1. A Chance Collision #2
He snatches the bill from me, pockets it, and then, muttering under his breath in his native language, guns the engine again.
We squeal into oncoming traffic, garnering a chorus of honks, squealing tires, and shouted curses from angry, impatient New Yorkers.
My driver curses in a complicated mix of what sounds like half a dozen languages or dialects, jerking the wheel this way and that to dodge cars as he weaves diagonally across the thoroughfare toward the far-left corner.
I glance behind, hand on the door handle—here comes a bus.
The Suburban is trapped momentarily by a cluster of stopped cars left in the wake of our reckless bolt across the intersection.
The bus halts behind us as the driver brakes in the fire lane.
"You get out, crazy man," the driver says. "I keep the money."
"Good. If that black SUV keeps following you, take them on a ride."
He doesn't answer, not that I expected him to.
As the bus rumbles behind us, blocking us from sight, I slip out of the car and duck behind a parked UPS vehicle with its flashers blinking.
The taxi takes off, followed by the bus.
It's a pretty shitty hiding spot, but it's all I've got at the moment.
I see the Suburban slide past. I'm about to breathe a sigh of relief when the SUV's brake lights flick on as the vehicle angles toward the curb.
The rear doors fly open, and four men emerge, two from each side.
They're dressed in worn blue jeans, solid-color T-shirts, and black body armor.
They're carrying fully-automatic subcompact short-barrel assault rifles.
And they see me.
I hear shouts, but I'm already sprinting. I cross the street, back the way I came, and cut through an alley to the next numbered street. I bump into an old man, sending him bowling into a cluster of passersby. Knock a caricature artist aside, pencils, sketchbook, and easel scattering.
Damn this arrogance of mine. I assumed my wealth and secrecy would protect me. I assumed even Pugli couldn't find me—I am dead, after all.
I assumed a lot of things that have turned out to be incorrect. And now I'm on the run myself, after years of helping my Arrows escape their pasts.
The other facet of my arrogance that has hamstrung me is my refusal to ask for help. I know Sol and the boys would come for me in a heartbeat if I asked. But they've just been through too much. I can't ask them to risk their lives again…for me.
I know, that sounds like I'm being nice. But really, it's just that I've invested way too much into those men to risk it all falling apart, now. Pugli wants me—and Lash. The others were just collateral damage.
My heart is pounding, and sweat pours down my face, making my shirt stick to my back. The next several minutes are a blur as I push through my exhaustion, dodging and weaving and ducking and sprinting block after block, turning at random, cutting down alleys.
My pursuers are relentless. And younger than me, fitter, stronger, faster.
Catching up.
I slam into a brick wall and stumble into an alley. I reach the far end when I hear the CRACK-CRACK-CRACK of an automatic, and brick dust showers me as the rounds chew up the wall just behind me.
I round the corner, slippery-soled Italian leather dress shoes skidding on the sidewalk. Trip over a stroller pushed by a pregnant woman, crash into a businessman with a cell phone in each hand.
Curses follow me as I stumble into a run yet again; this is untenable.
I'm not fit enough to lose them. At some point, they're going to catch up with me.
And knowing the sorts of men Pugli hires, they won't be overly worried about collateral damage.
If innocent bystanders are hurt or killed, none of them will care.
Left here, right there. Cut through another alley. I don't know where I am, nor do I have a destination in mind. If I'm being honest with myself, I'm running on blind panic.
I don't want to die.
I'm no weakling; I'm no pacifist. I've hurt people. Shit, I've even killed people before. But gunfights? No. I know myself, I know my strengths, and I know my limitations, and I will absolutely lose a gunfight with four highly-trained operators.
That's the irony of the whole situation. I've spent the last decade seeking redemption for my past sins by rehabilitating people who've fallen through the cracks. Any of those men—and Scarlett and Inez—could handle this situation with ease.
And I'm too damned stubborn and proud to ask for their help.
I'm flagging, now. My legs burn, my lungs are on fire, and I'm dripping sweat.
I've come I don't know how many blocks, and I can only be grateful that the one time I can ever quiet my mind is on the treadmill, slogging out mile after mile.
Lifting is for stress management, to exorcise the anger that has been a constant companion and demon on my shoulder. Running? Running is meditation.
I just don't usually do it in loafers and a bespoke suit, through the crowded streets of Manhattan, for my life.
I recognize a few things as they flash past in a blur—a cafe here, a specific bodega there, and then I'm wading through the infinite crush of humanity thronging Times Square, knocking over a short, skinny person in a terribly ill-fitting Spiderman costume and then rebounding off of a six-foot-tall topless woman clad in nothing but a top hat, steampunk goggles, a bikini bottom, and glitter.
I can't go much farther at this pace.
I glance behind me as I leave Times Square behind, hoping I've lost them in the chaos.
No such luck.
They're closer than ever, if anything. Even more problematically, they seem barely winded, as if they can keep this up all day.
I think it's time to think beyond outrunning them, then, since that's clearly not going to happen.
I bolt across the road abruptly, earning blaring horns and squealing tires; I react instinctively as a blaring horn and flashing brights bear down on me too fast, leaping and doing a Starsky and Hutch-worthy slide across the hood.
