Chapter 41
FORTY-ONE
THREE MONTHS LATER
My heart is pounding in my chest, echoing in my ears. The rain’s been terrible. My clothes are soaked, and it’s not helping that the darkness of the night is blurring my vision.
My breathing is heavy, and I don’t know how much longer I’ll be able to continue like this. The wound on my stomach is bleeding heavily, my feet wet from all the puddles of rain I stepped into.
I stop for a moment, pressing my palm against the wound. My eyes snap close, and I wince in pain. The ache spreads through my body, my fingers coated in my blood. The hoodie’s becoming heavier the wetter it gets, but it’s too cold for me to take it off.
“You won’t run away from me,” I grit out, muttering the words to myself, opening my eyes. “I won’t let you.”
With a deep breath, I steel myself, then continue running. The adrenaline is pumping in my veins, overtaking all the pain, numbing my sore muscles. The streetlights of New York are dimmer the farther away I get from the main avenue, taking a sharp turn to the right.
The residential buildings are all around, and this seems to resemble an alley. Of course he’ll fucking run into the alleyway. The motherfucker’s been on the run for two months now, and he managed to stay completely off the grid.
Two months since Paul Simmons escaped prison.
Two months since Hudson De Santis was killed in prison.
A month and a half since Noelle’s condition worsened drastically.
And a whole month since I left Arlo.
I glance over my shoulder to the main street, and a massive billboard catches my eye. The image is plain white, with a lot of light blue butterflies all around. My chest clenches at the sight, and I know in my heart that it’s a message from Arlo. He’s looking for me, and he won’t stop looking.
I can’t let him find me. He lost too much because of me, and I can’t return to him. Not until I’ve taken down the man who’s to blame for all of it.
With a deep breath, I force myself to look away from the painful sight, returning my attention back to the alleyway. It’s dark, and I step forward, pulling my gun out.
From the corner of my eye, I spot a small gate that’s slightly opened ajar. A hiss comes from my lips, and I continue running, pushing the gate open and looking around, not once stopping.
It’s leading into a different street, but it resembles the previous one. However, this one has a couple of empty premises. There’s an underground club on the far right, the loud music blasting through. I highly doubt the man who has the entire America looking for him would go to a fucking club.
But that’s when I spot one single place that looks almost… too silent.
It looks to be an old pub. The windows are covered with old newspapers, dating all the way back to the early 2000s. The door’s made out of thick wood, with the doorknob broken.
Right below are old cigarette butts, beer cans, and bottles, alongside some of the syringes that were definitely used for drugs. Slowly, I push the door open, stepping inside.
The scent of staleness hits my senses, and I scrunch my nose, trying to get used to it. The place looks like someone left in a hurry — old, dusty glasses scattered around the bar, half-full bottles of whiskey lingering around.
However, the most noticeable thing is a figure in the dark, dark corner of the bar. A smirk tugs on the corner of my lips, and I close the door behind me, stepping further inside.
“Come out, come out, wherever you are,” I call out in a singing, mocking voice.
Nothing.
A beat of silence passes before I take aim with the gun at the ceiling, firing a round of shots. It hits the old lightbulb, making the glass shatter into a million small pieces, falling all over my hoodie and down to my feet.
My feet start carrying me toward the corner where I spotted movement, and my vision clears as soon as I’m closer. If I reached out with my hand, I’d be able to touch him.
“I got you, Paul. And you’re not running away now.”