Run With Me

by Shorter, L. A.

  Now I have a clear view to the left and right along the long stretch of road in each direction. Lights float like twinkling stars in the distance as early morning drivers set on their way down the tarmac. I look left and those lights are flashing bright in hues of red and blue in the darkness. There are several sets, those of police cars, shooting down the road towards us.

  Colt pulls straight out and onto the highway and immediately I feel the power of his car. The force of the acceleration pins me into the chair, my neck thrust back into the headrest as I stare forward. He weaves between cars before the road opens out ahead of him, and the car lurches forward, picking up speed. I turn my head and see the flashing blues and reds in pursuit. Then two turn, suddenly, into the motel and disappear from sight. The remaining cars – I count a further two – keep on coming.

  But I know quickly that they won't catch us. Cop cars are fitted to be fast, but this is something else. I've never experienced such speed, and the way in which Colt cuts between cars sets my stomach churning. I look into his eyes as they burn into the road ahead. Every so often they twitch briefly to look into the mirror, checking on our pursuers.

  When we come to a junction off the main highway he turns left, shooting off in another direction. Then he turns again at the next, searching for quieter paths and roads. Gradually the chasing cops fall off our trail, until the roads are suddenly quiet and empty. He holds the same expression on his face, however. Intense and focused. I get the sense that this is just part of the job, just part of his world. Shootouts in motel rooms and high speed car chases with the cops are just another Tuesday for him.

  Now we're on a quiet country road and he seems to be searching for something. Suddenly he pulls off onto an old track. I see a looming barn set back against the road. It looks to be empty and abandoned. He drives towards it and the front lights of the car illuminate the inside. It's mainly empty, with old equipment and farm tools littered around inside.

  Colt drives forward into the barn, before finally stopping and shutting down the engine. The world grows silent, all except an incessant ringing in my ears. I suspect it's a lingering symptom of having several loud gunshots go off right beside my head.

  I look at Colt, and his expression remains the same. But now there's an extra grimace to it, a look of pain. My eyes drop from his face down his body, and it's only now that I realize he's been shot.

  Chapter 9 - Colt

  Colt

  It's not a new sensation. It's something I've experienced before. Not many people can say that. But then again, my life isn't much like many others'.

  The adrenaline had been keeping the pain at bay during the chase, but now it's beginning to disperse in my veins. Now the full force of the bullet lodged in my right shoulder is starting to tell. And it hurts. A lot.

  I can see Kitty's eyes widen now to my right as she stares at the blood spreading down my shirt. She starts speaking in panicked tones, her words fast and furious. “You're bleeding! You've been shot,” she stammers, pointing out the obvious. “We need to get you to the hospital now!”

  I tilt my head at her and, despite everything, my grimace turns into a sort of strange pain-filled smile. “We can't. You'll have to sort it.”

  Her reaction isn't what I'd have expected. The fearful girl is suddenly taken over by someone with resolve. She nods quickly, still staring at my blood soaked shirt. “OK. I can do this.” Her words are confident, as if she's trying to convince herself. Well at least she's not squeamish.

  “I have medical supplies in the back of the car,” I say, and she's immediately out of the door and rummaging around in the trunk. I unbutton my shirt and remove it gingerly, and see the wound for the first time. I've been extremely lucky. It looks like the bullet has missed the subclavian vein by less than half an inch. If it had been nicked I'd already be bleeding out.

  I step out of the car and into the night air. It's cool and I'm beginning to feel just a tiny bit lightheaded. I bunch up my shirt and hold it firm against the wound. A shot of pain rushes through me as I press. Kitty is at my side in a second, supporting me.

  “Check the back,” I say. “Look for an exit wound.”

  I feel her hands on me, rubbing away blood from my shoulder. Then her fingers running lightly across my back, each one stinging with pain at even the lightest press. “Here,” she says, careful to keep her fingers from the patch of ragged flesh where the bullet emerged. “The bullet came out.”

