The Romeo Arrangement

I twist enough to see over the aisle shelves and out the front windows.

The space where Ridge dropped me off is empty, so he’s probably still at the grocery store.

“Thanks.” I hold up the bag. “And thanks again for all your help.”

“Good luck!” the pharmacist chirps, giving me one more friendly wave.

I hook the bag over my arm and walk to the door. It’s heavy metal, and I’m half expecting an alarm to start blaring as I twist the knob. Luckily, that doesn’t happen.

I step outside into Jack Frost’s den. The alley is cleared out like she promised.

Piles of snow are pushed up against the buildings on both sides. I see the shoveled walkway on the other side, just a short distance up the alley, and follow the path.

Surely fifty dollars’ worth of cough and cold medicines will give Dad some relief.

Pneumonia scares me.

Seriously freaks me out.

If we get to a point where he needs to be hospitalized, I’m not sure what we’ll do.

God, for all I know, he’s already there.

But every day we’re not moving, putting a little more distance between us and the monsters in Milwaukee, is another day we might be found. And this time, with no escape.

I have to get him to a doctor, I decide. Who knows how I’ll pay for it, but that’s the least of our problems right now.

This schtick is getting old.

We can’t be sick, broke, and on the run forever.

My spine ices up as that thought crosses my mind. Then I glance up and have a better reason for my insides to freeze.

A black SUV has pulled into the alley and it’s rolling to a stop.

Two men jump out with black stocking caps.

Even without his bald head shining, I recognize one of them by the mean, stocky build and chaotic tattoo running up one side of his face.

Holy Jackknife Pete!

For a split second, everything just stops. I momentarily tense, then the fight-or-flight adrenaline kicks in, and I make a mad dash for the shoveled walkway.

I’m fast, but they’re no sloths.

The heavy thud, thud, thud of thick boots closes in at an alarming speed.

I question if I should’ve made a run for the drugstore door instead, glancing behind me.

Too bad it’s not any closer. Crap!

They’re going to catch me. Take me. Drag me away some place where I’ll never be able to help Dad again.

Move! I tell myself, throwing everything I’ve got into my knees, my hips, my ankles.

For the longest ten seconds of my life, it works. I’m actually breaking ahead of them, leaping over scattered smears of snow, almost to the semi-safety of the streets when—

A thick hand claps over my mouth.

I fight, I kick, I try to get away. Swinging my arms, my feet, my head, I bite down on a meaty part of the hand against my mouth, but it’s not helping.

The thug has a glove on that a rabid dog couldn’t chew through.

The surprise weakens his grip at first, though, but as soon as I break one hold, the other guy catches up, grabbing at my belly with both arms.

Jesus, I can’t fight both of them!

I’m losing ground fast.

They’re dragging my body like a rag doll, flinging me around, shoving me toward the yawning hell of that SUV.

My entire world comes apart in a blurred mess fueled by every sour emotion in the known universe.

Panic.

Fear.

Tears.

So freaking many tears.

My heart echoes in my ears like this sinister drum, pounding so hard I swear I’m about to pass out.

I don’t know what to do.

I just keep thinking it can’t end like this.

It can’t!

Their thick gloved hands cover my screams, pushing them back down my throat. Jackknife shoves me forward, harder, even as I’m fighting, kicking, twisting, trying to break their grip.

It’s not working.

But I’m not going with them.

If they want me so bad, it’s going to be with blood and bruises and hopefully a few ruptured testicles.

Calling up my last reserve of strength, I throw myself backward in a messy, off-balance cannonball, breaking their holds.

Turns out, a lucky patch of ice helps, sending the other man spinning off his feet. He hits the pavement and yells, struggling to get up.

Holy hell.

Now for the bad news: he isn’t the only one whirling out of control.

I hit the ground so hard it rattles my bones.

A fierce stinging sensation darts up my tailbone. I’m in the snow, lungs heaving, piled up against the building in a hot mess of raw, confused adrenaline.

Running didn’t work, so I scoot backward, up against the wall, and bury my butt in the snow. I fold at my knees, wrapping my arms around my shins, and tuck my head down, curling into the tightest ball humanly possible, so they don’t have anything to grab.

Oh, but they try.

Muffled curses spill out behind their masks. Four angry hands yank at my coat, my hood, my hair.