Low (Low #1)

by Mary Elizabeth

  “I’m here. I’m here, boy,” she cries, absorbing my harsh affection with grace.

  Pressing my forehead against her temple, I whisper airlessly, “Three minutes.”

  Running from the parking spot wasn’t a part of the plan, but if she would have moved the car at all with me in it, I would have told her to drive us home. It’s a fate I won’t condemn her to without trying for something better first.

  When I enter the bank, stringy blonde hair and a love-like-fire fade away, leaving me capable and bold. I fire off two quick shots above my head and grab the closest person in reach before the armed security guards have an opportunity to return fire.

  Stepping over broken pieces of drywall, I hold my weapon to a blonde woman’s head.

  “I don’t want to hurt you,” I say only loud enough for her to hear. “But I will if you fuck with me.”

  My hostage nods her head as she inhales a sharp breath and stiffens in my grip. “I work here. I can give you anything you want. Please don’t kill me.”

  “Put the gun down,” the guard from the elevators demands. He aims his weapon at me, firm in his defense and unwavering. His mouth is in a tight line, and his eyes are unblinking.

  The guard with the automatic weapon remains by the vault. His target is on my skull.

  I push the barrel of my gun into the woman’s head. She whelps, finally reaching up to hold on to my arm around the front of her chest. Her curly hair tickles my nose and sticks to my lips.

  “I have no problem blowing this bitch’s brains out. Lower your fucking gun now,” I demand, sliding another bullet into the chamber.

  Moving back two steps to get a better view of each guard at my sides, I quickly count twenty customers, mainly centered before the tellers. All eight booths are manned by employees behind the glass partition, and six other workers stand in the office space behind them. Every staff member has their hands up.

  “Don’t do something you’ll regret,” elevator guard calls out as he slowly lowers his gun to the floor. “Let’s work this out.”

  “I want everyone on their stomach with their head down. There are plenty of you to kill until I get my way,” I threaten, spitting the words past my victim’s profile. Pointing the .44 at the guard, I say, “Kick your gun over to me. Then I want you down with the rest of them.”

  He complies, and the weapon slides across the marble floor in a spinning motion to my feet. I slowly bend at the knees and pick it up, sliding it in the waist of my jeans. Turning my eyes toward the oversized clock between the elevator shafts, I take note that I have one minute and fifty-seven seconds left before Poesy takes off.

  Confident the room is under my control, I guide my hostage toward the door leading to the vault, never lowering my guard to be taken advantage of by either man in charge of protecting this place.

  “Do you have access beyond this point?” I ask the light-haired captive in my clutch.

  She licks tears from her lips and nods. Her face distorts in fear. “The keycard is in my pocket.”

  Vault guard takes a step forward, aiming to shoot and kill. I ignore him while bulletproof glass still separates us.

  “I want you to slowly reach for it with your right hand.” My gun is pressed so hard against her temple I can feel her pulse through the metal. “If your life means anything to you at all, you won’t mess this up.”

  “Okay,” she says with a throat full of fright. “I’m reaching for it now.”

  Two minutes and thirty-three seconds.

  “Raquel, do not let him beyond this point,” the guard demands loudly. Large blue veins protrude from the side of his neck. “The police are on their way.”

  There’s no way to know if he’s telling the truth or trying to intimidate me into leaving without the money. Chances are someone in the building called the cops when they heard gunfire, and any one of the employees could have sounded a silent alarm before they put their hands up in surrender. Who knows what happened to the guard outside.

  “Open the door,” I say, locking eyes with the man willing to take my life if he must.

  Raquel slides her card through the mechanical lock with a shaky hand and holds it there until the light turns from red to green. With a loud hum and click, the only barrier between the vault guard and me opens.

  “I have nothing to lose,” I lie, using my prey as a human shield. “If you fire, I will take her out with me without hesitation.”

  His nostrils flare, and he adjusts his massive firearm. “I can’t let you take this money.”

  “Then her blood is on your hands,” I say, pulling Raquel’s head back by her hair and shoving the gun under her chin. It’s not until my finger is rigid around the trigger that I realize I’m able to take another human life.

