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The man drops to his knees, then out of sight.
“What the fuck?” I whisper into my palms.
Hands still over my mouth, I turn my head and see another man, a new man, walking up the aisle of the bus from the open rear door.
He’s large. Tall, with broad shoulders wrapped in a black long-sleeved shirt.
His face is covered in a black knit ski mask that makes him look sinister, but the thick material does nothing to hide his defined jawline.
In a blur, one of his hands whips forward, and something flies from it.
There are more shouts. More cries of fear. But I can’t focus on anyone else. And I can’t look away from the new man. Because peeking out around the bottom of his mask is hair. Long dark blond hair.
Still striding forward, the man nears where I’m sitting. And when he reaches me, when he passes my seat, he turns his head my way.
Just for a heartbeat.
A split second.
But our eyes connect.
My stunned ones to his intensely dark ones.
My heart skips.
“Hans?” I gasp the name against my fingers.
But the man doesn’t stop.
He doesn’t acknowledge me. He just keeps moving.
My head turns to follow him.
Something inside me urges me to go after him. To be near him. But…
It can’t be him.
Can it?
I hadn’t noticed the gloves on his hands until he puts them on the back of two seats, one on each side of the aisle, and swings himself forward.
I stand, needing to see.
The masked man swung over the man on the floor with the knife in his eye.
I’m not great with anatomy, but the man is on his stomach, and blood is pooling around his face.
I don’t think he’s gonna make it.
There’s a grunt, and I snap my eyes back up.
The second man, who was dragging the driver out of the seat, is pulling a knife out of his neck.
The ski-mask man, our hero, who might be my mother-freaking neighbor, must’ve thrown that knife too.
Second Man presses his free hand over the bleeding wound in his neck, then he lunges, knife first, toward Ski Mask.
This time, I’m the one who screams.
