Taste Of Scotch // James Valdez

| 7 |

"The plane leaves in about 40 minutes; you understand they could dissolve before then?"

Camila's right-hand man, James, posed the question with a tone that suggested he doubted my resolve. I nodded, the gravity of the situation settling like a lead weight in my stomach. They led me to the garage doors that opened to the outside world. Camila was ahead, holding out my new 'fake' passport with a smirk that seemed to bet against my survival.

James hurried me out, his pace urgent as we approached a white car parked nearby. Before I could even properly settle into the seat, he was gunning the engine, the car lurching forward with reckless speed towards the airport. My left hand gripped the center console, my right clung to the door handle as James navigated the roads at what felt like 70 mph. My stomach churned violently, threatening to rebel against the violent motion.

"Are you religious?" I asked, the question slipping out in a bid to distract myself from the nausea and fear.

"I'm not," he replied curtly, his voice flat, though I could sense his impatience behind those dark sunglasses. The car swerved sharply around a corner, throwing me against the door.

"What's your name?" His question cut through the tension, not for my real name, but for the alias on my forged passport.

"Elena," I answered, the name feeling foreign on my tongue, as foreign as the life I was now hurtling towards.

"Elena what?"

"Jones."

"Address."

"2431 7714 Elma Avenue."

"Good. Again." His voice was stern, demanding repetition for memorization.

Before I could repeat the address, the car screeched to a sudden stop at a four-way intersection. James swerved to avoid traffic, and the momentum flung me forward, my head smacking against the dashboard. A string of curses escaped me as I shot a glare at James, who remained unnervingly calm.

"You know, driving like an idiot isn't going to help!" I snapped, rubbing my forehead where it had hit.

"This is how we do it. We get there," he replied, unfazed by my outburst.

I huffed, turning my gaze away from the road, trying to focus on anything but the nausea rising within me, exacerbated by his reckless driving. The drugs I was carrying felt like they were about to make an unwelcome reappearance if he didn't slow down.

"How are you feeling?" James asked, his tone almost mocking.

"I - I don't kno - James look out!" I scream at the top of my lungs. My hands fly up - one grabs James and the other pushes against the dash - my heart was pounding in my chest, each beat could be heard in my ears as the screrking of the tires sounded. The people walking across the road started to run to avoid being hit by us. I didn't have much time to gather myself back up from the mini heart attack before James was pushing the pedal to the metal and we was running a red light.

"How do you feel. Answer me!" He shouted the last part making me jump.

"Fine. I feel fine!" I shouted back. his head snapped over in my direction and suddenly I remembered my life is depending on this raven haired man. Best not to piss him off.

"You start to feel numb you tell me."

I only nodded. James suddenly turned down an alley but quickly pulled us to a stop as the road was closed. A man started waving us back. James cursed under his breath and began backing up fast. It was here that I started to fear for my life. I might not make it to the airport.

"We're never going to make it," James blurted out. My neck nearly snapped as I turned to look at him so fast, and the words tumbled out of my mouth.

"We're going to make it. Drive."