  I sigh with some level of relief. No bone shattered, no splintering, no venous damage. I've gotten extremely lucky. Or, at least, as lucky as you can be when being shot. I guess I was lucky the last time I felt the sting of a bullet tear into me, but in a different way. That time I was just lucky to survive.

  It was about 8 years ago now, when I was a new grunt in the army. I'd just been stationed out in Iraq for my first tour, leaving Sophie for the first time. Damn, that was hard. Leaving her. We'd been together since high school so hadn't really ever spent much time apart. Then suddenly I'm leaving for several months and going to the most dangerous place on earth. I guess, when I think about it, it was ever harder on her.

  The days grew easier at first, then harder the more time I spent away from her. But there were plenty of guys going through the same thing. We found solidarity in each others' stories of home, in our collective will to see the job done and get back to our loved ones. But at the same time we wanted to be there, we wanted to fight and represent our country. It was a strange feeling: wanting to be somewhere for one reason, but wanting to leave so desperately for another.

  I only had a few weeks left before returning home when it happened. We were called into a firefight near our base one day in the late afternoon. The fighting was furious as we pressed forwards, trying to take down a force of insurgents. It raged for hours until night fell, and continued through until the following morning.

  I don't remember too much of it now. It was early morning when the fighting had died down. A strange type of peacefulness had settled on the sand, in the hot air. I was exhausted mentally and physically. There's something about being constantly in fear for your life that drains you. It gives you an edge when you need it, but soon your body starts running on fumes. I guess, because of that, I made a mistake or didn't see it coming.

  The bullet was from a sniper set back from the engagement. He must have sprung up overnight and set himself up in the craggy rocks in the distance. I suppose in a way I was lucky that he was so far back, that the wind had picked up overnight. A bullet that was most likely aimed at my heart fell six inches and hit my abdomen instead. The force knocked me off my feet and down onto the dusty earth. I remember feeling myself dragged through the sand back towards safer ground away from the front line. Hands were pressing at my stomach, trying to stem the bleeding, and it was all I could do to stay awake.

  I remember hearing voices shouting at me over the barrage of gunshots. “Stay with me. Don't close your eyes. Listen to my voice.” I guess I'd been so conditioned to follow orders that I did what I was told. Otherwise I'd probably be dead.

  The pain was unlike anything I can describe. The initial feeling was like being punched in the stomach, knocking the wind right out of you. Then there's the heat. I remember feeling as through my stomach was on fire, as if my insides were being roasted. The adrenaline in me helped to mask the pain, and without it I don't think I'd have survived. When they got me back to base I was given a 25% chance of living. I'd lost so much blood and the bullet had ripped through part of my small intestine. It was only because of the skill of the surgeon that I managed to make it.

  Lucky. There's no other word for it. Had there been a different surgeon that day, maybe I'd be dead. Had the sniper's aim been slightly better, or the wind slightly weaker, I would have become just another victim of war. Another nameless fighter, forgotten by everyone expect those few whose lives I'd impacted.

  Now is nothing like that time, and again I'm lucky for that fact. Kitty seems to be taking charge no
w, guiding me around the the back of the car and laying me down on top of the trunk. She's got my medical pack open and is sifting through it, looking for the appropriate medicines. I open my mouth to give her guidance, but quickly see that she doesn't need it. She pulls a syringe out and examines it closely. Her eyes lift to mine. “Do you need this?” she asks.

  She's holding morphine in her hand. I think she knows what she has to do and that the pain will be intense. I consider it a moment and then shake my head. Pain can be cleansing, I think. At least, that's what I tell myself.

  Now she's examining the bullet wound closely. She wipes away the blood to get a good look and carefully pulls it apart to look inside. I can't help but groan slightly with the pain, to which she says “sorry” with earnest eyes. But she's doing the right thing, so I don't question her.

  “You have a bit of shrapnel in there,” she says. “I need to remove it.” She's like a different person all of a sudden. Assertive, commanding. She takes a pair of tweezers from the medical pack and begins probing as carefully as she can. I twist with each touch to my raw flesh but try not to make a sound.

