51. Bindi
FIFTY-ONE
BINDI
How the fuck did this all happen?
We were just two kids. Two innocent kids who were introduced to a world that didn’t want us. A world that was meant to squash us like bugs. But we found each other, Cassidy and me, and we held on. Until the current got too strong and washed us away.
The world is not kind to outcasts, to people who have to fight tooth and nail just for a fucking seat at the goddamn table.
I am so fucking tired.
Cassidy is slumped against a tree, blood soaking through the jacket tied around his leg. I need to get him to the hospital, but I don’t know how much longer until the road. And even then, Ramirez is only a few steps behind us.
I feel . . . rage. This molten, blistering anger that has simmered for years. The world made us run. I’ve been running my whole damn life. I called myself a survivor, because I was free. I was free because I taught myself how to fight .
But what the fuck does survival mean when every step forward is still part of someone else’s game?
The world has made me believe that I can make my own choices, my own future, but the truth is I’ve never had a decision that’s ever been truly mine. I’ve been dictated and bossed around my entire life by every man to ever walk my path.
I never wanted my life to end up like this, but no one ever asked what I wanted. It’s always about their needs—their power. I’m just . . . a piece. A tool. A thing to fuck or pretend to save when really all their doing is ruining me.
And fuck . . .
I’m so goddamn tired of it.
Cassidy’s hand twitches weakly in mine. I love him—god, I love him more than I can even put into words. But Jesus Christ, I’m drowning in him. Always have been. Always circling in his chaos, his storms. And like a drain, he will eventually swallow me down.
He says I’m his world. But is that love? Or just another fucking cage?
“Well, well . . . look at you two.”
My whole body locks up. Cassidy jerks, his eyes opening wide. “Fucking hell. Ramirez. Fuck off!”
Ramirez emerges from behind a tree, his pistol drawn but pointed lazily at the ground. His dark hair is plastered to his forehead, a faint smug smile tugging at the corner of his lips.
“You can end this—all of it. Right now.”
My pulse skips. Cassidy’s gun. Half-buried under his soaked shirt where he shoved it before he collapsed. Before I fully know what I’m doing, I reach for the gun and my fingers close around the grip of the pistol.
Cassidy feels me move, his eyes flaring with panic. He tries to cover my hand with his bloody one. “Bindi . . . no.”
He thinks I’m going to do something foolish, and maybe he’s right.
Ramirez watches keenly, but doesn’t interfere. The bastard wants me to arm myself—make it a fair fight. My hands shake as I raise the pistol and cock the hammer.
I stagger to my feet, legs numb and unsteady beneath me.
Cassidy half-slumps from my lap onto the wet ground.
He’s too weak to protest further, but his eyes track me.
With one arm, I keep him propped against my thigh; with the other, I level the gun at Agent Ramirez.
My finger hovers on the trigger. It’s hard to see through the film of tears and rain, but I think my aim is on his chest.
“Back off!” I shout, but my voice wavers.
I’ve never aimed a gun at a person like this on my own.
In all our heists, Cassidy was the one who took the real shots.
I was just the lookout, the driver, the distraction.
Now, it’s just me, my bleeding love at my feet, and a man who wants me to betray him.
Ramirez raises his hands slightly, cautioning. Yet his eyes remain calm, focused on me down the barrel of the gun. “Go on then,” he says softly. “Shoot me if that’s what you really want.”
My heart is about to burst out of my chest. I grit my teeth, steadying my grip with both hands now, like Jordyn taught me.
The muzzle trembles, trained on that Kevlar vest over Ramirez’s heart.
The rain has nearly stopped; only a light mist hangs in the air.
It’s eerily quiet except for the thumping of my pulse and Cassidy’s labored breaths behind me.
“What’s wrong, Bindi? Finger’s on the trigger . . . Why are you hesitating?”
Because I don’t know what pulling it means anymore. I don’t know who I am if I do.
Lightning forks overhead, illuminating the clearing in stark white. In that flash, I see the scene like an outsider: a young woman soaked in blood, shaking in the aftermath of violence; a dying man she loves at her feet; a federal agent a few yards away, watching her with predatory patience .
I feel Cassidy’s fingers tug weakly at my jeans. “Bindi . . . please,” he begs. “Just . . . run.” Even now, he’s trying to save me. He wants my safety more than his own life—he always has. Right?
“If you’re going to do it, do it. Otherwise . . .” He doesn’t finish—he doesn’t need to. Otherwise he’ll take me in, and Cassidy too if he somehow clings to life that long. Otherwise, our story ends in prison cells, or a morgue.
The muzzle drifts slightly as my resolve falters.
Sensing it, Ramirez stands slowly, arms still raised at his sides.
“You’re not a killer, Bindi. At least, you don’t have to be.
