The Bodyguard

Raymond's Mistake

Raymond Salem’s life of crime came to an end when the clock struck midnight.

The night was like any other, save for the brighter lights beyond his apartment complex and sirens in the distance. Sirens were common here, but they seemed louder than usual, plus more repetitive and persistent. It was New Year’s Eve, after all.

Snowflakes descended from the Tennessee sky, covering Ireville in a thin blanket of icy fluff, and Raymond chose to—for once—retire early. He had a sinking feeling in the pit of his gut all day, though he wasn’t sure why. Perhaps it would be better to lay low this New Year’s rather than partying. Every time he ignored his gut, he always paid for it later—usually with unwanted attention from the cops.

It was tricky, avoiding trouble with the police—but luckily, he and his friends had allies within the precinct. Crime families weren’t especially ravenous in East Tennessee, but this city was an unaccounted-for cesspool.

Ireville was a big city, not nearly as big as places like New York—but large enough, comfortable and spacious enough to call home. And, since it neighbored Sevierville, Gatlinburg, and Pigeon Forge, it often saw tourists who couldn’t afford the more extravagant attractions in the nearby towns. Ireville was a hidden nook of crooked business behind an innocent cloak of wandering tourists and Sevier County homebodies—and it was the perfect home for screw-ups like Raymond. At least, he thought so.

It wasn’t as if Raymond participated in anything horrid, like sex-trafficking or meth production. No, he preferred the ‘cleaner’ side of dirty business, transporting firearms and moving simple things like marijuana for buyers throughout Ireville and beyond.

He and his friends had a good routine for it. One might even call it peaceful; it was a simple business. They were something of a family, a wide-spread network of closely-knit misfits making business with anyone and everyone who paid, even the strange Italian family who recently moved to Ireville from the great NYC.

Raymond didn’t know much about them, only that they used to drift through the city like everyone else. They were once simple passerby criminals, stopping off in Tennessee to buy or sell before moving on. That was the regular routine for most buyers—after all, Tennessee wasn’t a notorious nest for high-end criminal families. No, it was merely a bridge state, a simple pit-stop for moving merchandise—but it seemed the Italian family was breaking this routine.

Recently, they’d made themselves comfortable in Ireville, according to the friends and gossipers Raymond would occasionally hear from. The family went by the name of Acardi, and the Acardi family only lived in the city for about seven months so far. At first, they gave Raymond’s friends a bit of business—but lately, he’d been hearing more concerning things in his usual hangouts. Evidently, the Acardi family was more interested in fattening their own business rather than indulging in anyone else’s.

That wasn’t good for Raymond and his friends, of course—but they’d get by somehow. They always did.

Raymond mulled over the thought, dismissing the rumors of the Acardi family from his mind and tossing his thick black hoodie onto the back of the nearest chair. He wandered deeper into his darkened apartment, sighing and feeling tired.

The place was shrouded in blackness, small and tightly-fit, the three chairs from the kitchen table all turned in improper directions, two of them covered by clothes and other random items. Directly across from him was the window that overlooked the street below, the only source of light in the room, fluorescent brightness dimly illuminating his bed with an ominous nighttime glow. His rounded kitchen table, small and worn, was still covered with its usual abandoned beer cans, an ashtray filled with cigarette butts, and a few loose ramen noodle cups and plastic bowls leftover from his most recent microwaveable meals.

Not a noise stirred, save for the couple next door, who were lost to another muffled shouting match on the other side of the wall. He sighed again and moved toward the window, paying the noise no mind as he allowed his mind to wander.

Raymond stopped, leaning a knee on his bedside and gazing out the window distantly, his silver-gray eyes sparkling in the faint light’s reflection.

He ran a hand down his narrow face, briefly scratching the thin goatee that curled around his thoughtful frown. His eyes danced from building to bright, glowing building—such a perfect place for his lifestyle, this was.

Tennessee was a bridge state, a state connected to numerous others, making it a perfect cartel spot for transporting goods—and it made his little career thrive. He and his friends met new faces alongside old allies from other states on a regular basis, random crime families passing through Tennessee and picking up needed supplies along the way, always stopping off in the hidden metropolis of Ireville, a crook’s ultimate pit-stop for any south-bound road trip.

A faint, sly smirk emerged on his face as he pondered on this. Just today, he drove Mack’s van toward the state line up north and handed the goods off to a group of usual buyers from Boston—and now, his duffle bag was stuffed with rent and electricity money. His apartment would be much less dark tomorrow.

Yet another productive day came to a sleepy end as the new year crept closer to flourishing, as the world beyond his dark and dingy apartment drank and partied like mad. All was well.

Raymond combed his short stringy hairs back, scratching at his widow’s peak hairline and stretching. After popping a few bones and yawning loudly, he kicked off his shoes and prepared to sink down onto his bed, finally ready for a well-deserved sleep.

Then, just as he sank his slender body onto the mattress—his front door gave a hard jerk.

Raymond froze, narrowing his eyes across the dark room and glaring at the door pensively, his heart giving a nervous jolt.

