Eliot Strange and the Prince of the Resistance

27) Exit Strategy # 2

We look each other over. Two men, one older, one younger stare back at me frozen. I try my best to look like someone who is not worth the effort to kill or worse, all while coming up with another exit strategy that says: two running steps to the left, drop and roll to the ground, slide down the ditch, and hit your feet running and zig zagging. Use the broken-down car for cover.

The older man reads my mind because he says in what is now an exaggerated southern drawl, "Don't think about it." To the younger version of himself, because they obviously have to be related, he asks, "What do you think?"

I am guessing that - what do you think - means waste a bullet on her or let her go, she's harmless.

Younger version reaches in his coat pocket. For a rope because I am not worth wasting a bullet on? He will use the rope to strangle me because it will feel less personal than bare hands. Instead of a rope, he pulls out a piece of paper, looks at it and says one word in his own fake Southern accent, "Yes."

I decide to not run. I am not fast enough to outrun or outsmart a bullet. I am steady and reliable just like an old Chevy Nova. I feel calm, probably because I am sure my world is over already. All is lost for me anyway.

I don't even brace for the bullet. Everyone knows that bracing for a hit makes it hurt worse.

I change my mind in milliseconds. Dying is not fun. Meeting your fate is scary. I'm going to run if they step towards me. But only if they step towards me. Otherwise, I'll take the bullet. Just please God, let it be quick.

My mind tells me don't look over your shoulder. Don't reveal your plan, but just as quickly my head turns to see where I might be headed. A quick glance and when I turn around, the two men are stepping towards me.

I turn and run.

The younger one is no marathon man. He's a sprinter. I bet he won a lot of races in his high school days. He catches me just as I'm clawing my way out of a muddy ditch. He grabs my foot and pulls me, and I stomp him in the face, only it is not a real stomp in the face because he blocks it with his hand.

"Wait, wait," older version says from the bank as younger version slides farther down, and I try to gain traction on what has turned into a Slip 'N Slide.

"Cut the crap. I heard your real accents," I say as I claw inch by inch upward.

Younger guy grabs my ankle again, and I cannot pull myself out of this tar pit. Not only is he a sprinter, but my captor is a world class arm wrestler who has mastered a kung fu death grip, and he won't let go. Older guy is still on the bank probably trying to decide when he has a clear shot to shoot this fish in the barrel that is me.

We slip and slide. I climb a few inches up and a foot back, and then a yank and we both fall in a roll into the mud pit below. When we come to a stop, I am sitting in what I've just discovered up close is Mr. Beautiful's lap. I feel like he is Santa Claus, and I am the kid asking for a bike for Christmas. I swear he smells like peppermint and gingerbread cookies. Damn all those rom coms Steven made me watch for making me even think that I am literally in the middle of a meet cute.

The ridiculousness of how we look is not lost on him either because cute Santa says in his lovely British accent now, "So, been a good girl this year?"

"What?" I say.

"You look like a kid on Santa's lap," He smiles and I notice he has at least one of Torin's dimples, though he looks nothing like him. This British heartthrob is dark haired and dark eyed. Is everyone from England good looking?

"Ho, ho, ho," he adds.

"Did you just call me a ho?" I say without cracking a smile.

"Sorry ma'am," says Santa in his southern accent that he has mastered better than the other guy. He mocks tipping his hat to me and smiles, and I can see that dimple again. I bet he knows its power.

I am captured by two strangers who can rape and pillage me at any moment, but I smile back like some young, dumb teenage girl at the mall. Damn British accent. Damn dimple. And worst of all, damn sense of humor.

I notice the paper still clutched in Santa's hand. It is splattered with mud, but I recognize it. It is a picture of me and Steven at the junior prom. A photo my mom put on our fridge.

"Where'd you get that?" I say which is stupid because I know where he got it.

"From your fridge, Eliot," says Santa.

"How do you know my name? Where I live?"

Older version reaches down to give me a hands up. I take it. "Been looking for you," he says.

"Why?" I ask, but I know why. English accents. They are looking for the prince.

"We are looking for Prince Torin, of course," says the young one who is making a sucking sound as he is pulled up from the mud.

"Who told you about me? Who are you?"

The older version, who is dignified and well mannered and reminds me of an older James Bonds, introduces them:

"We are from England. I am Reginald Lancaster and this is my son, Augustus. We are here for Prince Torin on behalf of his mother."

"To recover her son and take him back home," continues Augustus. "My friends call me Gus."

There's that word again. Friends. Are we friends?

"How do you know me?" I ask. "Why were you in my house? Why'd you take my picture?'

"Intel. From your mother. Look for the girls, your mother said," says my one-dimpled Gus who is using his magical British accent now. "She said Prince Torin will be with the girls, if he's smart and listened, and if he is lucky. So, where is he? Where's the prince?"

"Prince?" I ask like I am confused. "I don't know."

Reginald reaches in his own pocket and pulls out the poster of Prince Torin. The one that says "Save the Prince." The one Steven and I posted all over town.

"Do you know where we can find him? When did you last see him?" asks charming Augustus Lancaster.

Both Reginald and his son wait like they are getting ready to take notes. I feel like I can trust them. Seriously, how many British people have I ever met before the last few weeks. Zero. And even though I am secretly cursing my fickle, typical, just turned eighteen year old self, Gus is really cute and well, Torin, he is just a friend. A friend who needs some help.

Damn those BBC adaptations of Jane Austen novels. They have clearly compromised my reasoning skills in real life.

My dad's rules flash in my brain. Trust no one.

I need more information, so I lie:

"Well I heard there was a prince in Mt. Airy, but I dunno. You know how rumors go, little truth here, little lie there." I try to look convincing, and then I go on the offensive. "Who are you? And why are you seeking a prince? In America of all places?"

My questions are answered with a story.