Jalen Wilde had always been fast, but he had never run like this, lungs burning, his worn-out boots slapping against the uneven dirt road, his heart pounding in his ribs as though trying to burst free and flee without him.
"Get him! He's heading to the river!"
A dozen feet chased after him. The sound of knives being drawn carried through the air like a warning bell, sharp and unmistakably directed towards him.
Shadows darted over the mud sheds that lined the mining outskirts of Bracken Hollow, the tiny town that had never given Jalen anything except poverty and reasons to leave.
He didn't dare glance back. He'd seen their faces when he'd robbed their boss. He didn't need to check if they were still coming—they would be, and with murder clear in their eyes.
He jumped over a stack of bricks, one splintering under his heel. The path narrowed ahead, a tiny space between two crumbling stone walls. It was a bad place for a chase and a worse place for a fight. But he didn't have the luxury of choosing his battlefield, not when a week's worth of stolen coins jingled in the pouch on his hip.
It was his pay, his wages, his blood, sweat, and tears.
It was the money his bastard of a boss, Lord Tieron, had refused to give him after he'd worked twelve-hour days in the heat of the mines, barely eating a thing and barely sleeping, so he could send something home.
So he could keep his mother alive.
He'd asked for it politely at first. Then, not so politely, after his boss had laughed in his face and insulted him.
"I'm not paying you shit, you street trash. If you have too many mouths to feed, then go look for another job, you piece of shit."
Jalen had smiled wickedly at that. If the man wouldn't pay him, then Jalen would damn well take what he was owed. And maybe a bit extra out of spite.
The boss's mining shack had been easy to break into. The safe, which held most of his prized possessions, was a piece of cake. It seemed the boss never counted on his workers having the nerve or desperation to take what should've been theirs to keep.
Well, it was a misjudgment on his part because Jalen had desperation in abundance, which brings us back to why he was being chased by scary-looking men with daggers in their hands, ready to skin him alive.
He skidded around a corner, boots slipping in the mud. A knife flashed past his ear and thunked into the wall beside him.
He gasped and cursed, "Shit!" That was close.
"Stop running, boy, and hand over the money," one of the men bellowed.
But Jalen snorted breathlessly. Sure, let me just stop so you can stab me. Sounds like a fantastic plan.
The path ended abruptly at a slope of loose rocks leading down toward the river. The drop wasn't steep, but it would hurt.
Maybe break something important—like his bones.
The men chasing him were closing in fast.
So he had no choice but to take the jump.
Jalen hit the rocks hard, rolling, arms thrown forward to keep his head from slamming to the ground. Pebbles tore at his skin, and his shoulder blazed in pain. But he kept tumbling until he reached the grass below, the breath knocked out of him like someone had hit his chest with a hammer.
"Ouch!" he groaned, but he didn't have time to feel it.
He staggered to his feet and sprinted again. Ahead, he spotted the footbridge. Not far now.
But two of the boss's men were already racing toward him from the left—they must have gone the long way to catch up.
Great, he thought. They'd trapped him. He was going to get killed if he didn't make it out of here.
He turned sharply to the right, toward the riverbank instead. One of the men lunged, knife glinting. Jalen ducked in time, grabbed the man's arm, and twisted with all the raw willpower an eighteen-year-old with too much responsibility and not enough strength could muster.
Surprisingly, the man's elbow cracked, and he let out a piercing scream.
Jalen shoved him to the ground and continued running.
The second man caught up quickly. Too quickly. He was bigger and looked far more experienced at violence and hurting people. Jalen heard the man's footsteps gaining and spun just as the knife slashed forward.
He wasn't lucky this time. The knife pierced his arm, making him fall to the ground. He removed the weapon and threw it to the ground. He covered the wound with his hands, but it was of no use—blood had already soaked his fingers.
"Shit!" he exclaimed, as a tinge of pain shook through his arm. It hurt like a bitch.
The men had caught up now. There were ten of them, all wearing angry expressions with knives of different sizes in their hands.
Jalen was in big trouble, and he knew that. He could only think of his family and how they wouldn't survive without him. He tore the edge of his worn-out shirt and wrapped it around the injury.
