece of metal on the bike. My helmet is half off as the bike keeps going and I’m dragged, one ankle attached to something, my other leg twisting like a pipe cleaner in a dog’s mouth.

My eyes are open and I’m staring up through the sliver of the helmet’s visor that’s still on. The sky is bright blue, with little clouds here and there like pieces of cotton God sprinkled to make it a little more beautiful. 

I close my eyes.

I am nothing but icy cold now. I smell burning flesh.

Rough hands grab me under the armpits and shove me on a soft seat. The same hands unhook my ankle. A rope goes around my waist.

They caught me. I didn’t escape after all. Mom let Frenchie grope her for nothing. They’re tying me to another chair, aren’t they?

And then: “GO!” screams a voice I know. I open my eyes.

Chase.

He’s standing there as Mark peels out from the compound. I look down and see a green and red rope around me. My fingers touch a hook of some kind.

Chase used a bungee cord to tie me to Mark.

As I look back I see Loogie deliver a right cross to Chase’s jaw, sending my beloved to the ground like a boxer being felled in a ring. Except there are no rules in this fight. No officials, and no one to jump in to prevent Loogie from killing Chase. 

And then ten motorcycles come up behind us, like a thundercloud, like a dustbowl storm rolling in and we’re on the edge of the grey rumble of smoke. Mark speeds up. I will my body to stay in place, feeling myself lean to the left. I look down.

My arm is nothing but raw pink. It’s hamburger with bits of dirty and red spots mixed in. And a sickly yellow.

I remember in biology class that fat under the skin is yellow. Did I lose that much skin? I drop my arms from around Mark’s waist. No matter how hard I try, I can’t lean forward any more.

A rough hand grabs mine and shoves it in Mark’s waist band, right under Chase’s belt buckle. I really don’t want to touch anyone’s crotch right now, so I snatch my hand back. It turns out I have a tiny shred of will left in me after all. 

“Do whatever you have to do to hang on, Allie. Anything.”

I am so tired.

So tired.

My ears explode. A crack so loud it’s like someone shoved a toothpick and popped my eardrum splits the air. I look back.

There’s a man on a motorcycle behind us, wearing the Mephists insignia. And he’s pointing a gun at us.

Mark speeds up, but we’re already flying. The landscape is a blur. I start to feel seasick, like I’ll puke. Worst case, if I throw up, the vomit will just hit the shooting dude, right?

Except there’s nothing to throw up.

I retch.

And retch.

CRACK!

Another shot whizzes by.

Mark says something but I can’t hear a thing. Just a steady hum like someone put high-tension electric wires next to my ear. My lips go cold from the vibrations. 

Hold on. Hold on
. I remember what Mom said. I can do this. I can.

I will.

I face forward and look over Mark’s shoulder as more gunshots fill my ears. They aren’t as loud now. They’re fading, like popcorn in a popper.

A bright light ahead, like a beacon, shines past me, right over my shoulder. I avert my eyes. 

A terrible roar, then a weird shimmery sound, like tissue paper crinkling, fills my ears. I turn my head slightly and look in the rearview mirror on Mark’s right.

The bike chasing us is down. Crashed.

That light from ahead happens again. Are angels from heaven doing something to help us? Mark doesn’t seem affected. Another pop from behind. More shining, bright rays of light.

More shimmery crinkling.

Another bike is down.

And then a third bike drives right into one of the downed bikes. It’s starting to look like one of those big car accidents you see sometimes on the news, when there’s an ice storm in Minnesota or a bad solar glare day in Los Angeles.

Mark is weaving back and forth on the paved road, crossing the double yellow line like it’s just a suggestion and not the law. He’s graceful, like the sine waves we used to plot out in pre-calculus class.

Like he’s a little loopy.

Like maybe he got shot?

“You okay?” I scream into his ear.

He just nods.

Something pokes me, right under my breast. I pull one hand away from Mark and shove it inside my bra. It’s the switchblade Mom gave me. My fingers are so weak it falls out, flying behind me. I imagine it bouncing, the blade sliding open, slicing a tire.

That only happens in the movies. It’s probably sitting in a pile of dirt on the berm now, scuffed and broken.

Like me in a minute, if I don’t grab onto Mark.

We shoot past a car by the side of the road and I swear I know the man standing next to it. He’s holding a huge mirror and some kind of an electronic instrument.

CRASH!

Another bike down behind us. That’s four, and the other six or so are way back now. No one is directly on our tail. 

The man waves as we cross past.

It’s David.

Oh, my God.

He’s using a giant mirror to blind the bikers chasing us. He hides behind his car as we pass. I hope the remaining bikers don’t find him. 

