Run With Me

by Shorter, L. A.

  I move quickly towards the desk and scour the neatly piled files in the center of it. I find nothing of interest. Just files relating to the actual running of the bar, as you might expect with any regular venue such as this. But I know this bar isn't just any bar, and this office isn't just any office. So I keep going, flicking through every page in the hope of finding some morsel of information about where Carmine might be. But there's nothing here, not on the desk.

  I start searching through the drawers, quickly running my eyes over anything and everything I find. It bears no fruit. I turn my attention to the filing cabinet – always the most likely place to give me what I need – and begin looking through the folders inside from top to bottom. The top two drawers are nothing but account information for the bar – again, this is nothing unusual – while the bottom two are filled with alphabetically listed files. The listings appear to be names.

  I rush my eyes over them, and immediately know what they are. Files on targets and business associates, potential threats and contractors. The file they gave to me about Kitty – that will have been one of them. A copy, no doubt, but a collection of information on one of their members of staff. I check quickly down to 'M' and find Kitty Munroe. Yep, it's the original file. Carmine really does cover his back against anyone associated with him.

  I feel a growing curiosity in me as I continue to flick through the files. Does he have one on me? I'd be surprised if he didn't. When I reach the section for the letter 'T' I quickly confirm my suspicions. There I am – Colt Tanner.

  I pull the file out of the drawer and set it down on the desk. It's thicker than I'd have thought it would be. Over the years I thought I'd been fairly anonymous, but perhaps not. As I flick through I notice that Carmine has compiled an account of my life, from my youth all the way up to my present day activities. In particular, he's had some sort of spotlight on me since Sophie and Ellie were killed.

  I reach a page that lists their deaths. There are images of the house, ravaged by fire. Pictures of the ambulance and firefighters and police gathered outside, of their bodies being stretchered out of the blazing building. These are things I've never seen, never wanted to see. But now that I'm looking at them I can't turn away. The thought of my wife, my daughter, burnt to death beneath those black plastic coverings are things I've only imagined so far. I've never had to confront them face to face like this.

  Why does he have these images anyway? Why has he been compiling such an extensive file on me? I quickly turn from the images of the night that changed my life and work my way through the following years. He seems to have kept track of everything on me ever since, barring the odd job that was too obscure for anyone to know about. I can't get my head around it, can't understand why I'd be of such interest to him.

  Then I find a single line, handwritten, perhaps in his own hand. It stands out against the black typescript and images.

  I owe this man a debt, and I will repay it.

  That's all it says. The 'I' is never specified, nor is who the 'man' is, but I assume that it's Carmine speaking of me. That it's he who owes me a debt, and that that debt will be repaid.

  It's cryptic, and that doesn't surprise me. Like a personal little memo written randomly in this file, as if he wrote it one night while flicking through the pages, a glass of whiskey in hand, something eating away at his mind, or conscience. But is it an admission of guilt over something or a vow for revenge? Have I tracked down someone who meant something to him? Have I gotten in the way of a deal, or perhaps interfered with something that was important to him? Is this entire situation with Kitty a set up? He hired me to track her, only to try to take us both out in one go. So maybe it wasn't about me trying to help her at all. Maybe it was just a whole nefarious plot from the beginning. Kitty going on the run – maybe that was just the sort of excuse he needed to bring me in and send me after her, only to have Rugger take us both out in one go.

  But why wouldn't he have taken me out before? If he's wanted me dead all these years then he could have done it at any time. I thought that I'd been covering myself pretty well, keeping myself under the radar, off the grid. But clearly that's not the case. Judging from this file I've been under the microscope for years, and if that's the case, any plot of revenge against me could have been carried out at any point. Hell, only last week I was standing right here in front of him. He could have quite easily shot me dead right here in this basement office, and no one would ever know.

