Page 1 of The Delta's Rogue
My feet pound againstthe pavement, my combat boots as heavy as bricks at the end of my legs. They slow me down, but I fight through the tension and the burning in my muscles.
A fire scorches my lungs. It crawls up my chest, searing my throat with its intensity, but I don’t let up my pace as I race through the dark back alleys of this seedy city. The pungent, acrid scents of the dumpsters behind the buildings don’t help my breathlessness. They cling to my nostrils and coat the insides of my lungs until I’m close to gagging.
I push the urge down, though, gritting my teeth and continuing on my path. I put distance between myself and the club, winding through the city using the road less traveled. The alleys blur together. I can’t tell one from the next, the trail almost a hedge maze hidden behind the city.
The stars serve as my only guide, pointing me towards safety, and even they fade in and out of view as the lighting in the backstreets shifts. I scan the shadowed recesses of the alleys in my periphery as I run, checking the doorways and fire escapes of the dilapidated buildings for any signs of life.
There are none. Not even a stray cat yowling in heat or a rat searching for scraps in the trash.
Others may fear the isolation. They avoid places like this at all costs, preferring to exist in the safety of the bright and loud. But the absence of others doesn’t surprise or deter me.
I knew the risks of coming here alone. I took them anyway.
Sweat coats my body, dripping off the tip of my nose and coalescing in the small of my back. The late spring heat wave hints at the ultra-hot summer creeping up on us. The air is still, with no breeze to ease the stifling, pressing warmth. My leather jacket chafes on my armpits from my damp, sticky skin.
I keep my focus on the path ahead of me instead of glancing over my shoulders. I don’t need to check. I know they are following me.
Their eyes were on me as soon as I entered their club.
Another risk I took. Going there. Drinking. Dancing.
Risk taking seems to be a habit of mine. A habit that’s grown worse over the years but usually pays off, which is probably why I’ve continued to take those risks.
Through the city I sprint, keeping to the shadows, to the unsavory places. The bastards hunting me prefer them, thrive on them. But so do I. I’ve spent years living within these sinister locales, making myself one with them and learning their secrets. My expertise, my penchant for the dark and taboo, may give me the upper hand I need.
I take the next corner, my body angling with my speed, but I skid to a halt when I almost crash straight into a male.
Maldita sea, esto no es bueno.
My eyes widen as I stare at his imposing presence, taken aback by his height and build.
Definitely not good.
He grins venomously at me. A gold tooth in his mouth glints in the light of the lone streetlamp at the far end of the otherwise dark alley. “Well. Look what we have here,” he taunts, his lip curling. “A little rogue.”
“I’m not a rogue!” I growl at him, bristling at his intended insult.
I ignore the pang that name creates in my gut when spoken by this bastard. I ignore the gray eyes, the messy-on-purpose sandy brown hair, and the smug, cunning smile that flashes in my memories upon hearing it.
No.
I shove all that down and run in the opposite direction, heading back the way I came. But I misjudged the proximity of those pursuing me. That, or there were more lying in wait, like the male with the gold tooth. Lying in wait as they set a trap. A trappara mí.
They’ve mademe their target.
Two more males stalk towards me from the other end of the alley, from where I turned the corner only moments ago, both of them wearing grins matching the one of the male behind me. As they draw closer, Gold Tooth hums an off-key, haunting version of some child’s lullaby. The eerie tune is a bucket of ice water thrown over me, and I shudder, swallowing back the bile rising in my throat.
I dart forward and then fake to the left before springing towards the dumpster to my right. I haul myself on top of it and sprint across the lid, my footsteps echoing off the mostly empty interior of the large metal container, and I leap for the fire escape attached to the red brick building on my right. My hands grasp the bottom rung, and I swing forward, flipping in midair and landing on my feet at the end of the alley.
I don’t pause at all after I stick my dismount. I use the momentum from my flip to continue sprinting. Air enters my lungs through a straw in my throat, but I continue to ignore the strain from my prolonged marathon through the city. That’s not what’s important right now, not what my brain needs to focus on as I lead these males on a mad chase.
I take an immediate right into an alley that is a mirror image of the one I just exited, hoping to circle back around to the end of that one and make a break for the field on the other side of the chain-link fence. And once again, I find myself cornered.
Two additional burly henchmen—one with a crooked nose and the other with an eye patch, both cut from the same imposing cloth as the gold-toothed male—stand there, waiting for me. I hear the footsteps of the three males behind me, and I grit my teeth, weighing my options.
¡Mierda!
Shit. Shitshitshit.
