“Stan, what can you tell us about the mindset of the Four-Four Bandits?”
“Because they’re in a convertible, both suspects are in plain sight. Lowen has his arm over Poesy’s shoulders, and they seem to be talking. Oddly enough, if they weren’t two of the FBI’s Most Wanted criminals, they could pass as an average couple on a Sunday drive.
“I should also add that even though there are no other vehicles on the road, in the last half hour or so, thousands of spectators have appeared on the outskirts of Interstate 85, cheering as the outlaws pass. Some hold signs of support, but most just take pictures with their cell phone cameras.
“There’s no doubt the country is sympathetic toward the bandits after stories of their charity began to surface. A homeless woman in New York claims Poesy gave her a blanket and cash to get a room for a week. Reports of money for their victims being found in the cars they’ve stolen became Lowen and Poesy’s calling card. In fact, Jonathan Henning was the only casualty during their entire crime spree. They are not your typical criminals, but no one should forget they are, in fact, dangerous murderers.
“I don’t see a way out for them. This may be the end for the Four-Four Bandits.”
WE COME TO a stop when the engine starts to sputter, low on fuel, leaving us stranded in the middle of the highway. To our left and to our right, and atop the bridge before us, hundreds … maybe thousands of people stand by, waiting for our next move. News cameras record, reporters report, and others shout and clap, jumping up and down, waving their arms.
Directly in front and in back of us, dozens … maybe hundreds of police cruisers, trucks, and motorcycles wait, too. With only a mile between us on each end, they notice we’ve come to a halt and position themselves accordingly. Protected by bulletproof doors, FBI, HP, Sheriffs, and city police alike build a wall of armor between them and us—Good vs. Evil, Right vs. Wrong—and prepare to open fire.
“Step out of the vehicle,” they call out over a bullhorn.
A spike strip is thrown out, promising to mangle our tires if we try to drive over them.
I slip closer to Lowen, leaving no space between our bodies. He rests his arm over my shoulder, and our fingers lace together, careless about the steady stream of blood dripping onto my lap from his wound.
“There’s no way out,” I say softly, exhaling an easy breath. This is what it’s come down to. “Will I be beautiful in stripes, inmate?”
He kisses the top of my head, rubbing his thumb on the inside of my palm.
“What do you think all of these people want?” he asks, looking around. “What are they waiting for?”
I follow his eyes toward the crowd, taking in the pandemonium. “A gunfight.”
Our eyes meet, and his are clear blue, swallowing me whole. I search his expression, expecting to find signs of worry, but his lips are curved into a small smile, and any signs of stress have melted away. My heart beats steady, and the trembling in my hands slow. Fate is easier to accept than I expected.
We’re not going back.
“I fucking hate stripes, anyway,” I say to the only boy I’ve ever loved, because I’m willing to die for him.
Lowen tucks a lock of hair behind my ear before resting his hand on the side of my face. I turn to kiss the inside of his bloody palm, licking the taste of rust from my lips.
“This isn’t it for us, Poe.” Tears burn my eyes, spilling over. “There’s more.”
“We had one hell of a ride.” I laugh lightly. “We gave each other a wonderful life, right? Not many people have done what we have, Low. It means something.”
“It means everything.”
I cry out, but a smile spreads across my face as the warm sensation of understanding relaxes me from the inside. Pulling love and life into my arms, I hold him until our heartbeats touch and our souls sync. I run my fingers up and down the back of his neck, breathing in his breath, melting under his eyes.
“I’m not leaving, you son of a bitch,” I whisper. “I’m here. I’m here with you.”
We spend a few moments touching each other’s elbows, behind the knees, below the waist. We kiss between fingers, on the wrist, and on the mouth
“Do you swear we’ll be together, Low? Do you swear it?”
“Yes,” he answers simply.
In an instant, our entire time together flashes before me. Rosebushes and thorns, bus rides and forbidden kisses. There’s the angry sound of my father’s voice when he caught us together. And the tender sound of Patricia’s when Low brought me to their home for the first time. We’ve had our struggles, but there have been more good times than bad.
He’s my favorite thing.
The most precious one.
The only person who’s ever loved me unconditionally and totally.
“We can’t take it with us.” I unzip the bag of money and sit up on my knees. “And we’re going to need all the brownie points we can get.”
He starts the car.
The crowd roars, and the law prepares.
“Drive, Lowen!” I shout, holding the bag above my head. “Get us the fuck out of here.”
He presses his foot on the accelerator and rolls the tires forward, laughing as we gain speed. The money flies from my grip one-dollar bill at a time, floating in the air around us, painting the sky green in our victory.
We were here.
Even crooks love.
Mary Elizabeth is an up and coming author who finds words in chaos, writing stories about the skeletons hanging in your closets.
Known as The Realist, Mary was born and raised in Southern California. She is a wife, mother of four beautiful children, and dog tamer to one enthusiastic Pit Bull and a prissy Chihuahua. She's a hairstylist by day but contemporary fiction, new adult author by night. Mary can often be found finger twirling her hair and chewing on a stick of licorice while writing and rewriting a sentence over and over until it's perfect. She discovered her talent for tale-telling accidentally, but literature is in her chokehold. And she's not letting go until every story is told.
“The heart is deceitful above all things and beyond cure.”--Jeremiah 17:9
Sunny, Catherine, Paige, S.E. Chardou, and Hang Le, thank you. I may write the words, but it’s with your help that I’m able to follow my dreams.
Heather White, I told you it wouldn’t be easy! Thank you for taking me on and keeping me on task.
EK, my bestie! Thank you for being a constant source of inspiration.
And always, to my family, thank you for believing in me.
Posey (Low #1.5) Page 7
