Page 7 of Festive Fugitive
He isn’t looking sure at all, but does get up. He’s not letting go of his own sandwich though, as if he’s holding it for emotional support. It is a good sandwich, I have to give the food truck owner that. But when I glance at the vendor, I spot him with a phone, glancing our way, then once again disappearing from view.
“Where do we—” Eli starts, but then two cop cars arrive and park nearby without a siren.
They want to seem casual to not spook us, but I’ve no doubt they’re here for Eli.
They’re not getting him.
Chapter 4
Eli
I’mfucked.Sofucked.
And yet, this stranger who appears to have a grudge against Sullivan makes me feel likemaybesomething will work out. He oozes confidence in a way that makes me hand over the reins.
He’s wearing a black jacket, a thick cowl, combat boots, and he moves like a wolf stalking its prey. His dark hair is slicked back, and when he stands up, shielding me from view, I feel as if the Punisher himself has just become my personal bodyguard.
I’m about to get up and make an exit that doesn’t look like fleeing, but he puts a hand on my shoulder. Gently but firmly, he keeps me in place. As if he has a plan.
He told me I should trust him, and while I don’t even know his name, I do. Itrusthim.
For a big chunk of my life I had only myself to count on, so I’m used to being the one who makes all the decisions. Him taking over gives me anxiety, but I let him because he seems to know what he’s doing, and I don’t.
“Keep your face hidden. I’ll handle this,” the man says, then walks toward the twin vehicles at a pace that can only be called leisurely. Here I am, stiff like a deer in the headlights, and he approaches the cops as if he used to attend the same police academy as them.
“Good evening, officers! This place makes the most amazing sandwiches, doesn’t it?” he asks as if this were a fair, not a manhunt.
“Step aside. Now,” the cop says, and with no further warning, he pulls out a gun, prompting his buddies to do the same.
My heart sinks, and I can’t help but stare back at them, glued to the bench.
Is this how I die? Or will they accept a surrender?
And why did I believe a stranger with confidence in his step would be enough to shield me?
“You should duck,” the handsome stranger says. He might be addressing the cops, who seem as baffled as I am, but my body follows the command given in a gravelly voice. A part of me expects pain when a gunshot tears through the air, but it comes with a delay when I take a sudden step back to hide behind the outdoor heater. My foot slips into a hole, my ankle twists under the weight of my body, and a spasm travels up my leg.
I can’t stifle a shriek, but the shouting coming from the direction of the cop cars drowns it out. Bullets fly, hitting the truck and even the ground dangerously close to my location, so I keep still despite the agonizing sensation in my ankle. I’d rather be caught than bleed out within the next five minutes. All I can hear is my own heartbeat, andthe shriek of a man, followed by a loudthud. Then, the same voice that instructed me to hide.
“Show yourself. I know you’re back there.”
My eyes go wide. What the fuck is happening there that my new protector is still standing? I take a peek from behind the heater, and the scene makes no sense. One of the cops is on the ground, and the other two are cuffed to their car, not making a peep. They’re a bit farther from the festive lights above us, so I can’t see it all well. Should I… pull out my gun?
“Stay the fuck back!” a man yells from behind the other cop car, so I’m guessing it’s the last policeman.
What. The. Fuck?
This is some action movie shit. This does not happen in real life.
But when the radio crackles, and the cop makes an attempt to communicate with someone, my wolf dashes forward and slams his arm down, making everything go quiet.
People are watching us from windows, their focus on the man who’s decided to help me for unknown reasons. Despite this being the perfect opportunity to flee, I find myself paralyzed.
Not only because I’m completely out of my comfort zone, but also because he told me to duck. Defying that order now feels like a life and death decision. And how would I even run with my ankle throbbing with more pain by the second?
When this angel of destruction turns back to me and walks with a purpose, I know I won’t be moving until he tells me to.
I hear the cocking of a gun right behind me, and for a second, I consider pulling out my own weapon, but it’stoo late. The guy from the food truck decided to be the hero and points his gun at me.