  In the heat of the moment, wound up and turned off from the rest of the world, all it would be is a simple tightening of a small muscle.

  Us vs. Them. Right vs. Wrong. Good vs. Evil.

  And I am definitely the devil.

  Raquel squeezes her eyes closed and screams, scraping the memory of her despair onto the surface of my brain to never be forgotten. It chisels at my humanity, making me less of a man and more of a monster with every decibel of terror. The criminal in me soaks it up like sunshine on the seashore, comfortable with heat kissing my skin.

  “Stop,” the guard calls, lowering his weapon. “Don’t shoot.”

  I inhale a large breath through my nose, wishing she would scream again to feed the starving demon I keep deep inside. Exhilaration prickles my skin, and translucent hair stands straight from my elbow to my wrist. My spine tingles, and a gutless smile spreads across my face.

  “Step away from the vault. I want you on the other side of the glass. On your stomach, face on the floor,” I say, transfixed with the pressure of the gun pressed against my victim’s skin.

  According to the digital clock on a desk against the wall, I have exactly one minute left. With the second guard out of my way, I thrust Raquel into the vault and toss my duffel bag to her. Slinging the automatic rifle over my shoulder, I point the .44 at her chest, and my eyes widen at the piles of money within reach.

  “Fill the bag with large bills only.” Turning toward the room of employees, I aim the gun, which is normally here to protect their lives against crooks like me, at them. “I want everyone down. I’m almost finished, so no stupid moves from anyone.”

  The entire bank falls silent, with the exception of the air conditioner that kicks on and pushes cool air through the vent above my head. Raquel shoves stacks of cash into my bag, packing every pocket with crisp green bills, deforming its shape and stretching its stitches.

  “I don’t know how much more…” She stops talking at the sound of sirens and drops thousands of dollars she was holding against her chest to the floor.

  Fifteen seconds until my three-minute mark.

  Sprinting into the vault with Raquel, I reach for the bag as she stumbles back and falls to her bottom, shielding herself from me with her arms. The duffel bag’s strap digs into my shoulder, and I lose money on my run past home loan and new account desks in the lobby. Sirens cry louder, and I’m halfway to freedom when the front doors open.

  Poesy charges inside.

  “No,” I whisper, stopping dead in my tracks.

  We share a moment where nothing exists but the sight of each other, and with my girl comes compassion. Guilt slams into me like a sledgehammer, leaving me airless and heavy-hearted.

  “We have to go,” my girl says, holding her hand out for me.

  Police sirens scream as if they’re right outside the door, but gunfire is louder. Instinctively, I duck and spin toward the ricochet with my weapon ready to shoot. A bullet buzzes past my head, missing me by the skin of my teeth, and the elevator guard is ready to send off another round when I squeeze my trigger and take out his knees.

  “Babe!” Poesy calls for me in a shaky tone.

  I turn back around as she collapses to her knees, squeezing the wound on he
r shoulder. Dark ruby blood seeps through her fingers, a stark contrast against Poe’s whitish skin. Hoping it’s an illusion of madness, I pull the ski mask from my head and blink uncertainty from my eyes. Pigment drains from the wounded’s face, and she cries out in agony.

  Rushing over to the guard who shot my girl, I press the tip of his partner’s gun to his forehead and scream through clenched teeth, spewing spit and craziness across his colorless expression.

  “You would take her from me?” I ask, pressing the sole of my shoe into his throat so he can feel what I feel. “I will fucking end you. I will kill everyone in this place before she’s taken from me.” I fire two rounds beside his head. “Motherfucker!” I shout until my lungs feel like they’re cut and bloody.

  “No!” Poesy yells, suddenly by my side without her mask on, tugging on my shirt. “We have to go. We have to go now, baby.”

  My girl takes the gun from the waist of my jeans and aims it toward the vault guard as I slam the butt of my weapon into this fucker’s nose until it breaks in an unnatural angle. Blood explodes across his face, pooling around his eyes and gushing into his hair, rendering him unrecognizable.

  “Come on,” Poe begs. She slowly retreats toward the door, with both hands holding the gun. Her black long-sleeved shirt is blood-soaked and glued to her skin around the bullet hole. “We’re done here.”

