MAKING NEW FRIENDS

MAKING NEW FRIENDS
Emerson’s Pov

“You Emerson? Beckett?”

The voice unexpectedly slashes through the quiet like a fucking blade. It's rough, male, and close, echoing from the mouth of the alley.

I pivot before I think, instinct dragging my shoulders square, my weight forward and my phone behind my back. “No. But get out of my face, I need to piss.”

But even as the words leave my mouth, I know I’m screwed. The cadence of my voice feels like a flare— bright, obvious. I’ve walked into a trap, fallen straight into the pit someone dug just for me.

I could almost laugh. Can I catch a fucking break?

A figure detaches from the shadows and steps into the alley, doubling. They're tall, wearing dark clothes that gleam sinisterly under the waning light. Their faces are mostly shadowed under hats, but I can see the hard set of their similar, sharp jawlines.

These men don’t look like random muggers or petty thieves. There’s nothing sloppy about the way they stand; feet apart, eyes trained on me.

Their expressions didn't even fucking change when I denied my name. The one who asked didn't sound curious even though he'd structured it as a question.

I think it's safe to say Al’s isn't in this fucking alleyway.

There's a ripple of movement to my right, which turns out to not be a fucking cat. It's a smaller man stepping out from behind an overflowing dumpster a little ways in front of me.

So now there are three. Three of them against—

A door creaks open to my left, spilling thin light across the mucky ground, and a fourth and fifth figure step out to block the door I hadn't taken notice of before.

My pulse spikes, as my odds swiftly reduce to basically zero. My stomach drops as I realise I have absolutely nothing on me that I can use to defend myself. And I can hear the harsh pounding beat of the music inside; no one is going to hear me fucking screaming.

This is bad. What do I do, what the fuck do I do?

My brain flashes through conflicting images. First, I'm running through the alley, escaping into the night and then I blink and they've caught me, wrestled me to the ground and bound my feet.

The odds are really not in the favor of the first one.

I swallow hard but I don’t move. Not yet. A man that isn’t Emerson Beckett wouldn't move. Maybe if I put some holes into their conviction they'll leave me alone. “The fuck? Do y'all have nothing to do then watch a man piss?”

The one at the front, their ring leader, doesn’t answer. Instead, he takes a threatening step closer, uncannily silent for his size. He doesn't look like he's fucking buying it.

I tense, something inside me draws taut.

My throat tightens, as he slides his hand into his jacket. Every instinct in my body screams that it can't be good. He can't be reaching into his dark jacket, in an alley to offer me the word of God.

So I run.

I turn on my heel and bolt, hoping he doesn't shoot me in the fucking back. My slides slap on the ground, as I step into things that squelch. The alley stretches long and narrow ahead, framed by brick walls slick with graffiti and definitely grime.

Boots pound after me, too close for my liking. My lungs burn, and my heartbeat is in my throat and my ears. What is my fucking plan?

The alley forks ahead— a left turn, narrow and crooked. I take it without thinking, my shoulder scraping brick as I go. A pile of something topples in my wake, and I hope it slows them down, even a little bit.

I’m trying to open my phone to call somebody. But in between running at full speed and trying to keep holding on the fucking phone, I'm not very successful.

“Stop!” one of them bellows. “Beckett! Stop now!”

Like hell. Even if they were the police I still wouldn't fucking stop.

I take a split second to pause and dial Adam's number as I cut right again. My breath comes in ragged bursts. I hear them gaining— their footsteps syncing in rhythm.

That moment costs me. Arms close around me violently, and my phone drops from my hands. Fuck.

“Let me go!” I yell, thrashing. My phone slides partially under some trash but I can still see it ringing. He's not supposed to have started his game just yet.

My knee comes up hard, catching someone in the thigh. There’s a grunt, a curse and I twist frantically but another arm wraps around me from behind, limiting the air into my lungs.

My phone is still ringing.

I drive my elbow back, once, twice and thankfully it connects with something solid. The grip falters, just enough for me to wrench free and stagger forward. . . right into a fist.

All the breath rushes out of my stomach, and I grunt, coughing as I try to keep myself upright.

Fucking pick up, Adam!

Fingers hook into my collar and yank me back so violently I choke even more. My spine hits cold brick, the back of my skull exploding with pain. The alley reels, a mash of dark colours and menacing shadows.

Adam doesn't pick up.

Before I can draw another full breath, someone places a forearm across my neck, pinning me. Other hand clamps around my wrists, holding me in place.

“Got you,” the ring leader mutters into my ear.

Fucking hell! I thrash in their hold, desperation burning through me like fire. My boot connects with a shin. Someone curses, and it's immediately followed by another flare of pain from a fist against my ribs this time.

“You’ve got the wrong guy,” I wheeze, my voice breaking on the last word.

He almost smiles. “I don't think so.”

“You do—”

A slap forces the rest of the words back into my fucking throat, as my head pivots back into the wall I'm pressed again. My ears ring and my eyes take a moment off to process.

A rough smell fills my nose, put there by a piece of cloth that's suddenly in his arm. I know what it is, I've smelled it before, sold it before. She studied it in high school. It takes a while but just before my vision goes dark, I let myself fall limp.

The cloth is removed from my face and I take a discreet breath as my body is left to fall forward. Before I can blow my cover and catch myself, arms wrap around me preventing my head from smashing into the ground.

Immediately I feel that, the soft hold of someone trying to prevent me from hitting my head instead of holding me like a restraint, I push away, intent on trying to run yet again.

I've barely turned around before the thick ruffle of fabric, followed by the click of the safety of a gun, sends a chill down my spine.

Before I can even process it fully, the gun fires.