9. Chapter 9

Chapter 9

IZEL

An hour earlier…

My nerves are stretched to their limit. I can’t take it anymore. I’ve been stuck in this house for over forty-eight hours now. Detective Lucas Brown is like a guard dog. He is not letting me out and I’ve had enough. I can’t let them keep me trapped here. I need to devise a perfect escape plan.

I walk into the kitchen, careful to avoid those obnoxious creaky floorboards. Who designed this place, anyway? It’s like a soundtrack for a horror movie. I rummage through the drawers and cabinets with purpose, finally striking gold – Richard’s spare keys hanging by the back door. Seriously, could he be any more predictable? I grab them and silently move out of the kitchen.

I head towards the living room, where Lucas is glued to the TV, watching a heated match between the Lakers and the Celtics. He's so engrossed that I doubt he'd notice if the house was on fire.

“Hey, Lucas,” I say casually. “I’m just going to my room to grab my phone, okay?”

“Yeah, yeah, sure,” he mumbles, barely glancing in my direction.

I slip down the hallway, but instead of going to my room, I make a detour to Richard’s. If anyone’s got a spare gun lying around, it’s him. I start opening drawers, feeling a bit like Goldilocks. Too much junk in one, too many papers in another. Then I pause and think, Where would Richard hide something valuable?

I open his underwear drawer, and bingo – there it is, tucked under a pile of neatly folded briefs. I take the gun and check the safety.

I walk back out into the hallway. Thankfully, Lucas is still engrossed in his stupid game. He doesn’t even look up as I walk past him and head out the back door.

I make my way to the side of the house, sticking to the walls and moving as silently as possible. There’s a small opening in the fence that leads to the neighbor’s backyard. I’ve checked it a dozen times; it’s my best shot.

I squeeze through the opening, praying I won’t get caught. Once on the other side, I know I can’t make a run for it, not with the cops so close. I need a diversion.

I pull out the gun, take a deep breath, and fire two shots into the air to my opposite direction. The sound echoes through the neighborhood, sending the officers in the front scrambling. They bolt towards the source of the noise, shouting at each other in confusion.

This is my moment. I ditch the gun in a nearby bush and make a beeline for the street. My heart’s in my throat as I round the corner, and that’s when I see a parked car with the keys still in the ignition. I don’t know whose car it is, but I don’t care. I jump in, start the engine, and peel out of there, leaving a cloud of dust in my wake.

I’m on the run now, there’s no going back. I’ve taken my chances and I’m out in the open. But the question is, where the hell do I go from here?

Present…

I park the car a few blocks away, making sure to choose a spot where it won’t be easily noticed. After locking the door, I start walking, blending in with the crowd until I spot a small coffee shop up ahead. The aroma of freshly brewed coffee hits me as I step through the door. I order a sandwich and a black coffee, needing something to steady my nerves. I find a corner table, and settle in. As I sip my coffee, my mind starts drifting back to a night from ten years ago. It’s a night much like this one, the city cloaked in darkness, and me, running for my life.

September 14, 2014, 11:45:58 PM.

I keep running as the sirens blare in the distance. I find a place, a rickety old building that seems abandoned. Desperation drives me to try the door, and to my surprise, it creaks open. The inside is as cold as ice, and I have nothing, no clothes, no money, no one to contact. No one who loves me.

I don’t give up, though. I can’t. I scavenge around for something to keep warm. I stumble upon a dusty old blanket. It smells like mildew, but it’s a lifeline.

I huddle beneath that old blanket, shivering in the cold. The wind howls outside like a pack of hungry wolves, and I cling to that pathetic piece of cloth like it’s the only thing keeping me alive.

But I know I need more than just warmth. My stomach growls with hunger. I need to find food. So, I venture back out into the night.

I stumble upon a group of strangers, huddled around a makeshift fire in a barrel. They look at me with curiosity.

“Hey, kid, what are you doing out here?” one of them asks.

“I... I got nowhere to go. I’m lost.” It’s a half-truth, but it’s the only story I have.

They share a few glances. “You want some food?” another guy says, holding out a half-eaten sandwich. It isn’t much, but it’s everything to me at that moment.

I take the sandwich, thanking them with a lump in my throat. “Thank you. I... I don’t know what to say.”

