#157 Besieged

by Elle Chambers

The shots rock the car. Her seatbelt snaps taut, and she can’t control the fishtail and doesn’t try, just throws out a hand to grab the case before it tumbles to the footwell. Her shoulder cracks against the door as the car hits the curb; she’s grappling at the door handle with sweat-slick fingers before the skid’s stopped.

Her pursuers on the overpass—the ones who hit the windshield, aerated the hood—won’t reach her fast enough. The ones on her tail are another story.

She spills from the car to her knees. She’s halfway to standing when the streetlight above explodes.

Covering her head, she rolls toward the back of the car. She’s nearly hyperventilating, but there’s no time to rest, not when a quick peek through the back window shows looming shapes, backlit by the garish lights of the Strip, striding toward her.

Case cradled to her chest, she rolls again until her feet are under her. Stopping to rearm would be suicide, so she runs unprotected until the shadows ahead become an alley. A whistle by her ear, a flash of heat at her shoulder, and she jukes left as the brick wall beside her turns to rain.

Her only hope is the city, that it’ll swallow her. The alley opens onto traffic and crowds, and she’s walking when she eases out. Two steps and she’s laughing with a drunken bachelorette party. Three more and it’s a class reunion. Four and she’s melted away.