  She picks out one bit and drops it into the medi-pack. Then another. The third one takes a bit more mining as she digs deeper into my flesh. Now I can't stop the grunting from escaping my lips. It hurts so fucking bad. After a minute of probing she pulls it out and drops it in with the others. “That's all of it,” she says.

  The next thing she does is sterilize a cloth with alcohol and rub it all around the wound, at the front and back. It stings like a thousand bees pricking me at once. Then she pulls out a needle and begins stitching the wound. I can't quite see how she's getting on, but her face is a picture of concentration. I watch her as she works, but her eyes refuse to meet mine until she's completed the job.

  “Turn over,” she says once she's stitched up the front. Again I'm following orders. It doesn't take her long, and she's done the back too. Then she begins bandaging me up before finally injecting me with the antibiotics I've got stashed inside the pack.

  When she's done she pulls me up off the trunk of the car and finds a new set of clothes in the back. She helps me into a black long sleeved top and I try to move my arm. It's largely immobile right now, so she fashions a sling from what remains of my shirt and props my right arm up into it.

  When I thank her my words are genuine and warm. Without her I'd have had to go to the hospital, and that always means questions and unnecessary attention. It hardly registers that if it wasn't for her I wouldn't have been shot in the first place. Right now I'm just grateful for her help, as she is of mine. She doesn't say it, but something in her eyes tells me she's in my debt, and helping to patch me up is only a short way towards repaying it.

  When we both sit perched on the end of the car, looking out beyond the barn and up into the stars, I ask her how she knew what to do. “It's not just anyone who can sort out a bullet wound. Most would fly into a panic,” I say.

  Then she tells me a story of her youth, of her mother before she died. “She taught me,” she tells me. “She was an ER nurse so knew about all this stuff. She wanted me to become a doctor.” She trails off a little, her voice becoming more weak.

  “When she died it hit my father hard. He wasn't always a bad man,” she says. “He just got lost, started boosting cars and selling them for parts. One day he was caught in a chase with the police and crashed. He was close to home and managed to escape before the police caught up with him. He had this gash along his leg an inch wide and I stitched him up. I was only 13 then.”

  “It happened a few times,” she continues. “Not just my dad, but friends as well. My mom had these medical supplies in the house so I used those, and became like a community nurse for a little while.” She shakes her head and a funny smile appears in the corner of her mouth. “Silly really.”

  “And being a doctor?” I ask. “What happened?”

  She turns her eyes up and looks towards the sky, strengthening her voice. “Life happened. Things got in the way. I was never smart enough for that anyway.”

  Now she turns to me and her eyes narrow. “How about you? How did you get into....this?”

  I feel myself closing up. I hate it whenever someone asks about my life, about my past. I prefer to keep all that to the back of my mind, keep it locked away.

  “Same as you,” I say. “Life happened.”

  I change the subject, my mind wandering back towards our current predicament. I've barely had time to register the exact repercussions of being found in the motel room, but they are extremely serious.

  Michael Carmine tried to have me killed. Not just Kitty. Me as well. I had her with me. If his man managed to catch up with me, why would he try to take me out too? Surely he'd assume that I'm just doing my job. That I've found her and would transport her back to Carmine in the morning?

  But no, he set his dog loose on not just Kitty, but me as well. Have I become a loose end to tie up as well? Or was it just Rugger acting of his own accord? Rugger. Even behind that balaclava I knew it was him. I could see it – that cut-throat scar running under his neck. I could smell the lingering scent of cigarette smoke as I dashed to the door in pursuit. I hit him, but I don't know where. Enough for him to retreat...but for him to die? I'm not sure.

  If he is alive, though, he'll have spoken now to Carmine. He'd have told him that I'm helping Kitty, that I'm just as much of a target as she is now. I know now that I've been thrust into the same boat alongside her. That in order to escape his clutches I'll have to run and hide as she is. But I won't do that. There's another path for me to take.

