Page 33 of Mercenary

“You pussy,” I hear the man with the pockmarked face snap, but I’m running, my brain chanting, “Go, Madelyn, go.”

A strong late-night breeze kicks up, promising to lift me up and sweep me away. The afghan flutters upward along with the tank underneath. If only I’d insisted on changing. If only I’d had a little more faith that I could convince my stranger to wait a few precious seconds while I showered and dressed.

Following the asphalt parking lot around to the back of the building, I search the darkness for my stranger but don’t find him.

Gravel crunches and footsteps sound.

They’re following me.

I draw a long inhalation deep into my lungs. Get away. You must get away.

Yet I’ve made a tactical mistake in heading around back where no one can see me. I’d assumed my stranger would be back here, smoking a cigarette or doing whatever it is he didn’t want me to see him doing.

“Circle around. We’ve got her. She’s right there near the fence.”

To my right, I can make out the tallest man running to get ahead of me. I pick up my pace into a full-out sprint. It’s a race with no finish line. I refuse to let this be the end . . . of me.

I can hear a man behind me cursing, but the pounding of footsteps makes me think it’s all three in pursuit, including the married man. I don’t dare look back because the tall one with the long legs is cutting a diagonal path in my direction. Our eyes connect and I will myself to go faster.

I break eye contact and am turning away when I hear him scream out in pain. “Ahhh, Christ.” Surprised, I watch him grab his thigh and fall to the ground. I keep going though, thanking my lucky stars fate intervened.

“Who the fuck is that?” one of my pursuers shouts. Close behind me and far too close for comfort.

“Did you see that? He nailed Charlie in the thigh with a knife.”

“We gonna help him?”

“Let’s grab this bitch first.”

It’s at this precise moment, fate gives me the middle finger and my foot snags in the afghan that’s slipped down my body. I stumble. Regain my balance.

But the damage is done.

One of them shoves me, and this time, I tumble to the ground and down onto all fours. My knees bark out in protest as my skin slides against the asphalt.

I freeze when hear two loud pops.

Then both my pursuers crash down like falling trees on either side of me.

Something wet hits my left calf and right forearm. Acrid-smelling.

Blood.

It takes all my courage not to scream. I lift my head, searching for something . . . searching for someone . . . a stranger who likes knives.

The asphalt lot is eerily silent. Which is why the faint gasp I make sounds like a freight train rumbling through. Over by what has to be the bathroom door, a shadowy figure stands beneath a floodlight. Arms folded. Legs braced apart. Seeming more like an observer than an active participant in this horror show.

Anger positively radiates across the vacant space.

My throat hitches as I come up onto my feet. Careful not to look at the two men. Not wanting to see their bullet wounds and them laid out in pain. Well deserved or not.

I shuffle toward my stranger. Fighting my unsteady gate, my panic, this strange sense of euphoria making my head spin.

When I’m within arm’s reach, he gruffly says, “You hurt?”

“Just scraped my knees.” My chin hurts. My head pounds. And a little piece of my soul must ache at the idea that I’m indirectly responsible for their brutal injuries, right? Yet the truth is, I feel a lightness of spirit. A senseless euphoria.

My stranger. My protector.