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These thugs hold another, smaller man—Lorenzo—against the brick wall. Towering over him. Intimidating.Bullies. But when one slams a fist into his gut, I jump in stunned shock when the smaller man cries out in pain.
I was detached. Observing, but not involved.
It was a movie playing out, not an actual flesh and blood man being beat up.
For money?
“Mr. Vallejo,” he cries. Chokes. He retches over the pain and sickness swirling in his body. “I-I swear, I’m getting it to you soon. But this is hard turf to work. A man needs to be delicate with who he discusses business with. Because if I speak to the wrong—”
He heaves when another fist slams into his gut and renders him speechless.
“I said…”Mr. Vallejoisn’t the largest man of the group. But he’s tall. Broad. And protected, as the others surround him to keep him safe. But he’s not the one hitting. He doesn’t seem inclined to dirty his hands when his men could do it for him. “You owe me a hundred thousand dollars, Lorenzo. I’ve been generous in the past. But you’re disrespecting me now. Do you think this is a joke?”
“No.” Lorenzo’s head snaps to the side when one of the jerks punches him in the face. Blood spurts from his mouth and lands on the sidewalk, right where pedestrians will step, if only they looked down.
Music thuds from the bar nearby. The flickering neon light illuminating the sidewalk. But it’s still a block away. Too far for anyone in there to come out and discover what I’m witnessing.
“I don’t mean to disrespect you,” Lorenzo cries, wiping his mouth with the sleeve of his jacket. “I just need a little more time.”
“You’ve had time.” Another fist swings out and slams Lorenzo’s head against the brick wall. It hits with a thump that makes my stomach roll and knees knock.
“Hey!” My voice shakes. Bravery wages war with self-preservation, and my hands tremble until I lose my sandwich and almost drop my cane. But as three—four?—men turn to find me across the street, I straighten my spine and work to channel my mother’s courageousness. “You need to leave him alone!” I steel my voice and pretend my stomach isn’t turning to liquid. “That’s assault.”
“Assault?” The snake-like, slithering, sickening tone ofMr. Vallejo’sgruff voice makes my stomach jump as he turns from Lorenzo and reveals the sparkle of steel in his hand.
My stomach heaves as my brain locks on and screamsGun. GUN!
“Marcos.”
Just one word. A name. And Marcos raises his own weapon, sets it against Lorenzo’s forehead, and pulls the trigger.
The explosion makes me jump.
The shock makes me drop my cane.
But when he says, “Gavin,” and another of his men turns my way and raises a gun, common sense finally catches up with reality, and I swirl away from the wall and sprint. My leg burns as I run, and my heart thunders in my chest. Tears sizzle in my eyes, blinding me as I dash through a faceless crowd, and though I should duck inside the bar and find help, I keep going.
Footsteps pound behind me. Gavin, chasing me down. But I duck through an alleyway and keep going.
Panic and adrenaline make it difficult for my brain to catch up. And at the same time, make it possible for me to run on a still-healing femur break.
“Hey!” Gavin’s booming voice is like a gunshot against my back, but when a real, actual fucking bullet soars past my ear and embeds itself in the wall of the alleyway, I dash through the next available door and find myself sprinting through a little restaurant filled with people and scents and noise and too, too much.
“Someone call the cops!” I knock plates to the floor in my haste. I bump tables and annoy diners. I earn scowls and crash against the next door in my hurry. “Please!” I cry out in desperation. “Someone call the police.”
The glass door at my back shatters as a bullet zings through. Yelping, I turn and grab the door handle and flee for my life.
I saw a murder.
I witnessed someone die.
And now those people want me to die, too.
“Oh god.” I dash back onto the sidewalk of the same street I began on, but when a bus pulls up half a block down, I make a break for it, my leg screaming in pain, and my eyes burning from tears. I duck through traffic and cry out when the corner of a car clips my good leg. I trip and hit the asphalt with a slam, skinning my palms and heaving for oxygen. But I jump up again and run for the bus as the doors begin closing.
I bash my bleeding fist against the windows and jam my body through the doors just four inches before they close. My chest pounds and my lungs grow and shrink in search of fresh air. I duck low, sit on the filthy floor, and straighten my pounding leg so it becomes a tripping hazard for anyone who tries to pass. Squeezing my eyes shut, I chantplease drive.Please drive. Please drive.
I’m not on my usual bus. Not my usual route. Not my usual driver.