The door gave another jerk, and he continued to glare, his expression hardening.

Slowly, he moved to his feet, removing the Smoky Mountains painting from his wall and reaching into the hole behind it—a crooked hole in the drywall, where he kept his nine-millimeter tucked out of sight.

Just as his hand began to coil around the cold metal of the gun in the wall, he heard a voice that made a massive wave of relief wash over him.

“Ray!” the voice of Benny shouted from the other side of the door. “Let me in!”

Raymond gulped, exhaling a relieved cloud of breath and placing the painting back on the wall. Benny—one of Raymond’s oldest friends in Ireville—continued to twist and jerk the doorknob frantically from outside.

“Calm your shit,” Raymond barked as he approached the door. “Hold on a sec.”

He barely managed to unlock the door before Benny shoved it open.

Panting and exasperated, Benny stumbled into the dark apartment and quickly slammed the door behind him, relocking it and facing Raymond with an alarmingly urgent look about him. Benny’s long blond hairs, usually wild and unkempt, were even messier than usual, his eyes wide and shining a fearful blue, his mouth hanging slightly agape.

Raymond squinted oddly at him. “What? What’s your problem?”

“I—I just,” Benny sputtered, pausing and fidgeting repeatedly. “Sorry, man—I have to tell you something really important.”

“Okay,” Raymond mumbled slowly, cocking his head at Benny. “You bust in here in the middle of the night—after the long-ass day I’ve had—Christ, I just wanna sleep. Well, spit it out. Tell me. Hurry up.”

“Ray, I… just…” Benny shook his head numerous times, pacing on the spot and combing back his hair over and over.

Raymond glared at him questioningly.

Benny was a different breed from Raymond, considerably less-composed and less-restricted when it came to morality. Raymond had something of a code—and there were certain things he refused to be a part of—but Benny had no such affliction. He, like many criminals, was willing to do almost anything to get the job done and get his payment.

And now—as Raymond examined the frantic look on his face—he suspected that Benny had, once again, stepped a bit too far out of line. He’d probably gotten himself into trouble again, and he was running to Raymond for a solution, as usual.

“Jesus… what did you do?” Raymond sighed, shaking his head at Benny.

Benny returned his stare, curling his mouth and biting his lip.

Then, Raymond noticed something strange—an expression he’d never seen on Benny before, one of utter regret. He honestly didn’t think Benny capable of such a face; most times, Benny had no regard for shame or remorse whatsoever. Now, however, he looked like an entirely different person—like someone who finally understood the severity of his less-than-reputable actions. he could only imagine what drastic situation had spawned such an unthinkable visage on a person like Benny.

“What did you do?” Raymond repeated more firmly, feeling a pinch of uneasiness at the look of conflict strewn across his friend’s face.

“Stole some shit,” Benny breathed, his voice shaking. “From a… from the…”

“From who?”

“From some… some guy in… the Acardi family.”

“Oh—Jesus fucking Christ, Ben. Are you kidding me? Why in the fuck would you piss those people off?”

Benny began to tremble, wincing as if his next words wounded him from within. “Th-they cornered me and they… they made me tell them who I worked for. So… I told them…”

“You told them what?”

“I t-told them you made me do it—”

“WHAT?” Raymond’s heart gave a furious jump, his hands curling into fists as his teeth gritted together. “Are you—FUCKING KIDDING ME?!”

Benny backed away several steps, staggering into the door and cowering.

Raymond stormed forward, feeling a wild flurry of things—and the rest and serenity from moments ago vanished without a trace, quickly replaced with a bombardment of rage and betrayal, leering into Benny as if he was the lowest form of scum in existence.

“I didn’t make you do shit!” Raymond snarled, swatting at him and marching forward. “Why the fuck would you throw me under the bus like that?! Eleven years—eleven fucking years, we’ve known each other—and you stab me in the fucking back?”

“I’m sorry!” Benny wailed pitifully, tears streaming down his face. “Ray—I’m sorry!”

“No—you’re not fucking sorry,” Raymond glowered, his chest rising and falling with every incensed breath, his eyes predatory as they locked onto his former friend. “You covered your own ass—and in the end, that’s what you’re always out to do. So, no, you’re not sorry. But you’re gonna be.”

“No, no, no—no!” Benny rambled quickly, scrambling away and waving frantically as Raymond drew closer. “No—listen—that’s why I came here, man! I wanted to tip you off—”

“Oh, yeah—a lot of fucking good that’s gonna do!” Raymond snapped. “Those greaseball motherfuckers are gonna have hitmen after my ass! Oh, wow, yeah, you tipped me off—yeah, that totally solves the problem! You’re a spineless piece of fucking dog shit, you know that?!”

Benny continued trying to back away, but he found himself hunched in the corner beside the front door. He sank pitifully to the floor, and Raymond glared silently into him for several seconds before speaking again.

“Get up,” Raymond breathed, his voice now a faint, cold hiss. “Now.”

Benny gazed up at him, saying nothing and not moving.

