Run With Me (13 page)

The bullet was from a sniper set
back from the engagement. He must have sprung up overnight and set
himself up in the craggy rocks in the distance. I suppose in a way I
was lucky that he was so far back, that the wind had picked up
overnight. A bullet that was most likely aimed at my heart fell six
inches and hit my abdomen instead. The force knocked me off my feet
and down onto the dusty earth. I remember feeling myself dragged
through the sand back towards safer ground away from the front line.
Hands were pressing at my stomach, trying to stem the bleeding, and
it was all I could do to stay awake.

I remember hearing voices
shouting at me over the barrage of gunshots. “Stay with me. Don't
close your eyes. Listen to my voice.” I guess I'd been so
conditioned to follow orders that I did what I was told. Otherwise
I'd probably be dead.

The pain was unlike anything I
can describe. The initial feeling was like being punched in the
stomach, knocking the wind right out of you. Then there's the heat. I
remember feeling as through my stomach was on fire, as if my insides
were being roasted. The adrenaline in me helped to mask the pain, and
without it I don't think I'd have survived. When they got me back to
base I was given a 25% chance of living. I'd lost so much blood and
the bullet had ripped through part of my small intestine. It was only
because of the skill of the surgeon that I managed to make it.

Lucky. There's no other word for
it. Had there been a different surgeon that day, maybe I'd be dead.
Had the sniper's aim been slightly better, or the wind slightly
weaker, I would have become just another victim of war. Another
nameless fighter, forgotten by everyone expect those few whose lives
I'd impacted.

Now is nothing like that time,
and again I'm lucky for that fact. Kitty seems to be taking charge
now, guiding me around the the back of the car and laying me down on
top of the trunk. She's got my medical pack open and is sifting
through it, looking for the appropriate medicines. I open my mouth to
give her guidance, but quickly see that she doesn't need it. She
pulls a syringe out and examines it closely. Her eyes lift to mine.
“Do you need this?” she asks.

She's holding morphine in her
hand. I think she knows what she has to do and that the pain will be
intense. I consider it a moment and then shake my head.
Pain can
be cleansing
, I think. At least, that's what I tell myself.

Now she's examining the bullet
wound closely. She wipes away the blood to get a good look and
carefully pulls it apart to look inside. I can't help but groan
slightly with the pain, to which she says “sorry” with earnest
eyes. But she's doing the right thing, so I don't question her.

“
You have a bit of shrapnel in
there,” she says. “I need to remove it.” She's like a different
person all of a sudden. Assertive, commanding. She takes a pair of
tweezers from the medical pack and begins probing as carefully as she
can. I twist with each touch to my raw flesh but try not to make a
sound.

She picks out one bit and drops
it into the medi-pack. Then another. The third one takes a bit more
mining as she digs deeper into my flesh. Now I can't stop the
grunting from escaping my lips. It hurts so fucking bad. After a
minute of probing she pulls it out and drops it in with the others.
“That's all of it,” she says.

The next thing she does is
sterilize a cloth with alcohol and rub it all around the wound, at
the front and back. It stings like a thousand bees pricking me at
once. Then she pulls out a needle and begins stitching the wound. I
can't quite see how she's getting on, but her face is a picture of
concentration. I watch her as she works, but her eyes refuse to meet
mine until she's completed the job.

“
Turn over,” she says once
she's stitched up the front. Again I'm following orders. It doesn't
take her long, and she's done the back too. Then she begins bandaging
me up before finally injecting me with the antibiotics I've got
stashed inside the pack.

When she's done she pulls me up
off the trunk of the car and finds a new set of clothes in the back.
She helps me into a black long sleeved top and I try to move my arm.
It's largely immobile right now, so she fashions a sling from what
remains of my shirt and props my right arm up into it.

When I thank her my words are
genuine and warm. Without her I'd have had to go to the hospital, and
that always means questions and unnecessary attention. It hardly
registers that if it wasn't for her I wouldn't have been shot in the
first place. Right now I'm just grateful for her help, as she is of
mine. She doesn't say it, but something in her eyes tells me she's in
my debt, and helping to patch me up is only a short way towards
repaying it.

When we both sit perched on the
end of the car, looking out beyond the barn and up into the stars, I
ask her how she knew what to do. “It's not just anyone who can sort
out a bullet wound. Most would fly into a panic,” I say.

Then she tells me a story of her
youth, of her mother before she died. “She taught me,” she tells
me. “She was an ER nurse so knew about all this stuff. She wanted
me to become a doctor.” She trails off a little, her voice becoming
more weak.

“
When she died it hit my
father hard. He wasn't always a bad man,” she says. “He just got
lost, started boosting cars and selling them for parts. One day he
was caught in a chase with the police and crashed. He was close to
home and managed to escape before the police caught up with him. He
had this gash along his leg an inch wide and I stitched him up. I was
only 13 then.”

“
It happened a few times,”
she continues. “Not just my dad, but friends as well. My mom had
these medical supplies in the house so I used those, and became like
a community nurse for a little while.” She shakes her head and a
funny smile appears in the corner of her mouth. “Silly really.”

“
And being a doctor?” I ask.
“What happened?”

She turns her eyes up and looks
towards the sky, strengthening her voice. “Life happened. Things
got in the way. I was never smart enough for that anyway.”

Now she turns to me and her eyes
narrow. “How about you? How did you get into....this?”

I feel myself closing up. I hate
it whenever someone asks about my life, about my past. I prefer to
keep all that to the back of my mind, keep it locked away.

“
Same as you,” I say. “Life
happened.”

I change the subject, my mind
wandering back towards our current predicament. I've barely had time
to register the exact repercussions of being found in the motel room,
but they are extremely serious.

