Where It Ends

| 12 | Led On

I left Taryn alone in the back of an abandoned building. The locks are probably older than I am.

What on earth was I thinking?

Some of the doors were closed. I didn't check every room. There was that dark hallway I didn't bother to inspect at all. It's likely there was another way in and out.

We were pressed for time, but that's no excuse.

I enter the common area, gun finally drawn and prepped to fire at a moment's notice. I hurry through that middle section, detecting movement ahead of me already. I should protect myself in the next doorway and take a moment to assess the situation, in case the perpetrator has a firearm, but there's an obvious struggle underway, and I don't do more than pause.

Bursting into the next room, my eyes zoom in on the silver of a knife. Taryn is being dragged at the neck, the point to the side of her throat, a hand over her mouth as well.

They turn the corner and enter the back hallway. The gray-haired man is a head taller than her and about twice the size, but she's doing everything she can to slow him down.

They both look up when I come in. Seeing his face, there's a sense of deja-vu. At the sight of the eye with the clown-like scar, everything clicks in place. He's the guy at the café who wanted me to think he was just eating his damn bacon.

I shout, "Freeze," at the same time he says, "Drop it."

While I'm taking another stride forward, the man tugs Taryn closer to his body to shield himself.

Taryn, meanwhile, seizes the moment, grabs the blade with one hand, and jabs the man's knife arm backward with the other. She manages to nick him in his own neck. It's followed by a backwards headbutt. Then, lifting her weight into his unrelenting arms, they're at just enough of an angle for her to get some traction on the wall. She kicks them both over backwards. The knife clatters to the ground, somewhere beneath them.

I'm approaching fast and see blood. On Taryn's hands. Smeared and splattered across her white blouse.

While she's trying to scoot forward, toward me, the man is attempting to kick free of her. With one hand covering the puncture wound on his neck, he glances at the bloody knife, maybe a foot beyond easy reach. And then at the gun, about ten feet from his face. At that moment, he has to choose, if she's worth dying for, and he decides she isn't. He scrambles to his feet and starts running down the hallway.

He's approaching stairs that I didn't realize were there. I'll have a clear shot for only about half a second.

The tenths of seconds are whizzing by.

Taryn shouts, "Don't."

At the same time, I hear, "Hello?" from somewhere in the front. "Is everything all right?"

It's Justin, back in the building. This dawns on me just as the clown-eyed bastard dips out of range.

I lower my gun with the most frustrated grunt I've ever emitted.

Before the other idiot finds us and freaks out, I tug Taryn to her feet and follow clown-eye's escape route. The industrial exit door below us claps shut just as Taryn starts the stairs. She's barely keeping pace, and that's not like her.

We push outside, into the dingy ally, my gun down but back in both hands. The air is so putrid and saturated, it's practically unbreathable. A downpour seems imminent. I'm surprised it's held off for as long as it has. Within moments, though, the time will come.

I catch sight of Clown-face about twenty yards to the right and lift my gun just as he staggers around a corner. He's hurt and I could easily catch up, but there's this nagging unease that splits my attention and tugs it backwards.