Target on Our Backs
Page 50
"I'm sure," I lie, because truthfully? I'm not sure at all. I could be making the biggest mistake of my life. Hell, I probably am making the biggest mistake of my life. I should probably feel shame… I should probably be ashamed… but I feel nothing but a strange sense of relief.
And, ugh, annoyance at the bright ass lights.
Really, is this a goddamn interrogation?
"Well, if you change your mind, Karissa, it can easily be reversed in registration," she says, rearranging my paperwork in a folder before handing it to me, "but otherwise, I suppose we're done here."
"Thank you."
I don't wait to hear if she says I'm welcome.
It has been a weird day, and honestly, at this point, I'm just ready to go home.
It's five o'clock on the dot, probably the worst time in existence to try to get home to Brooklyn. The streets are crowded, and the subway will be packed. I call the car service as I stroll down the block, toward the nearest intersection.
"It'll be about a thirty-minute wait," the dispatcher says.
I sigh, pausing, and glance around at the sea of cabs flying by all around me, most of them darkened, not in service. I'm about to tell her that's fine, that I'll just wait, when a cab suddenly flips its light on right in front of me.
"Never mind," I tell the dispatcher, hanging up the phone, as I throw my arm out. The cab halts suddenly and whips over toward me. I jump in the back of it before someone can try to steal the damn thing. Thank God.
"Brooklyn," I mumble, before rattling off the address, settling into the back. It whips back into traffic, and I glance up toward the front, my brow furrowing. It takes only a second, as my eye gloss over the license hanging from the dashboard, for recognition to dawn.
Abele Abate.
I catch his gaze in the rearview mirror, and he smiles softly but says nothing, weaving in and out of lanes as we head south. Traffic is heavy, so I settle into the seat, opening my folder to look over the paperwork.
Term Withdrawal
Leave of Absence
No, I'm not sure about this at all…
But I've been struggling, ever since everything that happened… struggling to find my footing, to find meaning in any of it anymore. It's hard to walk into those classrooms, to face those people, to know they look at me and think those things about me. So maybe I'm not sure about leaving New York… yet… but I think I'm right about leaving NYU.
It left its mark on me in the best way possible, but I've left my mark on it, too, and the mark I've left hasn't been beautiful. There's a story I heard, right after I moved into the dorm, about the ghost of a young artist haunting one of the university buildings after he died in it, and I'm not a fool to think I haven't had a part in creating more legends for the future.
The kind meant to scare others.
The kind that taints the image of the school I love.
The kind that turns good things dark.
Sighing, I glance out the side window as we pass through an intersection. I get a glimpse of the street sign, barely a blurry glance, but my brow furrows at what I see. E. Broadway. We're heading east, through the Lower Eastside, when we should've stayed south, toward the Manhattan Bridge.
My stomach twists and my heart seems to drop, my chest tightening from that knowledge. I try to keep calm as I glance toward the front of the cab, but panic is surging through me when I meet Abele's eyes.
"Heavy traffic," he says right away. "Bad accident on Canal, so I'm taking a different route."
That's logical, I guess.
Maybe?
I don't know.
Fuck, how am I supposed to know?
What I do know is Brooklyn is south from here, and the cab is pointed in a different direction. And that, Naz would say, is nonsense. Especially considering the driver doesn't look sure about any of this, himself. His eyes are darting between the road and the rearview mirror as he weaves through lanes, looking like he doesn't plan to turn south again anytime soon.
Glancing behind me, I see a black BMW right on our bumper. There's another one a few cars back. I don't know if they're related, but I know enough to say that being tailgated for any reason is never good.
Spinning back around, I watch as we near the end of the road.
Right or left. They're his options. Left, north, will take us up toward the Williamsburg Bridge, while right, south, will take us down to the Manhattan one, where we should've gone to begin with. At this point, both directions put us out of our way, but at least, over one of them, I might make it to Brooklyn today.
We reach the intersection and I hold my breath.
Right. Left.
Right. Left.
Right. Left.
