The Runaway - Part 2 of 3

A hooded figure walks quickly through the station tunnels, hidden among the unsuspecting crowd awaiting the next train. His hood is tugged ever tighter as he passes each poster lining the walls, hoping to avoid recognition with the ominous warning message and picture. He stares into the ground, clutching tightly to the straps of the bag on his shoulders. He ducks into a rest room, locking the door behind him after finding it to be empty.

Allowing the hood to fall to his shoulders, he stares into the larger mirror on the wall, stunned by his own reflection. He’d lost count of the days and weeks, possibly months, since his old life ended. The vibrant green eyes were now replaced with a dull glaze, surrounded by bags of skin and wrinkles far beyond his years. A scar had formed along his chin, a reminder of that day’s events. His hair had grown long and shaggy, a tangle, unkempt mess. He sighs loudly, struggling to pull together his wildly scattered thoughts. He unlocks the door and re-enters the mass of citizens in the terminal.

He bumps into a passerby, the shock of the collision causing him to lose his balance momentarily. He regains his equilibrium using the nearby wall as a brace, turning around to find the other pedestrian being assisted to her feet by one of the station security officers. The officer’s eyes meet his own gaze, finding recognition in the face, no longer hidden by its shield. Shit… Pulling the forgotten hood over his head, he immediately turns and sprints in the opposite direction, not waiting for the inevitable gun to be drawn.

He continues down the dark tunnels, ignoring the increasingly loud footsteps, shouts, and radio chatter behind him. As he rounds a corner, searching for a place to hide, flashlights flood his eyes with light. The familiar sound of batons extending fill the air around him as the security officers surround him from all sides. He allows his back to slide from his shoulders, placing it on the ground. He takes a deep breath, allowing his muscles to relax and fall into a familiar stance, awaiting the first blow. Remember what you were taught…

He feels, rather than sees, the first baton slicing through the air to his right. He spins away from the blow, grabbing and pulling the officer’s arm as it passes by, sending the first would-be assailant tumbling to the floor. His right forearm catches the wrist of the second, his left fist delivering a return blow to the man’s jaw. He spins on his back heel, using the momentum of his punch to catch the unsuspecting third with a kick to the midsection. He knocks the man unconscious with an elbow to the back of neck. Three down… two to go… As he faces the final two attackers, he listens in the background for more approaching footsteps. Have to end this quick…

He picks up two of the fallen batons, one for each hand. He motions the officers toward him, to which they eagerly oblige. He uses his batons to block their strikes, using his speed to knock each off balance and deliver a finishing blow to the temple of one. The last officer charges with desperation, swinging his baton wildly. The tip of the baton grazes his cheek, opening a small gash beneath his right eye. He catches the man’s arm on his next swing, hooks his front leg, and sweeps him to the ground. He follows with a downward elbow strike, incapacitating the final assailant. He picks up his bag and runs for the exit, just managing to escape before the next group of officers arrives, guns drawn.