Run With Me (12 page)

I'm back in the room, back in
the darkness. But I still feel a grip on me, and I can lightly hear
my name being called. “Kitty, Kitty,” I hear. My mind catches up,
and I know it's Colt, holding me as I shake in my sleep, whispering
into my ear.

I'm shivering now, and I can
feel beads of sweat dripping down my forehead. “Kitty,” I hear
again, and I turn to see Colt's blue eyes shining at me in the
darkness. They stare at me a moment, and then shoot up towards the
door. There's an alertness to them that unnerves me.

Then he whispers once more, so
quiet I can barely hear him. “We have to go....right now.” Within
the whisper I can hear an urgency. I find my words, half mumbling
through grogginess. “Is it dawn?” It's a stupid question because
it's still pitch black. But not only that. It's stupid because Colt's
eyes are now trained on the door and they won't budge. I can feel his
right hand tense on my arm, and his left drop down to his side.
There's a slight click as he grips his pistol.

“
Where are your clothes?” he
whispers again.

“
By the bed,” I reply.

“
Put them on. Do it quietly.”

His eyes are still on the door,
hands now pointing towards it with his gun. I turn from him and pull
my white top and jeans from the floor, putting them on as quietly as
I can. The bed squeaks slightly under my weight, but nothing more. I
look over to him when I'm done and realize my eyes have adjusted
sufficiently to see him in full. He's dressed already, back in his
dark pants and white shirt. There's an intensity on his face, like a
cat watching a mouse and waiting to pounce. Only in this case I get
the impression that it's us who are being hunted.

“
What's going on?” I
whisper. My heart is pounding hard now.

“
He's out there,” he
returns. “He knows we're here.”

My heart stops for a second as I
turn back to the door and window. There's the slightest crack of
light down the side where the curtain doesn't quite cover the glass.
It grows stronger as cars pass by on the road beyond, before fading
to the dullest of glows. I watch carefully and see a shadow, a shape.
It blocks the light off briefly as it moves past the window towards
the door. The sound of footsteps is so faint you'd never hear it
unless you were listening for it, but in my ears it's as loud as a
siren. I watch as the handle of the door twists slowly down. Then it
stops and turns back up. The door is locked.

I feel a touch at my back and
turn to see Colt ushering me to the other side of the bed. “Get
down behind the bed. Stay low.”

I slide across and feel my way
to the floor, crawling down onto my hands and pulling my legs after
me. As I drag them to the floor I feel my left leg catch on
something. I pull it away out of instinct and hear a loud scraping
sound. I freeze and look into Colt's face, whose eyes have bulged.
The bedside table. I've just caught it and dragged it a few inches
across the floor.

There's a short silence now as I
stay, crouched on my hands and knees, behind the bed. Colt has
already turned back to the door and is holding his gun aloft. I'm not
prepared for what happens next, but Colt clearly is.

It's the crack of wood that I
hear first. A loud thud and splintering as the lock of the door is
smashed out of its socket. Then the whistling of wind fills the air,
along with the sounds of cars moving past in the distance. I don't
dare look up as a loud 'pop' crackles on the other side of the room.
It sounds like a loud stapler or nail gun. Then I hear another crack
as the bullet rips into the bed, and realize we're being shot at with
a silenced pistol.

I almost have my face on the
floor, and just about manage to get my hands to my ears, when a loud
gunshot rattles just by my head. The sound almost causes my eardrums
to burst as the room lights up in a flash. More 'pops' and 'booms'
fill the air as the two men exchange fire, and all I can do is hold
my ears and crouch in a huddle on the floor, praying for it to end.

“
Stay down,” I can hear Colt
shouting over the booming gunfire. He doesn't need to tell me twice.

I can only think that this is
it, that I'm going to die in this cheap motel room. I never had
hugely high hopes for my life, but dying in this way wasn't what I'd
envisaged. We're trapped, and there's nowhere to go, no windows at
the back, no way of escape.

Then I hear a loud grunt and the
gunfire stops suddenly. Colt is on his feet quickly, moving forwards
towards the door. I dare to raise my head to watch him as he goes,
his gun held out ahead of him, his steps short and abbreviated, his
stance stable. He reaches the door and I realize that there's no one
else in the room now. That the man has gone. That grunt....was it
him? Was he shot?

I can see a splash of blood on
the wood paneling by the door and know that Colt hit his mark. He's
standing there now, checking outside. He looks quickly left and
right, his eyes narrow and stern. Then he twists his neck back to me
and speaks quickly. “Grab my bag and come here. We need to get out
of here fast.”

I follow his order, standing
shakily and grabbing his bag from the side of the room. The world is
spinning a bit as I move towards him. I can see several bullet holes
in the wall around the door, and know where are several more bullets
embedded in the wood of the bed frame and the back wall.

He reaches behind and grabs my
hand, squeezing it tight for a second. I don't know why, but I think
it's to reassure me. Then he releases me and speaks once more.
“Straight to my car and away,” he says. “Crouch low and follow
right behind me.”

Then he moves forward towards
the black saloon parked to the right, his eyes constantly darting
from left to right. I see a few splashes of blood, shining under the
moonlight, moving away in the other direction. A hope rushes through
me that the man's been killed. Then I realize that he's just a gun,
just a tool. If he was dead, another would just step up to take his
place.

Sirens grow now in the distance,
and I can see a few faces huddling inside windows, staring out. I
notice the same face as before, in the trailer down from mine. I
wonder if it was them who called the police when the shooting
started.

But there's no time to stop, to
linger. I hear a door opening and Colt is ushering me inside. The
sound of the cop cars is growing louder every moment as he steps to
the other side of the car. He's still clutching his pistol tight in
his hand as he puts the car in gear and revs the engine. It rumbles
loudly and the tires spin as he hits the accelerator, twisting the
wheel and setting us out towards the highway.

