Page 49 of Not This Soon

For a miracle.

The muggers laughed, harsh barks that echoed off the concrete. The tall one prodded Father's chest with a bony finger. "Nothing gonna help you now, old timer."

Father kept his eyes shut tight. Kept praying under his breath. The snake's scales dug into his skin, sharp pinpricks of pain.

Sirens wailed in the distance. Drawing closer.

The short mugger glanced over his shoulder. "Cops," he grunted.

His partner snorted. "Lot of good it'll do this sorry bastard. By the time they get here, we'll be long gone."

"And he'll be dead in a ditch." The short one grinned, all yellow teeth and malice.

Father's prayers grew more fervent. Pleading. Begging. The sirens grew louder, shrieking through the night.

"Hurry up," the tall mugger snapped. "I ain't trying to get pinched over this pathetic piece of shit."

The short one nodded. Pulled a knife from his pocket. The blade glinted dully in the moonlight.

Father's heart seized. His prayers dissolved into desperate gasps.

The mugger pressed the knife to Father's throat. The edge bit into his skin, cold and sharp. A thin line of blood welled, trickled down his neck.

The sirens reached a crescendo. Red and blue lights strobed across the bridge, painting everything in jerky stop-motion.

Father's eyes snapped open. He stared at the muggers, gaze steady and clear. The fear was gone, replaced by something else. Something dark and deep and dangerous.

Father spoke softly. His voice was calm. Eerily so. "I'm not the one who needs saving."

The muggers blinked. Hesitated. They glanced at each other, confusion flickering across their faces.

Father smiled. A slow, creeping thing that didn't reach his eyes. His hand dipped into his pocket, moved by some unseen force.

He remembered.

Rememberedallof it.

Men like this was why he did what he did. The evil they brought to the world was felt. His own parents… missionaries who'd given upeverything.And then the cartel had shown up ontheir doorstep. He could picture the images like it was yesterday; the trauma was seared into his brain.

His mother's soft face, always filled with kindness, frozen in fear. His father's once vibrant eyes, dimmed by dread. The shrill laughter of the cartel members as they ransacked their humble home. The smell of gunpowder and burning wood filled the air. The harsh feel of the ropes that tied his hands as they forced him to watch. How their bodies fell heavily to the floor, lifeless, after the deafening roar of gunfire faded.

It was a carnage he could never forget, an image seared into his memory, forever haunting him. It was the day innocence was stolen away from him.

His mind snapped back to the present reality - the two muggers, their faces masked in confusion and uncertainty. He clutched tighter onto the knife hidden in his pocket, its presence a cold comfort. His prayers now took on a different fervor.

Father's eyes locked onto the muggers, unwavering. Hollow. Devoid of light. His downturned mouth twitched. His brow furrowed, casting shadows across his bruised face.

The muggers shifted uneasily. Gripped their weapons tighter. Knuckles whitened. Jaws clenched.

"The hell you on about, preacher man?" The tall one's voice wavered. Doubt crept in.

Father breathed deep. Exhaled slow. "I am the one being hunted."

Silence stretched. Taut. Suffocating. The muggers' eyes widened. Darted side to side.

"Hunted? By who?" The short one licked his lips. Adjusted his stance.

Father's shoulders slumped. His head bowed, chin to chest. "By God."

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