  I keep searching through the file now, searching for an alternative. Maybe I'm jumping to a conclusion that only my distrustful mind would come to. Any normal person reading that line would believe that he's, at some point, been in the wrong, and is looking to make amends. Yet how does that make any sense at all? If he was trying to make amends for something then why would he try to have me killed? It just doesn't add up.

  A creaking sound snaps my head up quickly from the desk. Without thinking I've got my gun in my hands and I'm pointing it towards the door. I watch for a moment before I feel a light draft pass by me, and the creaking sounds again. Then I notice the door moving ever so slightly, shaking side to side on rusty hinges. I let out a breath and lower my weapon, setting it back into its holster.

  But my eyes stick on the door. There's something posted on the wood on this side – the inside. I don't remember seeing it the last time I was here. I walk curiously towards it, unable to make out what's written in plain letters because of the acute angle. When I reach the edge I pull the door shut, and immediately know that this is a set-up.

  He must have known I'd come here, he must have known I'd break in!

  There's a large piece of paper posted onto the inside of the door. It's something I'd never have seen unless I'd been inside the office, and I'd only have seen it as I left. Written in large print are the following words:

  TIME TO RESOLVE EVERYTHING COLT

  213-634-8739

  MICHAEL

  Chapter 18 - Kitty

  Kitty

  I don't know how long I've been out when I open my eyes. Minutes? No, I'm not in the car any more. Hours? Maybe. Days? I just don't know.

  What I do know is that I'm not dead, so that's a start. But why? Why didn't he kill me when he had the chance? And where the hell am I?!

  The room I'm in is bland; nondescript. I'm lying on a bed, but my hands aren't bound or tied to it's frame. I'm free to move around, but when I do I feel groggy, my head heavy with the lingering scent of whatever was shoved into my neck. Some sort of knock out drug, I guess, so I could be transported without any fuss.

  I drop my legs over the side and try to calm the spinning in my brain, focusing on my feet until two sets of toes gradually come together to form one. Then I raise my eyes, inspecting the prison around me. There's a window on one wall, covered by curtains. Opposite the bed is a door with what looks like a keycard lock, like the sort you'd get in a hotel. The rest of the room is empty and bare, populated by no furniture but for the double bed I'm sitting on.

  I stand with some difficulty and move to the window. When I open the curtains I immediately recognize the surroundings and know I'm back in LA, back home. I'm about 5 floors up, on the outskirts of Downtown. I don't know the specific area, but I'd recognize that skyline anywhere.

  There's no latch on the window, no way to open it. What good would that do anyway? What am I going to do, jump 5 floors and hope for the best. I make my way towards the door and find that, like the window, there's no handle. I nod with a mixture of expectation and resignation. Yep, I'm trapped.

  Without the drug still making its way through my system, I'd probably be freaking out right now. Banging on the door, demanding I be released. Pleading with my captor to let me go free. Bargaining with whatever I can think of. Threatening that Colt will kill the lot of them when he finds me, and that he will find me....

  But I don't do any of that. I just wearily return to my bed, lie down face up, and stare at the ceiling. The drug clearly has a numbing effect, both on my body a
nd my emotions, because right now I don't care that I'm locked up here. Right now I don't actually care about anything.

  It's strangely liberating, this feeling. Even though I know it's the drug, and that it will wear off eventually. Right now, for this briefest of periods, I can just lie here, not a care in the world, and pretend that everything's just fine. Respite from this world of car chases and police hunts and gun fights outside motels. A small release from the relentless fear that had been gnawing at me. Fear of losing my friends and family. Fear of having to start a new life. Fear of being hunted, of being killed. Now there's nothing. Emptiness in my head. No guilt of the past, no dread of the present, no hope for the future. Just blankness. If only I could stay like this forever.

  I drift off again after what seems like only a few minutes. Even my dreams are empty, like I'm walking through a weird world with no sharp edges. Everything's white, cloudy and ethereal. It kinda seems like a version of what Heaven might be like. Maybe it's a premonition.

