by Lola StVil
“That night his mom called me and said I needed to talk to Logan because he wouldn’t go to sleep. ‘Dad, how can I sleep and protect at the same time?’ he said. I said, ‘Son, you can take the night off.’ And my son said in the firmest tone a six-year-old can muster, ‘There are no nights off, Dad. I’m on the job, forever.’
“His mom thought that was the cutest thing but something about the way he said it told me that boy was not joking. I came home two days later and he had spent the whole two days at the base of the staircase, keeping an eye on the family. His brothers teased him and tried to distract him but he was steadfast.”
“Oh no, where did he sleep?” I ask.
“He slept at the base of stairs. He had his blanket and his water gun. Ready to protect the family. There’s a picture of him slumped down on the side of the banister, drool coming out of his chubby face, water gun in hand.
“There is nothing any of us could have done to get him to sleep in his own bed. It’s hard in a large family sometimes. You have to find your place. And when he was ‘guarding’ the family, he found his place.”
“That was back when he was little,” I point out.
“Yeah but he’s still the same in a lot of ways. He wants to protect the ones he loves. That’s why seeing Rose was so hard for him, he knew there was nothing he could do about it. That destroyed him. I know it destroyed me too,” he says with pain in his voice.
“I’m so very sorry for your loss, Mr. Hunter.”
“Your children aren’t supposed to go before you. There’s something so…unnatural about that. You pick out a coffin; you pick the words they will say over your baby’s lifeless body. And you will not make it through that day. You won’t make it past the first few minutes. That grief is gonna swallow everything in its path, including you.
“In the end you find reasons to go on. Logan found that in protecting people. He had a purpose. And when you got sick and you pushed him away, you took away his purpose.”
“There was nothing he could have done for me. It was cancer, you just have to go through it,” I plead.
“I couldn’t find the cure for Rose. I couldn’t make her better, no matter what I tried. But I held her when she was crying. Her brothers placed the cup of water to her lips when she was thirsty and too weak to do it herself. Her mom held her hand the first time she was headed for surgery.
“It’s not the big things that he would have done, Shay, it’s the little things that he would have been honored to do for you. You took that away. You need to understand just how big a deal that is. And until you do, the two of you will never really get this right...”
(Present)
Mr. Hunter continues to talk but his attention is fixed on the guys in the black Nissan parked across the street. He sends out a quick text and goes back to our conversation. We talk a while longer but I can’t help but think there’s something I’m missing.
“Mr. Hunter, is everything okay?” I ask.
“Everything is perfect, don’t you worry. Now on my signal, you’re gonna act like you got some of the food on you, you’ll head to the restroom to clean up. But instead, change direction and head out the back, am I clear?”
“Wait, why am I—”
“Now,” Mr. Hunter says. I have no choice but to do as he says. I excuse myself and pretend to head toward the restroom. I pivot quickly out the back door, where a dark blue BMW jumps the curb and swings the passenger door open.
“Get in,” Logan says. I hop into the car and peel off down the street. I turn back instinctively; the black Nissan takes off after us.
“Reach over and get the duffle bag in the back and keep your head down,” Logan orders. I do as he says and yank the duffle bag up to the front.
“Seat belt,” he says. I buckle in just as he makes a sharp right turn and weaves into traffic. My pulse races, my throat dries, and the donut I had earlier is about to make its reappearance. Logan manages to put three cars between us but the Nissan is closing in. Logan cuts across several lanes and takes another risky turn. The car shifts and rattles underneath me. But he maintains control and manages to miss a pedestrian who never thought to look up from his cell as he entered the intersection.
He makes a call. “Manhattan Mall. South entrance. Five minutes.” He then tells me to get ready to run. My stomach dips as he abruptly presses on the brake and sends the car skidding into the sidewalk. I can hear the Nissan’s tires screech as they come to a stop seconds later. We quickly exit the car; he takes the duffle bag and grabs my hand. We race down the street and into the mall. Three men get out of their car and take off after us.
We cut through the crowd of shoppers at top speed. The adrenaline pumping though my veins tells my mind that I can go on forever. But the heat in the back of my legs and the pounding in my chest reminds me that is not the case. Logan holds my hand firmly and calculates his next move on the go.
We duck into a clothing store, and he pulls two large jackets off the mannequins and we rush right back out before the sales associate notices. We manage to evade the three guys.
I can see them wandering around the neighboring shops, trying to figure out where we went. I snatch two baseball caps off the table of the merchant near the escalator. We put the caps on and run down the escalator. The merchant swears at us angrily. The men hunting us hear the commotion and bulldoze their way through the crowd to get to us.
We head to the underground parking just as gunshots ring out over our heads. Logan shields me with his body as he pulls us down to the ground. We hide behind a truck and listen as the bullets hit its windows and glass shatters all around us. Shoppers scream and run for cover. Logan warns me to stay down as he whips out his gun and returns fire. He must have hit one of them because I hear a painful groan come from that direction; Logan quickly squats down next to me and makes a call.
