Chapter 16
Conin
Pain jolts icy hot sparks in my ankle. A numb, pricking sensation coerces me to instinctively clutch on to the appendage even as chaos unfolds above.
Lightning crackles and zigzags out the window I jumped from, narrowly missing Ezra by an excruciatingly small margin.
I crane my neck to look at him. If he jumps the same way I carelessly did, the two of us, injured, won’t be able to get far.
I crawl forward and raise unsure arms in the sky. Ezra stares at my outstretched limbs, perched on the windowsill, turning to watch Tommy fight off the mercenary before screaming a very audible “fuck” and falling right onto my torso. The air is knocked out of me, scorching my lungs and chest.
“I’m so sorry,” he whispers. “I’m so sorry.”
The ability to speak has been knocked out of me and all I can manage to is a raspy exhale. Ezra hauls himself to his feet and helps me stand.
“I’ll have to drive us out of here. Do you think you can walk?”
“Uh—”
I set the hesitant, injured foot down and regret it immediately.
It burns hot and bright. Ezra flinches and wastes no time in draping an arm around me, taking my own, and pushing forward while I hop on my good foot.
Three blocks of this. I don’t know if we’ll make it.
His struggle in carrying half my weight is obvious.
His mouth is pursed in concentration, face scrunched as we skirt around the motel.
“I don’t think my ankle’s broken,” I say.
Ezra doesn’t reply. We keep on going, almost passing the second block. We parked in a vacant lot near a bus station, which takes shape in the dark. I’m panting now and my uninjured leg is screaming for reprieve. But we’re almost there and giving up now will mean death.
Ezra’s strength wavers when he starts to tilt at my side.
Boldly, I press my foot harder against the concrete.
The pain is outrageous, but I push and push.
I’ve dealt with worse; at least football was good for one thing.
Ezra and I scramble to the bus station, where my car awaits us under a post’s harsh, fluorescent light.
I rummage through my pocket for the key I kept on me, when a shadowed figure emerges through the glass of the station.
He stalks in front of the vehicle and glares with malevolent disdain.
The scar on his cheek is more prominent in the vivid white of the lamppost.
“Going somewhere?” Callum mocks.
He flaunts his pistol at us.
This part of town is dead. When a car passes by, Callum lowers his weapon but keeps it at the ready if either Ezra or I feel brave enough to make a move. We’re completely alone otherwise. But maybe that’s also a good thing.
“Hands up,” instructs the mercenary.
Ezra steals a glance my way, but I nod enough for him to let go. He raises his hands in the air, and I mimic the same, putting all my weight onto my good leg.
Is this really how it ends? Mere moments after our escape?
After I said goodbye to Mom with the foolish optimism that one day I’ll be able to see her again?
What was this all for if Ezra and I perished here?
Callum certainly won’t let me live after taking Ezra from me.
And then Ezra and I will never just . . . be.
Guilt emerges from somewhere deep—from leaving Tommy behind just so we could be stopped as soon as we made it to the car.
“I’ll go with you. Quietly. Just leave him alone,” Ezra says, voice piercing the night.
“No, Ez!”
He shoots me a furious glance. One wrong move and we’re dead.
Ezra keeps his hands suspended in the air and walks unsurely to Callum.
Callum then trains the gun on Ezra, half parts watching his every move and keeping an attentive eye on me.
My arms grow heavy, gravity pulling them relentlessly to the earth.
The farther Ezra is from me, the more I deflate, my adrenaline depleting fast.
Ezra does what he’s never done before.
He fights back—
—and rams into Callum like how I’ve tackled players on the football field. I’m thoroughly impressed, embarrassingly aroused, but we have a chance now. And I take it.
Callum almost loses his pistol in the scuffle.
It comes tumbling down with him and fires aimlessly into the night.
The shot cracks and leaves a lingering echo—a ringing that reverberates in my ears long after the bullet’s been fired.
Callum nearly loses purchase on the ground, resetting to aim.
I have ample time to intercept, so I waste none of it.
Despite the shrill pain in my ankle, I push forward and slam Callum into the car with brutal force.
I topple over with him from the sheer torture of my foot, but I’m successful in disarming the mercenary—the pistol clatters to the pavement.
I roll to grab it. The sound of Callum’s attempt to stand is swiftly squandered by the noise of a thorough pounding and the squelching crack of bone.
I slip the gun into my possession and flick my attention to the chilling noise.
Ezra mercilessly kicks the already unconscious man with the sole of his shoe.
Crimson bursts from Callum’s nose, misshapen by Ezra’s nonstop blows.
“Ezra!”
He doesn’t hear me.
“Ezra, enough! We need to get out of here,” I say.
He halts and looks at me with an expression I’ve never seen on his face. It chills me to my core.
“O-okay,” he croaks.
Ezra helps me to my feet again. He lowers me into the passenger seat and takes off for the driver’s side.
I hand him the key, he twists the ignition, and we idle there for several moments.
Several moments too many. Ezra watches the way we came, as if willing Tommy into existence.
I grow antsy, nervous that Callum will wake from his unconscious stupor any second.
“Ezra, we need to go,” I urge.
“We can’t leave him—”
“He told us to go.”
He considers this another minute before shifting into drive. We zoom away to the distant wails of police sirens. Ezra navigates to the highway. After a while of driving, I notice our trajectory shift to the interstate leading to Salt Lake City.
Neither of us speaks. We don’t need to.
We just carry on and hope for the best.