  When I wake again my head aches. Outside the world has grown dark, the window a stark black against the horrible pallid yellow in the room. I blink a few times, spots gathering in front of my eyes and slowly disappearing as my head clears and my vision improves. The drug has evidently worn off now, leaving me dehydrated and lethargic. My limbs feel heavy as I bend to sit up, my joints aching and stiff. I feel like I've gone a few rounds with Mike Tyson, although when I check there are no signs of injury on my body except for a couple of bruises I sustained when quickly descending that tree.

  It grows quickly clear that the drug has been masking my pain, not only in my body, but in my mind as well. Now that its been expelled from my system, that very familiar feeling of dread begins to rebuild inside me. There's something about the darkness outside, about the silence brought about by the heavy glass window that blots out any eternal noise that is unsettling. I sit for several minutes and hear nothing, not a single sound but for the pounding in my head and the ringing in my ears. That started ever since Colt fired all those shots right next to my ear in the motel, and grows more pronounced the quieter it gets.

  There's no calmness inside me now, and I want to cry out. Cry for help? For information? To get some damn clarity on what's going on. Maybe there are other people in this building who might hear me and come to help? Is it even a residential building? Maybe a hotel? If it were why the hell is it so quiet. Surely I'd hear some movement. The sound of footsteps on the floor above. Of a TV being watched in the room next door. Of an elevator pinging as it opens on my floor. But there's nothing. It's more silent that the woods at the dead of night, and that's saying something.

  The longer this goes on for, the more anxious I get. Yet still, I don't make a sound. I'm scared to, as if banging on the door will bring some sort of physical punishment. Logically, what can shouting and crying out achieve? I've been put here for a reason, and I won't be let out until I'm needed. Clearly there's a reason I'm still alive, although right now I can't fathom it. Whatever I do, I've got to keep control my my emotions, keep my senses intact. If I start to lose it, if I start to crack, it won't be long until the entire dam bursts. And if I'm going to go out, I don't want to leave this world a blubbering mess. I'll hold my head up high and die with some pride. And then just pray that Colt can deliver some sort of retribution for the both of us.

  As the minutes tick by, I begin to wonder what Colt's doing. If only I'd found that damn tracker then maybe he'd know where I am. They'd probably have searched me and destroyed it anyway, but you never know. It would have given me some hope had I woken up feeling the pinch of it against my skin.

  As things stand, all I managed to do by turning it on was drag Colt's attention back to the cabin, back to the woods. For all I know he might have been getting somewhere in his hunt for Carmine, and I screwed everything up for him. For us. How long would it take him to get out there? At least a day, even at the speed he drives at. Even if he flew, it would still take an age. He'd have to get up there, find that there's nothing but a flashing tracker stuck in the mud at the base of a tree, and leave with more questions than answers. At least, before, he thought I was safe so he could get on with his job. Now he probably thinks I'm already dead.

  Am I giving myself too much credit here? I mean, really, does he actually care? If he could walk away right now without any further repercussions, would he do it? I'm still slightly amazed that he started helping me in the first place. He put himself on the line for me, sold my car for me, covered my back for me, arranged to keep me safe. When he gave me that tracker, his eyes were like steel. “I'll come find you straightaway, wherever you are. I promise.” That's what he said, and I know he meant it.

  The memory of our last meeting brings me hope. He'll come for me, I think to myself. If he's alive, he'll come for me.

  A light pattering of rain suddenly starts falling, slashing at an angle against the window. It's the first sound I've heard since I woke, and I'm happy for the distraction. I stand and walk towards it and watch the droplets wiggle their way across the glass. Down below it's quiet, just a few streaming car lights flashing by from time to time. I look on and pray that one of them is Colt, that he knows where I am, that he's found me and is coming to release me. But then, I've never been a girl of faith, and my hope is weak and fleeting.

  Time lingers on, although without any way of telling it that seems irrelevant now. I know my sentence is death, but I have no execution date. Will I just be left here to die of thirst? Will I be killed in my sleep, a needle slipped into my arm? Or is there something even more sinister at work here? Terrible thoughts cross my mind. Slavery, torture, rape. In this room, anything could happen to me, and that thought scares me more than any I've had before.

