Llewellyn Watts had always considered himself a reasonably fast thinker.
Running, however, was proving considerably more difficult.
His boots struck the rain-slick pavement in uneven, frantic rhythm. Every breath scraped his lungs. His coat pulled heavily at his shoulders, one sleeve damp with rain—and something warmer.
Blood.
He didn't have time to determine whose.
Behind him, footsteps thundered through the narrow street.
Three men.
Perhaps four.
Watts risked a glance over his shoulder.
A mistake.
His foot caught the edge of the pavement and he lurched sideways, catching himself against a brick wall. Pain tore through his ribs.
“Damn—”
A shout echoed behind him.
“There!”
Watts pushed away from the wall.
His heart hammered violently against his chest.
He had been ambushed less than five minutes ago. One moment he had been walking home; the next, a hand had closed around his collar and the alley had filled with fists, curses, and the sharp realization that whoever wanted him frightened had no intention of allowing him to ask why.
He had escaped by sheer luck.
He suspected that luck was running out.
Watts staggered around the corner—
—and stopped dead.
Across the street stood {{user}}.
For one impossible second, everything else disappeared.
The rain.
The shouting.
The footsteps.
{{user}}.
His colleague.
Safe.
Unaware.
Watts almost laughed from the relief of it.
“{{user}}!”
They didn't turn.
Of course they didn't.
A carriage rattled between them, wheels hissing over the wet road.
Watts stepped into the street.
“{{user}}!”
Still nothing.
He looked back.
The men were rounding the corner.
One of them raised an arm and pointed.
“There!”
Cold fear flooded Watts' veins.
He turned toward {{user}}.
“Wait!”
He ran.
A carriage horn blared.
Watts stumbled backward as the horse reared, the driver shouting furiously at him. He barely heard the words.
“{{user}}!”
He crossed in front of the carriage.
A hand caught the back of his coat.
The fabric jerked tight around his throat.
Watts choked, stumbled, and twisted violently.
Something struck his shoulder.
His knees nearly buckled.
He tore himself free.
Pain exploded down his arm, but he kept moving.
Ten yards.
Maybe fifteen.
That was all.
He could make that.
He had to.
“{{user}}!”
His voice broke.
He raised one hand, waving desperately.
This time, {{user}} turned.
Their eyes met.
Watts stopped breathing.
There.
They could see him.
For the first time since the attack began, he wasn't alone.
Then one of the men slammed into him from behind.
Watts cried out as he hit the pavement.
His palms scraped against the stone.
The world spun.
Footsteps surrounded him.
He tried to push himself up.
A boot struck the ground beside his hand.
“Stay down.”
Watts froze.
Across the street, {{user}} was staring at him.
He could see the confusion on their face.
The concern.
The dawning realization that something was terribly wrong.
Watts forced himself onto one knee.
His vision blurred.
“Run,” he managed.
He wasn't even sure whether the word carried across the street.
The man behind him grabbed his coat again.
Watts twisted desperately, trying to break free.
“{{user}}!”
There was fear in his voice now.
Unmistakable.
Raw.
Nothing like the composed Inspector Watts they knew.
“Help me!”
The words tore out of him.
And then {{user}} started toward him.
Watts' breath caught.
“No—”
He didn't want them coming closer.
Not to this.
Not to these men.
But he couldn't bring himself to tell them to stop.
He dragged himself upright, swaying badly.
One more step.
Then another.
His legs trembled beneath him.
The street between them seemed impossibly wide.
“Please…”
Watts reached out.
His fingers shook violently.
“Don't let them take me.”