The 18 year old sat on the subway as it rolled along the tracks. His bag at his feet, containing every single thing he owned. Not much.
Declan kept his head down, hood drawn up over his wavy fair hair, earphones streaming Maroon 5 from the iPod tucked away in his jacket pocket. He wasn't staring at nothing. He was looking at his worn tennis shoes, the floor, and the scenes from Atlantic City that kept flashing through his mind.
He did not regret killing the men. They would have hunted him down, murdered him, and done the same to the others. They got what was coming to them.
Declan felt a sudden tension in the air. Not a thick, unbreathable layer, but one that made the hairs on his neck rise. He glanced up from under his hood. Everything seemed normal enough.
He stood slowly, put his pack on, and rested a hand on one of the poles for support. Declan glanced over his shoulder and saw nothing out of the ordinary.
Three teens (most likely on their way to school) sat side-by-side, bent over their cell phones. The lady sitting beside them, too young to be any of the teenagers' mother, cradled a bundle in her arms. The carry-seat at her feet gave the object away. A slim woman, looking very businessey in a white blouse and grey skirt and typing on a Blackberry, stood beside Declan and two men in suits stood further down.
They looked relaxed and natural. Yet Declan's instincts were still on high alert.
He glanced around again and stopped when he noticed movement in the next car over. Three burly men were pushing there way through the crowd and coming toward the car. Tattoos graffitied their muscular arms; the bulk of weapons obvious to the trained eye.
Declan labeled them all as mechanics. But not the kind that worked on automobiles.
He turned around and saw another two man of similar stature coming from a the linked car on the other side. Declan sighed. In the case of fight and flight, this was going to be a fight.