Secrets

New York City has never before seemed so big. Between the subway and the bus I had always seemed to get where I needed to be in under an hour. Or at least I used to be able to. Now, it's a little bit of a different story.

Now, I'm on the run from Carlos Luigiani.

No, not the Italian dude who makes pasta around the corner from your cousin. Not your little sister's kindergarten crush either. I mean the Carlos Luigiani.

The mob king of New York.

The one who owns the entire underworld, and then half of the honest population on top of that.

The one who has hundreds of burly thugs, armed to the teeth with machine guns, ready to jump at the slightest snap of his fingers.

The one who told me to join him, or else.

And that's why I'm currently running through a back alley on the Lower East Side. That, however, is making a long story short. Add in a mother who died before my fifth birthday, a depressed father addicted to gambling owing a fairly substantial debt to said mob king, and you might get a little bit closer to the truth.

But that still doesn't explain why Carlos would want a lanky, nineteen year old boy under his control. I mean, I'm completely average in every way. I have average, shaggy brown hair that flops into my average green eyes. I get average marks in school, have an average amount of friends, and am in to skateboarding. I can't even shoot a gun for crying out loud. There's absolutely remarkable about me.

Well, maybe there is. You see, there's a small detail I neglected to mention. OK, a huge detail I neglected to mention. The thing is, I can walk through walls.

Yeah, that's right.

I can walk through walls.

Not just any wall though. If it's more than forty percent iron then I can't get through it. I don't know why, I just can't. Anything else though, brick, plaster, wood, silly putty, you name it, I can walk through it. For some reason, iron just doesn't follow the rules.

I doubt my father told that to Carlos, however. Not that I stuck around to find out. As soon as my dad sold me out for his next gambling fix I was out of there. I think you can follow my logic in thinking that letting one of Carlos' goons get a hand on me would have been detrimental to my health.

And this brings us back to the running through a back alley issue. It's been fifteen minutes since I shot out through the plaster walls surrounding my former apartment, and I'm starting to worry about the lack of pursuit. Then again, he does control pretty much the entire city.

The sounds of my sneakers slapping the pavement spreads out around me as I turn the corner and move from the alley to the street. My breath comes in short bursts now. I'm really not in shape, and I never expected to have run for my life, though I've somehow managed to make it to the main thoroughfare for this area. I guess that's what adrenaline does for you.

I survey my surroundings as I start to slow down. There's a deserted laundromat coming up, with a deserted 7-11 on the far side of that. On the other side of the street the neon sign for a Jerry's Pizza flickers and dies.

This lack of life is really starting to creep me out. I mean, this is the main drag. Normally there would be people out all the time, whether it be the gangs, the partiers, the homeless, or the drug rings. In fact, the only apparent signs of life are the two identical black corvettes, one parked about a block in front of me, and the other which just turned the corner behind me. Sighing, I smile dreamily and imagine myself driving one. Ah, leather seats, chromed hubcaps, sunroofs...

Wait.

Matching black corvettes.

Crud. Talk about a delayed reaction time.

Bursting into a sprint, I take a sharp left through the red-brick façade of the haute couture store next to me. The surprised, middle aged sales lady starts fumbling beneath the counter as I run past mannequins and clothes displays. Just as I'm running through the side wall of the store I feel a sharp sting run through my left calf muscle, followed by a wet trickling of blood.

Shoot. Here come the guns, no pun intended. Cue the panic attack that I really don't have time for.

I'm running back the way I came, through a shoe store whose clerk decides to try to knock me out by launching stilettos at my head, and through a Wet Seal where I am forced to duck under the ropes of clothes that employees are trying to clothesline me with. What a time for the city to come back to life.

It isn't until I reach the laundromat again that I realise going back in the direction I came from may not be the best idea. Dodging the rolls of coins being hurled at me in conjunction with hexes by the ancient Asian grandfather operating the store, I take another sharp turn and head out the back of the building.

Crossing the narrow, trash can filled alley, I sprint into the concrete wall of the neighbouring apartment complex only to be stopped short with a loud clang as I run into a steel girder. Ouch. Backing up, I shake my head to clear it before moving two feet to my left and trying again. This time I make it through.

The only thing is, I should have stayed outside.

I barely have time to register the light blue walls with yellow daisies accompanying the hardwood cabinets and marble counter tops before being forced to duck as a pair of kitchen knives whoosh past my right ear. I warily eye the Spanish lady as she readies and throws another pair of knives, and all the while I slowly back out through the wall. Maybe residential isn't the way to go.

Once I'm completely into the alley I turn to my left and begin to jog towards the opening to the street. Unfortunately I'm unable to take more than five steps as I'm forced to skid to a halt . Fudgee-os. How do Carlos' men always manage to find me? Have I got a tracking device or something?

Deciding that the residential route might be safer after all, I dart back through the wall just as the trio of goons spot me. The Spanish lady, having exhausted her supply of knives by throwing them at the area of her wall through which I first appeared, immediately begins to launch her equally extensive collection of pots and pans in my direction. I cut left, and left her apartment in favour of the hallway, where I am greeted with ascending stairs on my left and yet another goon-in-a-black-leather-jacket on my right.

Well, at least that makes my choice easy.

Turning to my left I dart up the stairs as the bullets begin to ricochet off the blue-grey paint beneath my feet. Thanking my lucky stars that these goons prefer brawn to speed, I sprint up the stairs, heading for the roof twenty floors up. I figure I'll run across the building and down the other stairs. Bursting through the brown aluminum door onto the roof, I noticed the only flaw in my plan.

There are no other stairs

And the stairs I just came up have a semi-automatic wielding body builder following hot on my heels.

Great.

As the gun, followed by the body builder, bursts through the door, and a most likely Carlos owned helicopter grows closer by the second I make my choice.

I run to the edge.

I jump.

I fall.