Hanna

On wilting legs I rush out after him, almost tripping a few steps down. I shoot his disappearing form once again, but miss it. “That’s right! You better run, you cocksucker!” I tear my dry throat. “Fuck you!”

To my right, the locked door in the foyer bangs open. Through the gusts of sand I discern three men before I sprint an opposite direction to the back of the long building. Inside I pray for my body not to fail me. Bullets sear the tempestuous wind, missing. As I successfully reach the end of the building I stumble, almost tripping.

A ladder!

My muscles tight with a surge of adrenaline I trot up onto the roof, then lean out to look at the men on the ground. Nothing but a mass of blowing dirt. I shoot blindly down a few times, coughing from the dust in my throat, and dash along the roof to the other end of the building.

I cover my face with my sleeve, squinting into the descending darkness. The mass of dirt envelops everything like a fog and I can’t help but feel it wrap around me, shrinking my surroundings into a tiny claustrophobic space with barely any visibility. A few lights pop up around town, letting me locate other buildings, and I shuffle along with stronger confidence. But I’m helpless… too weak to fight, too weak to run far…

It dawns on me. If I actually want to escape, I need Michael. He’s my only chance at survival.

At the end of the roof I see his car, pulling back into the road. Its red rear lights blink on, allowing me to gauge the position and the distance better. I shove the gun behind the waistband of my pants and pick up speed, praying I make it. My body relaxes and I let my instincts carry my movement. Because that’s the only thing they’re actually good at. I’ve spend half of my childhood hopping roofs in Bronx. If only I had more brain than agility.

My feet kick off the roof and the firm ground disappears from under me.

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I land on the roof of his car with a thud, pain jolting from my heels up to my spine. I lose my balance and fly forward onto the car hood. The impact knocks the air out of me and I gasp a few times before I notice Michael’s eyebrow jerk up as he stares at me, probably wondering if I’m gonna try to kill him.

Shots wake us both. He punches it, jerking the car forward with me on it. “Get inside!” He rolls down the window.

Three shots pelt the back of the car, shattering the window. I pull out my gun and fire whatever bullets I have left into the storm.

“Inside!” Michael gestures with his thumb, keeping the car straight.

“Open the door!” I scream at him, trying not to slide off.

He does and, keeping my body low, I slide up on the roof and, holding onto the door, lower my body inside. Thank God for my athletic skills. Or rather thank my skills for my skills.

I pivot in the seat, staring out for any pursuit through the shattered rear window. Nothing but a gray mass of dust, blowing through the gloom. No headlights. No shots. The Russian-speaking men must not deem us worthy enough to follow through the night sandstorm.

Yet I scramble to the back seat and watch the road as if the pursuit could teleport in right behind us.

Michael speaks but I can’t hear him. The sounds around me die down, lost in the engine noise, wind, and my heartbeat.

“Hanna!” I jerk at his yell.

“Yeah?”

“They’re gone. It’s okay.”

The laugh that escapes me must’ve frightened him. I scoot behind his seat and reach my arms around him. Before he knows what’s going on I grab the seatbelt and wrap it around his neck. My mind relentlessly chirps danger, danger, danger into my ear. I have to survive.

The car swerves until it comes to a sudden stop, brakes screeching. I pull on the belt with all my strength and only faintly hear a click of a switchblade before the belt snaps lose. My back hits the seat and Michael coughs, panting.

His painful gasps enter my head together with my own rattled breathing. At last the reality of the situation hits me. Without any control, my world shifts from day to night, a change like a bullet, entering my head and lungs. All the experiences shrink around my head.

“Oh, fuck,” I heave. The surroundings glaze over and it feels like I have a bag on my head. Silhouettes of men appear out of nowhere. “No!” I try to force them away, but I’m bound and helpless and there’s nothing but hot air gathering around my head as I heave, each time harder and slower.

I feel a hand grip my face and pressure on my lips makes my eyes refocus. The visions scatter and all there is are his lips against mine, his rough stubble against my skin, and smell, somehow pleasant, reaching to the depths of my lungs.