John Gilstrap - Nathan’s Run

Nathan felt moved. He took the toy gratefully and stuffed it into the front pocket of his ragged denim shorts. “Thanks,” he said. At once, they both became aware of the sounds of sirens growing in the distance. “I gotta go,” Nathan said, and he disappeared out the apartment door.

Nathan’s plan was to use the back stairs; to get out the way he’d gotten in, through the basement. Somehow that made more sense to him than going out the front door. When he’d taken only three steps down the hall, he heard the pounding of running feet behind him.

“Hey, Nathan!” a voice called.

Nathan’s body reacted to the sound of the voice even before his brain could process its source. He sprawled face-first onto the stained carpet of the hallway, like a baseball player sliding into third, just as he heard the familiar phut, and a tiny geyser of plaster fountained from the wall. He shoulder-rolled to his left as a second bullet slammed into the spot he’d just occupied on the carpet.

Nathan scrambled on all fours to a sharp turn in the hallway to his right and dove the last four feet for cover behind the wall. Plaster dust stung his eyes as a shot aimed for his head blasted through the outside corner of the wall instead. Just before the last shot was fired, Nathan caught a glimpse of his attacker through his peripheral vision. He was dressed in a cop’s uniform.

Nathan never stopped. He shoulder-rolled again to his feet and charged down the second hallway, ignoring the bitter profanity that exploded from the cop. Only fifty feet more, and he’d be at the stairwell door, over which only a bare lightbulb remained in the sign that had once read EXIT. Twenty feet now, and the pounding of his own footsteps was joined by the heavier stride of the cop, beating a bass counterpoint to the quick staccato of his borrowed sneakers. He knew better than to look behind him.

When he heard Pointer’s footsteps stop abruptly, Nathan knew he was in trouble. Without a conscious thought, he zigzagged the last ten feet to the exit. He heard the suppressed gunshot at the same instant as an invisible fist slammed into the right side of his rib cage and a neat round hole appeared in the metal door three inches in front of him. The impact of the blow forced an oof sound from his lungs, and he staggered as he propelled himself through the fire door.

Nathan didn’t run down the stairs; he flew down them, using the steel railings to vault from one landing to the next, barely touching a single concrete step on the way.

When he reached the bottom, he risked a quick look back up the stairwell. Pointer was two levels behind, but gaining quickly.

Nathan whirled away from the interior stairwell and tore through the basement on his way to sunlight. The clutter of boxes and equipment all seemed so harmless now. A drunk arose from a corner near the exit door, perhaps intending to relieve Nathan of a few dollars, but he shrank away from whatever he saw burning in the boy’s eyes.

Propelled by fear, Nathan plowed through the exterior door as if it weren’t there, slamming it against the wall hard enough to break the doorknob. Thirteen steps later, he was at ground level, sprinting across the street toward a schoolyard. The sirens were extremely close now.

The drunk startled Pointer as he pursued his prey through the basement, earning him a bullet through the heart.

By the time the Hit Man had cleared the exterior stairs and reached ground level, the first of the arriving police cars was already visible down the street, and Nathan had started to blend in with the schoolyard scenery across the street. Just before disappearing around the far corner of the school building, the boy paused and gave him the finger.

Pointer found that amusing. In a smooth and well-practiced motion, Pointer unthreaded the silencer from his weapon and surreptitiously slipped the Magnum back into its holster. He nodded politely to the first string of arriving cop cars and strolled casually across the street toward the school.

Petrelli called Stephanie back, and within minutes, they’d r matched the telephone number to its address. And because the number originated with a third party, Petrelli remained compliant with Judge Verone’s order. The arrest would stick.

So fuck you right back, Michaels, Petrelli thought with a smile.

Sheriff Murphy had dispatched all available units—some thirteen police vehicles—to the Vista Plains Apartments to take Nathan Bailey into custody. Just as moths are drawn to lights, television news crews were drawn to the sounds of the sirens. Those who’d been monitoring the police scanner knew that they were making their move on the Bailey boy. Those who’d been monitoring The Bitch knew that he’d be gone when they arrived. What no one knew for sure was where he was going to go.

The first police units to arrive at the apartment building sealed off all the exits, posing ominously with their weapons supported by the hoods of the vehicles, using the steel fenders and engine blocks as cover. Later, neighbors would joke about the fear in the eyes of these officers as they faced down a little boy who’d already left.

With the exits controlled, they could buy the time they needed to await the Pitcairn County SWAT team, which arrived one at a time, each in his own vehicle. Deputy Steadman was one of the last team members on the scene, having started his response from way out on the Hartford Road side of town. The instant his vehicle came to a stop, Steadman’s door swung open and he dashed around to the trunk. Trained as the team’s lead sniper, he assessed the current situation and decided that his M16 carbine was more appropriate to the task at hand than his Remington sniper rifle. He snatched the weapon with one hand and his utility vest with the other, slammed the trunk lid closed, and trotted off to the command post.

The SWAT leader made the decision to go in fast and strong, crashing the door and taking the kid without negotiation. The leader reminded his troops that their prey had a proven history of killing cops and that he was an accomplished marksman with a pistol. He told them to take no unreasonable chances. If the kid showed aggression, they were to take him out.

The seven-member team charged straight up the front stairs, one man covering the rest as they leapfrogged from one landing to the next. Once on the sixth floor, they moved swiftly and silently to Apartment 612. Tommy Coyle kicked the door and went in low to the left while Gale Purvis went in high to the right to neutralize any traps that might have been laid for them. After a two-count, the rest of the team poured into the apartment, weapons to their shoulders and ready to shoot.

“Police Department! Don’t. Move!”

Straight ahead in the living room, a young black boy, maybe ten years old, lay stretched out on a sofa. As the cops streamed into the room, the boy sat up and smiled at them, surprisingly nonplussed by all the guns.

“Hi, guys!” Billy said cheerily. “You’re on TV.”

When there was no one around, Nathan ran full-tilt, as fast as his legs could pump; but when he thought he could be seen, he slowed to a fast walk, hoping to blend in. Twice that he knew of, he’d been recognized. You could see it in their eyes.

In the first case, an older woman looked confused after she made eye contact, like she was trying to place him with a family she might know. The second time, though, there was definite recognition. A young mother with two little children first showed curiosity and then fear as she placed his face, and she hurried into a store. Crowds be damned, Nathan decided to run after that; to get to another block, at least.

Each time he checked over his shoulder, there was no sign of his pursuer. Nathan told himself that he’d lost the guy, but he knew better.