Page 174 of Callan

A parked car separates us when I find my voice and speak.

“Who is he? Who wants me dead?”

The first two men, who have talked before, slow down and close in on the car.

I pull away from it so I have some room to maneuver in case they lunge at me or something.

“I don’t know any of you,” I say, losing some of my oomph.

The two men are wearing dark jeans, hoodies, and leather jackets and look at me with freakish eyes.

I don’t need to have a degree in psychology or a PhD in reading people––not a real thing––to notice their contempt for me.

It was all a trap.

The casual dialogue.

The wicked humor.

There was no authentic humor, only stupid words to make me believe I stood a chance.

One of them makes a clipped gesture at the other to block my retreat while he zips around the car.

I dash away, fall into a pedestrian––who has popped up out of nowhere and immediately becomes the victim of the two men’s wrath––and cross the street without ensuring that no car is headed my way.

I hear the screeching noise of a car coming to a full stop next to me and even press my hand to the warm hood when commotion ensues behind me.

They come in hot, ready to yank me, shoot me, or toss me under another passing car, so I don’t have time to stick around and find out which one is going to be.

They argue with the car’s driver, and bullets fly, and then more voices participate in the altercation as this is no longer a casual encounter on the street.

All I know is that despite the things happening behind me, I still have people after me.

Heavy footfalls follow me closely, and men argue behind my back.

Someone’s body hits the pavement with a thud, and I run even faster.

My building comes into sight, and hope flickers in my chest.

My lungs hurt, and my legs are sore, yet I can’t stop.

The footsteps trail closer, and I push forward with all I have.

A hand lands on my shoulder, heavy like a boulder, and I almost feel a fist coming my way.

My head tilts to the side in avoidance, and my arm flies out, trying to push the assailant away.

More steps join the race, and I tear away as if hunted by the wolves, which isn’t that far from the truth.

A growling curse tears into the air before another body hits the pavement, and this time, I hear the distinct, clear sound of a machine gun with a silencer.

At any other time, this would be the perfect moment to pass out. But if I do it now, I might never regain consciousness.

Silence follows me only for a few seconds before footfalls trail me at a worrying, steady pace.

The distance closes between us with every second. And I start screaming. Again.

“Leave me alone. Please. I didn’t do anything wrong.”

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