𝗔𝗰𝗾𝘂𝗮𝗶𝗻𝘁𝗮𝗻𝗰𝗲𝘀

Seven.

Rebecca Caruso

"No cops," Marco declared, cautiously approaching and casting a wary glance at the motionless figure sprawled on the concrete.

I peered around, wishing somebody else took the initiative; the pedestrians that once stood near us succumbed to typical bystander fallout... No one cared if it wasn't their problem. People merely faded back into the city's profound siren calling, dismissing the helpless; with echoes of blissful ignorance and drunken laughter taunting the vulnerable.

"What do you mean, no cops?" I said, peering down at Frank's lifeless body.

The pooled blood slowly seeped into his clothes, staining the once pristine white collar of his Hawaiian shirt a vivid red.

Damn it.

"Let me at least call an ambulance!" I protested, my words tumbling out in a state of disarray, as I hastily retrieved my phone. "He needs a doctor. I can't just leave him like this." Throughout my time on call, I had witnessed far too many deaths due to excessive bleeding, a significant portion of them caused by bullets—deaths that could have been prevented if someone had just dialed 9-1-1 in time.

"He'll be fine," Marco asserted firmly, nudging the unconscious body with his right foot. There was no response, no movement, not even the faintest twitch.

"And what makes you an expert on this?" I retorted, frustration and a bitter awareness of the carnage and death I had encountered far too often coursing through my words. In Chicago, whether people liked to acknowledge it or not, we were in the midst of a kamikaze warzone, with Mr. Hyde on steroids, and most were blissfully unaware. "Clearly, he's not fine."

I doubted someone like Marco had ever laid eyes upon lifeless corpses before.

"I've never heard of anyone being 'knee-murdered' before; he's fine," Marco quipped as he carefully stepped over the prone figure, drawing closer to where I stood. "Hey, look at me, Rebecca," his hand gently directed my chin, giving me no choice. "Trust me. Frank ain't dead."

"You can't possibly know that," I uttered while pushing myself away from his embrace. Marco stayed silent; he began pacing outwards, eyes focused down towards the gates of hell. "Marco...?" Without a doubt, I should have gone with my initial gut feeling.

"The club's security team will come up any minute to handle this." His expression was deadpan as he grabbed Frank's gun from the ground.  "I can't have you here when they arrive..." he added while flipping the switch for the safety mechanism. 

I watched as he concealed the weapon between his jeans, behind himself.

Jesus, this guy knew what he was doing.

What in the hell did I get myself into?

"I need you to listen very carefully, Rebecca." He placed his palms over my shoulders, keeping me in a fixed position as he spoke. "Tonight you and I never met. You were never out here, and all this with Frank never happened, understand?"

In all honesty, didn't know how to answer his question, let alone process everything.

Logically, Frank did attack me, so it would have been self-defense if we did get the authorities involved, but then again, Robert would have a field day if he found out...

"Fuck—" I could feel my breath accelerate, anxiety and adrenaline fueling my lungs with panic and terror. Screw suspension, I'd be kicked off the police force permanently if word gets out about what happened tonight.

Maybe it's for the best.  Maybe it's better to go against every intuition and forget this ever happened.   After all, I could have spoken to any guy at the club, I just happened to be lucky enough to choose the one with enemies. 

Technically, it's Marco's mess. Not mine. We're just random acquaintances—nothing more, nothing less.

No need to get involved, Rebecca.  No need to get involved.  No need to get involved...

"Fine...I wasn't here." I agreed, knowing damn well that I've placed my faith in much more disastrous things. "I didn't see anything."

"Atta girl," he calmly remarked with a subtle smile before giving me the tightest of hugs.

I wasn't accustomed to all this touchy-feely commodity that Marco comfortably implied.  I mean, don't get me wrong, I don't mind those things — it does feel pleasant; Christopher just wasn't one for casual physicality.

"Now," He noted as we detached, "where is—"

The headlights of a large SUV instantly provoked our vigilance as it immediately jerked over the curbside and onto the sidewalk. It pulled over to the curb, wheels spinning, half stopping, the driver then letting it drift back onto the road.

"The fuck?" I internally remarked while hastily pivoting even further away from the street.

First becoming a hostage and now being run over, at this point, it felt like being back on patrol duty. I surveyed the area around us as Marco smirked; he just subsisted at the exact location—unmoved by the commodity.

You should have fucking gone home with Christopher...

I continued to gawk at this massive idiot-of-a-vehicle that halted about a foot from where the now unconscious Frank was laying. It was a well-kept, black, Chevy Tahoe with custom black window tints and ultra-clear headlights.

The limousine-based vehicle plate followed the same motive, spelling out the words AM-CTY1. American City One, perhaps? I never quite understood the need for customized plates.

"It's good, relax Rebecca. We're good," Marco pointed out knowing the acute, wide-eyed, adrenaline my face was portraying. "It's just my driver."

"Wait—" I stuttered in bewilderment. "This, this is your driver?" This was the guy who planned to drive us home?

"Right on the nick of time," he nodded while watching me creep back closer.

The passenger window rolled down revealing a seventy-something-year-old, shirtless, man wearing dense prescription lenses leaning forward on the starting wheel.

"Jesteś dobry, signore?" The driver asked in a familiar tongue.

"Tak, tak, wszystko jest w porządku," Marco replied before looking back at me. "Rebecca, this is Earl; he's a friend of my father's. He'll take you home."

Rocking an e-cigarette in one hand, and what appeared to be a red bull in the other; this deeply tanned man had eyes that were set so far forward on his face that neither his peripheral vision nor his sense of self-preservation were able to keep him from reckless endangerment.

Oh, hell no.

"You trust this guy behind the wheel?" I murmured to Marco. 

"I trust this guy with my life."

I gave a nervous smile and waved at the crazy driver as Marco opened the back passenger door for me.

"Kim ona jest?"

"Moja dziewczyna," Marco replied flawlessly. "Musisz zabrać ją bezpiecznie do domu."

"Russian, right?" I noted while climbing into the backseat. 

They both gave an intense gaze of perplexity. 

"No," Marco curiously replied, "Polish." Our focus is thrown off by three largely built bouncers hastily charging out through the main doors of The Alcove with automatic rifles pointed about. "Fuck," Marco rapidly slammed the car door. "Take her home, napęd napędu jazdy!"

"Bezużyteczne dupki," Earl cursed as he aggressively shoved the gas pedal.

****
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