He looks like he's going to go left, and swings over into the lane, but at the last second abandons his path and cuts cars off, ignoring the incessant horn blowing as he takes a right. I grip onto the seat, my heart hammering erratically, and look behind me, out the back window. The BMW hesitates, coming damn near to a complete stop in the middle of the intersection. The cab cuts down another street, doing a loop, before driving right toward Corlears Hook Park. He jumps a small curb, driving onto a path, going where I'm pretty fucking sure cars aren't supposed to go. He makes a few turns, cursing under his breath. "Shit, shit, shit…"
"Look, whatever's happening, I've got nothing to do with it… so please, just let me out… slow down and I'll jump out… just, please…"
"Shut the fuck up," he growls, whipping the car around. "I'm thinking!"
He heads right for a concrete building. It's small, but big enough that he can pull behind it, out of view. He throws the car in park, and I go to say something, but there's no time.
He's not quick enough.
He's not slick enough.
Whoever was after him, found him.
Oh God.
Before either of us can say another word, before I can try to run, to escape, a car whips around the building behind us, slamming right into the cab. BAM. I jolt, slamming into the back of the seat in front of me, my folder falling, papers scattering all over the cab floor, as my phone goes flying toward the front seat. I blink a few times as my vision goes black. It's only a few seconds before it all comes back to me. My head is pounding… pounding… pounding… and sounds are muffled… but I can see again.
And what I see nearly makes me pass out.
Men, dressed in all black, wearing ski masks surround us. Abele, frantic, cursing, locks the cab doors, but it's pointless. It's fucking pointless. A gun aims right at the window, pressing against the glass.
Abele cries out, but it's barely half a word before they silence him.
BANG BANG BANG
Three shots, right to the head, no hesitation, the trigger pulled in quick succession. Glass shatters and blood flies, and I duck my head, curling up in the backseat, letting out a scream. It originates in my chest, and I try to be silent. I try to be compliant. I don't want to die. Fuck, I didn't do anything to deserve this, whatever the hell this is. But it's too hard, and I'm too weak to keep it inside. I scream, and the window above me is shattered, a gloved hand reaching inside, undoing the lock, before ripping the door open so hard he almost tears it off the hinges.
Strong arms grab ahold of me, pulling me right from the back of the cab, yanking me around like I weigh nothing. Tears stream down my cheeks, and I can't seem to breathe. I'm hyperventilating, as he pulls me back against him, his hand wrapping around my neck, pinning me there, his gun pointed to my temple.
And, ugh, annoyance at the bright ass lights.
Really, is this a goddamn interrogation?
"Well, if you change your mind, Karissa, it can easily be reversed in registration," she says, rearranging my paperwork in a folder before handing it to me, "but otherwise, I suppose we're done here."
"Thank you."
I don't wait to hear if she says I'm welcome.
It has been a weird day, and honestly, at this point, I'm just ready to go home.
It's five o'clock on the dot, probably the worst time in existence to try to get home to Brooklyn. The streets are crowded, and the subway will be packed. I call the car service as I stroll down the block, toward the nearest intersection.
"It'll be about a thirty-minute wait," the dispatcher says.
I sigh, pausing, and glance around at the sea of cabs flying by all around me, most of them darkened, not in service. I'm about to tell her that's fine, that I'll just wait, when a cab suddenly flips its light on right in front of me.
"Never mind," I tell the dispatcher, hanging up the phone, as I throw my arm out. The cab halts suddenly and whips over toward me. I jump in the back of it before someone can try to steal the damn thing. Thank God.
"Brooklyn," I mumble, before rattling off the address, settling into the back. It whips back into traffic, and I glance up toward the front, my brow furrowing. It takes only a second, as my eye gloss over the license hanging from the dashboard, for recognition to dawn.
Abele Abate.
I catch his gaze in the rearview mirror, and he smiles softly but says nothing, weaving in and out of lanes as we head south. Traffic is heavy, so I settle into the seat, opening my folder to look over the paperwork.
Term Withdrawal
Leave of Absence
No, I'm not sure about this at all…
But I've been struggling, ever since everything that happened… struggling to find my footing, to find meaning in any of it anymore. It's hard to walk into those classrooms, to face those people, to know they look at me and think those things about me. So maybe I'm not sure about leaving New York… yet… but I think I'm right about leaving NYU.
