I want the elements of shock and surprise to be on my side when I get my opening.
This is on Marcus. The men in her place, these men waiting outside making sure it went down like it was supposed to. I know in my gut Marcus set it up. He’s a dead man. Every fucking person who’s involved is a dead man.
I’ll fucking kill him but odds are he’s going to kill me first. Unless I get a single opportunity. I just need one.
“Get him back, get him to talk. That’s all you need to worry about,” a gruff tone says. He doesn’t hide his voice and I almost give a start at realizing I recognize it. I recognize the way he coughs and I practically see him doing it. I’ve seen him close his fist and cover his mouth with it. He doesn’t do well with the change of season. He said that once. I know it’s him.
“I didn’t sign up for this,” one man protests, his voice hushed but I hear it.
The response is pushed through gritted teeth. “We have one job, get him there alive so he can talk.” I can hear a shove, a scampering back. “Do your fucking job.”
The hair stands up on the back of my neck. I followed this prick, I watched him for weeks. He’s one of Marcus’s men. Tall and gangly, but he’s got strength hidden in his thin frame. He was by the bridge, lugging crates. No one would view him as a threat at first if they happened to come across this man. Average in everything with the exception of height. His dark eyes and towering stature are the only marked traits.
“What if he dies on the way?” another man asks lowly in a whisper, as if he’s hiding it from my knowledge. Concern is evident and I don’t know if there’s credence to it or if all this pretending I’ve been doing, making my body heavy and groaning with the pain is a good enough act to convince them I may very well be dying.
He speaks again in single syllables, loud and distinct with anger clearly evident. “Get. Him. There.”
I’ve been listening ever since a gun was shoved to my temple. I only know the tall man with the gruff voice. We identified him as Steven Davis. Barely on the grid, but identifiable from a previous criminal record.
A hard shove to my right shoulder forces me to stumble and I exaggerate it, falling to my knees on the asphalt. As the man who held my arms grabs my shoulder, I test whether or not the ropes are tight on my wrists. They’re not. It’s a sloppy job that was done quickly. Only meant to aid whoever it is behind me. They may buy him some time if I were to try to fight my way out, but the knots will loosen.
“Get up,” the deepest voice says. It came from the one closest to me. The way he grips me and easily flings me up makes it obvious he’s got weight to him. I dub him: the muscle.
“Keep him alive.” The words are gritted in a hiss and I immediately feel a prick in my arm as my footing is finally getting settled. It’s a shot of something. “That’ll help.”
The grimace on my face can’t be seen, and I’m grateful for that. It’s so fucking cold and my head feels light.
Footsteps move farther away even though the hard grip on my arms remains. Three pairs of them. A car door opens and then another.
The four men around me has decreased to maybe two. At most. Two men are within reach. If I had to guess, the others are walking around the vehicle.
If I don’t try now, it may be the last time I ever see Laura.
Laura.
My body reacts before I can think. Throwing my head back, it slams directly into the big man, The Muscle, who had my arms restrained behind me. He yells a slew of curses and without missing a beat I turn and shove my full weight into him. The ropes burn as I work them, doing my damnedest to wrest them free. It works. The relief is slight, but it’s there as the coarse rope falls beneath my hurried feet.
The screams of “Get him!” trail at my back. I don’t wait; I run as fast as I can. My muscles scream and I barely get the black bag off my head before I hit the edge of the brick wall that surrounds the dumpsters. My right shoulder slams directly into it, knocking me off-balance and spinning me around. Fuck! The pain is fresh and brutal from the hit.
In a quick glimpse I see everything. The single light in Laura’s parking lot, the all-white van with no windows, and the four men racing toward me with a look of dread in their eyes. One of them is most definitely Steven Davis. Our eyes lock and I know he knows that one of us will die soon.
“I’ll shoot,” one yells, stopping to point a gun and I take off. He’s a heavier guy who’s hard to see this late at night, but his build, his voice, they’re etched into my mind. Every single one of them, I’ll remember for as long as I live. Or, at least, as long as they live.
Revenge won’t happen tonight. This is my only chance to run.
Agonizing pain courses through my limbs, every muscle coiled and screaming with the plea to stop. I sprint through it, past the dumpsters, past the complex and down to the woods. The smell of dirt is fresh, like an autumn rain mixed with crisp auburn leaves.
It’s dark, too dark to see much of anything between the thick grouping of old oak trees. The fall leaves crunch beneath my feet as I whip around the dense forest. The bark scrapes my forearm. Fuck! The sting only adds a touch more pain to my already battered body. My breath forms clouds in front of my face, the only warmth I can feel at all.
Run. My heart pounds in my chest. Run as fast as I can.
My pulse hammers and my gut twists inside of me. I can’t fail. I can’t let them catch me.
Three. Two. One. I hurl myself down the left side of the woods where the drop-off is. I knew it was there. Letting myself fall down the steep hill, tumbling and crashing through sticks and gnarled roots, I prepare for the large overturned tree. It looks like it fell some time ago, but the roots took hold and it made its home in the side of the hill.
The second my body smacks into the trunk, I cling to it, gritting my teeth so I don’t scream out from the sudden blunt force to my chest. It knocks the wind out of me but with shaking arms, I move my body around the tree and stay silent, hunched down in the darkness on the dirt floor and listen. My breathing is sporadic and heavy.
Quiet. Stay quiet. Stay still. The trembling aftermath is a constant. Aiming to control it, I close my eyes. I prepare. I listen.
They don’t throw themselves down. Instead they run, stumble and try to keep from falling down the steep hill. I can’t tell how many there are. They move past me, even though I swear my heart is hammering so loud they should have heard it.
Two men pass by with precision and haste, following the trail. I catch them out of the corner of my eye and if only they turned to look, they’d see me. The moon is brighter now. They keep moving, making their way as quickly as they can, but it’s damn near impossible with how steep the cliff is.
There are two more. I can faintly hear one a moment later, the twigs snapping under his weight. He’s quiet. He’s got to be the heavier man. The one who aimed the gun. Far quieter than the other two, despite his weight. He goes slowly, tracking and being patient. I don’t dare swallow or move an inch until he’s far past me.
Even then, I know there’s a fourth. There’s another man looking for me and I refuse to move until I know where he is.
I take the moment to assess, my eyes fully adjusted to the darkness and look up between the scattering of leaves still clinging to their home, at the small bits of light the canopy provides.