Everywhere she went, The Taker could only see what she feared the most. Every face that passed her on the street seemed to study her, looking for a way to expose her. Every rush of footsteps behind her threatened to pin her down and cuff her, taking her far away from her Mason forever. Each movement was more intimidating than the last, and it fired spikes of anxiety that buried deep into her flesh, filling her with toxic venom.
It was only supposed to be a supply run. A carton of milk, a loaf of bread, and some snacks were all she needed. She’d made it as far as the store before she’d noticed the first set of eyes crawling all over her like bugs on a corpse.
But The Taker was no fool.
Her car—at least, the car she’d stolen not so long ago—was just around the corner. If she had to run, she could do it. If she had to abandon the car altogether, she’d do that too, though with a certain regret.
She’d made it onto the street, throwing glances back over her shoulder. Her knife was stowed away safely in the purse that swung by her hip, and she clutched the brown paper bag with both hands as she hurried around the corner toward the car.
What she saw made her stop in her tracks.
A police officer stood by the car. He was tall but hunched over, as if standing upright caused him pain. The Taker watched him from the corner, concealing herself behind a chalkboard that showed off today’s specials. She studied his movements: his hand reaching across his chest to his radio. The side steps he took as he studied the license plate. She was caught—she knew she was—so what was the use in trying?
She had to get home though.
She needed to see her Mason again.
Gripping the bag so hard her fingers punched through the paper, The Taker looked behind her once more—a final check that she wasn’t being followed—and stepped out toward the car. Every ounce of common sense told her to keep on walking and not look back, but the closer she got, the more she felt an intractable draw to get involved. After all, it was her car now, and who was this son of a bitch trying to take it from her?
“Can I help you, Officer?” she said, hiding her accent behind a fake American one. She’d been complimented on it many times over the years, and although she didn’t know if it was simple flattery, the cop didn’t seem to pay too much attention.
He only stared at her. “Is this your car?”
“What if it is?”
“Then I’m going to have to ask you to move it.”
The Taker lowered a hand, going toward her purse. She saw the officer’s eyes follow her hand, she lost her courage and let it dangle by her side instead. Maybe he was tricking her into confessing she’d been the one to park it. Or, as she hoped was true, he simply didn’t know it was stolen. Either way, her instincts told her she was safe to keep the car, and those instincts were usually right. “Why’s that?”
“Because…” The officer pointed up at a sign only ten feet from the car. It was a big, red, glaring sign that clearly read NO PARKING. The truth was, she’d seen it on the way in but paid it little mind. Who ever did? “I’m going to let you go with a warning, all right? Just keep your eyes open and pay attention next time.”
Relief fluttered through her, and she thought she’d hid it well. Cool as a cat, The Taker smiled and gave a thumbs-up, reaching for the key. She hurried her way into the car, feeling the cop’s eyes all over her like she’d felt those accusing stares in the store. She ignored them as best she could, dumping the bag into the passenger seat and sliding in behind the wheel. Keeping the purse on her lap, she reached inside and wrapped her hand around the hilt of the knife. There was a blurred image to her left, barely in sight.
He’s still there.
Not only that, but he was onto her. She could tell.
It was only a matter of seconds before the cop rapped on the window. The Taker turned toward him, beaming an obnoxiously false smile that usually charmed the recipient.
This time, it had no effect.
“Ma’am, I’m going to have to ask you to—”
“Step out of the vehicle,” she muttered, climbing out of the car. She kept the bag close, one hand still inside it. There was no way she was letting that go. It was her only form of safety. “Is there a problem, Officer?”
The cop’s radio beeped. He pushed a button on it and mumbled something before returning his full attention to her. “Can I see your license and registration, please?”
The Taker felt heat flow through her. This was it, she knew; this was the end. She had no license, and although there was a registration slip in the glove compartment, it didn’t have her name on it. There was only one thing she could do to get out of this, and it was nestled in her hand like it belonged there.
“Sure,” she said, digging into her purse. “Just a moment.”
While the cop hovered in front of her like he owned the place, his guard was down. Too much arrogance, she figured, and that would be the death of him. She knew this because she was the one to deliver said death. It was a precious kind of irony.
Seizing her opportunity to take him by surprise, she took the knife from the bag and turned the blade toward him. Screaming at the top of her lungs, she ran at him, catching him off guard as she pierced his chest. His eyes widened and his body shook, the confidence he’d had only moments before fading away as the knife left her grip. He slumped to the ground.
The Taker was vaguely aware of people passing by. She stood frozen, panicked, as two men ran toward her and a woman close by blubbered into her cell phone that an officer had been murdered. The Taker could hear the license plate being read, and soon enough everyone would be looking for that car.
Shit, she thought, acknowledging and accepting the fact she had to leave it behind.
Now she was down a knife and a car, all because of the people who kept watching her: the same ones who dashed across the street to pin her down.
Without another thought, she turned and ran.