Chapter 10: The Escape Plan
The first thirty-six hours were the longest of Catalina’s life. The quiet in the Alpine house became a dense, suffocating thing. She jumped at every creak of timber, every gust of wind rattling the windowpanes. Sleep was a lost concept. She’d lie beside Mina, watching the digital clock on the nightstand flick from one minute to the next, each tick a tiny detonation in the silence. Letty was a statue in the armchair by the window, a shadow against the deeper dark, her stillness more unnerving than any pacing could have been.
When the phone finally rang, it was a searing shock through the pre-dawn gloom. Not the burner. The landline, its old-fashioned bell a shrill intrusion. No one called that number. Ever.
Catalina was out of bed before the second ring, her heart a frantic hammer against her ribs. She stumbled into the hallway, her bare feet cold on the floorboards. Letty was already there, her hand hovering over the receiver, eyes locked on Catalina’s. A silent question. A shared dread.
Catalina nodded, a sharp, jerky motion.
Letty picked up. “Yeah?” Her voice was flat, guarded.
Catalina watched her friend’s face, searching for a clue. Letty’s expression didn’t change, but her knuckles turned white around the handset. She listened for what felt like an eternity, then held the phone out. “It’s for you. Hospital. Miami.”
The floor tilted. Catalina took the phone, the cold plastic biting into her palm. “This is Catalina Toretto.”
The voice on the other end was professionally calm, a sterile ocean of composure. “Ms. Toretto, I’m calling from Jackson Memorial’s critical care unit regarding a patient listed under your contact information. A John Doe, admitted early this morning with multiple traumatic injuries.”
“John Doe.” The words were meaningless.
“The patient was found at a commercial property. He had no identification, but this number was written on a piece of paper in his pocket.” A pause. The sound of a page turning. “His condition is critical. There was significant blood loss. He’s sustained a penetrating chest injury, a cranial fracture, and is currently on a ventilator. The next twenty-four to forty-eight hours are crucial.”
A high-pitched whine started in Catalina’s ears, drowning out the hum of the refrigerator, the wind outside. She saw the loft, the hay, the moonlight on his skin. She saw the bruise her teeth had left. “Is he conscious?”
“No. He’s medically induced into a coma to allow for swelling to subside.” The voice softened, just a fraction. “I’m required to inform you that given the nature of the injuries and his current status, you may wish to consider… making arrangements to be here. To discuss care options with the team.”
Care options. The gentle euphemism punched through the fog. Life support.
“What’s the… what’s the prognosis?” Her own voice sounded distant, someone else’s.
“I cannot give a prognosis over the phone, Ms. Toretto. You need to speak directly with the attending neurosurgeon and trauma team. They’ll need next of kin to make decisions.”
Next of kin. She was his twin. His everything. The only person on earth who qualified.
“I’ll be there.” The words were automatic, forged in a fire of pure instinct.
She hung up before the nurse could say anything else. The room was silent again, but now it was a different kind of silence, heavy and final. Letty was staring at her, already understanding.
“How bad?” Letty asked, the words scraped raw.
Catalina just looked at her. She didn’t need to say it. The answer was in the void that had opened up inside her chest.
“Fuck,” Letty breathed, the single syllable holding a universe of rage and fear. She didn’t move to hug Catalina, didn’t offer platitudes. She turned and strode into the living room, yanking open a locked cabinet bolted to the wall. Inside were two shotguns, boxes of shells, and a 9mm Glock. She started loading, her movements precise, efficient, her face a stone mask.
Catalina stood frozen in the hallway, the landline number from the hospital pressed so hard into her thigh she could feel the indentation through her pajamas. It was a brand. A point on a map she had to reach.
Move. She had to move.
She walked back into the bedroom. Mina was stirring, her little face soft with sleep. Catalina’s hands began to work independently of her shattered mind. She pulled the large duffel from the closet. Cash from the floor safe. Their Canadian passports, fresh and untouched. Warm clothes for Mina. Diapers. Wipes.
Her motions were mechanical, a checklist of survival. She packed Mina’s favorite stuffed rabbit, its fur worn soft from love. She packed a change of clothes for herself, not caring what they were. Jeans. A sweatshirt. She didn’t think about toiletries, about anything beyond the next twenty-four hours.
Mina sat up, rubbing her eyes. “Mama?”
Catalina zipped the duffel, the sound loud in the room. She knelt by the bed, smoothing her daughter’s dark hair. “We’re going on a trip, sweetheart. A plane trip.”
Mina’s eyes lit up. “Fly?”
“Yeah, baby. We’re flying.” Catalina’s voice cracked. She took a steadying breath. “We’re going to see Daddy.”
