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Authors: Christa Faust
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Her eyes went wide, silently warning him away with a subtle tilt of her head. But before he could heed her warning, Little Eddie swung around to face him, ham-hock fists clenching.
His pale, Scottish complexion was blotchy and pink from the tropical heat, and he was sweating through his tight-fitting shirt. His hair was damp and pasted to his forehead. The only part of him that didn’t look overheated was the cold smile that spread across his thin lips when his gaze locked on Peter.
There was a strange frozen moment where the two of them just stood there, a tense tableau of tall, unmoving outsiders like rocks in a river, diverting the natural flow of the urban nightlife around them.
Then Peter broke and ran.
He tore down the crowded street, dodging buzzing scooters and curious bystanders. He faked to make it look as if he was headed toward an alley, and then turned the other way at the last second, running for a busy main drag that ran perpendicular to Monireth. He needed to stick with the crowds, use the urban bustle and chaos as cover, because if Little Eddie got him alone, even for a second, it would all be over.
After a few blocks, he risked a glance over his shoulder and saw that Little Eddie was rapidly gaining on him, shoving people out of his way as he came. Despite his size, his long legs gave him an advantage, and nothing slowed him down.
When Peter turned back again, he was too late to stop himself from crashing into a tiny old man who was attempting to dismount from a bicycle. It was so laden with stuffed animals that only half of the front wheel was visible.
“ Sohm toh , Grandpa,” Peter said, hoping that he’d pulled the right Southeast Asian apology out of his panic-addled brain as he hauled the terrified old man to his shaky feet and pressed some sweaty bills into his hand without checking to see if they were riel, baht, or American dollars.
Then Peter jumped on the bike and shoved away from the crooked curb, barely missing being sideswiped by a tour bus as he darted between two motorbikes. It was hardly ideal transportation, but he was all out of options, and if he didn’t do something , Little Eddie would be on him like pissed-off rhino.
He felt a tug on the back of the bike, making it wobble to the left and when he looked back over his shoulder, he saw Eddie a short distance behind, holding a pink bunny rabbit the size of a small child and looking as if he was about to have a stroke from the heat.
But Peter couldn’t keep his eye on his pursuer. He had to pay attention to the dangerous and unpredictable Phnom Penh traffic, or he was going to get creamed.
As soon as he turned away from Little Eddie, though, something bounced off the back of his head—the stuffed rabbit, no doubt. It didn’t hurt, but it startled him and caused him to swerve slightly. It took his full attention to straighten out the overburdened bike while avoiding a large gaping pothole to his right and a taxi full of drunken tourists to his left.
Then the sharp crack of a gunshot shattered his concentration.
A puff of white polyester stuffing flew up from the blue teddy bear that’d taken the bullet intended for Peter. The fluff clung to his hair, stuck to his sweaty face, and got into his mouth. He spat out as much as he could and swatted at the clumps in his hair.
Then he took a header directly into the pothole, just as a second shot sailed through the humid city air where his body had been only seconds before. Peter flew over the handlebars and landed face down in a toxic puddle composed primarily of gasoline, rancid fish guts, and piss.
He rolled out of the street, spitting and gagging, just in time to avoid being flattened by two more taxi cabs and a pedicab with no passengers. Teddy bears went flying everywhere, the bike crashed off to one side, and Peter was drenched with filthy water as the taxis’ wheels hit the puddle he’d recently vacated.
But he had more important things to worry about. Like the fact
His pale, Scottish complexion was blotchy and pink from the tropical heat, and he was sweating through his tight-fitting shirt. His hair was damp and pasted to his forehead. The only part of him that didn’t look overheated was the cold smile that spread across his thin lips when his gaze locked on Peter.
There was a strange frozen moment where the two of them just stood there, a tense tableau of tall, unmoving outsiders like rocks in a river, diverting the natural flow of the urban nightlife around them.
Then Peter broke and ran.
He tore down the crowded street, dodging buzzing scooters and curious bystanders. He faked to make it look as if he was headed toward an alley, and then turned the other way at the last second, running for a busy main drag that ran perpendicular to Monireth. He needed to stick with the crowds, use the urban bustle and chaos as cover, because if Little Eddie got him alone, even for a second, it would all be over.
After a few blocks, he risked a glance over his shoulder and saw that Little Eddie was rapidly gaining on him, shoving people out of his way as he came. Despite his size, his long legs gave him an advantage, and nothing slowed him down.
When Peter turned back again, he was too late to stop himself from crashing into a tiny old man who was attempting to dismount from a bicycle. It was so laden with stuffed animals that only half of the front wheel was visible.
“ Sohm toh , Grandpa,” Peter said, hoping that he’d pulled the right Southeast Asian apology out of his panic-addled brain as he hauled the terrified old man to his shaky feet and pressed some sweaty bills into his hand without checking to see if they were riel, baht, or American dollars.
Then Peter jumped on the bike and shoved away from the crooked curb, barely missing being sideswiped by a tour bus as he darted between two motorbikes. It was hardly ideal transportation, but he was all out of options, and if he didn’t do something , Little Eddie would be on him like pissed-off rhino.
He felt a tug on the back of the bike, making it wobble to the left and when he looked back over his shoulder, he saw Eddie a short distance behind, holding a pink bunny rabbit the size of a small child and looking as if he was about to have a stroke from the heat.
But Peter couldn’t keep his eye on his pursuer. He had to pay attention to the dangerous and unpredictable Phnom Penh traffic, or he was going to get creamed.
As soon as he turned away from Little Eddie, though, something bounced off the back of his head—the stuffed rabbit, no doubt. It didn’t hurt, but it startled him and caused him to swerve slightly. It took his full attention to straighten out the overburdened bike while avoiding a large gaping pothole to his right and a taxi full of drunken tourists to his left.
Then the sharp crack of a gunshot shattered his concentration.
A puff of white polyester stuffing flew up from the blue teddy bear that’d taken the bullet intended for Peter. The fluff clung to his hair, stuck to his sweaty face, and got into his mouth. He spat out as much as he could and swatted at the clumps in his hair.
Then he took a header directly into the pothole, just as a second shot sailed through the humid city air where his body had been only seconds before. Peter flew over the handlebars and landed face down in a toxic puddle composed primarily of gasoline, rancid fish guts, and piss.
He rolled out of the street, spitting and gagging, just in time to avoid being flattened by two more taxi cabs and a pedicab with no passengers. Teddy bears went flying everywhere, the bike crashed off to one side, and Peter was drenched with filthy water as the taxis’ wheels hit the puddle he’d recently vacated.
But he had more important things to worry about. Like the fact
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