  I smell the scent of smoke before I even hear the tap on the door. There's an electronic click and it swings open, a shadow standing in the doorway. The stench of cigarettes grows stronger as he steps forward into the sickly yellow light of the room. The man who's been hunting me stands tall, his craggy face etched with a permanent grimace. His cheeks are peppered with several days worth of gray stubble, and there are clear cuts and bruises on his face and forearms.

  He moves forward as my eyes sweep quickly over him, searching for the weapon that will end by life. I see nothing in his hands. No gun, no knife, no length of rope or any other device of torture. Then he steps to one side of the room and I see another figure move through the doorway. He's shaking his head, his body adorned with a sharp suit and tie. Michael Carmine. Finally we're face to face.

  “Kitty, Kitty, Kitty,” he says with feigned exasperation. “You've led us on quite a hunt haven't you?”

  I don't know if his question requires an answer, but I don't consider giving one anyway.

  He continues forward into the room and glances over to Rugger. “Give it to her.”

  I instinctively scuttle to the back of the bed as Rugger moves towards me, reaching behind his back. I expect a gun to appear in his hand, but it's nothing so deadly. Quite the opposite, in fact, as he passes me a bottle of water.

  “Drink up,” says Carmine. “You must be thirsty.”

  I eye them both suspiciously before slowly twisting off the cap and inspecting the water. Carmine laughs. “It's not poison. You're a smart girl Kitty. If I wanted you dead, you never would have woken up.”

  I take a few gulps before spurting out a few words. “But you do want me dead. You've been trying to kill me for days!”

  “OK, he says, you've got me there. I did want you dead, but not now.”

  Now I'm incredibly confused. He tracks me for over a week, tries to kill me over and over again, finally catches up with me and, what, suddenly has a change of heart? Is he kidding. Is this some sort of sick joke! Whatever it is, I don't trust him. The man's too ruthless to give me a second chance. He's playing me for some reason, I know it.

  “So what am I doing here?” I ask. I try to sound tentative and innocent, as if I really believe his lies.

  “Yo
u're here to talk to me, Kitty. You should never have run away. You forced my hand, but now...now maybe we can sort this out without any further violence.”

  His words make me boil inside, but I keep my composure. I should never have run away?! I only ran because that maniac in the corner killed my best friend, thinking it was me, in cold blood. What was I going to do, hop on down to the bar and talk it all out. Surely he can't believe what he's saying. Now I'm even more convinced that he's using me in some way, biding his time. Probably to snare Colt, lure him in. There's no other reason to keep me alive, none at all.

  I just nod my head, though, as if agreeing with him. It's not like I have any power here anyway. I've just become a pawn in this game, and I have no idea what the rules are. So, there's no point in trying to fight my corner, trying to argue. I'm not a defeatist person, but I know a hopeless situation when I see one.

  Carmine moves in closer, until his legs are almost touching the end of the bed. “This whole situation has upset me,” he says. “You running away and Mr Tanner stopping me from finding you. That's all I wanted, Kitty. To find you and bring you back so all this can be resolved. All of this violence that's happened was never my intention.” He arches his head in Rugger's direction. “He's like a crazed dog sometimes, has a one track mind. I never authorized him to use deadly force Kitty. I didn't want that.”

  I look at Rugger, who continues to stare at me, his expression never changing from that cold grimace. There's something in Carmine's voice, though, that is so insincere, so contrived. I can't tell whether he's trying to convince himself of all this, maybe to help ease his conscience or something. But it all just comes out so rehearsed, like he's thinking out every word, every slight change in his facial expression. I'd prefer it if he just came out and told me the God's honest truth – that I witnessed him killing someone, and so I needed to be silenced. Why try to hide behind this facade and lie to me like I'm blind to everything that's happened?