Savage Hearts

The policeman and his dog are taking their sweet time circling each of the carousels and almost all the SBE brothers have their bags. It feels like it takes hours for Scott to emerge, dragging his suitcase behind him. I push away from the wall, heart slamming against my ribs as I try to get a better look at the other bag he’s carrying.

He’s only a hundred feet away, maybe less, but the briefcase is in his right hand and I can’t see enough of it to be sure which one it is—his old, battered case, or the new one we bought and roughed up to match it. My hands clench and unclench at my sides as Scott hurries to rejoin his friends and the policeman and his dog complete their circuit of carousel three and start toward the final carousel, their path leading them directly past the bathrooms.

If Danny comes out with the drugs right now, he’s going to be caught. There’s no way the dog is going to miss a kilo of cocaine gliding by right beneath its nose.

I press my lips together and hold my breath, praying for the first time in longer than I can remember. I don’t know who or what I’m praying to, only that I need Danny to be okay. I can’t let him go to jail because of me. Knowing he’s locked away in a cell and suffering because he loved me too much to let me flush my life down the toilet alone would make the hell of the past year seem like a walk in the park.

In that moment, as I wait for Danny to emerge and the dog lifts its nose, its muscled body tensing as it scents the breeze drifting through the airy archways leading to the road, I realize how much I still love him.

My mind clears and the barbed wire coiled around my heart falls away and I’m flooded with love.

And regret.

How could I have let him do this? I should have wrapped my arms around him and refused to let go. I should have tackled him and wrenched the bag out of his hands.

Right then, I swear I will do whatever it takes to keep him safe, if only he steps out of the bathroom holding Scott’s bag instead of his own.

A moment later, Danny’s familiar form appears in the open doorway and time slows. His head is tipped down, his face concealed by the brim of his ball cap, so I have no idea what he’s feeling. The bag in his hand doesn’t look like the bag we bought at the office supply store, but it’s hard to tell at this distance. It could be the case with the coke in it, and if it is, I need to get it in my hand before the dog discovers the source of the smell making its large ears stand straight up and the hair on its back bristle.

I propel myself away from the wall, walking as fast as I dare toward Danny, planning to wrench the briefcase from his hand and accuse him of stealing it if that’s the only way to make sure I take the fallout for our failed plan. But before I’m ten feet from the emergency phone, the dog lets out a deep, terrifying bark and leaps forward.

It lunges for Danny, towing its bulky handler behind it.

I freeze, eyes going wide and terror overloading my nervous system. For a moment, I’m afraid I might do something spectacularly ineffective and girly like faint, but then the dog keeps going. It charges past Danny—who is tugging the brim of his hat as he ambles toward the opposite side of the baggage claim, looking every bit the laid back surfer without a care in the world—and aims its powerful body at Scott.

I watch as the dog rips the briefcase from Scott’s hand, shaking it in its powerful jaws until the top flap flies open and a dark green, plastic wrapped kilo of cocaine comes tumbling out.

Thank.

God.

Or whoever is listening to dark prayers like mine.

Biting back a cry of relief, I turn to the right, moving away from the drama unfolding by carousel four. Out of the corner of my eye, I see the cop draw his gun and order Scott to the floor, first in Spanish, then in louder, more authoritative English.

“There’s been a mistake,” Scott says, paling as he lifts his hands into the air. “I didn’t do anything wrong. I don’t know what that is. It’s not mine!”

The second part of his protest is true enough, but Scott has done his share of wrong things.

Of wicked, heartbreaking, life-shattering things.

As he’s forced to the ground and his arms pulled roughly behind his back, I don’t feel the slightest flash of conscience. This is what the spineless worm deserves. This is better than he deserves. He’s getting off easy though he obviously doesn’t know it.