The thin greaseball seems to consider it. He’s swaying on his feet like a man on the edge of oblivion. I don’t trust him at all; he looks like he’s already had a few drinks tonight. The skin on his face is taut and shiny. A faint black mustache tickles his sharp, pointy nose and his thin lips stretch out white from a smirk. He’s even more pale than Ronan is—they all are.
“Toss your gun to my friend here,” he casually orders, gesturing towards the goon to his left.
Ronan hesitates.
“Okay, have it your way,” the greaseball shrugs, clicking the safety off of his gun.
“I’ll do it,” Ronan bellows. “It’s under my belt,” he nods towards the hidden weapon.
The greaseball nods towards his right-most goon, who stumbles forward and sloppily searches Ronan for his Glock.
The lug has an overpowering stench of vodka and douchebag-level cologne about him that nearly makes me gag. I hide behind Ronan with all my might. Before I can blink though, I’ve been forcefully shoved backwards. I stumble in shock and watch as Ronan quickly twists his gun from the goon’s hand and wraps his good arm around the stranger’s beefy neck. He holds onto his new hostage like he’s a big fleshy shield.
In a flash, the tides have turned.
Ronan has the barrel of his Glock dug into the side of the hefty goon. “Run,” Ronan growls, without looking back at me.
I don’t move. I can’t move. I’m frozen in place.
When he doesn’t hear my fleeing footsteps, Ronan pulls his gun up from the goon’s appendix and sticks it right at his temple instead. “RUN!” he orders, as if threatening to show me the inside of his hostage’s brain if I don’t.
I tremble in the open space behind the action. Without Ronan’s big warm body nearby for protection, I suddenly feel like I’ve been ripped right out of a womb. “Ronan...” I whisper, desperately trying to will myself to follow his command. It’s no use, though. My legs are wet noodles. I’m stuck in a quicksand of fear. I asked for this, I remind myself. This is what you wanted, right?
I search myself for an answer, and when I’m met by a wave of adrenaline coursing through my body in response, I have it: yes.
I feel alive.
Slowly, I gain control back over my body. I stop shivering and scan the area for a hiding spot. I’ll run from the immediate danger, but I’m not leaving Ronan.
“That was dumb,” I hear the weaselly voice of the greaseball sigh.
I spot a steel dumpster just a d
ozen or so feet away, right at the corner of the backstreet I was angling to take Ronan down mere minutes ago. Before I can make a run for it, though, I’m startled by a round of thunderous gunshots.
I instinctively duck. My knees scrape against the cold pavement as I desperately scramble for cover. Bullets whizz by me and ricochet off the ground. Gunfire is exchanged.
Miraculously, I make it to the dumpster before I can be hit.
The thunder is deafening. I cover my ears and crawl into a ball, making myself as small as possible. Intermittent shouts cut through the noise. Lights from nearby apartments turn on. I close my eyes and wait for the nightmare to end.
You asked for this, you idiot. Are you still happy with your decision?
Just as quickly as it started, the firefight ends. Silence overtakes the night once again, but only momentarily. It doesn’t take long before I hear more shouts in the distance, and then, police sirens.
Slowly, I uncurl myself from the ball I’d become during the chaos. I unclasp my ears and listen for Ronan’s voice, but I don’t hear it. What I do hear are quickly approaching footsteps. They echo through the streets like impending doom—and they’re coming straight for me!
13
Nia
“Nia?”
My name’s a whisper on the wind.
I can barely hear it at first, but when it’s repeated, just before the heavy, approaching footsteps pull up to my ramshackle hiding place, I realize what I’m hearing.
Ronan.