“Get up,” Raymond repeated, hunching over him. “Now.”

Still, Benny made no attempt to stand.

Raymond quickly lost his patience. He snatched Benny up by the collar and reared back, throwing a hard punch and feeling his knuckles collide with Benny’s jaw. A harsh snap sounded and Benny let out a howling scream—and Raymond threw him over the kitchen table, cans and plastic dishes flying amok as the table turned over—

Benny hit the floor and crawled away frightfully, Raymond advancing on him and lifting one of his chairs. He didn’t hear the hammering on his front door.

“Hey!” one of his neighbors shouted, banging on the door loudly. “What the hell’s going on in there?! I’m calling the police!”

Raymond didn’t hear them; he raised the chair and brought it down with all his might, shattering it into three splintery pieces as it exploded over Benny’s head. Benny doubled down in pain, and he sobbed and cursed profusely as he scooted away from the broken chair, blood pouring from his mouth and staining the front of his once-white wife beater.

Raymond loomed over him like a dark cloud, his teeth bared and his heart thrashing with anger.

He should stop—he knew he should stop, now that Benny was bleeding and sputtering with a broken jaw—but his rage hadn’t yet subsided, still raging inside like a wildfire.

Benny was one of his best friends, someone he trusted for years.

No—the level of this betrayal called for more.

“GET UP!” Raymond bellowed.

Benny didn’t stand—and Raymond grabbed him and jerked him to his feet again, holding him upright and giving him a searing glare before the final blow.

With an incensed and animalistic scream, Raymond grasped Benny’s head with both hands and forced it downward—smashing his skull against the lopsided kitchen table.

Benny let out a choking groan and fumbled to the floor in an instant.

Raymond panted and wiped his face, stepping back and glaring down at his bloody friend.

The neighbors continued pounding on the door, yelling that they’d called the police, but Raymond still didn’t notice. He remained lost in Benny, angry, rushed, and frustrated—but now, he also felt a horrid strike of fear shoot up and down his body as he gazed into his now motionless friend, lying dreadfully still at his feet.

Benny lie crooked and lifeless, blood slowly saturating the carpet beneath him. His head was now pouring crimson as well, and he was no longer sobbing, no longer cursing, no longer so much as breathing.

Raymond’s heart began to pound even harder, his breaths thin and rapid as his head began to go light, shock overwhelming him entirely.

He slowly drew back, placing a hand over his mouth and digging his fingernails into his cheek, a sense of nausea rising up inside him as he gazed into Benny, motionless, bloody, and now completely unresponsive.

Minutes could have passed, or hours—he couldn’t know.

The next thing he knew, the police were banging on the door—and the criminal Raymond Salem faced his final moment of freedom as the clock struck midnight.

Osmond's Break

Seven months passed before Osmond tasted freedom again.

The routine sank into him—a disturbing and unsettling one, one of moving through lines and crowds of men wrapped in tattoos, all wearing constant scowls whenever they weren’t cracking ill-mannered jokes or dishing out death threats for the most minor of reasons.

He’d never lived behind bars before, but he quickly summed up an opinion on the lifestyle; he’d never hated anything more than life in prison.

The skinheads seemed to hate him for sitting at the wrong table in the mess hall by accident, calling him tasteless things like an n-word-lover and passing death threats to him whenever possible. Everyone else seemed to be longing for a fight with him as well, seeming to search for one at every opportunity, and the life soon grew to be unbearable.

The sights and sensations of anxiety remained the same; the same gray ceiling appeared over his head every day, followed by the same movement of stepping off the top bunk, the same daily task of working and avoiding others in the yard, the same dread he felt whenever he’d return to his room with his schizophrenic cellmate.

It was beyond unfair—to have his life ripped away, and not for any laws he’d broken, but for a misunderstanding that led to an accidental death.

The judge didn’t seem to believe that Benny’s death was accidental, not after hearing a detailed description of how Osmond purposefully delivered the final blow.

And now—with twenty-five years of prison time to look forward to—he dwelled on the issue senselessly on a constant basis, growing angrier by every passing millisecond.

The more he mulled over the thought—the more he endured nightmares of Benny’s murder—and the more he faced the assholes inhabiting the prison alongside him—the more he knew for certain that something must be done.

Yes, he made a dastardly mistake on the night of New Year’s Eve—but he shouldn’t have to spend the majority of his life trapped in this hell-hole.

No—he deserved better than that, at least.

So, amidst his seemingly endless stay in Ireville Correctional Facility, Osmond plotted an escape—several possible escapes.

He absorbed every detail of his routine, every minor fluke in the system and every blind spot of every guard he saw. With every night, he glared into that old gray ceiling, expression stony with deep and heavy thought—pondering, dwelling on every blind spot he’d seen from the guards, every area of the building where a person wasn’t likely to notice him sulking about after prying his old broken cell door open, and every dark area outside where the spotlights above never seemed to coast over.

The surreal nature of his obsessive actions didn’t catch up to him until the night of his escape—when he finally reached the outside after dark, the cold night air blasting over him as he ran, shaking him to his core and finally awakening him from his seven-month prison nightmare.

