We wove through the rows of parked cars. The air was thick with the scent of motor oil and exhaust. My old blue Buick LeSabre sat in the shadows, covered in a thin layer of city dust, looking entirely abandoned. To anyone else, it was a relic. To us, it was a lifeboat.
Lucy unlocked the doors with the remote. The lights flashed twice, the sound echoing loudly in the cavernous space.
“Get Leo into the back seat,” I told her, opening the passenger side door. “Don’t bother with a car seat yet, just hold him tight until you get a few blocks away. Then buy one at the first Walmart you see.”
Lucy threw the tote bag onto the floorboards and climbed into the driver’s seat. She inserted the key into the ignition. The old V6 engine roared to life with a comforting, throaty rumble. The headlights cut through the darkness of the garage, illuminating the concrete wall in front of us.
“Thank you,” Lucy said, her voice breaking as she looked up at me through the open window. Tears were streaming down her face, cutting tracks through the dust on her cheeks. “I don’t know how I’ll ever repay you, Carmen. You saved our lives.”
“You repay me by living,” I said softly, reaching through the window to squeeze her shoulder. “You drive fast, Lucy. You don’t look back. You change your name if you have to. You raise that boy to be a real man, not a monster.”
She nodded, wiping her nose. “I will. I promise.”
“Now go. The alley exit gate opens automatically when you approach it. Just drive through and—”
A deafening roar cut me off.
The Shadow in the Headlights
The sound echoed through the concrete garage, bouncing off the pillars like thunder. It was the high-pitched, aggressive whine of a motorcycle engine being pushed to its absolute limit.
Before either of us could react, a shadow tore around the corner of the garage structure.
The motorcycle skidded to a halt directly in front of the Buick, its front tire stopping mere inches from the car’s bumper. The bright high-beam headlight of the bike blinded us, casting long, distorted shadows against the back wall.
The rider straddled the machine. He didn’t take off his helmet immediately. He just sat there, revving the engine over and over, the sound filling the space until my ears rang.
Then, slowly, he reached up and clicked the visor open.
It was Brandon.
His eyes were wild, bloodshot, and completely unhinged. He had figured it out. He hadn’t gone to the lobby; he had gone to check the garage levels, and the sound of my old Buick starting up had given us away.
“You really thought you could steal my family from me?” Brandon shouted over the roar of the engine, his voice echoing violently off the concrete. He reached into his leather jacket, his hand disappearing into the breast pocket. “You think an old lady and a piece-of-shit car are going to stop me?”
Lucy let out a scream of pure, unadulterated terror, her foot freezing on the accelerator. Leo began to wail in the back seat.
Brandon began to dismount the motorcycle, his hand pulling something dark and heavy out from the folds of his jacket.
I looked at Lucy. Her eyes were wide with a paralysis that I knew all too well—the freezing mechanism of a person who has been broken down over years of psychological warfare. She couldn’t move. She couldn’t think.
I didn’t have time to think either.
I grabbed my heavy oak cane by the narrow end, turning the brass handle into a weapon, and stepped directly into the path of the motorcycle’s headlights, positioning my fragile, seventy-two-year-old body between the monster and the only exit.
