Davo knew better than to take his chances with the first bus trip out of the boondocks by daybreak. It was too late to think of that now as he struggled through the dense jungle of sugarcane stalks and scathing cogonal grass blades that cut through the skin of his arms every time he shoved the leaves aside to make room for his escape.
One look at those crew-cut faces back at the bus hours ago and he knew, even as he tried to make a move to get off the bus as the driver turned the key and stepped on the gas to gun the engine. Undercover cops all have that aura about them that spelled trouble for people like Davo.
This was the first time he’d ever gotten on a ride with these doggone cops and with all the stash he got on him tucked in some few gunny sacks in the bus’ compartment, he had somehow sensed this was a stakeout — but no.
He had clung stubbornly to his hunches and was right about them, but had become helpless to fight his instincts to take chances with the run. The same way that drug mules often do, and often get away with cleanly, on lucky days. Unfortunately, today wasn’t one of those days.
Davo had heard the warning shots echo in the vast sugarcane fields that spanned flat across the searing midday horizon. As the sound of gunfire grew fainter as he fled, groped, and weaseled his way through the hobbling vegetation, his ears began to hear the voice inside his head grow even more desperate as it rose above the silence of his speechless flight. A voice no other than his own as he ran farther and farther away.
Run or die, the voice said. Run or die.
Again and again and again as Davo felt his strength begin to wane. As he tried his best to regain whatever wits he had before the bus ever made it out of the boondocks and into the verdant plains and killing fields.
Run. Or die.
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