Hero

I’ve never thought of myself as a hero, and why would I. The few times I’ve managed to help someone out of a jam wasn’t me being heroic, rather it was me being a good neighbor. I never rushed into a burning building to rescue a neighbor’s cat, or dove into raging surf to save someone from drowning. No, usually most of my heroic deeds have consisted of giving a stranded motorist a ride to the gas station so he or she could fill up a five gallon can of gas, or deliver a package to my neighbor because an Amazon driver dropped it off at my door by mistake.

Yes, my life was quite mundane, until it wasn’t. I had just dropped off my final passenger of the day and was walking the bus interior looking for left behind items when she first spoke to me. I almost didn’t hear her soft, childlike voice as it was barely above a whisper. She appeared to be in her early twenties, and trembling with fear as she crouched between a row of seats.

“Please mister, let me stay here with you. Bad people are chasing me, and I need your help.”

I’ve been driving intercity buses for twenty years and have come across all types of situations, but this was the first time I had run into a circumstance like this.

“I’m heading back to our Boston garage. You’re welcome to ride with me until we get there. After that it’s up to you, but I suggest you call the police. Stay low until we get on the highway, understand?”

Her eyes lit up with joy, and a visible sigh of relief washed over her at the mention of my destination. She nodded in the affirmative and hunkered back down between the seats. I had just reached the driver’s area when a scruffy looking man began banging on the closed bus door.

“Sorry, but I’m done for the day. No more passengers!”

“I don’t want a ride; I want to check your bus.”

“Sorry, no one is allowed on without a ticket, company rules.”

The words no sooner left my mouth than my foot slammed down on the gas pedal and me, the bus, and my mystery passenger were looking at New York City in the rearview mirrors. The scruffy stranger chased after us for several blocks waving what looked like a wallet in his hand, but I wasn’t interested. Next stop, Boston.

My stow-a-way joined me at the front of the bus once we got on the interstate. She had a pleasant personality and eventually told me her name was Petra. I was impressed with how knowledgeable she was about a wide range of subjects. Her slight European accent helped hold my interest as we cruised along I 95. My weekly solo drive back to bean town was normally boring, but on this trip time flew by. The only subject that seemed to be off limits was who was after her and why she wouldn’t go to the police.

Traffic was exceptionally light, and the Boston skyline jutted into the horizon approximately three hours after we started our trip. There was one other item besides Petra that had piqued my curiosity. Shortly after leaving NYC a car began following us. At first I thought I was paranoid but as the trip progressed I knew I was right. Instead of mentioning the car to Petra, I kept the information to myself.

It was time to take the off ramp for the garage, but when I moved to hit my turn signal Petra stood and pointed a pistol at me proclaiming, “We are making a little detour.” Now I knew why I was being followed.

It’s never a good idea to stand in a moving bus, especially if you’re standing by the stairwell. Trying to be as safe as possible, I jerked the wheel to the left with one hand while hitting the door switch with the other hand along with slamming on the brakes. Petra didn’t have a clue. She immediately tumbled down the stairwell and out the open door, her gun flying onto the front passenger seat. The car that was following me came to a screeching halt along several others and armed men jumped out and surrounded the bus and Petra.

The front page of the Boston Globe morning edition proclaimed, Hero Coach Driver helps Feds apprehend international assassin.

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