  “She saved your life,” I tell the guard as I take a hard step back.

  As this man bleeds at my feet, and the law closes their distance between us, I take a look around the lobby. Five or six sets of eyes watch Poesy and me withdraw, studying our bare faces and taking note of our height and weight. A bullet can easily find their heads, silencing them forever. I aim between a set of gray irises, which don’t turn away in the face of demise, and tighten my finger on the trigger.

  Before I shoot, Poesy pulls on the back of my shirt and drags me through the thick glass entrance doors. The blinding mid-morning sun and approaching red and blue sirens stun me back into reality. Money not worth dying for drops out of the duffel bag with each step I take, and our getaway car is parked on the other side of the lot. The boys in blue are within sight, and we won’t make it to the Honda in time.

  “Why did you stop?” Poesy stands five feet in front of me, gasping for breath. Tears run down her face, and loose strands of hair from her bun stick to her forehead and cheeks.

  “Run,” I say. “We won’t make it together. You can get away if they’re distracted with me.”

  Love worth dying for doubles over and cries, bracing herself on her unsteady knees. She has a gun in one hand, and blood drips from her knuckles on the other.

  “Go, Poesy,” I demand, pushing her away from me. “Get the fuck out of here.”

  Shaking her head and shoving me back with a bloody grip and the desperation of a mad girl, she clings and screams, “I’m not going without you! Stop trying to make me live alone!”

  With no other choice, I capture her in my arms and press my lips to the side of her sweat-coated cheek, inhaling the scent of copper seeping from her injury. I lick blood from her fingers as she scratches and pulls at my face, determined to taste and touch every part of her before we’re taken.

  “You stupid girl,” I say, wishing I could hide her inside me. If there was a way I could split myself in half and veil Poe behind my heart, caged by rib bones and meat, I’d do it without question. Even if it meant death.

  Dead and together would be mercy compared to alive and jailed apart.

  There’s movement at our side. Thinking it’s the police, I draw my weapon and shove Poesy behind me, not willing to be arrested without a fight. But sirens only hint over the top of Laurel Canyon, slowed down by traffic and pedestrians crossing the street. We have less than a minute before they arrive, guns blazing with justice on their minds.

  “Get the fuck out of the car,” I order. My hand shakes as warm relief washes over me.

  Inside a burnt orange Ferrari parked in the handicapped spot, a middle-aged man slowly lifts his hands above his head. With the bag of money on my shoulder and Poesy watching my back, I approach the vehicle and open the door. New leather and spicy fear itch my nose.

  “Don’t kill me.” The man cowers. His face turns bright red, and his white pants yellow as he pisses himself.

  I grab this pussy by the neck of his pink polo shirt and rip him out of the driver’s seat, shoving him into the open space next to ours. He falls onto his bottom, dirtying his pants further in oil and someone’s leaky radiator fluid. My aim is on his sweaty forehead as Poesy quickly climbs into the car behind me.

  “Are you even handicap?” I ask as I watch this man squirm.

  “No.” He shakes his head, protecting his face with his hands, as if they’d defend him from a bullet. “No, I’m sorry.”

  “If you tell them we took your car, you will be.” I drop behind the wheel and push-start the engine.

  The eight-cylinder, twin-turbo motor purrs to life under my touch, smooth and sexy and capable of saving our lives. From zero to sixty in less than three seconds, nine hundred eighty horsepower carries us away from capture as the law spills into First Division Bank.

  Sweat pools between my hands and the leather steering wheel as I maneuver in and out of traffic, zigzagging between slower cars. The world becomes blurry outside the dark-tinted windows, diminished to streaks of concrete gray and sunshine. I accelerate the car over one hundred twenty miles an hour, soaring through red lights and narrowly missing big-rig trailers and city buses.

  Determined to drive this car off the edge of the Earth, I swerve onto the sidewalk when traffic is too congested to pass. Pan handlers, street peddlers, and foreign tourists with cameras around their necks jump out of the way. Girls wearing oversized sunglasses scream, and the boys they’re with trample through them to save their own lives.

