With a grimace, she replied, “It’s just little flashbacks of coming over with the Diablos.”

“I’m sorry.”

She shrugged. “It’s okay. Guess it’s to be expected.”

“Yes, it is.” When she continued wringing her hands and crossing and uncrossing her legs, I asked, “Do you want to talk about it?”

“Part of me does and the other part of me is afraid to. Like once I let go a little, I’ll just be opening myself up to emotional chaos.”

“It’s a bad metaphor, but a Pandora’s box of sorts?”

Her eyes widened in surprise. “Yes, I suppose you’re right.” Cocking her head at me, she said, “I hope this doesn’t sound snobby, but it surprises me to hear you speak of metaphors.”

“Because I’m supposed to be a dumb biker?”

Her face flushed. “I’m sorry. I hate when people have preconceived notions and end up stereotyping, and here I am doing it myself.”

I chuckled. “It’s okay, Annabel. Most bikers spout metaphors all the time, but they have no fucking clue what the actual term means. For me, I’ve always been an intellectual. I’ve been a reader as far back as when I was a kid, but after the rape, I seemed to enjoy escaping into fictional worlds more and more. Then, as I got a little older, I started wanting to read about history—presidents, soldiers, kings, and emperors. I figured I could learn something from them.”

“How fascinating,” she replied, with true sincerity.

“Most of my family wouldn’t share your praise. They think because I got a two-year degree from community college and can spout off quotes from literature, I’m trying to be above my raising.”

“But they’re so wrong.” She shook her head. “You’re truly a Renaissance man. As for me, I don’t know anything but math and science.”

“That’s what you needed to know to be a vet.”

She gasped. “How did you know . . . Oh, right, I told you in the hospital, didn’t I?”

I nodded. “Actually, I had already found out a lot about you through your missing-persons information.”

“Oh, I see,” she murmured.

“Don’t worry. It was nothing embarrassing.”

She laughed. “I would hope not.” Turning slightly in her seat to face me, she said, “Quote something for me.”

“What?”

“You said you could quote literature. I would love to hear something.”

“Seriously?”

Her face brightened. “Yes, please.”

“Okay, then. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.” Once again, the sweet peals of her laughter rang in my ear.

“ ‘It was many and many a year ago, / In a kingdom by the sea, / That a maiden there lived whom you may know / By the name of Annabel Lee.’ ”

Annabel’s green eyes widened in delight. “You know Poe’s ‘Annabel Lee’?”

“I do. I know ‘The Raven’ as well. Poe’s a personal favorite of mine.”

“I was named for Annabel Lee.”

With a grin, I told her, “I had a hunch.”

“My sister is Lenore from ‘The Raven.’”

“Your parents must have a love for Poe as well.”

“My mother majored in English in college.” Annabel rolled her eyes. “Mainly she was there to get the all-important MRS degree, but she managed to snag my father and finish college.”

I laughed. “I can’t help but wonder how someone like you came from two such horrible people.”

She smiled. “That’s a good question. It’s one I often ask myself as well.”

My amusement was short-lived when I saw we had come upon the border checkpoint. Annabel let out a small squeak of alarm as she shot straight up in her seat. “It’s going to be fine. We can count on the Raiders to make excellent documents. We’ll get right through.”

“Okay,” she replied softly.

“But try not to look suspicious.”

Her eyes widened in horror. “I look suspicious?”

“When you look like you’re going to piss your pants.”

She giggled, and I was glad to ease the tension in the car. “Okay, okay. I’ll be calm. I’ll be the best Mary Jones I can be,” she replied, alluding to the name on her passport.

Slowly, the car inched along in the line. When we reached the inspector, I rolled the window down and handed him our passports. He gazed at our pictures and then back at us. Time seemed to tick by agonizingly slowly. Beads of sweat, both from the heat and from my nerves, began to form on the back of my neck.

The officer handed our passports over to another man. He also took his time eyeing us and the documents. Just as I felt the tension threaten to overwhelm Annabel, the man stamped the passports and handed them back to the first officer.

After he shoved them back at me, he waved us on. The moment the car passed through, I exhaled the breath I had been holding. Once we were out of their sight, I gunned the engine, and like Chulo had instructed me, I began to put as much distance as I could between us and the border.

NINE

Manuel Mendoza peered at the blackened desolation of his once-thriving trafficking camp. With his upper lip curled in disgust, he surveyed the construction workers scrambling around the land. It had been one fucking week since those cocksuckers had breached what should have been an impenetrable fortress. His first act after the fires were extinguished was to put a bullet in the head of the man in charge of his security.