Date: Sat, 19 May 2007 11:18:05 -0700 (PDT)
From: Matt Wess <cow91387@yahoo.com>
Subject: Michael: Part Eleven

      Michael stared at the powerful hands that held the gun, at the eyes
that slithered from side to side, behind the counter, scanning the
shelves as if secretly checking for stowaways.  Michael's stomach gave
several sickening jolts with every second that passed.  He felt the need
to do something, but a form of paralysis kept him standing on his spot,
unable to move.
      "What do you kind sirs want?" Mrs. Kloves asked, piling dirty
dishes upon each other.
      "We want the boy."  It was a statement.  The voice was a monotone,
without inflection.  Michael felt a pulse pounding in his throat, closing
it.  He tried to swallow.  Though Mrs. Kloves showed no signs of
intimidation, Michael had a feeling that she was just as nervous as he
was.
      "I have about two hundred dollars in the register," she offered
cooperation.
      "Shut up!"
      The evenly spoken words chilled him.  Pedro dropped a bag he was
carrying.  It was a large khaki duffel bag, the kind military personnel
used.  He reached into his pocket and pulled out a ball of thick twine
and a roll of wide bandages.  Michael could not imagine what on earth
they had planned.
      Everything in the next few seconds was completely impulsive and
unexpected.  The gun sprung to life and recoiled with a sharp bang as Don
Rafael pulled the trigger.  Michael's heart bucked as innocent Mrs.
Kloves gave a hurt yelp and stumbled backwards.  The dishes slipped from
her hand and crashed to the floor.  Blood blossomed across her flowery
blouse.  She slid down the cabinets, motionless and completely lifeless.
Her eyes were frozen open in semi-fear.
      "Find the bastard and his friend!  Kill the friends if you have to,
but Carlos would want the boy alive."  Don Rafael commanded of Pedro.
Michael now understood what the twine and the bandages were for - they
were planning to take him hostage.
      Michael whirled around and for the second time found himself racing
through the back storage room of a store.  There were floor to ceiling
shelves that held large buckets of random dough and powder for the
bakery.  He stopped at the end of the one aisle as the door leading to
the back room was kicked open with force.  It smacked against the wall
with a loud bang.
      Sweat began to perspire on his forehead.  His mind was so clogged
with possible scenarios that it was hard to say what he would do next.
Pedro was recklessly knocking the things off the shelves searching for
him.
      He pressed himself against the wall, praying to disappear into the
wall, praying that Pedro would not find him, praying that he would live
another day free from oppression.  Being taken hostage back to Carlos
would not be freedom in any way shape or form.  He sealed his mouth shut;
allowing not one breath to escape from his lips, for even the slightest
sound would give away his hiding location.
      The front door opened with a jingle.  Somebody, Macy, Adam, or
Dylan had entered the store, whoever it was served as a distraction.
Pedro halted abruptly, just one row over from Michael.  His leather boots
turned on the ceramic tile floor with a tiny squeak and he hurried out to
the front of the store.
      Michael exhaled, waited for a few seconds, and then in a low
crouch, ran to the front, instinctively diving behind the counter.  Don
Rafael as well as Pedro had their back turned towards him.  He pressed
his back up against the counter, sitting on the floor - right across from
Mrs. Kloves.
      His stomach did a few sickening flips at the sight of her bloody
body, causing him to immediately look away, focusing on the conversation.
      "Who the hell are you?" Don Rafael demanded, his strong voice
echoing inside of Michael.
      The person answered the question readily.  "I live in the apart
above.  If you are looking for the boy he left some time ago."  It was
Dylan's voice in a phony British accent.  "Yes, yes, he left this store
with three other teenagers.  I am looking for Mrs. Kloves if you know
where she might be."
      Pedro ignored the question.  The next sound Michael heard jolted
him - the sound of the barrel of a gun colliding with the side of
someone's head.  Cautiously, Michael sat up and saw in the reflection of
a mirror, Dylan on the ground, holding the side of his head as blood
dripped to the floor.  Pedro and Don Rafael were standing tall over
Dylan, anticipating the next strike.