  Thin magazine pages flap in the air as I plow through a newsstand. Ceramic Disney knock-offs turn to dust under my tires as I take out a store’s sale table. Cinnamon and sugar rain down on the windshield after sideswiping a churro cart.

  “Lowen!” Poesy screams right before I collide with a bus bench.

  Jumping the curb and crashing back onto the street, I cut off oncoming traffic and turn down a one-way side road. The engine’s roar echoes off brick buildings, and crows perched on power lines scatter into the blue sky.

  “Where are we headed?” my girl asks. She braces herself against the dashboard as I drive over dips in the street.

  I swerve back onto the main road and backtrack toward the bank. We won’t make it out of the city in this car once they put a helicopter in the air, and we won’t make it out of the state if we steal another vehicle. The Mazda is the only safe way to get us far from California before our pictures are broadcasted on every news channel from here to the border.

  “We need to get the car, but there’s no way this one doesn’t have a tracking device. I don’t want to dump it too close to the storage shed, so we’ll have to do a mile on foot,” I say, shifting my eyes away from the lane to check on my girl.

  Pale-faced and blood-stained, she winces as the Ferrari glides over bumps and sucks in a sharp breath as I jerk the wheel to the left in order to avoid the bumper of an old Volkswagen.

  “You need a hospital,” I say, clenching my jaw. Mapping a getaway is worthless if Poe bleeds to death.

  “I’m fine, Lowen. Just get us out of here,” she answers dismissively.

  “You’ve been shot. You’re not fine,” I argue, licking my lips. The salty taste of her DNA is dried on the corner of my mouth.

  A block from First Division, the sharp melody of police sirens is in range, pulsating in sync with ambulances and fire trucks approaching in the rearview mirror. Traffic is at a near stop, and I have no doubt roadblocks are going up. There’s not much time before the LAPD has us boxed in two city miles.

  “Poesy, you need to trust me,” I say, pulling into a parking structure. I stop the Ferrari in a spot in view of the str
eet, hidden between a Dually and a Hummer, and kill the motor. “I’m going to get the car alone.”

  Tired eyes widen, and she starts to shake her head. “Low—”

  I rip the sleeve from her top, exposing Poe’s thin arm caked in blood. Penny-scented life source spills slowly from the small spot of broken flesh near her shoulder where a bullet entered. The exit wound is larger, exposing ripped muscle and skin. I tie the torn cotton around her arm like a tourniquet, hushing her soothingly as she whines.

  “Cops are going to be on the streets looking for us, and you’re too hurt to go unnoticed. I can get the car and get back here in ten minutes if I go by myself,” I say, tying her makeshift bandage into a double knot. “I won’t leave you here, Poesy. I’ll be right back.”

  “What if they come while you’re gone?” she asks, breathing in and out through her nose.

  “They won’t,” I answer, hoping it’s the truth. I push sweaty clumps of hair away from her face. “You’re safe here.”

  Poesy tilts her head back and closes her eyes. She swallows hard as tears spill from beneath her long lashes.

  “Just go,” she whispers in a thick tone.

  I lift my black long-sleeved shirt over my head, exposing a plain white T-shirt underneath. There’s a golf tournament souvenir hat on the backseat and a pair of Aviators in the center console that I put on before exiting the car.

  She locks the door as I run away.

  Sticking to side streets and shadows, I avoid heavily trafficked sidewalks and jammed roadways, running until my calf muscles ache and my lungs burn. I slow down when there’s no other choice but to cross the intersection toward the storage facility.

  Hovering close to a group of friends while we all wait for the walk light to flash, they shy away from me when I get too close. One girl whispers about how much I’m sweating, and another accuses me of breathing down her neck.

  “Sorry,” I whisper, keeping my head down. The last thing I need is for these girls to cry wolf and draw attention to me.

  Street signals switch and traffic stops for pedestrians to cut across. I step onto the crosswalk with my hands in my pockets and my heartbeat in my throat, with the Mazda within sight. Halfway to the other side of the road, three cars down, a police cruiser I didn’t notice pops its siren and flashes its lights.