Escape

Gravel, crunching underfoot. A stray ray of sunlight, filtering through the trees overhead. Waves, whispering against the wooden dock. The bark of a dog, almost too far away to hear. Heavy breathing, echoing in his head. Feet hitting the gravel behind him. Too close. Wind, against his face. Sweat, running into his eyes. Pain, in his side. Burning, in his lungs. Running too long. A quick glance over his shoulder. A depression in the path. He stumbled, almost falling.


A sudden crack, loud in the still air. A burning in his leg, as sharp pieces of gravel flew up. A thought, brief and fleeting; that was a gunshot. They're shooting at me now. He caught himself, willing his legs to catch up to his body as he ran faster. He had to escape. But there was nowhere to go. Another crack. Another. He ran yet faster. Sunlight, bright and glaring, in his eyes as he broke out of the stand of trees. The wide expanse of water, glinting in front of him.


The footsteps behind him had disappeared. He spared another glance over his shoulder, knowing he shouldn't. A figure, lying crumpled on the gravel path. The man that had been chasing him. A sudden blurred shape, coming from his right. His breath, expelled in a burst as the blur hit him, knocking him off his feet. Another loud crack, closer this time. Stars, in his vision as his head hit the ground.


A voice, saying something loudly, urgently. The figure's hand, coming up in a blur. His ears ringing. The feel of hot brass hitting his arm. The sharp report of the pistol. A grunt, from the tree line. A thump, as a body hit the ground. A low laugh, from the figure crouched beside him. Blood rushing through his veins, his heart beating fast, too fast, he thought. His breathing slowing. His eyes, finally focusing on the figure at his side.


A man. Military haircut, dark tracksuit. Running shoes. A scar, on his right cheek. His gaze searching the trees. His mouth, moving as he spoke. His voice, coming as if from a long distance. “Get up.” The words seemed to take shape, develop meaning. His own mouth opened, as if to form an answer, but he could think of none.


He got up, slowly, pushing himself to his feet, cautiously. His bones hurt. The man spoke again. “This way.” The man turned, jogging along the edge of the water, away from the newly dead bodies. Thoughts, flickering through his head. Finding nothing to object, he jogged after the man. Burning, in his leg muscles. His shirt wet, sweat still pouring from his every pore.


The man ahead slowed, his jog becoming a quick walk. Another dock, this one larger. A speedboat, tied off, nosing the dock. The man, stepping aboard, gesturing for him to follow. The dip and sway of the deck, its difference from the steady ground causing his legs to buckle. Barely reaching the seat in time. The hard seat under him. A throaty roar; the engine coming to life.


The man's gloved hands, on the steering wheel and throttle. Acceleration, pushing him back into his seat. The rocky dipping of the hull as it passed over the gentle waves. Wind, pushing his cheeks back. Mist, stinging his skin as the boat sped on. His brain, slowly beginning to work again. Conscious thought, taking over from instinct. What now? he thought, are the others all dead, or did some of them get away?


Clouds, blocking the sun. The wind, picking up, making the waves larger. Ahead, a shoreline. The opposite side of the lake. Another dock, this one big enough for several larger boats. The wind easing as the speedboat slowed. The man's voice, speaking for the third time, finally penetrating his daze, “Tie us off!” His hands, fumbling for the line. The wet rope slipping through his fingers.


The feel of the wood post under his clammy palm. The knot, firm as he could get it. The man, nodding. Indicating he should follow him down the dock. Walking, mindlessly. His body moving of its own accord. A street. A restaurant. Looking down, seeing the dirt and grit turned to mud from the mist of the lake and his own sweat on his clothes.


Looking up, to the table the man indicated he was to sit at. At the man already seated. Tall, well-dressed, and balding, with a birthmark in the shape of a star on his left temple. Surprise flashed through his mind. How did-


“Don't worry, Robert. Everything is going to be alright. It's all being taken care of.”



* * * * * *


One year later...


Robert McCann sat back in his seat at an outside table of one of the finest cafes in Venice. He raised his dry martini to his lips for another sip, then thought better of it, and set it back down again. Across the table, the empty seat mocked him. He should have known she'd never show up. Sighing, he turned his gaze back down to the book he held in his lap. He was nearly through this chapter. He always enjoyed re-reading Moby Dick.


The sound of a chair sliding on the cement made him look up. In the seat across the table sat a man; tall, well-dressed, and balding, with a birthmark in the shape of a star on his left temple.


“It's time, son.”