Page 4 of Run, Little Thief

Immediately, my eyes dart around the coach. There’s a couple sitting at the back of the bus near me, an old lady with an enormous bag knitting two rows in front of me, and some dude with giant headphones drowning out everything around him in sound. None of them pay me any interest. None of them sense Death might have boarded the bus with me.

I’m safe.

At least for now, as I watch London’s luminous skyline disappear until the darkness swallows it up.

I suck in a deep breath, forcing my rapid heartbeat to slow down. I need to think.

Though I took off unprepared, now’s the time to plan my next steps.

First, I’ve got to hide. I have to disappear, to be completely off-grid, and then I can think about what’s next. And how to deliver the data to my customer without getting slaughtered by the Mafia.

I sigh. Well, the only good thing about all this is that at least it’s not the police or the MI5 chasing after me, what with them having access to CCTV, my bank accounts, my phone, and everything else. They’d be able to watch every step I take.

But having the Mafia breathing down my neck instead? Los Castillos? They’re hardly a better substitute. Even if I make it out of London unseen and find a place to hide, the Reaper won’t just handcuff me and put me in prison to await my trial. Oh no, no, no. He’ll murder me in the most brutal way.

Until then, I’ll be left wondering if he’ll kill me fast or painfully slow.

But the sad part about this—besides losing my life, obviously?

No one will miss me. Well, no one besides my cat.

I’m a ghost. A thief. A shadow. I have no friends—not real ones anyway—and no family.

Maybe Trace, the hacker who hired me for this job, will miss me, but I’m pretty sure he’ll mourn the files he didn’t get more than my untimely death. There are plenty of thieves out there who’d love to get their hands dirty for the right amount of cash, though not everyone can do what I do. I’m in the higher price range, stealing stuff others deem impossible. Like data files from Los Castillos.

No one in their right mind would willingly go head-to-head with the Mafia clans in this city. At least not without the protection of another syndicate.

I’ve never had that. I work as a freelancer, with all the risks, and without any kind of protection from any of the families. No one will get me out of this mess I got myself into, and no one will shed a tear if I die.

Through the window, I watch as we drive deeper into rural areas, until the coach stops on the side of the road somewhere between London and Manchester. It’s not my final destination, but I stand up anyway. Better to throw off any pursuer who might have seen me get on the bus.

“Are you sure you want to exit here, Miss?” the grandfatherly bus driver asks.

It’s pitch-black outside, and I’m the only person getting off. The’s only one car behind us, and it slows down as I step out.

My pulse quickens, and my stomach tightens. I wait a moment for the car to pass, then I take a deep breath. “Yes, I’m sure. Cheers!”

I watch the bus drive off, its taillights disappearing on the next turn, leaving me alone in the middle of nowhere. Even though I can’t see a single soul, it feels like I’m being watched.

Goose bumps erupt on my skin, and I clutch my bag tighter.

The moon lights my way as I follow the narrow road along, no houses, no people, only the sounds of sheep and cows in the distance. Wind bites at my skin, but it’s not raining anymore. At least my clothes are dry after the drive. Still, the cold creeps in anyway, and soon I start to shiver.

My phone is still turned off, and I’m too afraid to use it. No way am I stupid enough to reveal my location by turning it on now. Without a watch and a phone, though, I have no idea how long I’ve been on the run. All I know is, it’s still dark when a small building appears out of nowhere on the side of the road.

Greyish sandstone walls. Narrow windows, completely dark. A reddish-looking roof with a tall spire. And an old graveyard right next to it.

A church.

A bitter laugh bubbles up in the back of my throat, cynical and slightly panicked, but I hold it back. Of course the first building I stumble upon on my run from the Devil is a church. I can almost hear my religious mother cackling from her grave.

I might go to hell for what I do for a living, but at least the universe has a sense of humor.

My feet hurt, my throat is dry, and I’m so fucking tired, but this isn’t the place for me to seek refuge. Definitely not.

Except . . . when I walk past it, I hear a sound. Low at first, almost imperceptible, but then it gets clearer. A car’s approaching. Without headlights, and too slow even for this kind of road.

“Bloody hell!”