033 POV after drug deal try to run 693

It feels as though time slows down. My stomach spins with nausea, my legs tingle with anticipation. I recall the track and field meets I attended when I first started high school. I was a naturally good runner back then. I was tall for my age, and often won in my age group over the shorter distances. But at the start of every race I always got a tummy full of butterflies. I have the same feeling now as then. I look up at the car, about twenty five yards away. From this distance I can just see the man inside the cabin, gun aimed in my direction. 

I glance left at the alley I'm walking past. You've got to do this. Go now! 

But the moment I'm about to run, the man somehow anticipates my move and says into my ear, 'Don't do it, I will drop you if you try to run.' His threat shatters my resolve. I've seen him shoot twice before, once outside the restaurant, and once at the pharmacy. Both times he was shooting from a similar distance that I am from him now and both times he was pinpoint accurate. 

I realise that the moment my back is to him he'd have a window of about three seconds to put as much lead in me as he wants and there'd be nothing I could do about it. He's already got the gun pointed at me, all he has to do is pull the trigger. 

I give up on the idea of trying to flee down the alley. I think of my daughter, landing at the airport soon. She needs me alive. Only engage in a venture if the risk-reward ratio is positive. Another quote from a business seminar. The risk to reward ratio of running from this man right now is very much negative. 

I hurry the rest of the way to the car, pull the door open and get in. The man cuts me a dirty look, then says dryly, 'Phone.' I hand him my cell then he says, 'Open it.' 

'Why?' I ask, stalling, hoping he won't see the message from Lucy, 'Just do it.' He snaps at me. I key in my PIN number and he opens the iMessages app. I watch as he reads the message my daughter sent only a minute ago. 

'I see why you were about to run.' He says quietly, almost to himself.

'I wasn't going to run.' I say, but the way I say it, even I don't believe me. 

The man gives me a skewed look. 'Please. I've been a cop for just over thirty years. I know when a perp's about to make a break for it.' 

'I'm not the perp here, you are.' I remind him. 

The man doesn't refute the point. Instead he says dryly, 'Either way, my point remains, I know a runner when I see one.' But his sentence trails off, no longer interested in arguing a moot point. He pockets my cell and focuses on the teens I just spoke with. The taller of the two talks with a kid about ten years old who has a BMX and wears a back pack.

'That's the re-up hopper. Get the car started, he'll take us to the stash house.'

'You sure? He can't be more than ten years old. You really think they're gonna trust a G-pack to him?'

'I've caught re-up hoppers as young as five years old carrying weight. The younger the better as far as they're concerned. Ain't no way a five year old is doing time.' 

 'You'd hope not. They're only five. They haven't got a clue what's happening. They're being used by adults.'

The ten year old starts to ride this way. 

'Wait until he's past us, then turn around follow him.'

I do as told. He zips past us a few seconds later on his bike. He doesn't seem to notice us as he passes. I leave the headlights off so as to not attract attention and pull out, making a sharp one-eighty turn and driving down the street after him.