by Jc Emery
Run, a voice says in the back of my head. A quick, intense sickness rolls in my stomach. I swallow hard to keep the bile from riding up. The gunman’s eyes meet mine, and he directs the barrel to the center of my skull.
I take off running without another thought. I run into the crowd even though it slows me down. This way I have some coverage.
We’re running back toward Jackson Square, which is about as perfect as anything can be. I slide the gun into my sleeve and push my way through the crowd like I’m just another terrified bystander. Well, I’m terrified, that’s for sure.
Up ahead is Royal Street. I dart to the right, down Royal, the first chance I get. Still running at full speed, I see a small souvenir shop a few stores down across the street. I take a quick peek behind me and don’t see the wild-eyed gunman. Still, I don’t slow down.
Inside the souvenir shop, there’s a young woman playing on her cell phone. Along the side wall is a rack of cheap tote bags and purses. Even looking at a purse these days makes my stomach churn. I take a moment to poke through the selection. I find a thin drawstring backpack and take it off the rack.
A quick look around the store tells me they don’t have any cameras, and their cashier is engrossed in her phone. I ball up the backpack and slip it into the sleeve that’s not occupied by the gun. The girl still hasn’t looked up.
I walk out of the store, praying I was right about the cameras. Nothing sounds, nobody shouts. And with that, I blend into the crowd and manage to get the gun and the box into the backpack. Curiosity gets the best of me, and I find myself peeking in the box. Inside, nestled in velvet, is a beautiful purple diamond affixed to a silver chain. It feels wrong to leave such a precious gem—a gem that will save my best friend’s life—in a flimsy backpack. I remove the necklace from the box as discreetly as possible and place it around my neck, hidden from view. I strap the backpack to my back.
Just as I turn the corner onto St. Louis, I see the gunman on my right heading toward me. Our eyes lock, and for a moment I think he doesn’t recognize me. But then his nostrils flare and he runs toward me. I rush to the left back toward Jackson Square.
My heart pounds in my chest as my legs and lungs strain to keep up with the demands I place on them. I run into the nearest shop—a sandwich shop—and fly to the counter. I sit beside a tall, muscular man chowing down on a muffaletta sandwich. My heart beats frantically in my chest.
“You okay?” the guy beside me asks.
I realize what I must look like to him—a sweaty rat, panicked and crazed. He’s wearing a short-sleeved shirt and cargo pants—entirely appropriate clothing for the weather. I, on the other hand, am overdressed and have sweat through my T-shirt and jeans.
I try to speak, but my mouth has gone dry. The man slides a glass of water to me, and I gulp it greedily. His dark brown eyes watch me intently as I consume the entire glass in a few seconds’ time. I set the glass down, and the doors burst open. The gunman runs in, and his eyes find me instantly.
“Help me,” I manage to whisper, and the guy beside me stands to a towering height, a wall of flesh between myself and my pursuer.
I peek my head around him. The gunman lifts his gun at my savior as he backs us up into the kitchen. He turns us around, grabs my hand, and pulls me through the kitchen.
“Run,” is all he says. I grip his hand and trust that this mystery man will get me out of this safely—even if I have no idea who he is.
CHAPTER 2
Shelby
He’s a cop.
“MOVE!” MY SAVIOR yells in a deep baritone voice that makes me pick up my pace.
But he’s not talking to me. He’s talking to the kitchen staff. We run through the kitchen, narrowly dodging fry cooks and other miscellaneous staff members. At the far end is an old, black-painted metal door that’s cracked open, allowing sunlight to stream into the long, dank hallway. Not missing a beat, my savior pulls me toward it.
The gunman behind us is hot on our tail. I don’t know how long we’re going to be able to keep this up. Our best bet at this point seems to be banking on the idea that he won’t shoot us as long as we’re in a crowd.
