“I’ll see you in a few minutes,” I say and cut the line.
Numbing my fear like I’ve done a thousand times before, I hone my senses, watching and listening. People race away from the chaos, some moving north and some south. Several collide with one another. Others stop to help the injured. There’s no pattern to the chaos, just as there’s no pattern to the bullets.
The next stall is only thirty feet from me. Its vendor has also fled, but a few civilians crouch beneath the wooden table covered in Italian spices. Some of the bowls have been overturned, the spices speckling the table and cobblestones below. Their scent is preferable to the growing stench of iron-rich blood filling the air.
I can’t stay here, frozen. I’m not sure how long the bullets will fly. For all I know, I’m their target. If I want to minimize the death count, I need to get out.
Or die.
Exposure to the bullets would only be a second if I make a beeline for the spice table. Maybe then I could also get some of the people out from under there safely.
Determining it’s my only option, I balance on my toes, ready to sprint.
I blot out the noise around me, focusing on steadying my rapid breathing. I listen to the cadence of the gunshots, waiting for a split second of a lull.
When I hear it, I sprint as fast as my legs will carry me, almost tumbling into the two people trembling beneath the spices.
Their eyes widen at my sudden presence.
I nod, acknowledging them, but don’t waste time assessing the situation. There’s a large metal garbage bin behind the stall, and beyond that is an alleyway that appears to lead out of the market.
“It’s not safe here,” I say in broken Italian. “Go to the trash bin, and I will cover you. Fromthere, get out.”
They both nod, but I can tell the two teenage boys are in a state of shock. Not so badly that they can’t get themselves out, but enough that they are desperate and would probably walk into the bullets if I told them to.
“On the count of three,” I say, and they both get ready to run.
I can’t really cover them, since I cannot see where the bullets are coming from or who is firing them, but I pull out my gun anyway, hopefully giving them a sense of safety and control.
“One. Two. Three. Run!” I shout, and they take off behind me. They both reach it safely, and my shoulders drop as their forms disappear down the alley.
Two. I was able to save at least two.
Not much of a consolation, but I’ll take it.
I focus back on my own situation. I need to make it to the rendezvous spot where my partner should be waiting to get me out of here. Except I still have almost a quarter mile to go, and I’ve only moved thirty-five feet.
This is going to take a while.
Hopefully the bullets will stop and give me a better chance, but even when the people have mostly cleared out, or are hiding beneath or behind market stalls, the bullets continue to soar.
Somewhere in the distance, I hear sirens, but their sounds don’t deter the gunmen. If I had to guess, and based on what I know, whoever is behind this has corrupted the police force.
I’m on my own.
So are all these people.
And it’s all my fault.
I swear again under my breath, racing to the next stall. I arrive safely then repeat the process a few more times until I’m only two stalls away from the door that will lead me out.
I almost reach the door when a sharp, searing pain goes straight through my shoulder. The force of the bullet throws my momentum forward, andI crash into the door. Grappling for the handle, warm blood soaks my shirt and drips down my arm. The blood makes the door handle slick, and my vision blurs.
Switching hands, I finally get the door open and close it behind me, also shutting out the sounds of screams and bullets. But now, it’s dark inside, and I have nothing to light my way.
I stumble to the wall, running my hand along it to help me along. I don’t expect the stairs, and a single step has me tumbling into the blackness.
I don’t register the pain, only focusing on when I’ll stop falling, but my head slams into something hard, and the world disappears.