It left its mark on me in the best way possible, but I've left my mark on it, too, and the mark I've left hasn't been beautiful. There's a story I heard, right after I moved into the dorm, about the ghost of a young artist haunting one of the university buildings after he died in it, and I'm not a fool to think I haven't had a part in creating more legends for the future.
The kind meant to scare others.
The kind that taints the image of the school I love.
The kind that turns good things dark.
Sighing, I glance out the side window as we pass through an intersection. I get a glimpse of the street sign, barely a blurry glance, but my brow furrows at what I see. E. Broadway. We're heading east, through the Lower Eastside, when we should've stayed south, toward the Manhattan Bridge.
My stomach twists and my heart seems to drop, my chest tightening from that knowledge. I try to keep calm as I glance toward the front of the cab, but panic is surging through me when I meet Abele's eyes.
"Heavy traffic," he says right away. "Bad accident on Canal, so I'm taking a different route."
That's logical, I guess.
Maybe?
I don't know.
Fuck, how am I supposed to know?
What I do know is Brooklyn is south from here, and the cab is pointed in a different direction. And that, Naz would say, is nonsense. Especially considering the driver doesn't look sure about any of this, himself. His eyes are darting between the road and the rearview mirror as he weaves through lanes, looking like he doesn't plan to turn south again anytime soon.
Glancing behind me, I see a black BMW right on our bumper. There's another one a few cars back. I don't know if they're related, but I know enough to say that being tailgated for any reason is never good.
Spinning back around, I watch as we near the end of the road.
Right or left. They're his options. Left, north, will take us up toward the Williamsburg Bridge, while right, south, will take us down to the Manhattan one, where we should've gone to begin with. At this point, both directions put us out of our way, but at least, over one of them, I might make it to Brooklyn today.
We reach the intersection and I hold my breath.
Right. Left.
Right. Left.
Right. Left.
He looks like he's going to go left, and swings over into the lane, but at the last second abandons his path and cuts cars off, ignoring the incessant horn blowing as he takes a right. I grip onto the seat, my heart hammering erratically, and look behind me, out the back window. The BMW hesitates, coming damn near to a complete stop in the middle of the intersection. The cab cuts down another street, doing a loop, before driving right toward Corlears Hook Park. He jumps a small curb, driving onto a path, going where I'm pretty fucking sure cars aren't supposed to go. He makes a few turns, cursing under his breath. "Shit, shit, shit…"
"Look, whatever's happening, I've got nothing to do with it… so please, just let me out… slow down and I'll jump out… just, please…"
"Shut the fuck up," he growls, whipping the car around. "I'm thinking!"
He heads right for a concrete building. It's small, but big enough that he can pull behind it, out of view. He throws the car in park, and I go to say something, but there's no time.
He's not quick enough.
He's not slick enough.
Whoever was after him, found him.
Oh God.
Before either of us can say another word, before I can try to run, to escape, a car whips around the building behind us, slamming right into the cab. BAM. I jolt, slamming into the back of the seat in front of me, my folder falling, papers scattering all over the cab floor, as my phone goes flying toward the front seat. I blink a few times as my vision goes black. It's only a few seconds before it all comes back to me. My head is pounding… pounding… pounding… and sounds are muffled… but I can see again.
And what I see nearly makes me pass out.
Men, dressed in all black, wearing ski masks surround us. Abele, frantic, cursing, locks the cab doors, but it's pointless. It's fucking pointless. A gun aims right at the window, pressing against the glass.
Abele cries out, but it's barely half a word before they silence him.
BANG BANG BANG
Three shots, right to the head, no hesitation, the trigger pulled in quick succession. Glass shatters and blood flies, and I duck my head, curling up in the backseat, letting out a scream. It originates in my chest, and I try to be silent. I try to be compliant. I don't want to die. Fuck, I didn't do anything to deserve this, whatever the hell this is. But it's too hard, and I'm too weak to keep it inside. I scream, and the window above me is shattered, a gloved hand reaching inside, undoing the lock, before ripping the door open so hard he almost tears it off the hinges.
Strong arms grab ahold of me, pulling me right from the back of the cab, yanking me around like I weigh nothing. Tears stream down my cheeks, and I can't seem to breathe. I'm hyperventilating, as he pulls me back against him, his hand wrapping around my neck, pinning me there, his gun pointed to my temple.