Time passed—the only sound being his quick and agile movements as he maneuvered through the darkness.

The longer he moved through the enclosed shrubbery, the more he felt a slow panic rising up inside; he couldn’t know if it spawned from the claustrophobia, or the dread of being pursued by the police, or perhaps some combination of the two.

Yet still, he pressed on—swallowing every ounce of anxiety and glaring into the blackness with a fierce determination that ought to have been admired.

During this moment—more so than he felt during his arrest, during the times he stood before a judge in court, and during each hellish day within this prison—he felt everything from his past slip away, as if he was never Raymond Salem, as if his simple life of driving illegal merchandise through numerous parts of Tennessee never existed. It felt like his entire life up until now was nothing more than a distant and faded dream—something he could never reach again, never return to. Because now, he didn’t have his old one-room apartment anymore. He didn’t have his van anymore, and he didn’t have his reputation of leadership on the streets of Ireville anymore. He didn’t have his belongings—not even the clothes he once wore.

Everything from his old life was ripped away, and he knew—when and if he escaped the confines of the law—he could never return to that life again.

He had no clue where he’d go—but he wasn’t about to accept an unjust imprisonment.

No, he was always good at improvising. He’d have to make this work.

Somehow.

The old yellow trailer appeared in his mind as he wormed through the shrubs, clinging to the memory and trying his damnedest not to absorb his closely-confined environment.

That place—that trailer in rural Tennessee toward the Smokies, the one with the peeling yellowish exterior and the diamond-shaped window on the door—that was the only place Osmond Williams could go.

Raymond Salem’s old home and hangouts would never be safe again—but Osmond William’s old home, however, would be the last place anyone might look.

Osmond repressed a grunt and shook his head, silently denying the idea. He hadn’t spoken to his mother in many years, and he didn’t much like the idea of returning to his childhood home. No, he’d find another place. The yellow trailer was a last resort.

But no other places came to mind as he pondered on the thought, and his eyes darted around the blackness surrounding, his heart thumping harder.

Then, at long last—he spotted a hint of light ahead, the dimmest light ever, a faint glow of moonlight reflecting from the fence just ahead of him.

The place would be put on high alert any second now—and the grand escape he fantasized about for months—it was now or never.

So close.

Osmond let a wicked smile crawl across his face. The air washed over him wonderfully as he headed outward, and with more faith than he’d ever had in his life, he took the most daring leap ever—soaring down and moving forward—and he flew from the shrubs and launched down the nearest hill, hitting the ground hard and rolling swiftly over the grass, feeling an exploding pain in one of his ankles—but nothing snapped, and nothing broke.

He’d still be able to run—and he didn’t stop for a second, springing back to his feet and sprinting away at top speed.

Osmond clasped onto the chain links and began to climb quicker than ever, planting his feet into the holes hurriedly as he scaled the fence.

He climbed briskly and reached the top, flattening himself out and squeezing through the barbed wire best he could. He felt it tug and tear at him, slicing open his skin—but he continued without a hint of hesitation, worming to the other side and climbing down as fast as possible.

He jumped when he was only halfway down the fence, landing on all fours as his ankle gave another pained jolt.

The guards would be sweeping the rooms now. The place would be put on alert any second—and now, Osmond found himself running with the velocity of a freight train, dashing into the remainder of the woods and praying to disappear before the police could catch up.

It was bizarre; as he ran into the night, grinning like a madman and bleeding from several places, Osmond knew he wasn’t ahead of the game. He knew it would be extremely difficult to survive even if he managed to complete this escape, and he knew the cops would be searching for him throughout Ireville even if he succeeded in disappearing. His old life was gone forever, and he had absolutely nothing left in the world—but still, nevertheless, as he darted into the breeze and leaped over roots and vines, he felt happier than he ever remembered feeling before.

It was a stroke of divine luck; he shouldn’t have been able to pull off such an impulsive escape, especially with his lack of planning and his uncharacteristic willingness to take leaps of faith—but how wonderful it was, such a rush to succeed in such a daring action. Osmond always planned everything perfectly, using his wit to keep his illegal career thriving—but now, he felt like an entirely different person, someone who embraced impulsivity and acted on his most basic core instincts, relishing in it all as he did.

He’d never felt so alive.

But—the longer he ran blindly into the darkened trees, and the more his body ached and throbbed—his rush of adrenaline began to fade, as did his smile.

He had no idea how long he ran before he stumbled to a stop, his head spinning as a wicked exhaustion swept over him. He clasped onto a tree and fought to catch his breath, his head lighter than a feather, legs burning and lungs screaming. He then leaned over, panting and staring downward, his vision blurring, his shoes shifting in his sight as the grass blades seemed to distort into twos and threes…

Osmond barely allowed himself any breath before forcing himself onward. He had to put as much distance between himself and the prison as possible. The cops would be right on his ass—and he had no window of time to pause, none whatsoever.

