Silverlighters (2 page)

2

The thick heels of my shoes echoed as we moved down the stark, concrete stairwell. I couldn’t hear the soft tread of my father’s rubber soles at all.
 

“What’s wrong with the elevator?” I asked.

He ignored me, his body tense and alert, one hand on the gun hidden beneath his shirt.

“I thought we were in a hurry,” I muttered.

My father stopped, his back going rigid as he held up a hand in warning.

My breathing quickened as he leaned out over the stairwell, the gun in his hand.

I looked up, but there was nothing to see. Just ugly concrete walls spattered with graffiti.

Above me, the faded blue letters of a message written long ago seemed to be directed at me:
live every day like it’s your last …

And beside me, connected to the first message by a trail of arrows:
tomorrow never comes …

My father motioned to my shoes with a quick nod of his head. I kicked them off and just left them there, the cold seeping through my socks.

The messages continued as we moved down the stairs, neither of us making a sound now. The words, probably meant to be inspirational, took on a dark, ominous tone.

It’s already here…

I clutched my bag to my chest, as though it could protect me.

Somewhere...

Sometime…

You are already dead

&

You never existed

The final words, painted in fresh black paint, were on the door at the bottom of the stairwell. I couldn’t look away from them as my father pushed the door open, sticking his head out just enough to see into the parking garage underneath the building.

“Let’s go,” he grunted.

With one last look at the strange message, I followed him.

A sense of impending doom seemed to hang over us, the feeling of urgency growing stronger as we hurried past the rows of cars.

I watched my father’s face, searching for clues. His dark eyes darted about, seeming to take in everything at once as we moved.

We reached the car, and I stopped, but my father kept moving.

“Dad?” I hurried to catch up. “The car’s back there.”

“It’s no good to us now,” he said, not stopping until he reached a beat up tan colored Ford Mustang. He reached under the wheel and pulled out a tire iron, using it to force open the trunk.

“We’re stealing a car?” I couldn’t quite get my head around it.

“No,” he said, and for a moment I could only stare stupidly as he pressed a lever inside the trunk, and the bottom popped up, revealing a hidden compartment.

It was filled with weapons, neatly laid out in their own special compartments. Mostly, it was guns and ammunition, and some of the stuff we used for training. My father was big on training – he wanted me to know how to defend myself. But there were things in there I’d never seen before.

“Put the bags on the back seat,” he snapped.

When I just stood there staring into the trunk, wondering why the hell we needed a backup car, he grabbed my arm, spinning me to face him. “Hurry. We’re running out of time.”

“Time? For what?”

He didn’t answer.

I heaved the bags onto the back seat, and slammed the door. The fear I’d felt was quickly turning to anger. I wanted him to tell me what was going on. I wasn’t eleven years old anymore. I didn’t need to be protected.

My father withdrew a small black handgun, and rammed it into my hands. Then he grabbed my shoulders.

There was a fierce look on his face, and his eyes were dark and haunted as they met mine.

“Jen, you need to trust me. No matter what happens.”

No matter what happens
– the words pounded at my head as I nodded, too stunned to speak.

The fear returned, and this time it was crushing, threatening to overwhelm me.

No matter what happens –
my mother said the exact same thing the day she died.

Even now, I can still hear her voice in my head.

I love you, angel. You have to remember that, no matter what happens.

No matter what happens.

Had she known, even then?

Something changed inside me.

I was
not
going to let anything happen to my father. “Let me help. What can I do?” I asked.

“Matches – in the glove compartment.” He pulled out one of the long wooden sticks we used for training, and wrapped an old towel around the end of it.

He slammed the trunk, and when I returned with the matches, he set the towel on fire.

“Dad?”

“Start the car. Meet me at the security gate.” He tossed the keys to me.

“But – I don’t have my license,” I said stupidly as he left me alone, moving quickly across the parking lot.

I got into the driver’s seat, and took a deep breath.

Then I checked that the safety was on, before shoving the gun between my thighs, desperately hoping I wouldn’t have to use it.

My dad taught me how to drive when I was thirteen, so that wasn’t an issue. He also taught me how to handle a gun, but I’d never actually fired one before.

As I reversed I watched my father in the rear-view mirror.

He was holding the flaming pole up to the smoke alarm.

That was when I saw the man with the gun step out of the shadows, moving purposefully toward my father.

He was enormous – like a bear – his thick, muscular limbs straining against his khaki pants and a black sleeveless shirt. He moved slowly and deliberately, as though he had all the time in the world.

