Oh my God! There is nothing as frightening as this—no comparisons, nothing my mind can process as a connection—nothing but terror.
Quickly, I move what I can, anything I’m still free to control. I create small twitches in my toes and then my calves. Almost microscopically, I clench the muscles in my belly, my glutes, my arms. I twitch my biceps and elbows, adding my fingers and neck, jaw and tongue. Tiny movements that remind me I can still move of my own accord.
It’s really just a mind game. A trick to relax—I know that—but it still seems to help. I won’t get out of this if I panic. I have to be smart.
When I get closer to normal breathing, I realize that no one’s said anything. No one is touching me. A temporary sensation—not quite relief—allows me to regain some composure.
My clothes don’t feel wet. I’m warm enough and dry.
Except for my head—and the bass-like pulsing sensation trapped behind my temples—I conclude that I’m mostly unharmed.
But what I can remember is a vague, frayed thread I’m barely able to follow through the thick, murky haze plaguing my mind. It’s like I do and don’t have amnesia at the same time. Like attempting to retrieve a word as it sits on the edge of your thoughts and the tip of your tongue, but you can’t quite capture it. There, but elusive.
I may not know exactly where I am, or how I got here, but I absolutely remember why.
Ryder
I chase the skip up the neglected back stairs of the housing project. I hear babies crying, and a few people watch us from their dirty windows or back porches. He slides down a garbage strewn hallway and ducks into an apartment.
The sound of grinding metal on metal comes from the other side of the door as the locks engage.
“Now that just pisses me off,” I tell him, looking threateningly through the wrong side of the eyehole. “If you make me come in there to get you, I’ll shoot you in the leg for the fucking trouble.”
No response.
“Excellent decision because I haven’t shot anyone all day,” I announce before blowing a hole between the lock and the cheaply-made doorjamb.
He shouts in surprise. I like that he didn’t expect me to do that.
“You scream like a baby,” I taunt.
“This is, uh . . . illegal entrance!”
“Call the cops.” I shoot out the jamb next to the second lock.
“You need a warrant, motherfucker!”
“Stop fucking swearing, douchebag,” I scold before putting in another round. “And I don’t need a warrant, I’m a bounty hunter,” I say, laughing.
“STOP SHOOTING!”
“Nope. This’ll make it easier to kick in the door.” Light from the apartment shows through the next hole I blow. “I sure hope one of these bullets doesn’t get a mind of its own and shoot directly through the door into you.” I tap across the door with the gun barrel.
If I have to chase criminals all over town, I’m going to have some fun.
“ALRIGHT, MAN! ENOUGH! I’LL COME WITH YOU!” perp-boy cries out.
I listen as the last lock is slowly undone.
“You’re not gonna kill me, right?” His voice is shaking.
I kick the bottom of my steel-toed boot against the door. It whips open, and I train the barrel of my Glock onto the blue of his left eye. “I don’t know, Tyson, I’ve had enough running for the afternoon. If you tried hauling ass again, I might not kill you outright, but I wouldn’t hesitate to blow out a kneecap.”
His arms reach to the ceiling; sweat and terror are all over his face. “I won’t run no more.”
“Then get out here nice and easy, and make sure your hands stay where I can see them.”
“I’m unarmed.” Tyson steps through the doorway.
“Turn around and get your hands on the wall,” I say, grabbing him with my left hand by the scruff of his worn, filthy jacket.
He does.
“How did you find me?”
“’Cause I’m the best.”
“Full of yourself much?” he quips before I shove him so hard into the wall I knock the air from his lungs. He groans.
“It comes easy when you’re as good as me.” I wedge my boot between his feet and kick his legs apart before I clamp the silver steel bracelet around his right wrist. “But you wouldn’t know that, would you, Tyson? You keep on making poor life choices.” I bring down his arm, cuffing both behind his back.
He keeps his mouth shut.
“Why would you want to live here? Don’t you want to make something of yourself someday? Christ, the scum you’re rolling with don’t give a rat fuck if you live or if they cut your head off with a dull-bladed saw,” I explain as I drag his ass down the stairwell of the dingy building.
The few middle grade kids standing in the street admiring my ’89 Dodge Charger scramble away fast when we come out of the hot, stink-filled building.