At the end of the kitchen is a large wire rack on wheels held in place by a locking mechanism on the front wheel and housing unmarked plastic bins and bags of flour. We come up beside the rack, and I grab on to the arm with my free hand, kick the lock free, and then shove it into the path behind us. My savior barely notices until he’s almost snapped my arm clean off in an effort to get us out of there.
He looks back for a moment, just in time to see the rack go crashing down, followed by the sound of screaming and cursing. We bolt for the door, my savior throws it open, and we’re engulfed by the blistering South Louisiana sun. I can’t even think about what’s next, and thankfully I don’t have to. Gripping my hand tighter than ever, my savior rushes us off down the street and hopefully toward safety.
My chest is heaving from the raw exertion of the effort of running for so long. I’m no slouch, but I’ve never been a long distance runner, either. The man who has dragged himself into this awful situation is running like a pro. Back straight, long, purposeful strides. I hear ragged breathing from up ahead, but it’s even, controlled. My own sounds like the oxygen is getting sucked out of the atmosphere at rapid rates.
The gunman, with his wild eyes, bursts through the door, a few hundred feet or so behind us, just as we dart down another street. I’m turned around and unsure where we are now. I look around frantically, searching for some sign to tell me what street I’m on. I’m supposed to meet Victor for the exchange in the next few minutes. He’s going to wonder where I am and why I’m not where I said I’d be.
Becca.
We continue to run through the desolate street. We seem to be in the upper French Quarter. Most of the smaller streets all look the same in this area—homes butting up to the sidewalk, crowded up against one another, and colorfully painted. Many still wear their marks from Hurricane Katrina like it’s a badge of honor. We turn another corner and I glance up at the street sign, but the actual sign itself is missing, leaving a lone pole wedged into the dilapidated cement.
I’m suddenly jerked to the side as my savior mumbles, “Oh shit.”
We take off in another direction, and rolling towards us is a black sedan with tinted windows. I could barely make out the faint silhouette of a gun peeking through the crack in the back window.
My savior finds a psychic shop that appears to be open. He pulls me up the narrow, steep steps and flings open the door. The bells attached to the top of the aged wood and glass door chime frantically.
“Excuse us,” my savior says as he drags me through the tiny shop, shoving aside boxes and chairs as he goes.
A middle-aged woman glares at him from a round card table decorated with thick silks and covered with various tarot cards. A young black woman sits across from her, eyes wide and staring at us. The older woman, presumably the psychic, starts shouting obscenities at us in a thick Cajun accent. She’s terribly displeased and uses terms like stupid and Coon-ass, but her ranting is a thing of the past soon enough.
We run through the shot gun, battling with crowded rooms and narrow doorways. Eventually we find ourselves outside once again, now in a small backyard that has nothing but a chain-link fence separating it from the neighboring yards. The yard to our left houses an angry looking pit bull, and I decide that’s not going to be an option for our escape route regardless of what Mr. Professional-Escapee thinks. He pulls me to the chain-link and bends down, lacing his fingers, making a basket. The fence is only about three and a half feet tall, but it’s still an intimidating feat for someone of my stature.
“I’m going to lift you over,” he says.
Nervously, I place my foot into his laced hands, grip the top of the chain-link, and fumble over, only to fall into the grass on the other side. I quickly scramble to my feet and take a few steps away to give him room to make it over. With great ease, he backs up and runs to t
he fence. I’m nervous he won’t make it, but sure enough, he clears the fence with little effort. He takes my hand again and leads me down a narrow alley beside a house. Up ahead is a tall iron gate. He peeks through the wrought iron and gives it a tug, but it doesn’t move.
“Shit,” he says. “We’re stuck.”
I look at the fence and notice it’s locked up with a cheap, simple lock. Suddenly I’m thankful the homeowners were too cheap to put a quality lock on their gate. I pull two bobby pins from my pocket—I keep at least one on me at all times—and squeeze by him. I insert one bobby pin at an angle and use the other to poke around and find the locking mechanism. I hear a dull click, followed by rattling, and then finally the sharp click that means I’ve successfully picked the lock. I put the bobby pins back in my jeans pocket and slowly open the gate. I catch the curious eye of my savior as we cautiously step out of the property and into the street.
