Muffled whispers and hisses could be heard on the other side of the line following a huge sigh of relief. ”Thank God, thank fucking God…” Shane breathed out into the phone. ”We were going totally crazy here… How bad is she?”

”Not critical.”

”Tell her to put Tina on,” Bette cut into the conversation and held out her hand to take the phone.

Putting the phone to her ear, the brunette was met with Tina’s frantic, ear-piercing voice. ”Bette?! Bette!”

”Sshh, I’m here, baby. Keep your voice down.”

”Oh my God, Bette…” Tina sobbed. ”I thought… I thought you…”

”Don’t you ever think this again, young lady,” Bette reprimanded in a tender tone, attempting to soothe her girlfriend.

”What happened? Where’re you? When’re you coming home?”

Bette was barely finding strength to speak further as she felt her lungs burning with each breath she took. ”Soon. Very soon,” the brunette wheezed.

”I need to see you… Please, Bette… Can I come?” Tina wept pleadingly.

Bette wanted to cry too, but whenever she sensed a wave of tears threatening to spill over, she felt as if her head was about to explode from pressure, so she fought back, spared the tears for later. ”Tee,” she began in half-whisper, ”I want you to stop freaking out right now. Try to relax. Go nap a little. You’ll see me very soon. Trust me.”

Tina’s sobs gradually subsided into soft little whimpers of distress. ”I do…” she sniffled, ”…trust you. I do.”

”Good. Don’t cry anymore. I love you,” Bette said and removed the phone from her ear, her hand falling limp on the bed still holding the device. Sweat coated her skin that was sizzling with the heat. She was so utterly overwhelmed by pain and exhaution that she didn’t want to live an hour, a minute or even a second longer. But she had to be strong a little more, to gain strength somehow in order to get out of Mexico. There was no good in stalling.

”Marcus,” the brunette called out quietly for her partner, who had disappeared behind the curtain to give Bette space while she had been talking to Tina.

”I’m here,” the man hurried back to Bette’s side.

”Call Doyle Bogan, tell him to pick us up in an hour.”

Marcus frowned deeply. ”Are you serious? Girl, you just had surgery, you need rest.”

”I’ll rest on our way.”

”No, I mean you need all this stuff attached to you, you’re barely breathing and I doubt you can walk.”

”Fuck, Marcus,” as much as she would like to yell in exasperation, she could only whisper out her anger. ”Lerbon’s people might very well be looking for us as we speak to finish what they started. We can’t stay here.”

Marcus pursed his lips, thinking intensely. ”Are you sure it’s Lebron’s people who bombed the car?”

”Yes.”

”Okay, let’s stay till morning. You’ll at least be rested enough.”

”Do as I say dammit!” Bette erupted all of sudden, sounding not only raspy, but also rough and distorted, which she herself didn’t expect to hear. The act of raising her voice sent her into a violent spasmodic cough. ”Argghhh…” she cried, gripping her chest.

”Alright, alright… Shit…” Marcus fussed, trying to help Bette and dial a phone number all at once.

Completely drained, Bette crumpled on the pillow and clutched it close to her, resigning herself to suffer patiently, thinking that she did, indeed, deserve to.