"What do we have here?" One of the men jeered, "Are you going to hand over the money now?"
The men chuckled, clearly amused.
"Okay, okay, you got me. Why don't we split the money, eh? I'll take half of it, and you and the boys share the rest. It'll be a win-win for everyone, and the big boss doesn't have to know. Just let me go."
One of the men stepped forward; he was likely the leader.
"You fool, even if we keep the money, why would we share it with you?" He snickered, coming closer to where Jalen lay on the ground bleeding—possibly to death if he stayed here any longer.
"Yeah, the dead tell no tales. Let's kill him and tell the boss he got away," another man chimed in.
Jalen had seen all of them working at the mines before; he just hadn't been friendly enough to know their names, and now it was coming to bite him.
"Hey, hey, you're seriously going to kill me. I'm just a kid with too many responsibilities. And you know how stingy the boss is. Please let me go just this once." Jalen pleaded with them, but it seemed his words only fell on deaf ears.
"Stay back, guys; I'll take care of this bastard," their leader declared as he approached Jalen with a sinister expression, obviously ready for the kill, but he would not go down without a fight—the streets had taught him that.
He didn't have the strength, but he could play dirty.
Ignoring the pain, his fingers dug into the ground. And just as the man held the dagger close, he threw a handful of dirt straight to his face.
The man staggered, swearing and rubbing his eyes. Using the opportunity, Jalen caught the man's wrist and shoved his knee upward. The man grunted, doubling over. He punched him across the jaw—an ugly, desperate hit that sent pain up Jalen's knuckles and his arm. It didn't help that the bastard had stabbed his strong arm.
The man stumbled to the ground, and the other men charged at him, but he didn't stick around to admire his work.
"Someone grab him!" shouted a voice from the top of the slope.
Jalen couldn't tell if they were following down the rocks or running for a better vantage point. He didn't give them time to make that decision.
He ran as fast as his injured arm would allow him.
He cut down the slope and made it to the small river where old battered boats bobbed in the murky water. If he made it behind the fishermen's sheds, he could get lost in the maze of streets.
But then five men stepped out between two sheds.
They were broad, armed with machetes, and grinning.
Jalen skidded to a halt, chest heaving.
"Well, well, this is as far as you go, boy. And I'll enjoy teaching you a lesson before you drag your dead body back to the big boss."
Jalen glanced around, but they had surrounded him now. Was he to accept his fate now? He felt for the stolen money; it was still intact and safely secured—maybe this had been a bad decision. And a very bad one.
His ill mother's and his sister's faces flashed before his eyes.
They were probably waiting for him.
"Alright, take the money. I don't want it anymore. Just let me go." Jalen pleaded. He thought of how reaching his family alive was far more important.
"Too late for that." One of the men lunged forward, striking Jalen in the head. He tumbled to the ground, falling on his wound in the process.
"Shit!" Jalen cursed in pain. "Take the damn money and leave me alone!" He ripped the pouch containing the stolen money and tossed it to them.
"There you go. Fuck off and leave me alone now!"
He expected them to take the money and leave; instead, they lunged at him and took turns beating the shit out of him.
When they were finally satisfied with their assault, Jalen was a bloody mess. He could barely open his eyes, and his wound and other parts of his body throbbed like hell. It felt like he'd broken a bone or two.
Heavens, this was surely a punishment for his stupidity.
"Good job done, guys," a voice bellowed. Jalen turned to see the leader and the rest of the men approaching. Guess his little stunt did not affect him.
The leader held Jalen's head up by the jaw. He placed his knife on Jalen's neck. The sharp edge was already piercing through his skin. He hissed in pain.
"It's stupid of you to think you could get away, especially after that stupid move you pulled. There's no need to delay this any further. See you in the underworld."
Jalen shut his eyes tightly as the man pressed the knife into his neck.
This was it then.
Jalen did one thing he hadn't done in a very, very long time—he prayed. He prayed for the heavens to help him.
It was a foolish thing to think, but he did anyway.
He waited for his inevitable death.
Waited, but it never came.