Michael Carmine tried to have me
killed. Not just Kitty. Me as well. I had her with me. If his man
managed to catch up with me, why would he try to take me out too?
Surely he'd assume that I'm just doing my job. That I've found her
and would transport her back to Carmine in the morning?

But no, he set his dog loose on
not just Kitty, but me as well. Have I become a loose end to tie up
as well? Or was it just Rugger acting of his own accord? Rugger. Even
behind that balaclava I knew it was him. I could see it – that
cut-throat scar running under his neck. I could smell the lingering
scent of cigarette smoke as I dashed to the door in pursuit. I hit
him, but I don't know where. Enough for him to retreat...but for him
to die? I'm not sure.

If he is alive, though, he'll
have spoken now to Carmine. He'd have told him that I'm helping
Kitty, that I'm just as much of a target as she is now. I know now
that I've been thrust into the same boat alongside her. That in order
to escape his clutches I'll have to run and hide as she is. But I
won't do that. There's another path for me to take.

I hear Kitty ask me a question,
but it doesn't register. I'm too enveloped in my own thoughts, trying
to figure a way out. Then I hear her again and again. Her words grow
clearer. “Are you all right?” she's asking.

I catch myself staring straight
forward and realize I've gone into some sort of trance. I feel her
hand on my leg and her soft voice questioning again: “are you all
right?” I turn to face her and see an expression of concern, but I
nod to allay any fears. “I'm OK,” I say to her, but my mind is
still racing.

How did he find me? Rugger –
how did he find me? Has Carmine had him tracing me this whole time.
Is that why he sent Rugger on the job as well? To keep an eye on me.
There's no other way, no chance that he'd have stumbled across us at
that random motel. The odds of that would be ten thousand to one.

My eyes widen and suddenly I'm
on my feet. I feel a sharp pain in my shoulder as I crouch down and
start feeling with my left hand under the car. I can hear Kitty
asking what's going on again but don't answer. I move round the car,
my fingers creeping along its underside and above the wheels. I reach
the other side, above the front right wheel, and there! I feel it, a
small box magnetically sealed against the inside of the fender.

I pull it off and stand up,
examining the contraption in my hand. “What is it?” I hear Kitty
asking beside me. She's clearly followed me around the car in alarm.

“
A tracking device,” I say,
as I drop it to the ground. Then I step on it and feel it crush under
my weight as my fist closes up in anger.

He's been tracking me the entire
time.

It's only seconds before I'm
opening the trunk again and digging inside with my good hand. I pull
out a screwdriver and pass it to Kitty. “Unscrew the license
plates,” I tell her.

“
What's going on,” she asks?
She looks alarmed again.

“
We're being tracked,” I
respond.

“
But you just destroyed it,”
she says.

“
They'll be able to trace my
license plate numbers too,” I say, opening up a special compartment
at the bottom of the trunk. “Carmine will have dirty cops on his
payroll who will trace the vehicle. He'll find us in no time.”

Now she's urgently unscrewing
the plates as if her life depended on it. It just might. She finishes
at the back and rushes round to the front. I can only stand there and
wait. With only one good arm she'd go quicker than me. It takes a few
minutes but soon my car has a brand new set of plates and we're back
inside.

“
Won't he know your other
plate numbers?” she asks as I settle into the driver's seat.

I shake my head. “No one does.
I've never used these ones.”

I turn the key and the engine
rumbles, before shifting the car into reverse. It's all good when
using my left arm, but as soon as I try to raise my right to grip the
steering wheel I feel a sharp pain rush through my shoulder. I
grimace and drop my arm back down, then try again. I manage to pull
back, reversing out of the barn and facing back towards the track,
but it's hard going.

“
This is ridiculous,” says
Kitty, watching me struggle to perform such a mundane task. “You
should be resting anyway. You've lost lots of blood. I'll drive.”
Now it's her giving orders, and I'm inclined to agree. There's no
scope for masculine pride here, no space for posturing and trying to
'suck it up'. I know when to accept help when it's offered to me.

We exchange places and Kitty
pulls out onto the track, turning left and heading towards the main
road. She looks kinda amusing behind the wheel of the car. It doesn't
quite fit her image. I stifle a smile at the sight.

She slows as we approach the
road, turning towards me. “Which way?” she asks, shrugging her
shoulders.

“
Left here,” I say. Head
north, but stay off the main roads.”

“
Why? The police?”

I nod. “Just a precaution.
They won't have these plates, but they'll know what car we're in by
now. I'll imagine they've checked CCTV and will know they're after
two people of our description, driving a black saloon. It's enough to
go on, so if you see anything suspicious, let me know.”

I'm telling her because I need
her to be alert. I'm going to try to stay awake as long as I can, but
I can already feel my eyes beginning to grow heavy. Thankfully I used
a fake identity when booking the motel, and I doubt that they'll
think the woman in question is Kitty. Sure, they might have her on
camera, but I know how clear those things are. A girl, medium height
and build with dark medium length hair could be just about anyone.
Overall I'm hoping they'll give up the chase when we get out of the
state.

I lie back now and watch the
road in front as Kitty gets to grips with the car. It's a good thing
she drives stick, and she seems to grow accustomed to the extra power
and acceleration pretty quickly. “Like I said,” she tells me when
I ask her about it, “my dad boosted all sorts of cars, so I've been
around them my whole life. I didn't drive them very often but
sometimes he'd let me have a spin, so I guess I got used to it
early.”

She speaks about it almost with
a sense of pride. Or maybe it's just a love for her father. She seems
like a moral person, so I know she can't agree with what he did. But
then, I guess she just misses having him around. From her file I know
that he's still in jail and has been for a while. Anyway, who the
hell am I to judge him, her, or anyone for that matter. My morals
began fading a long time ago.