Bishop snorted. “With us on round-the-clock duty, we’re watching her enough as it is. She doesn’t need anything else.”

“I’m not taking any fucking chances on Mendoza being alive or the Diablos hunting her down. Those cocksuckers are psychotic,” I argued.

Breakneck rose from his chair. “She’ll be discharged tomorrow. We need to start planning how to get her back to the States.”

Crossing my arms over my chest, I said, “For starters, we’re going to be riding out of here. No way can we be flying. Annabel doesn’t have any ID, and whatever paperwork the Raiders concoct to get her over the border, it won’t hold up with TSA. Besides, we don’t need any record that we were even here.”

Breakneck shook his head. “With the extent of her injuries, there’s no way in hell she can ride on a motorcycle. She needs four to six weeks recuperation from the hysterectomy at least.”

“Okay. So I’ll rent a car and drive her,” I replied.

“Then how does your bike get home?” Bishop questioned. As I paused to consider that issue, Bishop said, “Maybe Breakneck should drive her home.”

“No way,” I answered adamantly.

Bishop looked at me in surprise. “You got a better suggestion?”

“Rev’s right,” Breakneck said.

“He is?” The doubt was clear in Bishop’s tone.

With a nod, Breakneck added, “For whatever reason, Annabel has bonded with Rev. For her continued mental stability, she needs him right now, especially during a long car ride. I can ride his bike back.” At Bishop’s incredulous expression, Breakneck snapped, “Wipe that fucking look off your face. I can still ride a Harley.”

Bishop held up his hands defensively. “I never said you couldn’t.”

“I’m not that old.”

I chuckled. “If anyone can pull off that long a haul, it’s you, man.”

Breakneck finally smiled. “Besides, I think it’ll do me some good to be on the open road.”

“Have you talked to Betsy about funeral plans for Sarah?”

Betsy was Breakneck’s ex-wife and the mother of his three children. While they had divorced years ago, they had somehow managed to keep an amicable relationship. He cleared his throat. “Yeah. I’ve spoken with her. She wants to wait until I get back to plan anything.” He gave me a pointed look. “Whenever that is.”

“Take all the time you need.”

“Thank you,” he replied, his eyes momentarily appearing glassy. After a few seconds, he cleared his throat. “I’m assuming Annabel has yet to speak to her parents.”

I shook my head. “When I mentioned calling them, she was pretty evasive.”

“That’s understandable. Her father is a real dick.”

“You know him?” I questioned incredulously.

“Not exactly. Just heard him speak on CSPAN before. Real right-wing nut job. The kind that hides a million secrets and shady dealings behind a picture-perfect smile.”

“Regardless of all that, I’m sure they’re desperate to know she’s all right,” I argued.

“You might be surprised. But in spite of all that, she needs to call them this afternoon. Should her identity be discovered crossing the border, we’ll have a hell of a hard time explaining why she’s with us.”

I nodded. “Okay. I’ll have her call them when she gets out of the shower.”

“I’m going to head out for now,” Breakneck said. He turned to Bishop. “Why don’t you come with me, and we can feel out the Raiders for help with a car?”

“Sounds good,” Bishop replied.

“I’ll come back later this evening to check on Annabel. Make sure she gets plenty of rest.”

“I will.”

Breakneck cocked his brows at me. “I don’t guess there’s any chance of you going back to the hotel tonight and letting Bishop or me stay?”

I shook my head and told him, “I’m fine right where I am. Besides, I think she would rest easier with me.”

With a smile, Breakneck replied, “Yes, she would. She seems to do everything better with you.”

His words stayed with me long after he and Bishop had left the room. My mind couldn’t help drifting to Deacon and Alexandra. I thought of how much she had needed him, physically and emotionally, after she had been tortured and almost raped by one of the Raiders’ enemies. While it was an honor to help Annabel through her dark times, I couldn’t chase away the nagging feeling that she was growing too attached to me. What would happen to her when it was time for us to go our separate ways?

SEVEN

ANNABEL

As I reached to turn off the shower, my gaze froze on my battered wrists. For a few moments, I could only stand there, staring at the marks I had made on them. I could almost hear my mother’s disdainful voice remarking on how the gashes would leave such unattractive scars. To be scarred in our world of superficial perfection would be as bad as having leprosy. I would now be forced to remember my moment of weakness and despair each and every day of my life—a physical testimony to a place and time when the weight of the world became too much to bear.

They would be there when I woke up in the morning and would remain throughout the day until I laid my head on my pillow at night. I would never play the piano again without seeing the scars, nor would I examine one of my furry patients without the glaring reminder. During spring and summer when I wore short sleeves, people’s attention would be drawn to the scars, and their minds would whirl with the possibilities of what had happened to me. Mostly, I knew, they would look disapprovingly at me because I had once tried to take my life.