Episode One: The Horn: Scene 29

Running was clearly not a favorite word in Thea’s vocabulary. But when you’re outnumbered and outgunned?

You run. We made it to the motorcycle and peeled out. At this point all I had was the gun, the horn and my small bag…which did at least have a change of underwear in it. I’d worry about that later. Or she would. Hopefully they wouldn’t put an APB out on us. Heck, they’d try to put me in witness protection or something.

For what that was worth. It had only taken them six months to track me down, and whatever I’d repressed, whatever was in those lost memories was connected. If I moved and changed my name again, it would take them less time, I was sure.

I had to stop them. That was what it boiled down to. I had to stop them. Maybe I would have to kill some people before this was over.

The idea bothered me. It didn’t bother me as much as it should have. I felt it didn’t bother Thea at all. But we were on the road and powering off into the night. Sleep wasn’t going to happen, and I suspected our pursuers were fresher, but they were also in a car. A disadvantage in traffic, and we were heading into the city. Plus, I got that feeling again, that I could trust the bike, that I wasn’t going to fall off. I was almost to asking Thea to tell me if it was alive.

Almost. Another bullet snapped after us. Sirens echoed through the streets. Great. Would they believe us if we said we were the victims here. We were, realistically. We hadn’t killed anyone, but we had rather left a mess behind us.

Would anyone believe us? I clung to Thea’s back and hoped we didn’t even have to explain. We were across the bridge, though, into the city, and there was no more sign or sound of pursuit.

Thea hadn’t said anything. Neither did I. We lost them in the tangle of streets and buildings as we headed into Southeast. “Sorry. The next safe house on the list isn’t as pleasant.”

“Yeah, and white skins in Southeast?” We’d get killed or beaten up or something.

“We can handle a few gangsters.”

“This has to do with my parents.” I challenged her with my eyes. “Tell me the truth.”

She did not answer. Instead, she turned down a narrow street, locked the bike, and headed through a door, down stairs. A basement. Not uncomfortable, but it felt like a cell. Like a trap. Like a place from which poison would drip from the roof. And she was clearly not about to tell me the truth.

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