Now I have a clear view to the
left and right along the long stretch of road in each direction.
Lights float like twinkling stars in the distance as early morning
drivers set on their way down the tarmac. I look left and those
lights are flashing bright in hues of red and blue in the darkness.
There are several sets, those of police cars, shooting down the road
towards us.

Colt pulls straight out and onto
the highway and immediately I feel the power of his car. The force of
the acceleration pins me into the chair, my neck thrust back into the
headrest as I stare forward. He weaves between cars before the road
opens out ahead of him, and the car lurches forward, picking up
speed. I turn my head and see the flashing blues and reds in pursuit.
Then two turn, suddenly, into the motel and disappear from sight. The
remaining cars – I count a further two – keep on coming.

But I know quickly that they
won't catch us. Cop cars are fitted to be fast, but this is something
else. I've never experienced such speed, and the way in which Colt
cuts between cars sets my stomach churning. I look into his eyes as
they burn into the road ahead. Every so often they twitch briefly to
look into the mirror, checking on our pursuers.

When we come to a junction off
the main highway he turns left, shooting off in another direction.
Then he turns again at the next, searching for quieter paths and
roads. Gradually the chasing cops fall off our trail, until the roads
are suddenly quiet and empty. He holds the same expression on his
face, however. Intense and focused. I get the sense that this is just
part of the job, just part of his world. Shootouts in motel rooms and
high speed car chases with the cops are just another Tuesday for him.

Now we're on a quiet country
road and he seems to be searching for something. Suddenly he pulls
off onto an old track. I see a looming barn set back against the
road. It looks to be empty and abandoned. He drives towards it and
the front lights of the car illuminate the inside. It's mainly empty,
with old equipment and farm tools littered around inside.

Colt drives forward into the
barn, before finally stopping and shutting down the engine. The world
grows silent, all except an incessant ringing in my ears. I suspect
it's a lingering symptom of having several loud gunshots go off right
beside my head.

I look at Colt, and his
expression remains the same. But now there's an extra grimace to it,
a look of pain. My eyes drop from his face down his body, and it's
only now that I realize he's been shot.

Colt

It's not a new sensation. It's
something I've experienced before. Not many people can say that. But
then again, my life isn't much like many others'.

The adrenaline had been keeping
the pain at bay during the chase, but now it's beginning to disperse
in my veins. Now the full force of the bullet lodged in my right
shoulder is starting to tell. And it hurts. A lot.

I can see Kitty's eyes widen now
to my right as she stares at the blood spreading down my shirt. She
starts speaking in panicked tones, her words fast and furious.
“You're bleeding! You've been shot,” she stammers, pointing out
the obvious. “We need to get you to the hospital now!”

I tilt my head at her and,
despite everything, my grimace turns into a sort of strange
pain-filled smile. “We can't. You'll have to sort it.”

Her reaction isn't what I'd have
expected. The fearful girl is suddenly taken over by someone with
resolve. She nods quickly, still staring at my blood soaked shirt.
“OK. I can do this.” Her words are confident, as if she's trying
to convince herself. Well at least she's not squeamish.

“
I have medical supplies in
the back of the car,” I say, and she's immediately out of the door
and rummaging around in the trunk. I unbutton my shirt and remove it
gingerly, and see the wound for the first time. I've been extremely
lucky. It looks like the bullet has missed the subclavian vein by
less than half an inch. If it had been nicked I'd already be bleeding
out.

I step out of the car and into
the night air. It's cool and I'm beginning to feel just a tiny bit
lightheaded. I bunch up my shirt and hold it firm against the wound.
A shot of pain rushes through me as I press. Kitty is at my side in a
second, supporting me.

“
Check the back,” I say.
“Look for an exit wound.”

I feel her hands on me, rubbing
away blood from my shoulder. Then her fingers running lightly across
my back, each one stinging with pain at even the lightest press.
“Here,” she says, careful to keep her fingers from the patch of
ragged flesh where the bullet emerged. “The bullet came out.”

I sigh with some level of
relief. No bone shattered, no splintering, no venous damage. I've
gotten extremely lucky. Or, at least, as lucky as you can be when
being shot. I guess I was lucky the last time I felt the sting of a
bullet tear into me, but in a different way. That time I was just
lucky to survive.

It was about 8 years ago now,
when I was a new grunt in the army. I'd just been stationed out in
Iraq for my first tour, leaving Sophie for the first time. Damn, that
was hard. Leaving her. We'd been together since high school so hadn't
really ever spent much time apart. Then suddenly I'm leaving for
several months and going to the most dangerous place on earth. I
guess, when I think about it, it was ever harder on her.

The days grew easier at first,
then harder the more time I spent away from her. But there were
plenty of guys going through the same thing. We found solidarity in
each others' stories of home, in our collective will to see the job
done and get back to our loved ones. But at the same time we wanted
to be there, we wanted to fight and represent our country. It was a
strange feeling: wanting to be somewhere for one reason, but wanting
to leave so desperately for another.

I only had a few weeks left
before returning home when it happened. We were called into a
firefight near our base one day in the late afternoon. The fighting
was furious as we pressed forwards, trying to take down a force of
insurgents. It raged for hours until night fell, and continued
through until the following morning.

I don't remember too much of it
now. It was early morning when the fighting had died down. A strange
type of peacefulness had settled on the sand, in the hot air. I was
exhausted mentally and physically. There's something about being
constantly in fear for your life that drains you. It gives you an
edge when you need it, but soon your body starts running on fumes. I
guess, because of that, I made a mistake or didn't see it coming.