Pounding pavement. Huffing and panting. Legs burning and lungs gasping. Kriminal ran in the rain. Unable to process everything fully. He just knew he had to keep running and to stay alive.
If he stopped he would be dead. Nefarius was following him and probably the only reason he hadn’t caught up to Kriminal was the fact that the guy was still carrying the duffel bag. Plus he still carried some of the wounds from the other night.
Hate’ll give you fuel you never thought you had.
There was a stretch of deserted buildings he ran toward, then another street he crossed without bothering to check for oncoming traffic. Kriminal saw the arches of the bridge on the horizon like some kind of dark halo. He knew that if he could get to the High Bridge crossing over the south part of the Chicago River he’d be okay. On the other side was a newer development with some wealthy areas where people like Kriminal and Nefarius and their kind didn’t go into. Cops would see them sticking out like bloody thumbs. Nefarius would finally stop following him.
It felt so far away. Just like Pretty Boy. And G-Ma. And 40 Ounce. And Little B. And everyone else he knew. The life he once had. The boy he once was.
Pretty Boy hadn’t realized he’d been doing all this for his brother. To help him—to help them—get out of this hellhole. To try to start another life. At least for P.B. To jumpstart the music thing. To get him going and to get him out of there. It was for him, and he had the right motives even if he wasn’t on the right side of anything good.
“Believe . . .”
His brother’s word kept up with him just like the footsteps following him.
He was going to be dead by the end of this night. That’s what Kriminal believed. The money was gone. P.B. was gone. And Kriminal was going to be gone, too.
He crossed another street, hurdled over the curb to make sure he didn’t trip, then he continued sprinting up the ramp, hugging the northbound lane of the bridge. They were running against the traffic, the cars flying by on his right as he ran.
Believe, just believe, brother.
Kriminal couldn’t help slowing down a bit. Every muscle inside him hurt and he knew the sleepless nights and the bruises from the other night weren’t helping. He was strong but he wasn’t fit. That suddenly was very apparent as the steep incline forced him to falter.
He turned for a moment.
Nefarius was even closer.
The lights bearing down on them like spotlights from all sides.
He knew that his enemy wasn’t going to stop. That he wasn’t about to let him go regardless of where Kriminal was heading.
Nothing to believe in.
Nothing but himself.
Kriminal saw an opening, so he took it, jumping out into the two lanes of the traffic and trying to tear across it.
He heard the rip of brakes, and a skidding car suddenly jolted and blared its horn. Kriminal stopped near the middle of the four lanes, then heard the shout behind him.
“Time to burn!” someone called out.
It was like a ghost following him and warning him of what was to come.
Then the gunshots blasted through the night. Kriminal started to run but felt a slug tear through his arm. He fell down to his knees, more lights coming, more cars slamming on their brakes.
It’s comin’ it’s too close it’s gonna—
The vehicle squealed and lurched over to the other side of the bridge, over toward Nefarius, striking the guy and catapulting him into the side of the bridge railing. The duffel bag exploded, sending cash floating down all around them.
Kriminal still knelt, seeing more cars coming, turning, crashing.
A silver BMW veered off sideways and crashed into a stopped car, sending it into the other lane. A small Prius approaching in the other direction barely missed the oncoming vehicle, then turned sharply with brakes howling and flipped, the car turning upside down.
An oncoming truck tried to stop, its brakes screeching, but it clipped the overturned Prius and sent it spiraling across the bridge.
Kriminal watched all this, seeing the hand of God somehow protecting him while Satan himself moved the rest of the pieces, to devastating effect.