Chapter 4 - The Hunted
The alleyway was slick with rain and filled with shadows. As we descended the iron steps of the fire escape, a door slammed shut at the front of the building. Heavy, synchronized footsteps echoed from inside the warehouse. They were professional, efficient, and quiet.
"This way," Marcus hissed, guiding us down a narrow corridor between two brick buildings.
We moved through the labyrinthine streets of the North End, using the historic, narrow alleyways to our advantage. The rain was our only cover, blurring our silhouettes against the distant streetlights. My lungs burned, and Linda was limping, her ankle twisted from our frantic escape down the stairs.
"I can't... Emily, I can't keep up," Linda panted, leaning heavily against a brick wall. Her face was drenched in sweat and rain, her breathing shallow. "Leave me. They want the drive, and they want me dead to keep me quiet. You and Marcus can get away."
"I am not leaving you," I said fiercely, grabbing her under the arm to support her weight. "For twelve years you protected me by letting me hate you. I am not letting him win now. We are fixing this together."
Linda looked at me, a profound sense of relief and sorrow in her eyes, and nodded.
Marcus peered around the corner of a main thoroughfare. "There’s a subway station two blocks away. If we can get onto a train, we can lose them in the underground transit system and head toward the federal courthouse downtown."
We moved as fast as Linda’s injury would allow. But as we approached the entrance of the subway station, a black SUV pulled up onto the curb, blocking our path. The doors flew open, and three men in tactical gear stepped out.
"Back! Back!" Marcus shouted, shoving us behind a row of heavy metal trash bins.
A silenced gunshot chipped the brickwork right above my head, showering us with red dust. They weren't trying to capture us anymore. Richard had given the order to terminate the problem entirely.
"Inside the restaurant!" Marcus pointed to a small, closed Italian eatery across the narrow street. He threw his weight against the glass service door, shattering the lock.
We scrambled inside, the alarms blaring instantly, a piercing wail that filled the dark dining room. We rushed through the kitchen, knocking over racks of pots and pans to create an obstacle course for our pursuers.
We exited out the back of the restaurant into a crowded commercial shipping dock. Fortune finally favored us; a large waste management truck was slowly backing into the bay, its loud engine compressing trash.
"In there!" Marcus pointed to a delivery van that had its rear doors open, the driver currently inside the building signing a manifest.
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We dove into the back of the van, hiding behind pallets of wholesale flour and canned goods. Seconds later, through the gaps in the door, I saw the tactical men sprint past, their weapons raised, searching the dark docks.
The driver returned to the van, slammed the doors shut, and drove off, completely unaware that he was carrying three fugitives away from a hot zone.