He began to walk rather than running or jogging, nearly tripping on a tree root and barely catching himself—and he staggered forward, then stopped instantly, blinking at the ground several times and realizing that he’d stumbled onto pavement.

Osmond slowly raised his head, glancing back and forth and seeing that he was now standing on the edge of an isolated back road.

A few street lights illuminated small portions of the road up and down the stretch, but aside from them, the area was shrouded in only darkness and trees, no noise occurring—no car engines, and no sirens yet.

Osmond gulped and stood stock still, staring fixedly down the road and waiting.

He couldn’t run any farther—and even if he could, they’d capture him. He couldn’t make this entire escape on foot, as his body wouldn’t cooperate—and besides, the police would catch up to him in a heartbeat if he didn’t find a ride out of here.

He glared down the dark road, his expression stony as his chest rose and fell, patiently waiting for a vehicle to appear.

He didn’t have a weapon, but he knew he could take a vehicle by force with his bare hands alone, assuming the driver wasn’t armed. He’d stop the next vehicle, take the driver hostage, and force them to drive him away—or, perhaps he’d take the car and leave the driver stranded.

Then, a horrible thought struck him; if he forced someone to drive him away, or if he car-jacked them, the driver would likely report it to the police, and the cops would have a scent to follow. Besides, no one would simply stop for him, not now—not with him looking like a murderous escaped convict.

He couldn’t do this by force.

Osmond stared down at the concrete, sparking an idea.

Perhaps he didn’t look like an escaped convict—after all, he’d discarded his prison uniform before escaping his prison cell. Without his prison uniform—standing wounded and alone in the street, wearing only boxers—he imagined he looked more like a victim, like someone who’d been mugged or robbed.

Someone a random driver would be much more likely to stop for.

Yes—if he kept his cool and refrained from acting forceful or demanding, he could get a ride home without warranting a stranger filing a police report. That was the best he could hope for.

A pair of headlights suddenly appeared far down the street, directly opposite Osmond.

He glared down the road with determination, taking a deep breath and mentally rehearsing everything he would say and do. God willing, those headlights didn’t belong to a police car…

Thankfully, when the vehicle rolled closer, Osmond saw that it was simply an SUV, a tan-colored one with a man and a woman sitting in the front seats.

Osmond slowly raised his hands as the vehicle drew nearer, softening his expression into a face of pity or desperation, motioning for them to stop.

The man and woman exchanged faces from behind the windshield of their truck, slowing to a stop in front of Osmond, and their headlights washed over him almost blindingly. The man and woman were both middle-aged, probably a husband and wife. The husband was the one driving, and he tapped the steering wheel as he stared at Osmond with caution.

Osmond lowered his hands, wiping his face and trying to maintain his pained expression, hoping to appear as pitiful as possible. The headlights illuminated his mostly-bare body, shining over his tattoos, his bruising ankle, and—most notably—the bloody scrapes and cuts on his arms, hands, torso, neck, and face. The barbed wire had torn him up, especially his knuckles.

The man and woman traded wary glances again. The woman appeared mortified, but the man seemed calmer, wearing a perturbed and grim visage.

Osmond moved around the vehicle and approached the driver door’s window, hoping to speak with the man behind the wheel. This man—a burly guy with a large beard—rolled his window down, meeting Osmond’s eyes briefly before scanning him up and down.

“Hey, buddy… what happened?” the man asked.

“I got jumped,” Osmond replied, forcing his voice to crack. “S-sorry, I just… need… ahm…”

Osmond heard the woman exclaim a faint “Oh!” from the passenger seat, her expression now changing to one of surprise as she covered her mouth.

“You need a ride?” the man asked him.

“Yes, please,” Osmond responded, nodding and wiping his bloody knuckles off on his boxers. “I just need to get home…”

“Did you call the police?” the woman squeaked.

“N-no, they… they took my phone,” Osmond replied wittily. “I’ll call the cops when I get home. I planned to file a police report… after…”

“Hop in the back,” the man requested. “Where d’you live?”

Osmond met his gaze, resisting the urge to flash a sly, victorious smile. “Western Avenue on the south side of town. You know where it is…?”

“Yeah, yeah, I been around there a few times,” the man told him, swatting loosely toward the back seats. “C’mon. We’ll getcha home.”

“Thank you—seriously, thank you,” Osmond told them with a nod, opening the door behind the driver door and climbing into the vehicle.

As the bearded man began driving again, Osmond let out a long cloud of breath, outstretching over the back seat and gazing up at the SUV’s ceiling.

For a short while, neither of the strangers up front spoke, and Osmond finally allowed himself to relax for a moment, the gentle hum of the vehicle and the soft music playing from the radio lulling him into a state of composure. He was able to feel his aches and pains more heavily now, both of his hands stinging terribly, but it hardly mattered. The cozy interior of a stranger’s truck never felt more welcoming.

“Honey,” the woman said timidly after a few minutes of silence, slowly turning in her seat and eyeing Osmond behind her. “I can call the police right now, if you want.”