“We need to get out of sight, but then we’re going to have a talk,” he says. His jaw is hard, and he’s giving me this crazy-eyed look. Sweat pours down the ridge of his brow to the tip of his nose. He shakes his head once and then turns away from me, grabs my hand again, and drags me down the street. He pulls out his cell phone, and that’s when I hear it—the screeching of tires behind us.
My savior drops his phone back into his pocket and runs forward. My entire body feels like it could fall apart right here and now. Shots ring out from behind us in a terrifying boom bang boom that makes me forget my petty complaints of exhaustion and keep steady, going as fast as I can. Perhaps I’m being a touch on the dramatic side, but I swear I can almost hear bullets whizzing by my head.
We duck into the back of a parking garage, now much closer to the heart of the Quarter than I previously thought, and we rush through the cars. At the far end is the entrance to a hotel. My savior pulls me inside and past the counter, completely ignoring the shouts of the hotel staff. We make it down the service hallway and find ourselves at a dead end.
To my left is what appears to be a broom closet. I stop and give a yank on his arm and drag him into the closet. I huddle over, catching my breath, heaving dramatically over my shoes. My savior pants slightly before he clears his throat and wipes the sweat from his forehead.
The door flies open, and an angry woman in a smart pantsuit is staring us down. What we must look like in a broom closet, I can’t even imagine.
“And what are you two doing in here?”
My savior gives her a hard look, straightens his posture, and pulls out his wallet, displaying a five-point gold star with blue insignia in bold letters. My heart drops into my feet in an instant. He’s a cop.
“My name is Officer Chase Guilliot. I’m with the NOPD. I require a room for myself and my protected witness. Immediately.”
The woman jumps in response, nodding her head frantically and hurrying away. I’m still doubled over, breathing heavily and cursing my bad luck. I don’t know why it hadn’t crossed my mind. I mean, who else actually puts themselves in the line of fire like that?
The woman comes back with two keycards and hands them to Officer Chase Guilliot. They exchange hushed whispers. She tells him she put the room under a fake name and has given us a room with a view of the street. He thanks her and asks if they happen to have any clothes we may borrow in the lost and found. She apologizes; they don’t. But then she offers the hotel’s concierge shopping service at no expense.
I peek up while she says all of this, and her eyes are admiring Officer Guilliot. I can barely think of what they’re talking about, let alone focus on what it means. Clothing means we’ll be changing, which means we’ll be staying a while. I absolutely can’t have that. I’m going to miss my meeting with Vic, and who knows what will happen with Becca then.
But none of that matters right now. Neither of them have consulted me. And just as they finish speaking, Chase leans over and gently grabs my arm, pulling me up straight.
“Are you okay?” he asks, his brow furrowed, concern clear in his eyes.
I nod my head and try to give him my best calm face. I’m panicked. I have a stolen million-dollar necklace around my neck, an illegal gun in my backpack, and absolutely no good explanation for any of it.
The woman leaves us alone and tells us to use the backstairs to reach the third floor. It’ll be best to keep us out of sight that way, she says, and then she disappears.
Officer Guilliot looks at me, concern in his eyes. I stand to my full height, control my breathing, and give him a sheepish smile. I should say thank you—I mean, he did get himself into this situation because of me. I should apologize for dragging him in. I should do a lot of things that would indicate I was raised with some semblance of manners, but I can’t bring myself to do any of them. Raised with manners or no, right now I don’t need to be in a broom closet with him. Right now I need to focus on getting out of here and getting Vic this stupid, heavy necklace so I can get Becca back.
But Officer Guilliot knows none of that. He just takes my hand in his and expertly leads me out of the closet and down the hall, up the back staircase, and to room 307. He uses one of the two keycards, offering neither one to me, and opens the door, shuffling me in first. As the door closes behind us, he rests his head on the back of the door and pulls out his cell phone.