I hear my pursuers shout in startled irritation, more horns blaring, more angry New Yorkers cursing as they follow me across four lanes of traffic.
And then I hear it again: the unmistakable crackling chatter of automatic gunfire.
Something whizzes past my ear, and then a horde of furious wasps buzzes over my head.
I slam into a parked car, setting off the alarm.
Caroming back onto the sidewalk, I hear the guns go again, rattling and cracking.
Glass shatters, people scream. I glance over my shoulder to see that stray shots have shattered a restaurant's windows, scattering patrons and sending them running in hunched, screaming clusters.
My blood boils—who does that? Who fires blindly across a crowded street? I suppose it's illogical to assume that someone willing to kill someone else for money would have ethics, but still.
I round another corner, shoes skidding. Shouts and screams echo behind me. I'm a block or so away from the busier thoroughfare, now. The sidewalk, while not empty, isn't clogged with tourists, and the road is still crowded with cars but not at a standstill.
I glance behind me, still sprinting.
Nothing. Maybe shooting at me like that wasn't such a great idea, huh? Assholes.
I look forward again, and that's when I see her.
Time stops.
I desperately attempt to halt myself before I crash into her—the process of stopping seems to take a million years. I feel her soft body slam into mine as I crash into her, send her flying. I manage to snag her wrist in a desperate attempt to prevent her from hitting the ground.
I yank her hard and she lands against my chest.
Her scent is the first thing I notice. Vanilla base, a hint of floral overtones, and citrus undertones.
God, it's an intoxicating scent. And then I notice her eyes—hazel, technically, but I’ve never seen eyes like hers before: she has a ring of startling blue around the outside and a ring of brown-green on the inside surrounding her pupils.
It's a shocking effect, freezing me in place for a moment.
I hear my pursuers closing in, booted feet slapping on concrete, snapping at each other in accented English—more of Pugli's seemingly endless supply of hired goons, albeit these goons are all former spec ops, I think.
I lift the woman, pivot, and walk her backward until she catches up against the brick wall of the alley.
"Play along," I growl, hoping they'll think we're just a couple of lovers stealing kisses in an alley.
Her back is bare—I steal a glance at her, really seeing her for the first time.
Somewhere around 5'9", she has more curves than a Formula One track—something I should know about, as I used to own an F1 team, before I died.
She's wearing a dress that is little more than a sheath of silver sequins contoured to the stunning lines of her lush body.
The hem hits at mid-thigh, cups her plump, round ass, tucks in at her waist, and plunges down between the biggest natural breasts I've ever seen in person.
I say natural because nothing silicone moves the way those monsters do—jiggling like Jell-O in an earthquake with each startled breath.
Fuck me.
My stomach falls out of my body, my heart twists into a pretzel, and my mouth goes dry.
I must have this woman.
It's the first thing I think, once I regain some semblance of mental clarity—the shock of her eyes and then the breathtaking curves of her incredible body rendered me briefly insensible.
"HE'S GOT TO BE AROUND HERE SOMEWHERE!" I hear a rough voice say, faint, distant.
The woman shivers—I doubt she's even aware of it. I shuck my jacket and settle it over her shoulders.
"OVER HERE!" A voice shouts nearby.
A tendril of honey-blond hair drifts across her face, sticks to her lips. She's stunned, still, and scared. "What's going on?" It's a confused breath, and I'm not sure she's aware she spoke.
"You're saving my life, that's what."
Her mouth opens, pink lips parting. "Saving your—”
I wasn't planning on any of this. Certainly not being chased across Manhattan by gun-wielding assholes, let alone literally running into a gorgeous woman.
With stunning technicolor eyes…
Hair like a summer sun…
The body of a goddess, the curves of a siren…
When I woke up this morning, my only concern was getting a bead on Pugli's last known location.
Now?
For a split second, the whole world fades into the background as she gazes up at me with shock and anger and confusion and fear…and arousal, attraction…
Her lips are soft and plump and pink, open to speak, glistening where her tongue slid along them…
She tastes like red wine. For a microsecond, she's frozen.
But then her lips soften against mine, the tension in her body ebbs, and she presses her breasts against my chest and her hips against mine, soft thick thighs sliding against mine.
I slide my hand over the bare warm expanse of her exposed back and find the swell of her ass, dig my fingers in; I caress her cheekbone, taste her breath, and never in my life have I felt such an intense reaction to a mere kiss.
Not even when I kissed her for the first time did I react like this.
With an immediate erection, yes.
But with a mindless ravaging desperation—not to possess, not to own…but to worship.
It's insane.
It's immediate and wild and gutting.
A single kiss, a momentary touch of lips, a brief press of her curves against me, and I'm destroyed.
I feel the blitz of a light on our faces.
"Do you fucking mind?” the woman snaps, and either she's a world-class actress…or she’s not faking the annoyance at having our kiss interrupted.
I'm not thrilled either, but then, I know who these men are and what they want.
Which is when my heart sinks down to my toes—they've seen her face. And Roberto Pugli doesn't take any chances. Anyone who could even possibly identify anyone even remotely connected to him is eliminated. Quickly and brutally.
And these men have seen her face.