what’s next as I duck into a doorway just as the pops begin and the rubble starts flying. Fear sets in now as I start thinking of how to survive with no ammo, an unknown number of people firing small arms at me and no team for support. Nothing in here to improvise with except a small table and chair. There’s a window on the opposite wall, which I quickly but cautiously run to, trying to see what’s on the other side of the building. No one. They must all be in the street. Do I wait until they breach the doorway and try to intercept the front man for his weapon? Capture is not an option; I need to take as many as I can down with me as I go. Death somehow seems justifiable as long as those assholes come with me.
This is it.
As I hear their voices grow louder, my hands tense, ready to grab the rifle barrel when it peeks through the door. If I can get the weapon out of his grip, I can drive it backwards, hopefully crushing enough of his facial bones to render him useless.
My breathing is heavy but slow. I see sharper and hear clearer than normal.
Silence.
The door implodes and I miss his weapon. Within a second, my left hand instinctively grabs the lower portion of his jaw and my fingers clench through his tongue. I grip his jaw like a handle to hold tightly as I disable him.
As I swing my right palm down onto his ear, I hear the hollowed crack below my hand.
***
I wake up, half screaming, half shaking, soaked in sweat. Catching my breath, staring at the ceiling above my face, I think of how I’ve come to hate my dreams, my experiences, and my mind in general.
CALI
The brightness of the sun spills into my room, so I pull the pillow over my head. I need coffee and we don’t have any. My phone vibrates on my nightstand as if it were an alarm clock. Every day this damn thing wakes me up with Google alerts for sightings on Reaper. I suppose I was already somewhat awake today, though. I slap my hand over the phone and drag it off the stand until it falls onto the bed. I peek my head out from below the pillow and wait for my eyes to adjust as I pick up the phone and bring it into focus.
It’s not a Google alert. A text message from a blocked number displays across my screen.
Cali, I’m in Boston. Meet me at 112 Beech Street @ 1:00 p.m.
I want to see you.
Love, Dad.
I shake my head, baffled by this message. Dad always calls me Carolina, and he doesn’t use twelve-hour time. This is definitely not Dad.
My feet drop off the bed and slide into each boot. I lace them up and pull a new shirt out of my bag. I pull it over my head and open the door. Tango is leaning on the wall opposite of my door, one foot on the wall, and one hand holding out a coffee.
“For me?” I ask, my voice croaking.
“I locked you in and ran down the street. And you were none the wiser.” He presses his tongue out between his lips, but doesn’t smile. He’s cute. Ugh. Take it back , Cali. I take the hot cup and toss my phone at his now empty hand. “What’s this?” He drops his foot from the wall and handles the phone with both hands.
I take a sip of the coffee and close my eyes, momentarily enjoying the beautiful toasty warmth running down the back of my throat. “Thank you, for this.” I lift the cup and tap the air.
“Carolina, what is this?” Oh, we’re back to formal names. Nicknames must belong under a drunk category. “This isn’t your dad. I tried to tell you last night.”
I shake my head and pull my phone from his hand. “My dad calls me Carolina. And the last time he used twelve-hour time was when I was probably twelve. So, yeah. You were right.”
“I have an idea,” he says, heading toward his bedroom.
“What?” I chase him down the hall. “What are we doing?” I’m hoping we’re going to this location. We’re going to hunt Reaper down and I’m going to fucking shoot him point blank.
“Go grab your stuff just in case . . .”
He doesn’t have to finish his sentence. I get it. I run
This is it.
As I hear their voices grow louder, my hands tense, ready to grab the rifle barrel when it peeks through the door. If I can get the weapon out of his grip, I can drive it backwards, hopefully crushing enough of his facial bones to render him useless.
My breathing is heavy but slow. I see sharper and hear clearer than normal.
Silence.
The door implodes and I miss his weapon. Within a second, my left hand instinctively grabs the lower portion of his jaw and my fingers clench through his tongue. I grip his jaw like a handle to hold tightly as I disable him.
As I swing my right palm down onto his ear, I hear the hollowed crack below my hand.
***
I wake up, half screaming, half shaking, soaked in sweat. Catching my breath, staring at the ceiling above my face, I think of how I’ve come to hate my dreams, my experiences, and my mind in general.
CALI
The brightness of the sun spills into my room, so I pull the pillow over my head. I need coffee and we don’t have any. My phone vibrates on my nightstand as if it were an alarm clock. Every day this damn thing wakes me up with Google alerts for sightings on Reaper. I suppose I was already somewhat awake today, though. I slap my hand over the phone and drag it off the stand until it falls onto the bed. I peek my head out from below the pillow and wait for my eyes to adjust as I pick up the phone and bring it into focus.
It’s not a Google alert. A text message from a blocked number displays across my screen.
Cali, I’m in Boston. Meet me at 112 Beech Street @ 1:00 p.m.
I want to see you.
Love, Dad.
I shake my head, baffled by this message. Dad always calls me Carolina, and he doesn’t use twelve-hour time. This is definitely not Dad.
My feet drop off the bed and slide into each boot. I lace them up and pull a new shirt out of my bag. I pull it over my head and open the door. Tango is leaning on the wall opposite of my door, one foot on the wall, and one hand holding out a coffee.
“For me?” I ask, my voice croaking.
“I locked you in and ran down the street. And you were none the wiser.” He presses his tongue out between his lips, but doesn’t smile. He’s cute. Ugh. Take it back , Cali. I take the hot cup and toss my phone at his now empty hand. “What’s this?” He drops his foot from the wall and handles the phone with both hands.
I take a sip of the coffee and close my eyes, momentarily enjoying the beautiful toasty warmth running down the back of my throat. “Thank you, for this.” I lift the cup and tap the air.
“Carolina, what is this?” Oh, we’re back to formal names. Nicknames must belong under a drunk category. “This isn’t your dad. I tried to tell you last night.”
I shake my head and pull my phone from his hand. “My dad calls me Carolina. And the last time he used twelve-hour time was when I was probably twelve. So, yeah. You were right.”
“I have an idea,” he says, heading toward his bedroom.
“What?” I chase him down the hall. “What are we doing?” I’m hoping we’re going to this location. We’re going to hunt Reaper down and I’m going to fucking shoot him point blank.
“Go grab your stuff just in case . . .”
He doesn’t have to finish his sentence. I get it. I run
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