She forced a smile, her face feeling like it might break. She did not add before they take him off life support. The words screamed inside her skull, but she swallowed them down, a bitter poison.
In the main room, Letty had finished with the guns. She held out the Glock to Catalina. “You remember how to use it?”
Catalina took it. The weight was familiar, a grim comfort. She checked the magazine, slid the action, engaged the safety. Nodded.
“I called a car. It’ll be here in twenty to take us to Zurich.” Letty slung the duffel over her shoulder, then hefted the smaller bag with the shotgun inside. “Commercial is fastest. We’ll be there in under a day.”
“What about…” Catalina gestured vaguely at the house, at their life.
“It’ll keep.” Letty’s eyes were hard. “He wouldn’t.”
The finality of it settled over them. There was no other priority. Nothing else existed.
The drive to Zurich was a blur of gray mountains and silent tears Catalina didn’t realize she was crying. Mina chattered in the back, excited about the plane, oblivious to the tension in the front seat. Letty drove, her eyes constantly scanning the mirrors.
At the airport, chaos became their ally. Letty used cash for three last-minute tickets, her manner brusque, discouraging questions. They bypassed the main security lines, using a premium service that cost a small fortune but kept them moving, kept them from standing still. Catalina held Mina close, the child’s warmth a tiny anchor in the roaring sea of her fear.
On the plane, once they were airborne, the surreal disconnect set in. Flight attendants offered drinks. The man across the aisle laughed at a movie. Outside the window, the world was a blanket of peaceful clouds. And somewhere beneath them, Dominic was lying in a sterile room, a machine breathing for him.
Catalina stared at the seatback in front of her. She saw the motel room phone call, heard his steady voice saying forty-eight hours. He’d been wrong. He’d been so wrong.
Letty reached over from the aisle seat, her hand covering Catalina’s clenched fist. She didn’t say it would be okay. She just held on.
“Mama sad?” Mina asked from Catalina’s lap, her small hand patting Catalina’s cheek.
Catalina caught the tiny fingers, kissed them. “Mama’s just tired, monkey. Go to sleep.”
She watched as Mina’s eyelids grew heavy, as she succumbed to the hum of the engines. She tucked the stuffed rabbit under her daughter’s arm, the sight of that innocent love a fresh, searing pain.
The flight attendant dimmed the cabin lights. In the semi-darkness, Catalina leaned her head against the window, the cool glass a relief against her burning skin. She pressed the side of her fist against her mouth, biting down to stop the silent scream building in her throat.
She replayed the nurse’s words. Penetrating chest injury. Cranial fracture. Ventilator. Each term was a slide show of horror behind her eyes. She imagined his face, swollen and unrecognizable. His hands, the hands that could rebuild an engine or trace her spine with unbearable tenderness, lying still on a white sheet.
The deal had gone bad. Hector had double-crossed him, or the cartel hadn’t believed the story, or they’d decided to send a message. It didn’t matter. The result was the same.
He was a line on a monitor now. A beeping heart. A set of numbers on a chart.
And she was hurtling through the sky to decide if that line kept moving.
She thought of the barn loft, the desperation in his whisper, the bite of her teeth in his shoulder. It felt like a memory from someone else’s life, a beautiful, cursed dream. That was the last time. The last time she’d felt him, known him, outside of the ghost he was now.
An hour out of Miami, Letty leaned over. “We land, we go straight there. No stops.”
Catalina nodded. Her throat was too tight for words.
“I’ll handle the cabs, the directions. You just be with her.” Letty nodded at Mina, asleep now with her head on Catalina’s chest. “And when we get in that room… you see him. You talk to him. You tell him to fight. You hear me? He’ll hear you.”
Catalina believed that. She had to. It was the only thread left.
The plane began its descent, the Fasten Seatbelt sign pinging on. Miami sprawled below them, a glittering grid of lights in the predawn darkness, a city of a thousand hidden dangers and one desperately needed hospital. The wheels touched down with a squeal of rubber, a jarring return to a reality she didn’t want.
As they taxied to the gate, Catalina looked down at Mina’s peaceful face. She smoothed her daughter’s hair, her touch gentle.
“We’re here, baby,” she whispered, her voice barely audible over the cabin noise. “We’re gonna go see Daddy.”
She said it like a promise. Like a prayer.
And in the depths of her, where the fear and the love churned in equal, terrible measure, a new, steely resolve began to form. He had fought his way to them. She would fight her way to him. Whatever it took.
The aisle filled with people, a river of strangers heading into their own lives. Catalina stood, shifting Mina’s weight, and grabbed the duffel from the overhead bin. Letty was already in the aisle, a wall of fierce protectiveness, clearing a path.