“Nah, I’ll just… I’ll do it when I get home,” Osmond told her, running a hand down his face. “I know the guys who did it. I can name them, and I know what neighborhood they live in, so… there’s no rush. They’re gonna get caught regardless of what time I call, so… I just… I want a minute to relax… before I have to deal with all that.”

“You know the guys who jumped you?” the bearded man inquired, glimpsing at him through the rearview mirror. “You know ’em personally?”

“Yeah… they used to be friends of mine,” Osmond continued to lie. “My buddy was convinced I slept with his girlfriend, even though I didn’t… it turned into an altercation, and… just got out of control.”

“Lawd have mercy,” the bearded man grunted. “That’s some damn Springer drama…”

“Oh, sweetheart, that’s horrible,” the woman said sweetly, tilting her head at him and giving him a sad stare. “Do you want us to stop off anywhere for you? Maybe Goodwill, if you want something to put on… or a drive-thru, if you’re hungry…”

“No, no… that’s okay,” Osmond sighed. “Thanks for the offer, but I just wanna get home…”

“Are you sure?” the woman asked. “Do you wanna go to the hospital first?”

“I’m all right. It’s just a few cuts and bruises. Thank you, though.”

“Okay, hun…”

“Well, my name’s Dan, and this here’s my wife, Carol,” the bearded man explained, gesturing to himself and his wife. “What’s your name?”

Osmond opened his mouth, and the name Raymond almost escaped him without his permission.

He paused, cleared his throat, and replied.

“Osmond,” he said, feeling strange as he heard his birth name from his own lips for the first time in many, many years. “Osmond Williams.”

“Well, pleasure to meetcha, Osmond—and if you don’t mind me saying, get better friends,” Dan advised with a chuckle. “You might wanna find some friends who don’t beat your ass and leave ya’ stranded. I hope ya’ put up a good fight.”

Osmond pondered on this, outstretching his arms behind his head and gazing thoughtfully up at the truck’s ceiling again. So many fights, he’d endured—many of them on the streets, many of them in prison, and to conclude them all, the battle of wits and luck he’d just barely managed to win only a short while ago.

“Sure as hell did,” Osmond replied with a faint half-smile.

“Good, good,” Dan nodded. “You might wanna move out of the south side of Ireville. I’m just a tourist, but I’ve driven through there before. It’s the slummy side of the city.”

“I plan on moving,” Osmond murmured, his eyes sparkling with a profound silver shine as he stared intently upward. “Really… really soon.”

Dan nodded silently, and everyone fell quiet as he drove onward into the night.

Osmond’s mind wandered into the past—his apartment, his routine, everywhere he’d drive, and all the familiar faces he’d see, including Benny’s. But, no one would ever stare into Benny’s mischievous and childish face again—and Osmond would never adopt that routine again, either.

Once he reached his old apartment complex, he would make a quick stop to grab a couple of necessities from his apartment before fleeing on foot. He had no clue if his van was still there—and even if it was, he couldn’t use Raymond Salem’s vehicle in this escape. If he wanted to remain free, he’d have to sever himself completely from the life of Raymond Salem—and after he got his belongings from the apartment, he hadn’t the faintest idea of what he’d do next. Only one thing was for certain.

He certainly couldn’t afford to be Raymond Salem ever again.

This particular situation was the precise reason he adopted a new identity in the first place. Raymond Salem was a fall name, an invented identity, a name attached to an Ireville criminal—and now, a wanted murderer. Now that he’d landed in trouble with the police, he’d have to rely on his birth name from here on—assuming his life remained free from imprisonment.

He had no clue how he’d make it work, but he’d done well to improvise so far.

Hopefully, his luck would hold out.

Eventually, the darkened trees vanished from sight out the truck’s windows, and the lights of the city slowly came into view.

Osmond remained lying on his back, gazing up at the window upside-down and watching the glorious Ireville lights coast by, each of them casting a brief shine over him as the truck cruised past, buildings and cars nearby.

He’d entered his home once again, though he wasn’t sure how long it would last. He certainly couldn’t make himself comfortable in south Ireville anymore—but could he flee the entire city? That aspiration didn’t seem entirely realistic. It wasn’t as if he had any family or friends beyond Sevier County or the areas surrounding. He had nowhere else to go, and no way to travel.

No—he couldn’t get caught up thinking that far ahead. For now, he had to focus on getting those important necessities from his apartment and fleeing the complex as quickly as possible afterward.

Raymond Salem’s apartment—that was the first place the police would search for the escaped criminal. He couldn’t afford to linger in that place for long.

As the peaceful drive continued, Osmond pondered on his old life, sparing it a few final thoughts as he prepared to abandon it forever.

