Angel Fire by L. A. Weatherly

effort to get going that morning; all he’d wanted to do was stay in the tent with Willow for a while – like, the rest of his life.
    She stood looking off into the distance as he walked up, frowning as if she were thinking about something. She seemed to shake it away when she saw him. “Thanks,” she said, taking one of the coffees. “And here, you take this. I hate even holding it.” With a quick glance at the empty service-station forecourt, she covertly handed him the pistol.
    Alex never felt good about giving Willow the gun. Handing a loaded weapon to someone who’d never shot one before, and was nervous of them anyway, wasn’t really the best plan in the world. But it was a million times better than her not having a weapon if any trouble happened. He tucked the gun away in his holster, keeping his back to the camera that he knew would be perched on the roof of the service station.
    “I need to teach you how to use this,” he said, thinking aloud.
    He saw her start to protest. Then she looked away and took a sip of coffee, her green eyes troubled. “Yeah, okay,” she said finally.
    Alex’s eyebrows flew up. “Really? I thought you’d hate the idea.”
    “I do,” said Willow. “But I can’t not do something just because I don’t like it. I don’t have that – luxury, any more.” She shrugged. “I mean, all I have to do is look in the mirror to see how much things have changed. And I can’t depend on you to protect me all the time.”
    “You protect me too,” Alex pointed out. The memory of Willow’s angel flying above him, shielding him while putting herself in mortal danger, flashed into his mind. It had been the moment he’d first realized he was in love with her, though he’d been too much of an idiot to admit it to himself. He gulped down his coffee and tossed the empty cup into a trash can.
    “Okay,” he said. “You ready to become an illegal alien?”
    Willow shook her head with a smile and threw away her own empty cup. “This is the ultimate bad-boy date, isn’t it? Breaking into a different country.”
    “Hey, it makes a change from hot-wiring cars together.”
    “Been there, done that... Alex, seriously, are you sure no one’s going to shoot us?”
    “Don’t worry – if anyone’s around, we won’t cross,” he said. Border guards weren’t exactly his number one concern just then, but he still had no intention of taking any risks.
    They sped down the highway again; the southern New Mexico desert stretched out around them, silvery in the pre-dawn. A ghostly-looking coyote loped alongside the motorcycle for a few seconds, as if they were running a race, and then veered off on errands of its own. To Alex’s relief, he found the dirt road easily, leading off from the highway a few miles further on. He took it, leaning into the turn and feeling Willow’s hands tighten on his waist as she shifted her weight behind him.
    The border wall came into view. In some places this was a concrete barricade with razor coils glinting at its top; here it was just a tired-looking barbed-wire fence separating the two countries, as if they were neighbouring ranches. The fence cut across a dried-out riverbed; where it came up one of the banks it gave up for a few feet, collapsing onto the ground with its posts sagging.
    There was no one around; it was still almost dark. Alex trundled the bike to a stop, and Willow helped him manoeuvre it over the slant in the riverbed, into Mexico. “I thought the wall would be more...wall-like,” she said.
    “It is, in some places,” said Alex. “But in others, it’s just like this. And look.” He nodded at a rusty metal sign. It said, You must enter the US by a designated entry point. This is not a designated entry point. If you enter by this route, you are committing a felony.
    Willow stared. “But – it probably cost more to make the sign than it would have to repair the fence. It’s almost like they want people to sneak in.”
    “They do,”