The Last Call

Unknown numbers were something Maya Cole had learned to disregard. She had enough anonymous threats and cryptic letters under her belt as a journalist to know when something wasn't worth her attention. The majority of them were cowards who tried to frighten her by hiding behind burner phones. She hardly looked at her phone as it buzzed with "Blocked Number" on the bar counter. She let the rim of her whiskey glass rest against her lips and wrapped her fingers around it. The day had been exhausting. A day filled with frustration. She had no desire to play games. But then, for some reason, her stomach turned. Ever since she left the newsroom, there has been tension. That uneasy sensation—as if a hundred invisible eyes were crushing down on her. Maybe it was paranoia, but tonight felt a little off. She answered against her better judgment. "Hello?" Quiet. Maya scowled at the screen as she drew the phone back. Still connected. There was someone was the call. Then, barely above a murmur—low, desperate, filled with sheer terror: "Maya… listen to me." She gripped the glass tighter. She recognized that voice. However, the person on the other end continued, their words hurried and hardly audible, before her mind could figure out who it belonged to. "They are aware. I'm running out of time—" BANG. A shot. Sharp, close, and loud. The line went dead. Every muscle in Maya's body tensed as she froze. The bar surrounding her, with its clinking drinks, music, and conversation, faded into obscurity. In her ears, her pulse thundered. Gunshot. Gasp. Silence. She held the phone so tightly that her knuckles grew white as she mentally relived it. Who was that? More importantly, who could tell what? As she redialed, her breath came quickly and unevenly. "The number you have dialed is not in service." Her stomach fell. She raised her gaze, looking around the darkened pub, suddenly acutely aware of her surroundings. People were drinking, joking, and going about their daily lives as if nothing had happened. As if she hadn't just heard someone die. Then she felt that sensation creep up her back. Cold and slow. She was being watched by someone. She looked toward the far end of the bar and pushed herself to breathe. She spotted him at that point. Sharp suit. Expensive watch. Polished shoes. The sort of guy who kind of fits in—but not quite. He wasn’t drinking. Wasn't speaking. Wasn't in motion. Simply observing her. Maya felt a knot in her stomach. He didn't turn his head. Didn’t even pretend. As if he had been waiting for her to notice, his black eyes met hers. She tightened her fingers around her phone. Maya, think. Think! After sliding a twenty onto the counter, she picked up her coat and got to her feet. One step at a time. Easy. No abrupt movements. She took a sharp breath as soon as she touched the chilly night air. Continue moving. She browsed through her call history, her fingers shaking. The number has vanished. No record. Not a trace. As if it had never been. She inhaled sharply She clicked on Twitter. Looked at the news. No gunshots have been reported. Not a single emergency alert. Nothing. That was impossible. A gust of wind sent a chill through her jacket, but she wasn't shivering because of the cold. Then she sensed it once more. That burden. That presence. She turned slowly. He was across the street, standing under a flickering streetlight. The man from the bar. Observing. Waiting. Then he did something that made her blood freeze. He grinned. Unfriendly. Not polite. As if he knew what she would do next. Suddenly, Maya had a clear understanding of one thing. She was in serious trouble. To be continued...