I didn’t stop to think this time. I just reacted.

I hit the accelerator, still in reverse, my hand pressing down on the horn.

Startled, the man turned.

He had a face I will never forget.

It was hard and craggy, with a thick puckered scar that split one side of his face from the corner of his mouth to his cheekbone, giving the impression of a leery grin.

But he definitely wasn’t smiling as he pointed the barrel of the gun at me.

There was so much anger and hate in his face. And it was directed at me.

Adrenaline flooded my system as a second man flew out of the fire escape.

“Go. Get out of here,” my father’s words echoed through the air.

Then a terrible sound filled the air.

“No,” I shouted, the word becoming a scream that threatened to send me over the edge.

I choked it back, and slammed my foot on the accelerator as the noise continued.

“It’s just the fire alarm,” I muttered, trying to calm myself as I reversed in my father’s direction. “Just the fire alarm.”

At the last moment I swung the car around so the driver’s door was facing my father.

The man with the scar was running, his gun pointed at my father.

The second man was already half way across the parking lot.

Without thinking about what I was doing – with only one thought in my mind – I shoved the driver’s door open, then twisted around. Pushing the bags out of the way, I clambered onto the back seat, the metal of the gun cold in my hands.

I don’t even remember flicking the safety switch, it all happened so quickly.

I just fired straight out the back window.

All I could think was that he was going to shoot my father.

That I couldn’t – wouldn’t – lose another parent.

A perfect circle marred the window where the bullet went through, then the sound of return fire filled the air, overriding the shrill tone of the alarm.

The back window exploded as I ducked down.

I shielded my head with my arms, chunks of glass raining over me as I imagined my father lying in a pool of blood.

“Dad?” I shouted.

By then the fire alarm was really beginning to tick me off.

Scared, my hands shaking, I looked out the side window, keeping my head below the top of the back seat. There was no sign of movement.

Then another shot filled the air.

Heart hammering against my chest, I risked poking my head above the seat, terrified for my father.

The man who’d come out of the stairwell was running my way – faster than should be possible – his dark hair flying out behind him.

But he wasn’t shooting at me.

He was shooting at the fire alarm.

There was almost something graceful about the way he moved, catlike even. He was like a sleek black panther, all arms and legs and long, rippling muscles.

The fire alarm stopped abruptly.

I could have kissed him if it wasn’t for the fact his gun was now pointed in my direction.

We both fired at the same time, just as the man with the scar leapt to his feet.

The man with the scar jerked slightly as the bullet hit him, already turning to face the shooter.

But he was too late – the other man was already soaring through the air, his body turning as he raised his leg.

His foot slammed into the man’s chest – the movement so swift and sudden – that when the man with the scar hit the ground, the other one was standing on his chest, pinning him down.

I heard my father yelling, but couldn’t hear what he was saying.

It felt like all the blood in my body had rushed to my head. I could hear it roaring in my ears.

Then I felt the weight of the car shift as my father got in, and the car lurched forward, face planting me to the seat.

The smell of burning rubber mingled with the bitter scent of gunpowder.

When I looked out the window again, they were both gone. As if they’d never been.

I never really got a good look at the second shooters face, but for a long time, in the dreams that followed, it was his face I saw – the same face I was falling completely and ridiculously in love with.

Back then, I had no idea if he was trying to save me, or if he was trying to kill me.

I stared out the window, wondering where they’d gone, metal screeching on metal as we drove through the security gate.

A car horn blared as we cut across the oncoming traffic, and then all I could see were the people streaming out of the apartment building, looking scared and confused.

I searched for Bianca as I climbed into the front of the car, wondering why my father had set the alarm off, when an explosion rocked the building.

“Did you do that?” My heart stopped as I stared at the flames pouring out of our kitchen window on the fifth floor.

My father shook his head, and I believed him.

“How did you know something was going to happen? What about Bianca? I didn’t see her.” There was a slightly hysterical note to my voice, and my hands were shaking as the adrenaline continued to surge through me.

“She’s fine,” my father grunted, carefully removing the gun – which I had been waving around in the air – from my hand.

“But – how can you know?”

“I just do,” he bit out.

That was when I saw the blood on the steering wheel.

“You’re hurt. Did you get shot?”

“I’m fine,” he grunted.

“Show me,” I demanded.

“It’s nothing. It barely grazed me.”

“Show me.” Panic threatened to engulf me. I couldn’t lose him too.

He thrust his hand in my face.