Blood and Bullets: when hearts beat in hell

POV: Scarlett

The coffee mug slipped from my hands and crashed to the floor.

Hot liquid splashed across my bare feet, but I barely felt the burn. My eyes stayed locked on the black car parked across the street from my apartment building. The same car that had been there for three hours.

Three men sat inside. They wore dark suits and sunglasses even though the sun had set an hour ago.

My phone buzzed on the kitchen counter. Unknown number.

"Don't answer it," I whispered to myself. But my hand reached for it anyway.

"Hello?"

"Hello, Scarlett Justice."

Ice filled my veins. Nobody had called me by that name in five years. I was Sarah Miller now. Sarah Miller who studied English at Chicago University. Sarah Miller who worked at a small bookstore and lived alone in a tiny apartment.

Sarah Miller was safe.

Scarlett Justice was supposed to be dead.

"I think you have the wrong number," I said, trying to keep my voice steady.

The man laughed. It sounded like broken glass. "We both know that's not true. Your daddy has been looking for you for a long time."

My father. FBI Director Marcus Justice. The man who had taught me to shoot when I was eight and how to disappear when I was twelve. The same man who had hidden me away from his dangerous world with fake names and false papers.

"What do you want?" I asked.

"You, little girl. Dead or alive doesn't matter much to us."

The line went dead.

My hands shook as I dropped the phone. Outside, car doors slammed. The three men were getting out, walking toward my building like they owned the place.

I ran to my bedroom and pulled out the go-bag from under my bed. Dad had made me pack it when I turned eighteen. "Just in case," he had said. "Just in case my enemies find you."

Inside the bag: fake ID cards, cash, a gun, and enough supplies to disappear for weeks.

Heavy footsteps echoed in the hallway outside my door. Someone was picking the lock.

Think, Scarlett. Think like Dad taught you.

The fire escape. Third floor window in the bedroom led straight down to the alley.

I grabbed the bag and my jacket, then tiptoed to the bedroom window. My fingers fumbled with the old latch. Come on, come on.

Click.

The front door burst open behind me.

"She's here!" a deep voice shouted.

I threw the window open and climbed onto the metal fire escape. The cold Chicago wind cut through my thin shirt, but I didn't stop. Down the ladder, one step at a time. Don't look back. Don't think about how high up you are.

"There! She's going down the fire escape!"

Gunshots exploded above me. Bullets sparked off the metal railings next to my head. I dropped the last few feet to the alley and landed hard on my knees.

Pain shot through my legs, but I forced myself to run.

The alley led to a busy street filled with late-night traffic. I pushed through crowds of people leaving restaurants and bars. Nobody looked at me. Nobody cared about one more college girl hurrying home.

But I could hear them behind me. Heavy boots on concrete. Angry voices getting closer.

My phone buzzed again. Different number this time.

"Scarlett, it's Detective Martinez. Your father sent me. Where are you?"

Ray Martinez. One of Dad's most trusted officers. He had been to our house for dinner a hundred times when I was little.

"They found me," I gasped into the phone, still running. "Three men. They're shooting at me."