“Tony, where the hell are you?!” he shouts into his cell. “Yeah, got it,” he says, hanging up. “Our ride’s here, I’ll provide cover, you head for the side entrance,” He orders. I nod and he begins to shoot.
I bolt across the parking lot and head for the small side door just as a cloud of thick smoke forms behind me. Someone has set off a smoke bomb and I don’t know if it was our side or theirs. Screw it; I turn around to take a quick glance over my shoulder.
Logan, please be okay.
A figure comes through the cloud of smoke: Logan. He guides us through the side door, and a black van pulls up, nearly running us over. We hurl ourselves into the back of the van. It takes off down the street and around the corner. We look back and so far, no one is after us.
“Cutting it kind of close, huh Tony?” Logan scolds. The driver laughs. I can’t see his face because he’s facing forwards and has on a hoodie. Logan looks me over, head to toe, and keeps asking if I’m okay.
“Yeah, I’m good. Just need to rethink my workout schedule. I don’t think three days a week is cutting it,” I reply breathlessly.
He smiles and addresses the driver once again, “Seriously, what the fuck did you do—go for ice cream before you came for us?”
“No, I just sat back and waited to see if they could finally kill your ass,” the driver says. It’s odd because the driver sounds like…
“Very funny,” Logan teases. “What would you do if something happened to me? I’m the fucking love of your life,” he says with a grin.
“Hell yeah you are. Oh, wait. Who are you again? Shit, you aren’t my Uber passenger,” the driver says with laugh. The two of them chuckle together. Tony makes a few turns per Logan’s instructions, in case we are somehow still being followed. Fifteen minutes later, we pull into a dry cleaners. Tony turns the car off and Logan helps me out of the back seat.
Once out of the car, I turn to face what I thought would be a small-framed guy but I was wrong. Tony is not a guy. Tony is very much female. She’s a living, breathing, blonde bombshell. A blonde bombshell who can drive her ass off.
Did we just get rescued by Logan’s gir
l?!
***
Tony (who again, is very much not a guy) lets us use the restroom, change our clothes, and grab a few bottles of water. She also gives us a new ride to get us out of the city. The two of them are standing very close to each other as they talk. I can’t make out what they are saying from where I am. However, whatever she says to him causes him to beam and pull her into a tight embrace. My heart aches.
“I wish you two had time to talk but we really gotta go. Thanks for the quick save,” Logan tells her as he heads for the door. I thank her too and she tells me how nice it is to meet me. Okay, I can be mature about this.
Do mature people roll their eyes, stamp their feet, and storm off into the car?
Okay, good because that’s what I just did. We get into Tony’s grey car, and we’re off again.
***
Logan (Present)
I promise Shay that once we are out of Manhattan, I will slow down and explain everything. We’ve been driving for over an hour now and since we lost our tail, it’s a good time to keep my promise and update her.
“The reason we were able to stop by my mom’s is because I hadn’t gotten the go-ahead from Banshee. He had to do a final sweep of the area around the safe house before we took off. Once he did that, he contacted me. But then my dad texted and told me about the car that was following him.”
“I didn’t notice anyone,” she admits.
“Don’t beat yourself up. My dad is trained and that kind of training doesn’t go away. He notices everything. And by the way, you were in great hands. Dad might be a better shot than I am.”
“He kept his cool,” she replies. I frown and grip the steering wheel tighter. She picks up on it; I feared she would. “Logan, what is it?”
“Malone has been under investigation way before your encounter with him. There was a warrant to search his residence, and an attempt to freeze his assets. But Malone knew about it before it happened. He was able to shred documents and move a large sum of money to untraceable accounts overseas.”
“How is he able to stay one step ahead?”
“We know there’s a leak but we don’t know who it is. Wyatt and I decided to leak false information about the safe house. We put it into the system and sure enough a four-man team raided the place. They found two people in the house—squatters—thought it was us, and killed them. When they realized it wasn’t us, they fled. They were caught earlier, and Wyatt is trying to get more info but that’s all we know so far.”
She falls silent. I wasn’t expecting that. Shay hardly ever does silence. If she has an opinion, good or bad, you’ll hear about it. I look over at her. Her posture is rigid, and her jaw is tight with worry. There’s a gas station a few blocks away. I don’t really want to stop, but I can tell she needs a minute. Fuck it, we’re low on gas anyway. When we pull in, there are three people in the area: the attendant inside the mini mart and the married couple at the pump, who are just about done.
“Hey, you okay over there?” I ask as I turn off the car.
“Yeah,” she lies.
I turn to face her. “Banshee has our real safe house ready, I just spoke to him, we’re all clear. We should be there in a few hours. Shay, there’s no fucking way I would let anything happen to you.”
“I know,” she whispers as she gets out and begins to pace; I follow her out of the car. The guy at the next pumping station sees Shay and quickly looks her over. I get checking a woman out, but this guy is lingering. After I silently let a guy know she’s with me, I figure he has two seconds to realize his mistake, nod respectfully, and go about his fucking business. This guy though is a little slow and very close to getting knocked out. When he sees I’m watching him, he nods and quickly gets back in his car.
