“We need asylum!” Marc yelled in return, pushing me to run faster. “We need asylum!”
“Stop!” the soldier behind us shouted. “Stop or I’ll shoot!”
Fear unlike anything I’d ever felt before shot through me. He was going to shoot Marc. I knew it. Was sure of it. We had to get to safety.
“Please,” I sobbed. “Help us!”
The Mounties’ shock at seeing us had faded, and in its wake, an air of professionalism had fallen over them. They still had their guns up, but they no longer looked confused. Instead, they looked mad.
“Lower your gun,” one of the Mounties shouted. “You cannot fire a weapon toward Canadian soil!”
“These are US citizens,” came the furious reply. “They’re fugitives.”
One of the other Mounties stepped toward us, getting as close to crossing into the US as he dared. “Come on!”
The man waved, the gesture urgent, and Marc tightened his grip on me and pumped his legs faster. I was flying rather than running, and I didn’t know how I was doing it, especially since I’d felt like I had no energy left only ten minutes ago. Adrenaline, probably.
“Stop!” the soldier running after us shouted again.
We didn’t listen.
Step, step, step. We were so close. Four feet. Almost there. The Mountie waving for us to keep moving reached out, and I did as well, straining to grab his hand. I was so close. I could almost reach him.
Then I did.
His skin was warm against mine when he wrapped his hand around mine, and so comforting a sob of relief broke out of me. It was quickly cut off when the crack of gunfire cut through the air. I screamed and Marc grunted, making me cry out again. He stumbled and started to go down, taking me with him, and I tripped over my feet as fear exploded in me.
“No!” I screamed when it dawned on me that Marc had been shot.
The Mounties went crazy.
“Stand down!”
“Do not shoot!”
“Stay away from Canadian soil!”
The Mountie holding my hand helped me stay on my feet when Marc released me. He lurched forward, gasping but somehow stayed up, then stumbled across the border at the same time the Mountie pulled me to safety. I fell against the man, gasping for breath and shaking, and he put his arm around me, preventing me from falling.
“Ma’am, if you return to your home country, would you be persecuted based on being a fertile woman and would you be subject to the danger of imprisonment?”
“Yes,” I gasped, nodding so hard it made my head hurt.
“As a person in need of protection, do you wish to seek asylum in the country of Canada?”
“Yes,” I said again, shaking. Sobbing. “Please.”
As soon as the words were out, the Mountie holding me turned his attention to the man across the border. “This woman has asylum! Step away from Canadian soil or we will be forced to retaliate.”
The Department of Fertility soldier didn’t respond, but hedid lower his gun. His expression was furious, his eyes narrowed to slits as he glared at me, and for a few tense seconds, I didn’t think he was going to back down. Finally, though, the man shook his head.
A second later, he lifted the walkie talkie to his mouth. “They’ve crossed into Canada, sir. There was nothing I could do. Over.”
Without waiting for a response, the soldier headed for his truck.
We’d made it. We were in Canada.
Before I had a chance to relax, Marc let out a pained grunt. Remembering he’d been shot, I pulled away from the man holding me and spun to face Marc. He was lying on the ground, a Mountie kneeling at his side with his hands pressed against the gunshot wound in Marc’s calf, trying to stop the flow of blood. Since it had pooled on the road beneath him, the Mountie’s efforts were clearly wasted.
