Improvise or Die

1

Bullets flew, ricocheting off of metal and going clean through every appliance and nearly every object in the place. I never truly expected that noise for bullets. I always thought that you just heard the bangs like on TV. Turns out, when they whiz by your head and sound almost like a car speeding by, there's an added level of fear that flows through your body almost as fast as the adrenaline it is coupled with. I was on my way out to the store for my weekly grocery trip, purse in hand, keys on my finger, but then suddenly shots were being fired and I was cornered. I backed into my kitchen and huddled into the corner. I was just low enough to not get pelted and I managed to get up quickly, climb out my window, and sprint into the front yard the second they paused to reload. I knew precisely where my dad had left a spare key under the sink to a car for emergencies and I booked it. I sprinted down the street through the alleyways, not allowing myself to look back, trying to focus on where I was headed, not how far behind me they were.
Everything blurred together as I ran. I don't know if things blurred due to the adrenaline or fear, possibly both. I was hoping I could make it there quick enough. My lungs were on fire. It turns out asthma isn't good for sprinting a quarter mile as fast as physically possible, but I kept moving forward. I had to. I wanted to stop and catch my breath, but I knew I couldn't afford to waste a second. Just as my dad had taught me. I hopped in, slammed it in drive, and took off. They say adrenaline helps you tune everything out and helps you ignore pain, but they don't mention how it also prevents you from thinking straight. My thoughts were traveling as fast as the car was and resulted in me shaking uncontrollably. I tried to relax enough to think and only slightly managed. I pulled my phone out and called my dad as I drove as fast as I could without having police on my tail.
"Pick up. Pick up," I frantically muttered as I drove. It went to voicemail and I hung up, knowing he wouldn't be able to listen to a message quick enough. I threw my phone on the passenger seat in frustration. My dad knew this would happen eventually and he warned and prepared me, but it didn't lessen my anxiety and fear. He had a place set up for us to escape to if we needed it- a safe house of sorts. It was relatively off the grid and it had reinforced walls and windows, so bullets weren't a concern. I pulled up, unlocked the door, and went inside. It was just as we had left it with the exception of a note sitting on the table. 

I'll be seeing you soon. I can always find you.
-Murdoc

I nearly passed out as fear shook me to the core, but the adrenaline picked up again as I realized what I needed to do. I cautiously called my dad once again. Still no answer. I went to the cabinet under the sink and pulled out the index card we had taped inside. It had a man's name and an address. Memories flooded back instantaneously.
"Now sweetheart, if anything ever happens and this place is no longer safe and you can't get ahold of me, just grab this card and go to the address. He's someone you can trust. Always," my dad told me as he taped it inside. 
"But what if it's not safe there?" I asked. "What if he isn't someone I can trust?" I had never met this mystery man whose address was written down.
"It will be. If it's not safe, he'll protect you. He's got your back like he's got mine. No matter what, you can trust him. There's no one I trust more with anything, especially my life and yours."
I came back to reality, grabbed the note and the car keys, and drove out. Spontaneous flights to L.A. weren't really something I had ever wanted to have to do and I was nervous that the guys would catch up to me, but I didn't have much choice. I didn't like flying and my adrenaline was fading. My arm began to hurt and logically I assumed I had been shot but I tried my best to ignore it. My dad acted more like a sergeant sometimes growing up and he made sure I knew to check over my shoulder but not look back in situations like this. I hated that he had spent days running through what to do in case this happened, but I was grateful. I went to the airport despite my anxiety being through the roof and gradually increasing. After buying the ticket and making it through security, I bought a jacket, sunglasses, and a hat and planned to wear those around the airport to disguise myself. I stood there in the stall changing my clothes when I realized I was bleeding. I had hoped I was wrong about the bullet. Luckily the adrenaline bought me some time. A bullet had grazed my arm, or I had cut it on the window. I wasn't sure which but didn't have time to try to figure it out. I didn't have anything to use to help with the bleeding, so I dug a tampon out of my purse, opened it, then tied it to my arm with some toilet paper and a rubber band I found in the bottom of my bag. I threw the sweatshirt on over it and headed to my gate. I hated this. I just wanted to talk to my dad, but he wasn't answering. This wasn't like him. He always answered my calls. I only hoped they didn't get to him first. For the first time in a long time, I truly felt alone.
I boarded and the flight was smooth with the exception of me being paranoid the whole time. Everyone was suspicious to me and no one could be trusted. Not even flight attendants. I didn't dare sleep on the plane as I usually did to calm nerves. Nice thing is, people don't think you're paranoid, they just assume you're afraid of flying. I called a cab upon landing and got a ride to a convenient store a block down the street from the address on the note card. I didn't want to risk this being one of my dad's friends whose address shouldn't be shared. I cautiously checked over my shoulder every few seconds to make sure I wasn't being tailed. It was clear. It was a nice, quiet neighborhood and no one seemed to be out. I kept my guard up, but let myself relax just slightly.
I approached the door and took a deep breath. I knocked. A young African American man who couldn't have been far off in age from me came to the door and looked at me in confusion. I wondered if I had the wrong house, but the address was right. I looked back down at the address and double checked. 
"We don't want any Girl Scout cookies or whatever you're selling," he stated as he started shutting the door. 
"Wait," I objected. "I'm looking for someone named Mac," I told him cautiously.
"Mac!" he hollered slowly, clearly not trusting me for a second. 
"Who's at the door, Bozer?" another man asked as he got closer. He was around the same age and had blond hair that was well-groomed. What struck me first were his eyes. They were the most beautiful blue eyes I had ever seen in a person.
"I'm not sure," the first man replied.
"Can I help you?" Mac asked. He sounded confused but he also had a kindness about him that I couldn't quite grasp.
"Yeah, maybe, um, I was told by my dad that if there was ever an emergency and I was in danger and couldn't get ahold of him that I should come here and ask for your help," I explained shyly. He just looked at me like he was trying to figure out what was wrong with me. "You know what, I'm sorry. I just can't get ahold of him and bullets were flying, and I didn't know where else to go. I must have the wrong house."
"Who's your dad?" he asked calmly.
"Jack Dalton," I explained.