The men keep talking, their voices growing louder, less careful.
“I thought she’d be harder to grab,” says the second man. “Heard she took down a guy with a skillet.”
Dade snorts. “She’s a runner, not a fighter. She barely fought me in the hotel room. They ain't even notice how we rolled her out of there in that laundry cart.”
They’re laughing now, congratulating each other. I hate them so much that I think I could bite through steel.
I close my eyes and picture Michael, what he must be doing right now. I hope he’s calling the cops. I hope he’s burning down the world to find me.
I brace myself for what comes next, heart in my throat, panic rolling over me in greasy waves. I must nod off, or maybe black out. The next thing I know, the car is slowing. It's a jerky, forced deceleration.
I hear shouting.
Then sirens; sharp, urgent, so close they rattle the metal under my cheek.
“Oh, fuck. Oh fuck, oh fuck!” That’s the second guy, his voice cracked. “What do we do?”
“Shut up,” snaps Dade, but he’s scared, too. The car skids to a stop and idles. There’s a thud of doors, the sudden hush of held breath, then another volley of shouts. This time, not from inside the car.
It’s the cops.
I try to scream, but my throat is still sandpaper. I start pounding with my heels, as hard as I can, praying the sound travels.Something smashes outside, a shout, a bang, and then I hear glass shattering.
The trunk pops open, and a world of blinding light. I smell grass and burnt brakes. I can’t see clearly at first; just the outline of three, maybe four men, guns drawn, voices in unison, “Hands where I can see them! Don’t fucking move!”
I raise my hands. The tape digs into my wrists, but I try anyway. My eyes adjust, and then I see him.
Michael.
He’s not in his collar, but he looks more like himself than I’ve ever seen him. He has a jacket thrown over a t-shirt, jaw set, eyes wild. He shoves past the first cop, yanks me out of the trunk with both arms, and pulls me against him so hard my feet dangle.
“It’s okay,” he says, over and over, his hand cradling my head. “I’ve got you. You’re safe. I’ve got you.”
I want to say something, to tell him I’m fine, that I knew he’d come, but I’m shaking too hard. My knees give out, and he half-carries me to the grass, crouches next to me, still holding on.
All around us is chaos. Two cops have Dade face-down on the pavement, one knee in his back, wrenching his arms behind him.
He’s screaming, red-faced, spitting the same phrase on repeat, “This is a setup! That bitch is framing me! Let me go, you fuckers, you don’t know who I am!”
The second man is already in cuffs, hunched against a patrol car, one cheek split open and bleeding. An ambulance appearsfrom nowhere. There are hands on me, voices gentle but insistent.
“Can you hear me? Are you injured? Are you allergic to any medications?” I shake my head no, and every movement is like rolling a boulder up a hill.
Michael never lets go of me.
Even when the cop asks, “You’re the one who reported her missing?” he keeps his hand on my back.
“Yes,” he says. “I called Detective Cooper. He said he’d take care of it.”
“That’s right,” says the officer, badge gleaming. “Cooper loves you guys who do the lord's work.”
I want to ask how Michael knew, how he found me, but the words tangle in my throat.
Dade is still screaming, even as they stuff him in the back of the cruiser. “She’s lying! She’s the one who started it! You think you can just run? You think you can fucking run? NO ONE LEAVES ME UNTIL I LET THEM GO.”
The officer slams the door on him. The sound is so satisfying, I almost laugh.
Michael crouches next to me on the grass, his face streaked with sweat, his hands shaking. He brushes the hair from my eyes, then holds my chin, like he’s double-checking I’m real.