One of the women in the group pats my shoulder. “Kid, we’ve all been there. You’ll make it through this.”

I nod, and as soon as I have a few bites in me, I thank them again and slip away into the night. I don’t know where I’m going, and I have no plan, but I can’t stay. I can’t let him find me.

The memory of that night still haunts me, a reminder of how far I’ve come and how much I’ve endured. But I’ve never given up. I eat my sandwich in the coffee shop and know that I’ve faced worse and survived.

The coffee shop’s closing up, and the waiter, this polite dude with a hipster beard, gives me the heads-up.

“Hey, miss, hate to rush you, but we’re shutting down.”

I nod, understanding the drill, and head out into the chilly night. I slip into the stolen car and rev the engine.

I need a drink, something stronger than this black coffee crap. My hands grip the wheel as I navigate the city streets, searching for that dimly lit salvation called a bar.

I spot a neon sign in the distance, advertising a dive bar. Perfect. I pull up, slam the door shut and walk in.

The bar’s dimly lit, and the air is thick with a mix of cheap cologne, cigarette smoke, and the hum of conversations. A jukebox in the corner blares out some classic rock tunes, competing with the clinking of glasses and the low murmur of voices.

The bartender, a dude with tattoos crawling up his arms, gives me a nod. “What can I get you, sweetheart?”

I slide onto a stool. “Shot of whiskey, the good stuff.”

He pours a generous shot, and I throw it back, the burn trailing down my throat like a fiery escape route. The warmth spreads through me, and for a moment, everything’s a little less fucked up.

I signal for another, and the bartender obliges. The alcohol starts to weave its magic, and I let my eyes wander around the joint, taking in the eclectic mix of patrons.

There’s a couple in the corner booth, locked in a heated argument. I can’t hear their words over the music. At the end of the bar, a dude nurses a beer, staring into the void like he’s searching for answers. And then there’s a group of rowdy friends, probably a bit too drunk for a Tuesday night.

The bartender slides another shot my way, and I down it in one gulp. The storm of thoughts in my mind starts to blur at the edges, replaced by a comforting numbness.

As the night wears on, the bar transforms. It’s no longer just a place to drown sorrows; it’s a sanctuary for lost souls seeking temporary refuge from their fucked-up realities. The jukebox keeps playing, the laughter and clinking of glasses becoming a twisted lullaby.

I’m nursing my whiskey, actually no I’m practically drowning in it, when a guy slides into the seat next to me. He’s got this confident smirk, like he’s got the world figured out or maybe just doesn’t give a fuck. He flashes me a grin that’s half charming, half trouble.

“Hey there, stranger. You look like you could use some company,” he says, leaning in with a glint in his eyes that suggests he’s up to no good.

I raise an eyebrow, playing along. “Company, huh? Depends on the kind of trouble you’re bringing.”

He laughs, a low, rumbling sound. “The best kind, sweetheart. The kind that makes you forget about everything else.”

I smirk back, sipping my whiskey like it’s the elixir of life. “I’m all for forgetting.”

Next thing I know is that we’re on the dance floor. Our bodies are moving to the rhythm of the music. The beat’s pumping, and the bass is reverberating through the floor. He’s got moves, and I’m not too shabby myself.

The guy leans in, bringing his lips close to my ear. “What’s your name, beautiful?”

I chuckle, it’s crazy how the alcohol and the music makes everything a little hazy. “Izel. And yours?”

“Call me Trouble. Everyone else does.”

I laugh softly. “Seems fitting.”

We keep dancing, and for a moment, everything around me fades away. It’s just the music, the lights, and the intoxicating thrill of being alive.

The night’s winding down and I’m starting to feel the weight of reality pressing in. Trouble’s with me but my mind’s not with him. It’s betraying me, it keeps circling back to Mr. FBI, of all people. Why the hell is he occupying my head more than I care to admit?

Trouble leans in for another round of sweet talk, his lips dangerously close. But instead of shutting him down like I should, I do the opposite. I kiss him, hard, as if to drown out the nagging thoughts with the taste of something else.

His surprise is evident, but he doesn’t complain. It’s not romantic; it’s a distraction, a desperate attempt to erase the mental image of a guy with a case board and a perpetual furrowed brow.