They stepped out of the plane and into the blast of humid, jet-fuel-scented air. Catalina took a deep, shuddering breath. Somewhere in this sprawling, indifferent city, he was waiting.
She adjusted Mina on her hip, gripped the strap of the duffel, and followed Letty into the fluorescent glow of the terminal, walking straight toward the storm.
The terminal air was a stale, recycled chill that did nothing to cut the sweat pooling between Catalina’s shoulder blades. Her shoes squeaked on the polished floor, a ridiculous, cheerful sound that clashed with the metallic dread in her mouth. Letty moved like a blade through the crowd, all sharp angles and purpose, her gaze scanning every face, every uniformed employee.
“Cab line’s this way,” Letty said, not looking back. Her voice was low, meant only for Catalina’s ears. “Keep Mina close.”
Catalina adjusted her daughter’s weight, the duffel strap digging into her other shoulder. The world felt too bright, too loud. Announcements for flights to Cancún echoed. A child whined for candy. Her own breath sounded ragged in her head. She focused on the back of Letty’s leather jacket, a fixed point in the swirling chaos.
The humidity hit them at the curbside like a physical wall, thick and hot, carrying the tang of exhaust and wet concrete. Yellow taxis streamed past under the harsh white canopy lights. Letty didn’t wait for the line. She stepped into the road, flagged down a cab that was still moving, and slammed her hand on the hood when it tried to swerve past.
The driver, a man with tired eyes, started to protest. Letty yanked open the rear door, leaned in. “Jackson Memorial. Fast. Two hundred cash bonus if you’re under twenty minutes.” She didn’t smile. She just held up two crisp bills she’d pulled from her pocket.
The protest died in his throat. He nodded. “Get in.”
They piled into the backseat, the cracked vinyl sticking to Catalina’s legs. Mina stirred, disoriented by the sudden movement and the unfamiliar smells. “Mama?”
“It’s okay, monkey. We’re almost there.” Catalina’s voice sounded unnaturally calm, a practiced performance. She buckled Mina into the middle seat with trembling fingers, then forced herself to look out the window.
Miami unspooled in a blur of neon and shadow. Palm trees stood like silent sentinels against a bruised pre-dawn sky. The cab weaved through traffic, the driver taking Letty’s offer as a personal challenge. Horns blared. Catalina watched it all without seeing. She saw only the sterile room, the beeping machines, his still form.
Letty’s phone buzzed. She glanced at it, her jaw tightening. She showed Catalina the screen. A news article, local, from a few hours ago. POLICE INVESTIGATE AFTERMATH OF APPARENT WAREHOUSE DISTURBANCE. One fatality confirmed. Condition of second individual unknown.
“One fatality,” Catalina whispered, the words ash in her mouth. Her mind raced. Hector? Or one of the cartel men? Did it matter? The second individual was Dominic. The “unknown” was him. The unknown was her entire life.
The cab screeched to a halt under a stark white porte-cochère marked TRAUMA CENTER. The money changed hands. Letty was out first, shouldering the bag with the shotgun, a grim concierge for this nightmare. Catalina unbuckled Mina, gathering the sleepy child against her chest.
The automatic doors hissed open, releasing a wave of antiseptic air, undercut with a faint, unsettling sweetness she couldn’t place. The lobby was a study in muted anxiety: worn chairs, a muted television, people huddled in postures of exhausted grief. A security guard eyed Letty’s large bag but said nothing.
The information desk was a barrier of polished wood. A woman with kind eyes and a tight smile looked up. “Can I help you?”
“We’re here for John Doe,” Catalina said, her voice flat. “Admitted early this morning. Critical care.”
The woman’s fingers tapped on a keyboard. Her expression shifted, professional sympathy settling into place. “Your name?”
“Catalina Toretto. I’m his sister.” The lie, the oldest one, felt like a shard of glass in her throat.
A few more keystrokes. A nod. “ICU, sixth floor. You’ll need to check in with the nursing station. Only two visitors at a time, and no children under twelve are permitted in the unit.”
The rule landed like a physical blow. Catalina looked down at Mina, who was now awake and clutching her neck. “She… she has to see him.”
“I’m sorry. It’s a strict policy. Infection control.” The woman’s tone was final. “There’s a family waiting room just outside the unit. You can… take turns.”
Letty’s hand landed on Catalina’s lower back, a steadying pressure. “We’ll figure it out. Let’s go up.”
The elevator ride was a silent ascent into a different kind of hell. The doors opened onto a dimly lit corridor hushed by the hum of machinery and the soft, hurried footsteps of nurses. The air here was colder, scented with a sharper, cleaner sting of alcohol and despair.
The nursing station was a bastion of calm efficiency. A man in blue scrubs listened as Catalina gave the name again. He consulted a chart, his face impassive.