He thought of Benny—the little strung-out troublemaker who acted like a daredevil despite his cowardly nature. He thought of Sam, his snarky friend who ran the pawn shop, as well as the crooked business behind the pawn shop’s perfectly-legitimate front. He thought of Carlos—the tattoo artist who drew Osmond’s tattoos—and he thought of Anton, the bar owner who once hired Osmond as his bouncer. He also thought of Mack, the gigantic redneck with the sun-damaged farmer’s tan, a brilliant fighter and a damn powerful ally for any possibly confrontational situation. Then, lastly, he thought of Orlando—the oldest member of the team, a grisly Mexican veteran of the streets, the man who originally gave Osmond a new identity and an excellent career in the underside of Ireville. All of them were close, and they all had connections, numerous friends and business dealings throughout south Ireville—but now, all of that was over for good.

The days of driving Mack’s vehicle alongside Benny and Sam were over, as were the days of collecting merchandise with Anton and Carlos. He’d never hang out at the bar with them again, never start meaningless fights or hustle people out of money during well-planned games of pool again. He’d never find himself loitering at the warehouse with his friends again, all of them smoking, drinking, and talking fancifully about the day they’d make it big in the city. Osmond and his friends—they were all one business, one central movement of gun-running, a prosperous and simple business that was invisible to the public—and they worked together like a well-oiled machine. It all seemed so seamless, almost harmless. Osmond knew he might end up in trouble with the law someday, but he never imagined it being as severe as it was now.

The more he tortured himself with the thought of his old life, the worse his wounds seemed to ache. Osmond dismissed the thoughts and shook his head, gazing up at the window again and watching the city coast by.

It didn’t matter how much he valued his old job and his friends.

He simply didn’t have a choice. His old life would have to flicker out like a dying flame, and Osmond Williams would live while Raymond Salem faded into memory. It was the only way he could hope to remain free.

Still—despite always presenting himself as the leader of his little gang, and despite the tough front he always portrayed to his friends—he felt a slight ache in his chest as he accepted the hard truth of the matter. This was a forever goodbye, and letting go simply wasn’t easy.

Those law-breaking, booze-guzzling bastards were the closest thing he ever had to a family—those low-down bastards who found a way to make money despite being born into poverty, just like Osmond himself. They all had it in common—the motivation to do whatever they could to survive and succeed—and that was something they always bonded over, no matter their ages, skin tones, and backgrounds.

Of course it was a difficult thing to let go of.

Still, he had no choice. Whether he absconded with his birth name or returned to prison—either way, he would never live that degenerate Raymond Salem life again for as long as he lived.

He wondered—if he did find a place to go and a way to start anew—what he’d make of himself the second time around. The thought of such a daunting responsibility was as exciting as it was terrifying.

“Here we are,” Dan said, snapping him out of his thoughts.

Osmond levered himself upright in the back , wincing and leaning between the two front seats.

He gazed out the front window, observing the familiar environment outside—the long thin street, the cheap and worn-down homes on the left side, the liquor store and the apartment complex on the right. That tall gray building drew steadily closer as Dan drove toward it, Osmond’s old home—or rather, Raymond’s old home. This would be the last time he laid eyes on the familiar sight of the apartment complex growing in sight as he rode closer—his final night as Raymond Salem.

Dan pulled to a stop beside the entrance to the apartment complex’s parking lot, turning and giving Osmond a final stare.

“Be careful from now on,” Dan advised. “Ya’ hear?”

“Absolutely. Thank you,” Osmond replied, shaking his hand.

“Take care of yourself, dear,” Carol told him. “Don’t forget to call the police when you get inside. You can’t let those people get away with what they did. Nobody should get away with hurting their own friends like that.”

Osmond spared her a brief stare, thinking of Benny and feeling a sickened knot in the pit of his stomach. Then, he simply nodded in agreement, feigning a smile.

“Yeah, I will. Thank you… goodnight.”

He stepped out of the truck, giving Dan and Carol a few last waves and goodbyes.

Osmond paused as he watched the truck drive off, not tearing his eyes from the street until the SUV rolled around the corner and vanished from sight behind the liquor store. Then, he turned, glaring up at the apartment complex and inhaling a sharp breath, attempting to summon his adrenaline once more.

Any second now, the police would roll into the parking lot and swarm the building—so now he had to act fast again.

Osmond broke into a brisk stride, following his old trail back to his apartment, through the middle hallway, up the rickety metal stairs on the back-left corner, and entering the outdoor hallway on the top floor. He marched down the hall, his eyes locking onto the door directly across from him—the one at the far corner, his old home.

Osmond grabbed the knob and turned, but the door was locked. He swore under his breath and paused for a moment, wondering if Lancer—his friend and landlord—had cleaned out his apartment and locked it, preparing to rent it out again. Or, perhaps someone else was already living inside. He had no way of knowing.

But, no—his apartment was a crime scene where a grisly murder took place. Osmond doubted anyone was rushing to claim such an apartment. Perhaps Lancer simply locked it to keep others from interfering with the crime scene inside or breaking and entering on his property.

Osmond paced up and down the smelly hallway for a moment, running his fingers through his faded sandy hair as his mind began to race.

Finally, he stopped, coming to a resolution.

It didn’t matter if he made a ruckus, did it? After all, he didn’t plan to stay long. He’d have to run away from this place as fast as possible whether he broke into an apartment or not.

