The letter my brother had written me burned in my jacket pocket as I walked down the deserted street toward the phone booth. Every step felt heavier, like the weight of his words was growing unbearable. I didn't dare use my cellphone. The fear that it might be tapped gnawed at me. On the way, I'd tossed it into an abandoned alley, hoping to slow anyone who might be tracking me.
The cold air bit at my cheeks as I approached the booth. It was one of those old, grimy ones with scratched glass and a faint smell of mildew. I pulled the door open, the screech of rusted hinges loud in the stillness of the night. Fishing a few coins from my pocket, I hesitated for a moment before dialing the number scribbled at the bottom of the letter.
The phone rang. Once, twice, a third time. My pulse pounded in my ears as I counted the seconds. It kept ringing, the shrill tone stretching my nerves tighter with each repetition. Just as I thought the call might go to voicemail or a dead line, there was a click.
"Who the fuck is this?" a rough voice barked on the other end.
I swallowed hard, my throat suddenly dry. "I-"
"If this is some kind of prank-"
"No!" I blurted, cutting him off. "I need your help. My brother-he wrote that you-"
There was a scuffle on the other end, followed by muffled shouts and a loud crash. My heart leapt into my throat.
"Look," the man growled, his voice sharp and unwavering. "Whoever you are, I can't help you. Your brother lied to you. I can't help you."
The line went dead.
For a moment, I just stood there, the receiver still pressed to my ear. The cold from the metal seeped into my skin, grounding me as my mind reeled.
He can't help me.
I hung up the phone and leaned against the booth's grimy wall, letting out a long, shaky breath. Running a hand over my face, I tried to steady myself, but it didn't help. Stress and worry rippled through me, making my chest feel tight.
They were going to find me.
And when they did, they'd kill me.
No. They wouldn't just kill me-they'd make me suffer first. They'd want revenge for what happened to Lorenzo.
The thought sent a shiver down my spine. I felt the sting of unshed tears pricking my eyes as I stepped out of the booth and started walking. I didn't know where I was going. I just needed to move.
The streets were eerily quiet, lit only by the dim, flickering glow of streetlights. My footsteps echoed faintly as I made my way down the cracked sidewalk, head down, trying to blend into the shadows.
Then I heard it.
The low rumble of an engine.
A car.
I glanced over my shoulder and saw headlights in the distance. The vehicle was moving slowly, too slowly to be innocent. My heart began to race as the car crept closer, its engine a menacing purr.
I quickened my pace, my shoes scuffing against the pavement. The car matched my speed, inching closer. Panic clawed at my chest as I realized it was following me.
Don't run. Don't panic.
But my body didn't listen.
Adrenaline surged through me as I broke into a sprint. My breathing came in ragged gasps as I darted down the street, weaving between parked cars and dark alleys. The car's engine roared behind me as it sped up, tires screeching against the asphalt.
Then came the first gunshot.
The sound shattered the night like glass, sending a jolt of terror through me. I ran faster, my legs burning with effort. Another shot rang out, then another.
Panic clouded my mind as I searched for an escape, my eyes darting frantically for cover.
Then I felt it-a sharp, searing pain in my shoulder.
I stumbled, nearly falling, as the pain spread like wildfire. My hand flew to the wound, warm blood seeping through my fingers.
I've been shot.
The realization hit me like a freight train, but I didn't stop. I couldn't stop.
Somehow, I forced myself to keep moving, my vision blurring as the pain and adrenaline coursed through me. I turned a corner, ducking into a narrow alleyway, and pressed myself against the cold brick wall.
The car screeched to a halt at the mouth of the alley.
I held my breath, every muscle in my body tensed as I listened. Doors slammed, and heavy footsteps echoed down the alley.
They were coming for me.
The wound throbbed with each beat of my racing heart, but I bit down on the pain, forcing myself to think. My eyes scanned the alley, searching for anything-anything-that could help me.
A fire escape.
It was rusty and rickety, but it was my only chance.
I gritted my teeth and pushed off the wall, using my good arm to grab the ladder. It groaned under my weight as I hauled myself up, my injured shoulder screaming in protest.
The footsteps grew louder, closer.
I climbed faster, my bloodied hand slipping on the cold metal rungs. By the time I reached the first landing, they were in the alley below.
"There!" one of them shouted.
A bullet ricocheted off the metal railing, inches from my hand. I ducked and kept climbing, my breath coming in harsh gasps. The pain was unbearable, but I couldn't stop.
By the time I reached the rooftop, I was barely holding it together. My shoulder was a mess of blood and agony, and my legs felt like they might give out at any moment.
I staggered to the edge of the roof, looking out over the city. The streets stretched out below me, a maze of lights and shadows.
The men were still below, shouting to each other, their voices echoing up through the night. I didn't have much time.
Clutching my shoulder, I stumbled toward the opposite side of the roof. My mind raced, trying to come up with a plan.
This wasn't supposed to happen.
The letter. The letter had said this man would help me. That he was my only hope. But he had shut me out, and now I was alone, hunted, and bleeding out on a rooftop.
I sank to my knees, the weight of it all crashing down on me. The fear, the pain, the hopelessness-it was too much.
But then I thought of my brother.
He had wrote me that letter for a reason. He had believed this man could help me.
And if my brother had believed, then maybe I should too.
With a shaky breath, I pulled the letter from my pocket, blood smudging the edges. I unfolded it, my fingers trembling, and read the words again.
"Trust him."
It wasn't much, but it was all I had.
I clenched the letter in my hand and forced myself to stand. If I was going to survive this, I had to keep moving.
Because they weren't going to stop.
And neither could I.