All that solar and electronics geeking out has just saved my life.

Mark is talking, but he’s quiet. Does he have a radio?

“Tell David he’s the best best friend ever,” I shout at Mark, who nods. He does nothing else, though. He speaks, then leans forward. We surge and off we go, two bikes behind us.

I don’t know how much more time passes, but I hear a pop again. And then the sight of town peeks into view, the houses getting closer together. Mark goes through two red lights, swerving hard to miss an oncoming car, and he pulls right into the police station. Two cars with lights flashing create a barrier right there to meet us, a wall of cops with guns drawn hiding behind the cars. Mark snakes the bike around one side and—

I can see the other two bikes turning around.

I’m safe.

But where are Mom and Chase?

Chapter Thirteen

I never thought I’d be so
happy
to see Detective Knowles again. Mark cut through the barricade and dumped me on the ground by climbing off the bike, me still attached by bungee, and going flat on the ground. The two bikes on our tails had pulled giant U-turns, but the police nabbed them. I think Carson police called in officers and cars from another town. 

I say “I think” because I blacked out as soon as Mark got off the bike. Someone carried me inside and all I know is I woke up covered in a blanket, shaking uncontrollably. 

Now I’m sitting here in a tiny interrogation room, on a soft sofa with a hot cup of chamomile tea and a chattering mouth. I’m cold. So cold.

Mark is in the other room, arguing vigorously with Detective Knowles about transporting me to a local hospital. The tiny window in my room has mesh criss-crosses in it. I see heads go by. Mostly, I see two people at a time walk past, one wearing a police officer’s hat, one without. Cops escorting suspects to the jail, I suppose.

Chase. Mom. Are they okay? Safe? Did Loogie kill Chase? Did Mom get delivered to El Brujo and—

So many questions.

Mark is shouting now. I hear him say “DEA” and “federal jurisdiction.” Detective Knowles shouts something back, and then his voice goes down to a quiet murmur.

A female officer walks in my room and kneels down in front of me. Her skin is dark and she has almond eyes atop high cheekbones. Her hair is the color of mine. She smiles. She’s kind.

“Are you hungry?”

My stomach answers for me with a growl.

She laughs lightly. “I’ll take that as a yes. Let me get you some crackers.”

“N-n-no donuts?” I joke, teeth making an awful clicking sound when I try to talk. I can’t stop shaking. 

She shakes her head. “No. The fat cops already ate them up this morning.” She gives me a wink and leaves. This is such a small town. I’ve never seen her before.

Then again, most of the people I know in town are my age or bar regulars at Jeff’s place.

There’s so much of the world I haven’t experienced.

Carrying a small bag, the officer comes back and hands it to me. I open it. Crackers, cookies, a bag of peanuts and some little kid boxes of raisins.

“That should get you started.” She hands me a bottled water. “That, too. You look really pale. Drink up.” She motions to my tea just as Mark walks in, looking frustrated.

Her body goes into protective mode. “Who are you?”

He reaches into his jacket and pulls out a small wallet. Flips it open. I see something gold and shiny. “DEA,” he says.

Her eyes go super wide and she looks between me and Mark. Detective Knowles appears behind Mark and nods once.

“Got it,” she says, slipping out without looking back at me.

“DEA?” I squeak. “Drug Enforcement Agency? You’re a—”

“Yes,” Mark says, his face closed off and hard.

I start to make a comment about his dad being Galt Halloway, but when I look at Detective Knowles I think maybe that’s not such a good idea.

“Oh,” is all I say.

“We’re waiting for an ambulance to transport you to a hospital, Allie. Maybe a helicopter,” Mark says. “But first, Detective Knowles needs to ask a few questions.”

“I don’t need a helicopter,” I say in a tiny voice. “I’m fine.”

“You’re about as far from fine as can be,” Mark says gently.

“But why a helicopter?” I ask. “I’m not bleeding to death or having a heart attack.” 

The two men exchange a look. “An ambulance right now might not be a good idea,” Detective Knowles explains.

“Why not?” I ask.

“It could get ambushed,” Mark says gently.

I stop chattering. Instantly. The shock of that image makes something in me click.

“How is Chase?” I ask, desperate to know. “And my—” I stop myself from saying
Mom
because, like Mark being Galt’s son, I’m not sure my mom wants people to know she’s alive.

I’m wondering what is safe to say.

“We don’t know,” Mark says. His eyes shift away from mine.

Oh, no.

“He’s not...but Loogie was beating him up when we—” I choke out. 

Detective Knowles interrupts me. “Loogie? Loogie Hausen? The head of the Mephists? He was
there
?”