Yeah, that’s right, asshole; keep moving.
I wait for them to drive away so that Shay and I are alone, apart from the attendant, who is focusing on what must be a porn magazine or the most interesting article ever written.
Shay stands next to me as I fill up the car but in truth, she’s a million miles away. “This will all be over soon, Shay.”
“This isn’t just about me. Two innocent people just lost their lives because they were in the wrong place at the wrong time. How many more people are going to die before this is over?”
“It wasn’t your fault those people were shot. It’s Malone’s, don’t take that on.”
“Why not? Logan, I really believed that staying in the city, standing my ground and facing Malone was the right thing to do. But look at where we are now—people are dead and all because I refused to leave town sooner,” she says, scolding herself.
“You were standing up for your friend. You watched Malone kill Joanne in cold blood and you are doing what you think is right.”
“Yeah, and how has that worked out for you and me?” she says sadly. The question hits me hard. I didn’t think she’d ask that.
“It’s been a crazy day for both of us. Let’s just focus on getting to where we’re going for now,” I say as I place my hand on her shoulder. We fill up the car, go into the mart, and grab a few things. Once we’re back in the car, her mood doesn’t really improve. We drive in silence for a while, with only the radio as background noise.
“Are you and Tony…” she begins to ask but then decides she doesn’t want to know the answer. She just takes a deep breath and massages her temple. Then I recall her march to the car back at Tony’s store and how much she pouted. I never put it together because anyone can see she’s the only woman on my mind—well, anyone but her I guess.
“Tony and I are just friends. Her brother has gone on a few missions with us. I check on her when I’m in town.”
“Is that another way of saying…”
“Tony and I have never had sex. She’s into women. In fact, that’s what the hug was about—she has a huge crush on this woman in her neighborhood and she finally asked her out and the woman said yes.”
“Oh…” she says as her cheeks turn red.
“Shay, we’ve both been through a lot but it’s easy to see there’s still something between us. I want to find out what that thing is. I hope like hell you do too…”
(Present)
I feel his hand on my leg, gently shaking me awake. I open my eyes; I’ve always loved having him be the first person I see. “We’re here,” he says, turning into a long winding dirt road driveway. We are standing in front of a two-story contemporary farmhouse. I try to figure out exactly where we are but night has fallen and it’s hard to see the road signs.
“We’re in Keene Valley. It’s a small town just outside of Essex, New York,” he says as he gets the duffle bag from the back seat.
“There’s nothing out here,” I reply as I look around the vast forest and mountain range.
“That’s the point,” he says.
“Yeah, I guess it makes sense.”
“Given that there’s a leak, I didn’t want the paperwork that comes with securing an official safe house. This is more of a hideout.”
“Safe house or hideout; they both sound like the places where the final gun battle happens.”
“Not if I can help it. This won’t be a daring adventure, okay? We’ll hole up in this area for a few days and then get you back into the city. If anything you’ll mostly likely be bored to death.”
“I’m sure we’ll find a way to entertain ourselves,” I joke.
“The couple you’re going to meet are Mr. and Mrs. Perry. They are really nice folks that Banshee helped out a few years back. He gave them new identities when things got crazy for them in Chicago. They are perfect for what we need—they don’t ask questions and live a fairly quiet life. They aren’t connected to you or me.”
“What are they running from?” I ask.
“Don’t know, don’t care. The point is, Banshee trusts them—as much as anyone can be trusted. Banshee has used them before and they are reliable. They have another house a few miles down the road and that’s where we’ll be staying. We�
��re just here to get the keys,” he says as we make our way to the front porch.
“So you trust them?”
“Yeah.”
“Then why is your hand on your gun?” I ask.
“That’s a sign of trust in my line of work.”
“Okay, and if you didn’t trust them, where would your gun be then?” I joke.
“In their mouths,” he says, only partly joking.
We knock and a man opens the door. His steel-grey eyes are suspicious and scan us carefully. I think he’s somewhere in his late sixties. His wife stands behind him, her salt-and-pepper hair in a loose bun; she has dark brown eyes and a friendly smile.
“Who the hell are you?” the man says.
“Honey, you don’t have to be so rude,” his wife says. “These are Banshee’s friends.”
“How do we know?” he asks.
“Look at them, they look tired and stressed out, that’s a clear sign that they know Banshee,” she teases.
I can’t help but laugh. “You know our friend well,” I reply. While his wife and I talk, Logan and the husband size each other up. The wife and I exchange bemused glances and she tells me to ignore the men and come on in.
“You can put down the shotgun, Henry, for goodness’ sake,” she says.
“And you can do the same, Logan,” I scold. Both men exchange looks that basically imply that we women are a handful. But ironically that silent exchange gets them both to relax. We enter the home and are greeted with the scent of warm apple pie and coffee.
“Banshee told us you were coming, please have a seat,” the woman says. “Oh, where are my manners? I’m Helen. And that’s my husband, Henry.” We shake hands and Logan scouts out the house.