by Darrell Pitt
Chapter Two
The door is locked.
My heart is beating so hard I actually feel slightly faint. The handle turns once. Twice. Jiggles vigorously. I stare at it in horror. Then someone slams into it with their shoulder. The sound of muffled voices emanates from the other side.
Spinning about, my eyes helplessly search the room. There is only a single window and I’m several floors above the street.
Except…
I race to the window and unlock it. There is a fire escape on the other side. I try pushing the window up, but the owner of the building has very intelligently decided to paint it shut.
I push up on the sash with all my might. It moves. Slightly. Glancing back to the door, I see it shudder as the strangers on the other side slam against it.
It won’t hold.
So I draw back from the window, raise my leg and kick hard at the glass. It shatters and I immediately punch out the remaining jagged shards with my hand. I climb head first out onto a fire escape and race to the stairs to my left. Within seconds I’m charging down them as I hear the crash of the opening door from the room above.
There’s no time to think. There’s only time to act. I don’t run as much as fling, scramble and tumble down from one level to the next. I hear something thud onto the escape above me. More footsteps. They’re giving chase.
The terror of being caught drives me on faster. I slip on the stairs and bang my knee. The pain is instantaneous; a shooting explosion of agony that dances up and down my leg. I ignore it as a new thought in the back of my mind drives me forward.
If it was the cops at the door, they would have identified themselves as such. So these aren’t the cops. Not anyone legal.
So who are they?
There’s no time to ponder the question. I take another turn in the fire escape and find – it ends.
My heart nearly stops with panic until I look to my left and see –
A ladder. Of course. A sliding ladder is attached to the escape to allow residents to evacuate the building, but not to allow thief’s access to the apartments at other times. I push the ladder down as hard as I can and it slides easily to the ground.
Seconds later I’m on the street. Once again, there’s no time to think. I’m in a wide back alley behind a row of buildings. Large square trash cans line the laneway. I sprint up the length of it as the sound of feet bang loudly on the escape behind me.
I’m half way down the block when I hear the gunshot. It slams into a wall to my right and I immediately veer away, forcing myself to weave slightly to become a more difficult target. The gun fires again. And again. This time I feel something whiz past my ear. I put on a burst of speed, reach the end and round the corner.
A man and woman holding hands walk past me. They cast a curious glance in my direction. Probably I’m wild eyed and looking like a crazy person. So be it. I am a crazy person. Someone is trying to kill me. I charge across the street. A car screeches. I veer away from it. Another one stops in front of me. I roll across the hood.
Gotta keep moving, I tell myself. Gotta keep –
Bang!
Bang! Bang!
People start to scream. A store window explodes. I see a man bend sideways onto the sidewalk.
No!
But I can’t stop. If they’re prepared to shoot a complete stranger then there’s no limit to what they’ll do to me. I sprint up the sidewalk and find a thin alley between the buildings. I tear down it, reach the other end and dance about undecided. Left or right? It makes no difference at all because I have no idea where I am. I just need to put distance between myself and my pursuers.
The street is congested with traffic, so I start to cross between the vehicles. There are a couple of trucks idling in the midst of the chaos.
This is part of the afternoon rush hour. Wherever I am. I think it’s Manhattan. So many engines are churning at the same time that it takes me a moment to realize I can hear a higher pitched whine above the chaos.
I turn around to see a girl roaring up behind me on a motorcycle. She is slim and dressed in black jeans and a leather jacket. The helmet obscures her face. No sooner do I acknowledge her appearance than I realize her eyes are focused directly on me.
“Get on!” she snaps.
“What?”
“Get on! I’ll get you out of here.”
I’m standing undecided in the middle of the traffic. Out of the corner of my eye I see three men round a corner. They are all muscle bound, dressed in identical tank tops and jeans. One of them is holding a gun.
The words go through my mind again as I look at the girl.
Trust no one.
Turning my back on her, I weave through the cars until I reach the sidewalk. A moment later I’m racing down another narrow side alley. It suddenly occurs to me that the book is still in my back pocket. The stranger in the room died to entrust it to me. Slowing, I spot a gap in the brickwork near the bottom of a wall. I bend over and slide the book in. It fits. In fact, the spine blends so well it could have been made to match.
At the end of the alley I find an empty patch of road and a wide river. I’m on the island of Manhattan. I’m sure of it. I have all of five seconds to process this information before I hear the squeal of brakes.
I race up the road, but within seconds a truck has pulled up beside me. Half a dozen thugs leap out. One of them tackles me to the ground. I try screaming for help, but no one’s around.
They drag me into the van.
Something hits me hard just above my right ear.
The world goes black.