So, Osmond took a few steps back, tensed up, and exploded into a run—and he rammed his shoulder into the door and threw his body into it with all his might, the lock ripping from the door’s frame and sending wooden shards flying amok.

The door blasted open, and the knob broke a hole in the apartment’s wall. Osmond hit the ground inside the dark apartment, landing painfully on a broken segment of one of his old kitchen chairs, his wrist tangling up in a wrapping of yellow tape.

Osmond blinked several times, peering around and seeing that the apartment was just as he’d left it, aside from the yellow tape left behind by the investigation of Benny’s death—the interior completely dark, messy as ever, and with a broken chair in the middle of the floor, as well as a black, crusted stain on the carpet disgustingly close to Osmond’s face, where Benny’s blood had saturated the floor months ago.

Osmond covered his mouth and swallowed the urge to gag at the sight of it, reaching his feet and quickly closing the door.

He spared the apartment no extra glances or sentimental thoughts—now wasn’t the time. He moved quickly, yanking clothes off the laundry mountain on the far chair and dressing himself as fast as possible.

He slipped into his cleanest and newest pair of jeans—which wasn’t something Raymond Salem often did. Raymond usually wore the same three outfits all the time.

Now, however, Osmond Williams was calling the shots.

He couldn’t do much to change his appearance right now—but he knew Raymond Salem would never wear a beanie in the middle of summertime. So, Osmond rifled through his dresser until he found his big black beanie, the one he usually only wore in winter. He fixed it onto his head before finding a jacket he’d purchased and never worn—a thin black zip-up jacket in his bottom dresser drawer. He slipped into a clean tank top and dressed himself in the black jacket as well, then stepped into the bathroom and stood before the sink, washing the blood from his hands without bothering to properly clean or bandage them.

Then—his eyes homed in on the painting beside his bed, the painting of the Smoky Mountains. One more thing to do.

Osmond tossed the painting off the wall, revealing the gaping hole in the drywall. He reached inside and grabbed his nine millimeter, sliding the gun into his jacket pocket before reaching into the hole again. The final item he pulled out was a zip-lock bag filled with small folded papers, as well as a leathery foldable document, its cover a dampened vanilla hue. He opened the document, scanning over the high school diploma of Osmond Williams before skimming over the other papers inside—an ID, a social security card, a birth certificate, and a firearm permit, all under the name Osmond Williams.

He’d never been so grateful for his habit of planning ahead, and he almost wanted to say a quick prayer, thanking God that the cops had never found this stash.

He hoped he’d never need to use everything in this little stash, but it was certainly necessary now. He only wished he would’ve added some cash to this stash a while back, but bills and other living necessities made it difficult to save…

Osmond pocketed everything from his stash, spinning on his heel and heading for the door.

He yanked it open and stepped out to the hall, greeted by the hallway’s light—and by a familiar man standing directly before him.

Osmond stopped on a dime, heart jolting, realizing that Lancer the landlord was right in front of him now.

Lancer was holding his old prepaid phone, his gray hairs slicked back beneath a hat, as it usually was. The landlord’s wrinkled face portrayed a visage of sheer shock, gaping at Osmond as if he’d never seen anything quite like him before.

For a moment, the two of them merely stared at one another, a palpable tension looming over the hallway.

Then, Osmond gulped and inhaled, giving Lancer a firm look. “Don’t call the cops.”

Lancer shakily closed his mouth, looking somewhat remorseful. “I—I already did.”

Osmond let out a growling breath of frustration, shaking his head and shooting his old landlord a searing glare.

“I thought it was somebody else,” Lancer uttered. “One of my tenants just called me up and said they heard a big bang up here, so… I figured some asshole was breaking in…”

Osmond stared at him wordlessly, his heard beginning to pound again.

“Go,” Lancer breathed, swatting his hand and motioning down the hall. “I didn’t see you, and we never talked. Go on, Ray—get out! Run! Now!”

Osmond gave him a nod. “Good man.”

At that, Osmond whirled around and darted down the hallway at top speed, sprinting outside and thundering loudly down the metal stairs.

He didn’t leave the way he came; Osmond rushed across the back parking lot and jumped the fence in a hurry, landing awkwardly in a mess of bushes and thorns before fighting his way to his feet again.

He glanced over the fence and the bushes just in time to see the apartment’s parking lot filling with flashing lights of red and blue, sirens echoing throughout the neighborhood as police began to surround the building.

Osmond turned away and erupted into another tiring run, punching and swatting at bushes and branches as he fought to escape from his old life forever.

He couldn’t know if he was spotted, and he prayed dearly that he could flee the area before the police could corner him—and as he ran, flying past trees and vaulting over fences, dashing through backyards as a million prayers raced through his mind, he wished for a miracle.

After all—even if he escaped the police now, he had nowhere to go.

There was no one he could go to for sanctuary, and he had nothing but the papers and pistol shoved into his jacket pockets.

Yet still—despite the hopelessness of the situation—he forced himself onward and continued to chase freedom, hoping and praying desperately that a miracle would rescue him soon.