Alexander Plansky - Arcadia

“She nearly split your skull open.”

“Please, it wasn’t that strong of a hit.” Lewis could imagine Jackson’s face, seeing him get all defensive. His fingers reached the lock again. Now he began moving his right hand toward the handle.

“You should be more careful,” the woman said.

“No shit, Caruso. I’ll try to get whacked in the head next time too.”

“Both of you, can it. This operation has been a failure so far and will be until we bring the girl to Zhao.”

“Would’ve saved us some hassle if we’d just kept this fucker in the backseat last night instead of having to chase his ass down again – wait, what the hell is he doing?”

Shit. He’d wanted to wait for the next red light, but there was no choice now. Lewis pulled the lock open as he grabbed the door handle and pulled it. His eyes opened to see the asphalt moving beneath the vehicle as his exit grew wider. He willed himself forward, preparing himself for the impact on the road, but a hand roughly grabbed his shoulder.

Blackwell. So much for shooting first.

Lewis jammed his elbow backward as violently as he could. It caught the man in black under his chin, plowing into his trachea. He clutched his throat and reeled back. There was no time to hesitate now.

He threw himself out of the moving vehicle.

Lewis hit the ground and tumbled, keeping his arms tucked to his chest. An SUV abruptly swerved into another lane to avoid barreling over him. A Mercedes sedan right behind it slammed on its brakes, causing a jam and several loud horns behind it. Lewis hurt all over, but there was no time to see if he was seriously injured.

He hauled himself to his feet and began stumbling for the divider in the center of the Strip. His legs felt okay, he could definitely do this.

A bullet whizzed by his ear. Lewis threw his head over his shoulder to see that the black Malibu was stopped in the middle of the street up ahead. Jackson had gotten out of the passenger door and was firing at him over the roof of the car with a silenced pistol.

Lewis dove onto the divider, which was about five feet across. Planted palm trees were surrounded by various shrubs around their bases. He landed in a patch of green plants and quickly scrambled to get back up, running out into the oncoming traffic of the northbound lanes.

A taxi slammed on its brakes and nearly hit him, his hands slapping down on the hood of the car as if that would’ve helped stop it. The driver honked and began screaming obscenities, which were muted by the windows.

“Sorry,” he said, looking at the next lane. A Ford Escape sped by and he leaped forward after it passed, sprinting for the sidewalk. Voices shouted behind him as he touched the pavement and looked over his shoulder to see both Blackwell and Jackson running out into the northbound lanes after him. Lewis didn’t look if Jackson still had his gun out. He pushed his way through the gathering crowd, the commotion on the street having attracted a large audience. They apparently hadn’t seen Jackson firing at him; if he hadn’t used a suppressor, there would’ve been pandemonium right now.

“Excuse me, sorry,” he said, snaking his way through the throng of people.

“Fucking move!” Blackwell screamed somewhere behind him. Lewis could hear him aggressively shoving people aside.

Up ahead, the crowd parted and he saw open sidewalk beyond. He slid past the last of the clustered bystanders and broke into a full sprint across the pavement, dodging stray pedestrians. The pathway curved around some tropical foliage, swerving him away from the street. Glimpses of orange rays of sunset broke through the palm fronds beside him as he dashed past stores and shops on his left. The footfalls of Jackson and Blackwell were not far behind him.

Then the row of foliage ended and Lewis found himself sprinting toward the intersection of Las Vegas Blvd and Flamingo Road. An elevated pathway stood in place of a crosswalk at each corner of the juncture, each with its own elevators and escalators to get pedestrians up to the bridge.

His lungs burned and it hurt to breathe. Pain and exhaustion racked his entire frame, like his body just wanted to collapse in the middle of the pavement. Clenching his teeth, Lewis pumped his legs faster and raced for the intersection.

The three men running drew attention from a cop standing by the wall of a building. “Hey, slow down!” he began, but Lewis barely heard him. The escalators and staircase faced south and he was coming from the north, so he had to swing around to jump onto the moving metal steps.

“Watch it!” a woman with several boutique shopping bags said as he pushed past her.

“Sorry,” Lewis said, gasping for breath. He knew he must’ve looked like a mess to everyone around him, drenched in sweat and frantically fleeing for his life.

Blackwell and Jackson had taken the stairs, which would give him a slight lead so long as all these damn people didn’t slow him down. Shoving a man talking on a Bluetooth headset aside, Lewis scrambled up onto the top of the bridge and took off toward the other side of the street, unable to admire the breathtaking auburn sky above him and the way the city began to light up in the fading sun.

Not far behind, the two men in black reached the top of the stairs and continued after him. He heard a man say “Oh my God!” and there was a muffled pfft sound, followed by a searing pain in the side of his right leg. Lewis stumbled, glancing down to see a gash in his jeans next to his shin and red blood spilling freely from it.

He turned and grabbed the railing as he fell, his right hand going to the wound. Someone screamed. Jackson held his pistol out and Blackwell stood right beside him, turning to the ten or so people around them.

“It’s alright,” he said. “This man is a criminal. We’re investigators here to arrest him.”

“He’s lying,” Lewis spat. It was just a flesh wound, he realized. They were trying to immobilize him, not kill him. But Jackson wasn’t as good of a shot as he thought he was. If he’d aimed properly, Lewis wouldn’t be able to walk right now. “Show them your badges!” he shouted.

The men in black didn’t move.

“Come on,” he said, trying to think of his best avenue of escape. No, the bullet hadn’t really got him that deep at all. It felt pretty shallow, just stung a lot. He could run on that. He was going to have to. “Show us all who you work for.”

Jackson came closer. “Put your hands up and turn around.”

“DROP THE GUN!”

Jackson and Blackwell spun around. The police officer from the street corner stood there, his sidearm aimed at Jackson. “Put down the weapon, asshole.”

“We’re investigators,” Blackwell said. “This is a federal case.”

“Show me your badges.”

“I’m afraid that’s classified.”

“Bullshit.”

Lewis began tepidly retreating as the men argued.

“Show me your goddamn badges,” the cop said. “Several witnesses say you shot this man.”

“He was trying to get away,” Jackson said.

“Show. Me. Your. Badge.”

Neither of them moved. Keeping the gun aimed with one hand, the cop moved his other to a radio clipped to his shoulder and pulled it closer to his mouth. “This is Lasky, I’m on the northern bridge at Vegas and Flamingo. Requesting backup–”

Blackwell rushed forward and grabbed the officer’s gun-wielding hand, forcing it skyward. The weapon discharged. The remaining observers screamed and fled. They struggled for a moment, then Blackwell whipped the cop’s arm downward and Lewis heard it break. The officer screamed, then the man in black pulled him to the railing and aggressively threw him over the barrier.