Parker 01 - The Mark by Jason Pinter

severed the connection.
    “God damn it!” Joe shouted. “Len, tell me we got something.”
    Denton ran for the door, signaling Mauser to follow.
    “Parker’s at a pay phone two goddamn blocks east from here. NYPD’s on the way.” Mauser thought he saw a disappointed look on Denton’s face as he threw the door open and raced into the stairwell.
    Denton said, “Joe, we gotta find this kid before anyone else does.”
    Mauser looked over his shoulder and smiled as he felt the reassuring weight of his Glock against his ribs. “Tell the NYPD to throw a fucking vise on this entire city. If anyone lays a goddamn finger on Parker before I fucking find him, I’ll be bringing two bodies to the morgue today.”

12
    I shouted into the phone, “Mya? Mya? What happened?” Run, she’d said.
    Not a simple Please go, Henry. She was pleading with me, warning me.
    I stepped away from the phone booth like it had contracted the plague. My cheeks felt hot. I looked left and right, saw nothing out of the ordinary, only the familiar sounds of traffic horns and pedestrian conversation.
    Run.
    It didn’t make sense. What had made Mya so afraid? A rumbling in my gut said I needed to get out of there. I’d come uptown with the hope of seeing Mya, but I also had a backup plan in case she couldn’t help. Now I’d have to scrap them both. I wasn’t safe. Unease swept over me like a frigid wave.
    Then I heard a sound that froze my blood. Footsteps. Not just the pitter-patter of feet stepping in tune to their bodies’ rhythm, but the hard pounding of sprinting strides. I listened closer. There was more than one set of feet.
    I spun around, and to my horror saw two men running toward me, less than a block away, their eyes deadlocked on mine. One of them held a gun. Light glinted off another object that I instinctively knew was a badge.
    Run.
    “Henry Parker!” the taller, thinner one yelled. “Don’t you move a fucking muscle!”
    My feet moved before I could think, and suddenly I was sprinting east down 116th Street, cutting between two lanes of traffic. The honking of horns filled my ears, drivers cursing at me in foreign languages. A car’s bumper sideswiped my leg, knocking me off balance. I pulled myself together, saw a turbaned man in a taxi giving me the finger.
    I darted to the other side of the street, rounded a corner, then wound my way through stunned pedestrians. Heads turned in unison as I sprinted past. My lungs felt ready to explode, the wind ripping at my face. I had no concept of how close the cops were, the pounding in my ears as loud as thunder.
    Suddenly an arm shot out and grabbed me, tearing a large hole in the fabric below my armpit. I managed to spin away as a muscular man in a sweatshirt yelled, “That’s Henry Parker! Stop, you fucking cop killer!”
    My only salvation was the subway. No chance I could make it anywhere on foot. I had to get out of New York. People had begun to recognize me. Even if I could outrun the two cops, I couldn’t outrun an entire city.
    I dodged a line of garbage cans on the corner of 115th and Madison. Bracing myself, I shoved the cans one by one, sending them rolling down the street, littering the sidewalk with foul-smelling debris, creating a makeshift rolling barricade.
    “Parker! Stop where you are!” a voice shouted. It was close; too close. I weaved in and out of traffic, my body a strange mixture of burning heat from the sweat and cold from the wind and fear. Every nerve in my body was on fire.
    I beat the next traffic light, running as fast as I could, legs churning, my bruised ribs throbbing.
    “Parker!”
    “Henry!”
    I made out two distinct voices. Both angry, vigilant. They weren’t going to stop.
    Between Lexington and Park, I finally reached the entrance to the downtown 6 train, my sides aching, ready to collapse.
    Then a terrifying crash ruptured the air, like lightning on a clear day, and pedestrians around me ducked for cover. I felt something pinch my leg,