All you have to do is put down that gun and walk away.
Let him bleed out or, if you’re feeling merciful, end his pain yourself.
Either way, this ends tonight. You can start over . . . be free.”
Maybe I wasn’t a killer before. But I’ve bled too much to still call myself soft. You don’t survive people like Cassidy and come out the other side untouched.
Ramirez continues. “You love him—I can see that. But look at him, Bindi.” He tilts his chin at Cassidy’s limp form. “He finds himself in this position every time. He self-destructs for your sake. He’s going to die if you?—”
“Shut up,” I hiss, though my voice cracks. I refuse to look down, refuse to acknowledge the truth in Ramirez’s words. Cassidy’s fighting to stay conscious. A strangled sob escapes my throat.
“There’s a way out of this for you,” Ramirez says calmly. He holsters his pistol slowly, raising his open palms to show he means no immediate harm. His composure is chilling. “You don’t have to go down with him, Bindi. You’re young, you have a future—if you choose it.”
Ramirez’s voice softens further, almost a purr.
“Think about it. All the things he’s made you do, the life he’s dragged you into .
. . Did you ever really want this?” He gestures vaguely at the dark woods.
“Being hunted, shot at, bleeding in the dirt. That was his choice, not yours. He’s been making choices for you all along. ”
Ramirez takes another step, boots squelching in the mud. “You fell for his charm, his bravado. I get it. Guys like Cassidy, they sweet-talk you, make you feel alive. But in the end, it’s all about them. He doesn’t really care about what happens to you.”
“That’s a lie,” I snarl, but doubt slithers through me. Cassidy groans softly, his head lolling against my arm. My breath hitches. He looks so pale.
“It isn’t,” Ramirez insists. “If he cared, would he have brought you into this life of crime? Think about how it started. All your life, people have taken away your choices, haven’t they?
Your foster father—that piece of shit—never gave you a say.
Then Cassidy comes along, and it’s his way or the highway, isn’t it? ”
My throat tightens. You’re nothing without me.
My foster father’s voice snarls in my head, overlapping with Ramirez’s words.
I blink rain out of my eyes and suddenly I’m a little girl again, cowering in a dusty living room corner as Randall’s boots stomp closer.
Stupid girl. You’ll never make it on your own.
I gasp, forcing the memory back. But Ramirez can see he’s hit a nerve. He presses on relentlessly. “You’re used to it by now, aren’t you? Being told who you are, what you can and cannot do by men who claim they love you, or know what’s best.” He gestures at Cassidy. “Is he really any different?”
“Bindi . . .” Cassidy rasps, straining to focus on me. His eyes shine with tears—whether from pain or regret, I can’t tell. “I’m sorry,” he manages, his voice cracking. “For everything . . . I just wanted . . . us . . .” He can’t finish.
A harsh sob breaks from my chest.
I can barely breathe. My world is unraveling: Cassidy dying at my feet, the law closing in, and Ramirez, his soft voice spinning a web around my brain. I feel like I’m drowning in the storm, in blood and rain and fear.
Ramirez kneels a few feet away now, one hand resting casually on his holstered gun. Ramirez kneels a few feet away, calm as the rain drips off his lashes. “You have a choice, Bindi,” he says softly. “The choice to be free.”
Free.
The word rips through me.
I remember the na?ve girl who fell for a boy’s promise of freedom.
I remember how Cassidy’s hand felt in mine as we raced along the highway.
Now, here I stand, freedom supposedly one trigger-pull away—yet it feels like a lie.
My vision tunnels into Ramirez. How dare he?
How dare he twist the idea of freedom like this—turn it into something ugly?
He’s asking me to become the very thing I hate—a traitor, a killer of the one person I have left.
He’s no savior offering me a choice; he’s just another man holding a leash, disguising it as salvation.
Behind me, Cassidy gurgles in pain. The sound snaps something inside me. My eyes burn, and I realize I stopped crying. A strange calm edges through my veins. I know what I have to do.
Slowly, I turn the gun—first toward Cassidy, taking in his ashen face and broken body, memorizing the soft curve of his lips as he whispers my name one last time.
Then I swing back toward Ramirez, who watches every movement like a hawk.
I step away from Cassidy, freeing myself from his grasp with gentle finality.
Ramirez tenses, uncertain now. I can see his feet shift, readying to lunge or flee. I’ve made my choice, but he can’t tell what it is. Hell, until this moment, neither could I.
All the fear drains out of me, replaced by an icy determination. My hands are steady on the grip. My mind is eerily quiet—no more thunder, no more sirens, no voices telling me what to do. The only sound is my own breathing.
I fix my aim on the man who plays god with my soul.
My finger tightens, breath held.
And then I shoot.