      Quietly and efficiently, Michael slipped out from behind the
counter, his heart pounding in his throat - knife in hand.  Unsteadily,
he rose to his feet behind Pedro and in a quick successive motion
inserted the knife between the shoulder blades.  The gun slipped from his
hand as he let out a manic howl, blood quickly oozed from the gaping
wound.
      Don Rafael whirled around like an agile monster, his eyes wild and
furious and surprisingly baffled.  "The boy!"  He dove for the gun on the
floor and squeezed out two consecutive shots, but by then Michael had
Dylan around the arm ushering him out of the bakery.  The glass doors
splintered from the impact of the bullet.
      "This way!" Macy called, flagging them down a few feet away from
them.  Adam hurriedly helped Michael support Dylan, who was continuously
cursing under his breath.  The four of them, reunited, ran for the hills.
      Leaving behind the small town.
      Leaving behind the two monsters.
      Ten minutes of straight running, they finally sought refuge in the
shadows of a resting area along the hallway.  A vacant bench stood ten,
fifteen, feet away from the building.  Dylan painstakingly laid down,
resting his head on Michael's book bag.  "Fuck," he groaned, taking his
hand away from the wound and staring at the blood that stained his hand
and matted down his thick brown hair.
      "What was the point of your distraction anyway?  How did you know
something was happening?" Michael inquired.
      Dylan reached into the pockets of his jean and extracted Adam's
gun.  "Macy went down to help clean up, saw the men and came up.  I was
suppose to tell them that I lived in the apartment above and they could
search it for you and once I got them where I wanted to, I blow their
heads off.  It half worked."
      "Who are those men, Michael?" Macy turned inquisitive eyes on him.
"And why are they after you?"
      Michael sat crossed-legged on the grass, thinking of how to explain
the unexplainable.  "They're friends of Carlos.  Right now he, Rosa, and
Joseph are living illegally in the country.  I was their link.  I always
had a feeling he would do something the moment he found out I left.
Carlos was never openly violent - sending goons after people to harm them
is his way of acting violent."
      "So Carlos is a mobster?" Adam questioned, arching his eyebrows.
"I mean, I would believe it.  He is one scary sonuvabitch."
      "Well this is perfect," Macy perked up.  "We call the cops and have
the whistle blown on those two men.  The number of things they already
did that's illegal will land them in jail and use as a temporary
distraction for us."
      Michael thought through this briefly, and then shook his head from
side to side.  "Blowing the whistle on them is blowing the whistle on
us.  The police would have to find us in order to protect us and they're
not going to arrest just those two men and then leave us.  You're
forgetting that a police officer is dead back in Queens and that we ran
from the authorities.  And," he reached into his back pocket taking out a
piece of notebook paper, "you're forgetting that my mother is still in
Ohio."
      There came a gentle lull in the conversation.  Michael kept his
eyes peeled across the parking lot, watching for nothing in particular.
It was late at night, but the rest stop was still populated by
travelers.  Cars filtered in and out constantly, not noticing the
presence of four teenagers.  It was better this way, Michael decided.
      Slowly, the feeling of grief overcame him.  He lay back on the
grass, staring up at the cool starry sky.  The moment Mrs. Kloves was
murdered he didn't have much time to grieve.  The foregoing events
happened with such rapidity that Michael never had time to register the
fact that the lady who had taken them in with kindness was shot before
his eyes.
      His stomach twisted into knots.  He barely heard Macy announce that
she was going to get wet paper towels from the bathroom.  Nauseating
images of Mrs. Kloves body splashed before his eyes uncontrollably and
ignoring Adam who called out after Michael, he raced to a nearby tree,
vomiting on the trunk.
      Though his stomach was still in gruesome knots, Michael managed to
make his way back to the bench, wiping the corners of his mouth.  At the
same time Macy arrived, carrying a dozen of wet paper towels.  "This
should help the wound," she told them, pressing it against the side of
Dylan's head.  The towels immediately sopped up his blood.  Adam cursed
at the dreadful sight.  "Jesus man," he said to Dylan, "they really
clunked you hard."
      Dylan didn't say anything.
      Adam gave him a hard jab in the ribs.  "Man, don't fuck with us."
      Macy let out a small shrill.  "We have to get to a hospital," she
said urgently.  "He's unresponsive."