Bloodlines and Bullets

six

I steal a glance back and see the window above, now dark and empty. Luciano's voice still rings through the air, barking orders, he's coming for me. A wave of dread washes over me as I push forward, my body moving on instinct. My mind races. This place - his estate - isn't some quiet, secluded mansion. It's a fortress. I've seen the guards once before, patrolling, working on the grounds, moving between the cargo trucks like they belong there. If I wasn't half dying, maybe I would have realised it sooner. I had no idea where I really was, but it's too late for that now. All that matters is getting away. The sound of footsteps echoes through the night - heavy, fast, relentless. They're already moving, spreading out.

His voice is no longer alone. More men are with him now, the dull murmur of orders being relayed cutting through the night. I can't see them yet, but I know they're close. I move swiftly and quietly, weaving through the shadows of the estate. They are my only allies as I move cautiously towards the parked cargo trucks. There is no way I'm getting of this premises unseen. I dart behind one of the parked cargo trucks, its hulking frame casting long shadows over the gravel. My breath catches in my throat as I crouch low, my heart hammering against my ribs. The pain flares with each beat, my abdomen tight and burning under the bandages. I can feel the sweat mixing with the dirt on my skin, slick and cold. I press my hand to my side, trying to dull the ache, but I can't stop.

The estate is sprawling, but it's not empty. There are guards everywhere. I can hear them—a steady rhythm of boots against the gravel, voices cutting through the stillness. I keep moving, sticking close to the trucks, using their bulk to shield me. But the men are fast, faster than I expected. The beam of a flashlight sweeps dangerously close, its light bouncing off the metal of the truck right beside me. I freeze, crouching lower, holding my breath as the light passes over. The guard's footsteps thud in my ears, too close, far too close. But then, by some miracle, he moves on.

I exhale slowly, barely a whisper of sound. I've bought myself seconds - maybe minutes - before they circle back. The trucks are a temporary hiding spot at best. I can't stay here.

Luciano's voice, sharp and unmistakable, cuts through the night again. "Spread out! Search the grounds. Don't let her get far!"

The urgency in his tone sends a spike of fear through me. He's not playing games. This isn't a search; it's a manhunt. I can almost feel his presence closing in on me, his footsteps pounding the ground with a fury I can't outrun. He'll come for me himself, I know it. The men surrounding me aren't just guards - they're part of his world, his enforcers. I have no idea how many are out here, but the sheer size of the estate means they know the terrain far better than I do. I bite down hard, fighting against the instinct to collapse from exhaustion.

Keeping low, I move quickly between the vehicles, my body screaming in protest. My left arm feels like dead weight, the deep knife wound from a week ago flaring up with each jolt. The stitches pull tight against the skin, and for a moment, I worry they might tear, but I push through the pain. I can't stop. Not now. I can hear voices getting closer - too close. I duck behind a stack of crates, pressing my body against the cold metal of the truck beside me. I peek out and catch a glimpse of a few men moving through the area, their flashlights sweeping across the ground. There's no way they won't find me if I stay here.

I steel myself, glancing toward a small structure, barely noticeable behind the last row of trucks. An utility shed. It's far enough away that it might buy me more time. But I have to cross an open space to get there, and there are guards everywhere, their eyes scanning for any sign of movement. I wait until the nearest guard turns his back, then I make my move. I sprint as fast as my body will allow, my feet barely touching the gravel as I cross the space between the trucks and the shed. Every step feels like a knife twisting in my abdomen, the bandages tight against my skin. My breath comes in ragged gasps, but I don't stop. I can't. The shed is my only option.