“So what’s this all about?” I asked quietly. Even though it was loud and crowded, I was worried that some FBI guy had followed me or something.
“It’s hard to explain.” he whispered back in his deep Irish brogue.
“Well, try!” I said urgently.
“Alright. You remember the Uncle I told you about? The one in the IRA?”
“Yes, I remember.”
“Well, last Monday he called me up and asked me to help him with some work he had. He just moved to America so I figured it had to do with unpacking.” He stopped for a minute, trying to gather his thoughts.
“Let me guess, he didn’t need help unpacking.” I prompted when he remained silent.
“No he didn’t. He asked me to drive him to the bank with a couple of his friends. I feel like such a fool now, that I didn’t realize he was gonna rob the damn place. When they got back into the car, this alarm started going crazy. My uncle put a gun to my head and told me to drive. I didn’t have a choice; he would’ve killed me in a heartbeat.” He looked down at his feet in shame.
“Well the FBI will understand! It’s like you said, you had no choice! We’ll just go and talk to Special Agent Victor Lane and we will get everything straightened out.”
“It’s not that easy.” Fallon said, looking miserable. “If we go to the police my uncle will have me killed and anyone I’m involved with.” He gave me a sidelong glance. “That means you.”
“Then we will just have to run away together. We can go to California or Wyoming. I don’t care as long as I’m with you.”
He finally gave me a small smile and nodded his head slowly. “I suppose it wouldn’t be so bad.”
“Let’s get out of this joint!” I exclaimed. I grabbed Fallon by the hand and rushed as fast as I could through the crowded pub. When we were finally on the sidewalk, we linked arms and walked back to my apartment to pack. I told Fallon to wait across the street and hurried up the stairs, two at a time.
This is an excerpt from my third story about a man being hunted by the FBI. I feel like this is a lame reason. Any Suggestions?