I noted him.
Tall, oval face, a cross tattoo on the side of his neck—cold, brown eyes, and a mole on his right cheek.
Because I knew he was going to get away.
And I wouldn’t have the time I needed to go after him.
As if reading my thoughts, his hand shot out to the side, fumbling with the door until he found the handle, flinging it open, and shooting out.
The driver’s body was limp, slumped, dead.
Making sure his buddy was running for his life first, I shoved the driver over into the passenger side, climbed into the driver’s side, threw the truck into reverse, and backed out of the alley.
There was a chorus of beeps as I pulled into traffic. I ignored them, my mind racing with enough issues as I did the only thing I could: I drove back to the warehouse.
Because if that driver woke up alone, without his truck, he was going to call the cops. Then there’d be a BOLO out on the truck I was in with a dead body.
I couldn’t have that.
I drove into the lot, searching for the driver’s wallet in the glovebox, then grabbed a wad of fast food napkins and used them to wipe down any visible signs of blood on the windows, wheel, and dashboard.
Only then did I pull back into the lot.
Just in time, too.
The guy was just starting to stir as I carefully shut the door then rushed over to his side like a concerned citizen.
“Hey, man, you okay?” I asked, reaching down to help him sit up, facing conveniently away from the damn truck.
“I don’t… I don’t know what happened.”
“Think you must have slipped on the ice, man,” I said, forcing some concern into my voice. “Shit. You hit your head good. You’re bleeding all over.”
His hand rose, feeling for his head, wincing at the comment, then again when he pulled it back and saw the blood on his fingers.
“You should probably go to the hospital.”
“I… my truck.”
“Right behind you,” I told him. “Think this fell out of your hand too,” I said, passing him his wallet so he had his ID, insurance cards, and no excuse to go back into the truck. His phone was in a belt holder. He had everything he needed.
“I… yeah,” he agreed, the small slits of his eyes indicating that while the damage wasn’t bad, the headache must have been.
“Let’s get you a cab, bud.”
I’d never used the word ‘bud’ in my fucking life.
My voice didn’t even sound like me.
I was in full-on Good Samaritan mode.
“I can’t leave…”
“You’re at the warehouse,” I told him, waving back at it. “This is where the truck needed to be unloaded. I’m supposed to be doing the unloading. I will keep an eye on it until you get back. But you need stitches, man. Maybe a scan…”
His eyes widened.
“Yeah?”