  I hear Kitty ask me a question, but it doesn't register. I'm too enveloped in my own thoughts, trying to figure a way out. Then I hear her again and again. Her words grow clearer. “Are you all right?” she's asking.

  I catch myself staring straight forward and realize I've gone into some sort of trance. I feel her hand on my leg and her soft voice questioning again: “are you all right?” I turn to face her and see an expression of concern, but I nod to allay any fears. “I'm OK,” I say to her, but my mind is still racing.

  How did he find me? Rugger – how did he find me? Has Carmine had him tracing me this whole time. Is that why he sent Rugger on the job as well? To keep an eye on me. There's no other way, no chance that he'd have stumbled across us at that random motel. The odds of that would be ten thousand to one.

  My eyes widen and suddenly I'm on my feet. I feel a sharp pain in my shoulder as I crouch down and start feeling with my left hand under the car. I can hear Kitty asking what's going on again but don't answer. I move round the car, my fingers creeping along its underside and above the wheels. I reach the other side, above the front right wheel, and there! I feel it, a small box magnetically sealed against the inside of the fender.

  I pull it off and stand up, examining the contraption in my hand. “What is it?” I hear Kitty asking beside me. She's clearly followed me around the car in alarm.

  “A tracking device,” I say, as I drop it to the ground. Then I step on it and feel it crush under my weight as my fist closes up in anger.

  He's been tracking me the entire time.

  It's only seconds before I'm opening the trunk again and digging inside with my good hand. I pull out a screwdriver and pass it to Kitty. “Unscrew the license plates,” I tell her.

  “What's going on,” she asks? She looks alarmed again.

  “We're being tracked,” I respond.

  “But you just destroyed it,” she says.

  “They'll be able to trace my license plate numbers too,” I say, opening up a special compartment at the bottom of the trunk. “Carmine will have dirty cops on his payroll who will trace the vehicle. He'll find us in no time.”

  Now she's urgently unscrewing the plates as if her life depended on it. It just might. She finishes at the back and rushes round to the front. I can only stand there and wait. With only one good arm she'd go quicker than me. It takes a few minutes but soon my car has a bran
d new set of plates and we're back inside.

  “Won't he know your other plate numbers?” she asks as I settle into the driver's seat.

  I shake my head. “No one does. I've never used these ones.”

  I turn the key and the engine rumbles, before shifting the car into reverse. It's all good when using my left arm, but as soon as I try to raise my right to grip the steering wheel I feel a sharp pain rush through my shoulder. I grimace and drop my arm back down, then try again. I manage to pull back, reversing out of the barn and facing back towards the track, but it's hard going.

  “This is ridiculous,” says Kitty, watching me struggle to perform such a mundane task. “You should be resting anyway. You've lost lots of blood. I'll drive.” Now it's her giving orders, and I'm inclined to agree. There's no scope for masculine pride here, no space for posturing and trying to 'suck it up'. I know when to accept help when it's offered to me.

  We exchange places and Kitty pulls out onto the track, turning left and heading towards the main road. She looks kinda amusing behind the wheel of the car. It doesn't quite fit her image. I stifle a smile at the sight.

  She slows as we approach the road, turning towards me. “Which way?” she asks, shrugging her shoulders.

  “Left here,” I say. Head north, but stay off the main roads.”

  “Why? The police?”

  I nod. “Just a precaution. They won't have these plates, but they'll know what car we're in by now. I'll imagine they've checked CCTV and will know they're after two people of our description, driving a black saloon. It's enough to go on, so if you see anything suspicious, let me know.”

  I'm telling her because I need her to be alert. I'm going to try to stay awake as long as I can, but I can already feel my eyes beginning to grow heavy. Thankfully I used a fake identity when booking the motel, and I doubt that they'll think the woman in question is Kitty. Sure, they might have her on camera, but I know how clear those things are. A girl, medium height and build with dark medium length hair could be just about anyone. Overall I'm hoping they'll give up the chase when we get out of the state.