44. Harper
FORTY-FOUR
HARPER
The first day of the week was always the hardest.
Unless you were me, and then the last day of the week was the hardest. Why, you ask?
Because I always scheduled my most challenging jobs on Fridays so that if I ran late or ran into issues, I had the weekend to deal with them. So that if a job pissed me off, I didn’t have to worry about it tainting my whole mood for the week.
It worked for me, until today.
I wondered if this day would have gone differently had I not stayed later than usual to work on the fucking engine of the stupid Firebird that the asshole who lived next to John insisted we handle in a rush.
And of course, I was the only person with an open slot and the know-how.
Well, Sport had been scheduled to handle it, but he never showed up for work today, so it fell to me.
Dark was falling fast, and I had just finished tightening the bolts on the manifold and crawled out from beneath the damn car when a voice echoed at the edge of my bay, where my garage door that I knew I’d left closed was now open.
I’d had the fucking noise canceling headphones on to muffle out the irritating sounds of metal on metal, mainly to keep the headache I’d been battling all day from getting worse.
If not for those damn things, I would have heard the damn door mechanism go up.
If I had just put the car up on the hydraulic jack, I wouldn’t be caught off-guard, either.
Hindsight, man. Not only was it 20/20, it was just like karma, too—a real bitch.
"Hey, is anybody there?"
The voice sounded oddly familiar, and though I couldn’t place it right away, I knew where I’d heard that voice before, and it wasn’t here at the shop.
No.
That was the voice of a woman I’d run into with the boys.
Beatrice. Bethany. Brittney. Bubonic Plague.
What the fuck was her name?
I didn’t answer her. Anyone sly enough and ballsy enough to open a door that was previously closed either had nefarious intentions or a death wish. My luck was shit, so either was gonna be bad news.
Suddenly, I was very fucking glad I was holding this damn heavy ass wrench.
If she got close enough, I could just crack her skull.
Instinct told me the boys wouldn’t have sent someone to follow up on me. Not in public, at least. And anyone sent by them would have said so right out of the gate.
No, this bitch wasn’t good news.
Bunny? Becca? Bobbi? Brianna?
Fuck, why couldn’t I think of her goddamn name?
I made sure to step light as fuck as I inched around to the back of the car, kneeling at the bumper in the hopes she didn’t see me around this massive ass metal hunk of junk.
"Come out, now, bitch. I know you’re in here. I just wanna talk."
Oh yeah, and I’m a fucking squirrel. "Get fucked, bitch," I muttered under my breath, suddenly wishing I hadn’t left my damn cellphone at the front of the damn car. My only hope was that she’d move around the vehicle and give me a chance to slide to the front, grab the phone, and get the hell out of there.
If I was lucky, I might survive the day.
I watched her shadow, faint though it was, slide slowly toward the back of the car as she giggled like a fucking lunatic and talked to herself—well, okay, to me, but I wasn’t answering, so she might as well have been talking to herself.
"You know, if those fucking Skeletons would have just done the job and offed you themselves, I wouldn’t be here today. But they decided some second-class pussy was more important than the job, and the rules, and the fucking life, so we got a job, and we didn’t even have to give the Guild and that bitch Lilly a fucking cut."
I slid to the side of the car as she hit the back corner furthest away from me, inching backward, just praying that I’d get to the fucking phone before she got to me.
Who would I even call?
I could call the police, but I’d be dead before they made it to me.
I could call the boys.
No.
But really, who else was equipped to deal with a psychotic killer the likes of which only the Guild could produce?
I had all three of their numbers. But who would be most likely to answer?
And could I dial them in time?
Life’s greatest questions often went unanswered when you most needed them to . . . not.
I was only a foot away from the front of the car. I could see the damn toolbox I’d set the damn phone on so I could work. If I could just get one more step closer?—
Clang!
The building was so silent, the faint sound of a tool rolling sideways under my foot felt like a slamming door or a tree falling in the void. I winced as I gave away my location, realizing with a sinking heart that I was fucked.
Might as well give it all up. The pretense of sneakiness is gone.
I jetted the last foot to the toolbox, grabbing my phone with a triumphant fist pump as a rageful screech sounded behind me. I didn’t waste time, thankful I’d set my unlock pad to recognize my finger, hoping Rowan was still one of the last people I’d called.
Track and field training I hadn’t used in years kicked in as I rounded the corner of the building just in time to hear the cocking of a fucking gun in the distance.
Hope John’s friend had good insurance.
I sprinted toward the alley, realizing my mistake just in time as I veered to the left instead of the right and opted to go closer to a busy road instead of falling into the same kind of trap the boys set for me weeks ago, before they knew who I was.
The boys.
