Page 100 of Gilded Saint

“Everyone has a breaking point.”

He’s saying they would torture me, and I’d break. Maybe he’s right. They could bring Orlando, or my parents, or Scarlet before me, and I don’t know what I would choose. Would I hold his secret or let them hurt someone I love? Would they do that for a name? No, they’d do it because they thought I knew more, which means they will do it if they catch me, period.

We pass the tenth floor.

“What’s the plan? Will I be on the run forever?”

He doesn’t answer, or if he does, I don’t hear him. Maybe he perceived my question as rhetorical, but… “Why don’t you take me with you?”

“I won’t do that to you.”

That’s my opening. When we get in the car, I’ll discuss it with him. Break his steadfast resolve. When I’m not out of breath and he’s set down his gun. Whatever he thinks he’d be doing to me, I can handle it. I want to handle it.

He slows when we pass the second floor and flattens his body against the wall, the hand with the gun held high. We pass the lobby floor slowly, then quickly descend two more floors to the garage.

“They’re going to recognize your car,” I say, remembering the false plate he stuffed in my duffel. Both duffels hang off his left shoulder.

“Which is why we’re going to steal one. Ideally one with tinted windows. Ready to go car shopping?”

“You’re in a shopping mood today, aren’t you?”

He glances back at me and lifts a finger to his lips. He pushes open the door. It opens directly into the garage, bypassing the elevator well.

A distant engine rumble floats through the garage. The faint scent of exhaust permeates the space. He checks his mobile, and a grin flashes.

“This way.”

He takes me straight to a black Land Rover with tinted windows. He tosses our duffels in the back seat.

“Get in,” he says. “Back seat. Lie down on the floor.”

When he comes around to the driver’s side, I do a double-take. He’s wearing a baseball cap and a two-inch red beard. His hair’s not red, so anyone glancing at a car going by won’t suspect it’s him.

He drives the vehicle slowly through the garage. He slides sunglasses on as we exit the building and enter the drive. We slow, and I presume he’s waiting for the gate to open. Seconds pass.

The car proceeds slowly.

Minutes later, he says, “Okay. You can sit up. Put on that hat. Shades too.”

I push up, do as he says, and climb into the front seat.

“Now where to?” My real question is how much time I have to convince him to take me along. Because, somehow, I’m certain this means he’s leaving for good.

He doesn’t answer, which is annoying, but his grim countenance keeps me quiet. We turn, and he watches his rearview as much as the road.

Rain droplets splatter on the shield. The wipers clear them away.

He accelerates, weaving through cars.

“Fuck.”

With a growl, he floors the vehicle, and the sharp squeal of tires screeching pierces the air.

I reach for the seatbelt as he curses, “God dammit.”

The seatbelt clicks, and I bend, attempting to see behind us through the side view. Rain coats the glass.

“Sit back,” he barks.

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