Page 6 of Tango
He grins, but the smile is dripping venom. “You’ll see, cupcake. Just enjoy the ride. You’ll be getting off at the next stop.”
I swallow hard. Lord, help me, I repeat again because I know I won’t survive without Him. The bus begins moving, and the drive to the next stop takes less than ten minutes. All the while, I’m urging someone—anyone—around me to notice what’s taking place. Would they even step in to save me if they knew? Most people in the world today would rather record an abduction than step in to stop one.
What a sad reality we live in.
“Get up,” he orders. “Bring the bag, but make any sudden movements and?—”
“You’ll make me regret it, yeah. I have a decent enough memory, thanks.”
“Good.” He urges me forward as we climb out of the bench seat. Doing what I can to keep my gaze focused on anything but the people around me, I keep walking forward—putting one foot in front of the other.
My mom always told me that, if someone grabbed me in a parking lot and told me to get into the vehicle, it would be better to fight there and get shot than end up in a car alone with them.
It’s a life tip I haven’t had to use until now, but I know that, if I get off this bus with him, then I’ll likely never see the light of day again. The problem is, if I bring too much attention to myself, the police will get involved, which means their contacts will let Web Safe know exactly where I am.
So my only choice is to either let him take me off of this bus and try to get away as quick as possible, or throw a fit right here and call his bluff on shooting me in a bus full of people.
I pass a woman cradling her baby, and that last option becomes a moot point. I won’t risk these people getting hurt…not even to save my own life. Outside of the bus, there will be fewer chances of innocents getting hurt. So, with my heart in my throat, I carefully move down the stairs and onto the relatively sparse sidewalk.
“Good girl. We’ve established that you can follow directions. Stand here, I’m making a call.” He reaches into his pocket, so I take the only chance I have. I swing out with the bag and slam it into his face.
He yells, but I’ve already started running. My black boots hammer the pavement as I sprint down the street and disappear into an alleyway. The man follows—right on my heels. He fires a single shot—it barely misses me. And then, I reach a chain-link fence. Without stopping, I jump up and grip it, trying to climb my way to safety like they do in the movies, but he grips my leg and rips me down.
With a heavy thud and what is probably now a concussion, I hit the pavement so hard it dazes me. Before I can even fully process what’s happening, he’s on me, one hand around my throat.
“I told you I was going to make it difficult if you didn’t listen, didn’t I?” he growls, looking even more menacing now that blood from the hit he took to his nose is dripping down into his mouth and staining his teeth.
His hand tightens around my throat. I fight against him, thrashing my body as much as his hold will allow, all while trying to find something—anything—to use as a weapon. And then, I see it—a chunk of old brick just out of reach.
I reach out for it, my fingertips barely brushing the surface as spots invade my vision.
I’m going to pass out—and then there’s no telling what will happen to me. I could wake up halfway around the world—or not wake up at all.
Come on. Please, not like this.
My hand closes around the brick, and I swing. It slams into the side of his head with such force that he topples to the side and goes still. Gasping for breath as I suck so much oxygen into my lungs that it makes me even more lightheaded, I jump to my feet, prepped for another fight. But it only takes me seconds to realize with stomach-churning certainty that it won’t come.
A piece of old rebar is protruding from his chest. He stares down at it in disbelief then looks up at me as though I did it on purpose. I rush forward, bile burning in my throat. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, I didn't mean to. Just hang on, I’ll get help.” Since the only thing I do know is that I shouldn't pull him off the bar, I reach into his pocket for the cell phone he’d had only minutes ago.
He says something, but it comes out as gibberish. Blood trails from the corner of his mouth.
“9-1-1, what’s your emergency?” the operator answers almost instantly.
“There’s a man. He was impaled on rebar. I think he’s dying.” My words are frantic, my tone just as panicked. “You have to send someone.”
“Okay, honey, calm down. What’s your name?”
“I—uh—there isn’t time. It’s an alley near the second stop of the three o’clock bus that runs out of the South Station. Please, he’s barely breathing.”
“Okay, I’ll send someone. But I need to know your name.”
I start to give it to her; then I realize that, if I do that, I’m giving Web Safe another reason to paint a bull’s-eye on my back. So, I hang up the phone. “They’re sending someone,” I tell him, but as soon as I’ve hung up the phone, I know it’s too late.
His eyes are frozen open.
His breathing, no more.
No. No. Tears burn in my eyes as the realization hits home: I killed a man.
