Fee:
We're trapped in a canyon designed for execution. Brick walls tower on one side, the boutique building on the other, the space between just wide enough for a delivery truck, or a car to block our escape. The air reeks of garbage.
Shane shouts from the mouth of the service road. He's sprinting our way, tie flapping over his shoulder, gun drawn and firing back at his pursuers. Behind him, five men give chase, guns in hand.
Cillian draws his weapon, returning fire, but the service road offers no cover. He positions himself between me and the shooters, and we start running.
Another crack splits the air. Close to me, sharp, definitive.
My body understands before my brain catches up. I kick off my heels and start sprinting barefoot, concrete rough against my skin.
This coral summer dress marks me like a target. It might as well be a neon sign screaming, "shoot here."
I grab fistfuls of the flowing skirt as it tangles around my legs, bunching the fabric up past my knees. The material fights me, but I yank it higher and sprint forward. My bare feet slap against concrete littered with broken glass and debris.
Cillian's hand presses against my back, steering me toward the far end of the service road where it opens onto the street. His touch is firm, protective, pushing me faster than my legs want to move.
The next shot finds its mark.
I hear Cillian grunt behind me, the sound torn from his chest. His footsteps falter. The steady pressure of his hand against my back disappears.
I spin around.
Shane crumples to the concrete fifty feet behind us, blood pooling beneath his body. He's not moving.
Cillian staggers beside me, red seeping through his white dress shirt, spreading across his chest like spilled wine. The crimsonstain grows with each heartbeat, turning his expensive suit into something from a nightmare.
I freeze.
Everything inside me stops. My breath, my heartbeat, my ability to think beyond the blood blooming across Cillian's chest.
"Fee, fucking run!"
Cillian's voice cuts through my paralysis, rougher than I've ever heard it. He switches his gun to his left hand, his right arm hanging useless at his side, and keeps firing at the men advancing on us. His shots are wild now, unsteady, but they force our pursuers to duck behind cover.
"Get the fuck out of here!" He doesn't look at me, keeping his eyes on the shooters. "I'll cover you."
I gather more fabric in my fists, hiking the dress higher until the hem barely covers my thighs. I force my legs to move, each step sending shockwaves through my bare feet.
Behind me, Cillian fires again. The sound echoes off brick walls, mixing with shouts from our pursuers. I don't know how many bullets he has left. I don't know how long he can hold them off with a bullet in his shoulder.
I sprint faster. My lungs burn. The street ahead blurs through tears I didn't realize were falling.
A black Camaro screeches around the corner ahead, tires smoking against the pavement. It races straight toward me, engine growling like a predator.
I'm going to die crushed between bullets and a bumper. The car skids to a halt, the driver's door flying open.
Anton emerges like a dark angel, gun already drawn. His eyes find mine for a split second, cold, focused, lethal.
Anton raises his weapon and starts firing past me; each shot is punctuated by the subtle recoil through his muscular frame. His face betrays nothing, no anger, no fear, just deadly concentration.
I keep running. My body feels disconnected from my mind, like I'm watching someone else run for their life.
Anton moves toward me, still firing. He's wearing a black tailored suit with a black shirt. He looks like violence incarnate, like death in expensive Italian wool.
Another shot. I flinch, expecting an impact, expecting my legs to give out, expecting to hit the concrete. But I keep running.
Maybe I'm already hit. Maybe I just can't feel it yet.