I walk further into the air-conditioned room, my damp clothes sticking to my skin, and curse the entire situation. The kind officer thinks I’m in trouble, and well, I am but not in the way he thinks. I hear the clicking sound of his cellular phone shutting, and he takes two heavy breaths. I turn around from the modestly styled room and find his eyes on mine.
“Why don’t you sit down, miss? I need to know what happened,” he says.
I shift my eyes from his to the wall behind him. I’m a horrid liar, and I have no idea what tells I’m giving off right now. Officer Guilliot pushes off the door and walks past me, toward the small corner table by the window, and pulls out a chair, his hand indicating I’m to sit. I bite my lip and try to run through the best course of action.
The truth is out for obvious reasons. A lie would work if I could make it a convincing one. Both are likely to fail miserably. So until I can figure out what I should tell the kind officer with the bulking frame, I think I shouldn’t tell him anything.
His hand waves frantically at the chair, his brows drawn together as he studies me. I let out a heavy sigh and shrug my shoulders, stalk to the chair, and slump down into it. His body seems to relax, and he pulls out the chair next to mine and sits. He laces his fingers together, and he’s staring so hard at the finished wood of the table I think he might melt the polish right off.
“My name is Officer Chase Guilliot. I’m with the New Orleans Police Department. You’re safe with me. I’m going to help you. What is your name?”
I feel uncomfortable with the idea of telling him my name, so I go for a partial truth.
“Shelby Connor.” It’s not a total lie. Connor is my mother’s maiden name. I say a little prayer that there’s not a Shelby Connor in the system, because there most certainly is a Shelby Brignac, and she doesn’t look so great on paper.
“Shelby,” he says, reaching out and patting my arm. “Why was the man with the gun following you?”
I shrug my shoulders and keep my eyes trained on my lap. Officer Guilliot urges me once more.
“I don’t know,” I whisper. If I meet his eyes, he’s going to know for sure I’m lying. I can’t keep my foot steady, my eyes are jumping from one thing to another, a nervous smile has found its way to my lips, and my heart is beating a mile a minute. I’m so bad at this.
“Shelby, I want to believe you. Despite being New Orleans, we don’t get many gunmen hunting down pretty girls in the middle of the Quarter for no good reason.”
My head jerks up at his comment. Pretty? The last thing I feel right now is pretty. I shrug it off, assuming he’s only trying to create a sense of comfort and safety for me.
“I’ll ask again—why was the man wit
h the gun following you?”
I shrug my shoulders again.
He lets out a harsh breath. “Okay, you don’t want to talk? I’m calling this in, and there’s going to be a whole mess of cops down here asking you the same questions.”
“Wait!” I screech without further thought.
He looks at me, waiting. I double over, let my head fall into my lap, and take several deep breaths. I’ve always been able to cry on command. It’s just a matter of getting into the right headspace.
I think back to this time back in high school when I was experimenting with rebellion. I decided to alter my school uniform and make it a little more edgy, which meant I shortened it to about mid-thigh. I caught the attention of a few boys before the nuns found me and called my parents in to talk about my wardrobe. I giggled at the boys attention, and when one boy in particular cornered me in the vacant gymnasium after classes one day, I thought I’d hit the jackpot. He was tall and muscular—for a seventeen-year-old—and popular. He backed me up against the wall and placed his hands on either side of my head. He dipped his head and started kissing my neck. And while I thought all of this was exciting and fun and dangerous—things I very much liked and wanted—it was when he shoved his hand down my skirt that I freaked out and tried to push him away. He wouldn’t budge, and I found myself screaming and crying. Still, he wouldn’t move. He got so far, despite my trying to push him off, that he nearly penetrated me.
Tears form in my eyes, and I start bawling, remembering that incident. It feels like a lifetime ago but was really only a few years back. I was so scared in that moment. So fearful that he was going to take what he wanted and it didn’t matter what I wanted. When my mother found out about the incident, she told me they were going to deal with the boy, but that was why nice girls don’t dress like that.