Roan (The Henchmen MC 17)

I shot them.

They shoot me.

It was that easy.

"Give it up," a voice growled from behind me, gaining. Whoever it was, they were long-legged, fast.

And my damn leg muscles were starting to shake. I knew I couldn't outrun them for long.

And while, if I got caught, I knew that they wouldn't go easy on me because of my gender.

No.

They would push their morals aside, and call in someone of my own sex to work me over. They certainly knew enough women who could do the job happily. Gleefully even.

Going over the town map in my head, I changed directions, throwing myself down a different street. The incline was steep, my muscles screaming as my chest burned.

But it wasn't too much further.

I could even see it ahead, lit up with lights, reminding you not to get distracted, not to veer out of your lane, not to barrel into the guard rails, not to fly off the edge, nosedive into the water, be too slow to roll down your windows and swim out, die slowly as the water crept in.

There were several bridges all around Navesink Bank. Most of them high enough to ensure immediate death should you want to end it all.

I didn't want to end it.

Not when I was so close.

I just wanted it to be scary enough, dangerous enough that a family man wouldn't throw himself over to follow me, wouldn't take a dumb risk.

And me, well, I was desperate enough to jump. And I was skilled enough to swim away.

This was the only way.

"Hey! What are you doing?" the voice called as I made a beeline for the side of the bridge. "Doesn't have to come to this," he added, voice getting louder.

"Yeah, it does," I told him as my hands planted, as I lifted with all the strength I had left, hauling myself over. It was a dramatic flair, something I wasn't exactly known for, but it felt oddly right in the moment.

Stomach dropping, I stretched my legs straight, took a deep breath, and waited for impact.

Spring or not, the water was frigid, a thousand knives pricking into my skin at once.

It seemed like forever before I surfaced, gasping for breath for just a greedy second before I threw my body into a steady stroke, hugging the shoreline.

Even if he tried to chase me, he had too much terrain to cover to get to me in time. My only plan was to get far enough that even one of the sharpshooters on their crew couldn't squeeze a shot off at me before I climbed up, hauling my soaked body out of the water, giving myself only two solid minutes of breathing before I was off again.

It was too risky to go back to my hotel, to be seen on the streets.

I moved instead down the streets in the shittier part of town.

Third Street territory.

A low-level gang gaining some momentum under new leadership, whether anyone else knew it or not.

They had no loyalties, wouldn't talk even if they saw me.

Which was just the kind of people I needed to be around for the night.

I made my way past a small group of guys waiting to hand off their pockets full of drugs, letting myself into the basement of an apartment building, hearing the scurrying of rats, the music a few floors above.

It was cool, but it was dry.

And safe.

I slammed back against the cinder block walls, hands resting on knees, taking long, slow breaths.

I had to pull it together.

That had been sloppy.

And not to mention the unthinkable happened.

I had choked.

I had him there.

I had the gun, the power, the opportunity.

And what did I do?

I shot him in the damn thigh.

I hadn't been able to do it.

Kill him.

If that had even been my goal.

Honestly, I wasn't even sure it had been.

All these years, chasing him, plotting revenge. And I had never come up with the end game.

What did I want?

That was what everyone had to ask themselves in life.

What was the goal, what was the ultimate ideal.

What do you want?

I guess I had forgotten to ask myself that question somehow. Or, at least, when my answer came back as 'revenge,' I hadn't asked any follow-up questions.

On the plus side, it looked like there would be time for that. Since I was going to need to lay low for a while.

I could regroup.

Re-plan.

Think.

Get my freaking head in the game.

I didn't waste fifteen years of my life just to tear through some thigh muscle.

I don't know how long I stood there, hand pressed to my chest.

Heartbeat hammering.

Which was somehow poetic.

Because that was exactly what it had felt like the first time I met him.- PAST -Mackenzie - 15 years agoI didn't want to spend the summer in Armenia.

Well, no, that wasn't exactly true.

I didn't want to spend my summer in Armenia stuck in a stuffy bank with dry air and no character.