The Forsaken Read Online Free Page B

people he worked for. These were the faces in the dark that pointed the finger when he’d screwed up. Deep down, he hated them. But he needed them too. It was sick.
    Another sip and the silence ended.
    “You shivering, hon?” his waitress asked, offering to pour him another cup.
    “I’m not,” he denied, glaring at her.
    “Okay,” she returned, offended. She spilled some of the hot coffee on his wrist. He pretended not to flinch. “Sometimes all you need is a little warmth to kill the cold.”
    “Thanks.” He sneered. It felt like his eyes were extra weight in his skull, and his bones began to ache. He finished his cup of coffee, placed a few dollars on the counter, and moseyed outside.
    The city air filled his lungs as the darkness wrapped his body. All seemed so quiet. Too quiet. He was reaching for his keys when the sound of a shattered window echoed from across the street. Glass showered from a run-down apartment onto the city floor, and he caught an exile leaping from a fire escape. Gunfire split the night.
    “Great.” Jude gritted his teeth, racing after the runner. The sound of gunfire continued from the above apartment until Jude flashed his badge and pursued. “This is Officer Jude Foster. Stop running now!” he ordered. “Freeze!”
    All he could see of the young kid was that he wore a set of Nike originals—the kind he often saw Kevin wearing. Jude panted, feeling the sting in his sides. Then he reached for his weapon.
    Out of the dark, a shot fired back at him. It was strange how gunfire sounded in real life, like it was literally putting holes in the air itself as the bullet sped closer. He’d been fired at before, but Jude was past the point of caring, past diplomacy. Before this moment, all he’d wanted was to make sure the kid was all right and find out what had started the commotion, but the game had changed. Luckily, the kid was a horrible shot, or Jude would’ve fired back.
    “I repeat, this is Officer Jude Foster. Stop running!”
    Jude kept his rapid pace, ignoring the limitations of his thirty-seven-year-old body. He swore his joints were exploding. The second guessing always came at this point in the chase. But Jude wanted a confrontation. He wanted someone to rub him the wrong way, push him to the edge a bit. He wanted to make sure he was still a detective and not some document-filing has-been.
    The runner peeled a sharp right and fired once more. He was losing his cool. It was Jude’s now to claim. The shot missed again, but a bakery window shattered behind him. Sweat blanketed his neck. Jude’s lungs were weak balloons preparing to pop. He was gaining, though. The runner’s footsteps now paralleled his own, his breathing almost in sync, and soon, he wondered if the throbbing in his ribcage would pattern itself with the frightened runner’s as well.
    A young girl stood on the street corner and screamed when she heard the bullet pierce the air and then crash into glass. Jude hadn’t noticed the baby in her arms until he fled past her. He’d seen eyes like hers, listened to screams like hers, for years. They were posters on the wall of his subconscious.
    Jude cut through a line of traffic when the runner darted into the street and swerved in and out of lanes. He wondered whether this man, young by the looks of him, might’ve been a champion athlete. Jude could feel the gun get tighter in his grip.
    Why is this punk still running? Why do they always run?
    The honking of horns and the cursing of bystanders were reason enough for Jude to flash his badge. It was always the ones who had something to lose who created the loudest stir. His forehead turned slicker with sweat. His jacket felt like a noose around a tired body. The tie could almost strangle him.
    And then he found himself breathing too hard for such little movement. He blinked. The runner had finally stopped. Wrong turn. Wrong time. What stood in front of them both was a brick wall at the end of an alleyway. There was a