Fuck!
I whipped my finger across the screen and hit the call button twice, hoping and praying that someone would fucking pick up. I hadn’t called a single person since the day I left the Guild and came back to my old life.
Please pick up, Rowan. I need you.
Behind me, I heard the squeal of a set of tires and cursed myself for leaving the damn keys in the fucking car for convenience. Chasing me down now was a fine-tuned Firebird, freshly cleaned, suped-up, and very fast.
Outrunning it would be impossible.
Out-maneuvering it, maybe not so much.
I heard a voice on the other end of the line in my hand, and just as I brought the phone to my ear, the damn car screeched to a halt in front of me, and two figures hopped out. Like a light going off in my head, I recognized them now, from the Guild.
Bonnie and fucking Clyde.
Angel warned me about them. They were a nasty sort, the type to take money and do whatever was asked, no matter how horrifying or difficult.
And tonight, it appeared I was on the menu.
"Listen, bitch, if you just stop now, we’ll make it fast and painless. A bullet between the eyes, smooth and instant." Clyde sneered at me as I stood there in the headlights, a phone in one hand, a wrench somehow still gripped in the other.
Bonnie didn’t seem as eager to end this fast. She turned to her cohort, her partner in crime, and pouted like a fucking child. "But Clyde, you said we could have fun ? —"
"Bitch, I told you, let me do the talking. I’m not really gonna make it easy on her. I just want her to make it easy on us."
There was no easy choice here. Obviously, they planned to shoot me.
The only question was, did I plan to sit here and take it like a bitch? Or did I plan to go full suicidal and fight them head-on? Or, the third option, I could run and hope they weren’t eager to shoot me in the back.
One-on-one, I might stand a chance. But there were two of them, and the second they emerged from the car and stepped onto the pavement, I made my choice.
"Get fucked, assholes. I’m no easy mark."
I stepped closer and took my wrench to the windshield, shattering it pretty nicely so they wouldn’t be able to see shit out the front. And then, I did what any intelligent person with nothing to lose but her life would do.
I turned the fuck around, and I ran.
The phone all but forgotten, I slammed my feet on the pavement, every step jarring all the way to my shins, rattling my head and making it hard to see straight as my headache turned into a full-blown migraine, and the first hints of a panic attack spiraled up from my core.
Faster, bitch. You have to run faster.
Someone was following me on foot, and they were gaining. My only chance was to slow them down enough that I could get away.
Without looking, I turned and hurled the wrench in their general direction. I didn’t wait to see if I’d hit them, I just doubled my speed, pushing myself to my damn limits, each breath like hot, jagged steel blades in my lungs, ripping me apart as I tried desperately to escape certain death.
"Fuck you, bitch!" Clyde yelled, pain lacing his words as I realized he’d actually taken a hit from my wild throw. "You can only run so far, but eventually, we’ll catch you."
Not if I can help it.
I turned another corner, and the lights bathed me immediately in their fluorescent glow, bringing a semblance of hope to me.
And then I felt the jarring thump of something hitting my lower torso from behind and winced as my speed slowed to a near crawl.
Can’t stop now. Keep going.
I ran through the pain, somehow compartmentalizing it so well it ceased to exist for a moment. A second hit slammed into my side, just beside my kidney, and I sucked in a breath and screamed, praying someone would hear me and come to help.
Bitch, this isn’t the good part of town. You’ve just successfully guaranteed that people will lock their doors and pretend not to be home. You just killed yourself.
I was so focused on escape that I missed the massive chunk of dislodged sidewalk looming before me.
My foot caught on it, taking me down hard. I lost my phone in the fall, the wind was knocked out of me, and I was seeing double now. Fuzzy doubles, at that.
Things were not looking good.
I forced myself to my knees just as a fucking dirtbike engine sounded in the distance, getting closer as the seconds ticked by. I closed my eyes and tried to inhale, failing miserably, gasping for air as I choked on the lack of it in my body. I was still clutching my chest and wheezing as a dirtbike skidded to a stop beside me, and none other than Jackal from the Neon Dogs leaned over and offered me a hand.
"Looks like you need a ride, sugar tits."
Something in my eyes must’ve alerted him to the seriousness of the situation, because he glanced over my shoulder just in time to see Bonnie and Clyde following me, guns in hand and pointed in our direction.
"Fuck. Get on, quick, bitch," he snarled, grabbing my hand to yank me on the bike behind him as he spun his back tire in an arc on the asphalt and skidded away like a bolt of lightning.
The last thing I remembered was a few wildly off-target gunshots, and then I blacked out as the wind whipped by me, speeding through traffic, nothing but Jackal’s hand over mine around his waist keeping me on the back of the damn bike.