“He’s in room 614. Dr. Vance is the attending. He’s with another family right now but will be out to speak with you shortly.” The nurse’s eyes flicked to Mina. “I’m afraid your daughter can’t go in.”
“I’ll stay with her,” Letty said immediately. She took Mina from Catalina’s arms. The toddler whimpered, reaching back for her mother. “Hey, pretty girl. You and me are gonna go find some juice. Let Mama go see Daddy for a minute, okay?”
The word ‘Daddy’ hung in the sterile air. Catalina saw the nurse’s gaze sharpen, then carefully blank. He’d heard the ‘sister’ lie. He didn’t comment. He just pointed down the hall. “Room 614. Just… prepare yourself.”
Prepare yourself. What did that mean? For the bandages? The tubes? The absence of him?
She walked down the hallway, her footsteps sounding too loud. The doors to each room were mostly closed, numbers glowing softly. 610… 612… 614.
The door was ajar.
She pushed it open.
The room was a symphony of quiet, blinking lights and slow, mechanical sighs. The centerpiece was the bed, a complex nest of rails and wires. And in the center of it, a form so diminished it took her breath away.
Dominic’s broad shoulders were lost in the flat hospital sheets. His head was swathed in white bandages, a lattice of gauze and tape that left only a sliver of his bruised jaw and his mouth, slack around the thick, plastic tube taped there. More tubes snaked from his chest, from his arms. A ventilator hissed and clicked with a rhythm that was nothing like breathing. Monitor lines traced jagged, green peaks across a black screen.
His hands, those powerful, knowing hands, lay palm-up on the sheets, utterly still. They were scraped raw, the knuckles swollen and dark.
She moved to the bedside as if pulled by a magnetic force. The cold from the linoleum seeped through her shoes. She reached out, her fingers hovering over the back of his nearest hand. She was afraid to touch him, as if he might shatter.
Slowly, she let her fingertips rest on his skin. It was warm. That one detail unlocked something catastrophic inside her. A sob broke from her chest, harsh and unwelcome in the clinical quiet. She clasped his hand, feeling the rough calluses, the familiar strength now dormant.
“Dom,” she whispered, the word cracking. She leaned closer, her lips near the one visible shell of his ear. “I’m here. Catalina’s here. Mina’s here, she’s just outside.” She swallowed the bile rising in her throat. “You listen to me. You fight. You come back. You hear me? You don’t get to leave.”
She squeezed his hand, willing a response, any response. A twitch of a finger. A flutter under his eyelid. Nothing. Only the ventilator’s artificial, mocking cycle.
“Sir? I’m Dr. Vance.” A calm voice came from the doorway.
Catalina straightened quickly, wiping her cheeks with the back of her free hand, not letting go of Dominic’s. A man in a white coat stood there, a tablet in his hand, his face a mask of compassionate exhaustion.
“You’re his sister,” the doctor stated, entering the room. He didn’t wait for confirmation. “I’ll be direct. The injuries are severe. The penetrating trauma to the chest collapsed a lung and caused significant internal bleeding. We’ve repaired that. The head injury is our primary concern. The CT shows a fracture here,” he gestured vaguely toward the bandages, “and significant swelling. The coma is medically induced to give his brain the best chance to heal.”
Catalina’s mind latched onto the clinical terms, transforming them into pictures she couldn’t bear. “Chance,” she repeated.
“It’s too early to predict outcomes.” Dr. Vance met her gaze. “The next twelve hours will give us more information. We’re monitoring the pressure inside his skull. If it continues to rise…” He trailed off, the implication clear. “We’ll need to discuss next steps.”
Next steps. The phrase from the phone call. A euphemism for a decision no one should ever have to make.
“Can he hear me?” she asked, her voice a thread.
“It’s possible. Studies suggest coma patients can sometimes process familiar voices. Talking to him is encouraged.” He paused, looking at their joined hands, her thumb stroking his knuckles in a frantic, repetitive rhythm. “I’ll give you some time. The nurse will be in to check vitals shortly.”
He left, his quiet footsteps fading. The room belonged to the machines again. Catalina pulled a chair close, the legs scraping loudly, and sank into it. She kept hold of Dominic’s hand, lacing her fingers with his.
“Remember the loft?” she murmured, her forehead resting against the cool bed rail. “The hay was so damn itchy. You had a piece stuck in your hair for hours after.” She let out a wet, shaky laugh. “And Mina. She asked for you the whole flight. She wanted to show you her rabbit.”
She talked. She talked about the Bronco’s engine, about the price of fuel in the village, about how Letty had burned the toast that morning. She filled the cold, beeping silence with the mundane scraps of the life he was missing, her words a fragile lifeline thrown into the deep, dark well of his unconsciousness.