Page 9 of The Woman in the Warehouse

I didn’t think much of it. This was a decent street, but who knew where she was heading. It was night. Dark. She was alone. It was always safer for a woman to try to disguise herself as a man than to deal with some creep following them around when they were just trying to get from Point A to Point B.

I didn’t even think much of it as she took out her phone and turned a bit awkwardly toward the row houses as she passed.

It wasn’t until she came back down the street, this time walking past my car, that I sat up a little straighter and took note.

This time, when she lifted her phone, I focused my binoculars on it as she focused on the row houses.

She was taking pictures.

Of each level of the house itself, but also the street in general.

Was she staking it out?

If so, why?

And why the fuck was she doing it alone?

Granted, I was alone.

But I was in a car. And I had the whole of my Family behind me if shit went down.

Who did she have?

Maybe I was thinking too narrowly, though.

It was possible she was just an ex-girlfriend with a grudge or something like that.

Hell, maybe she’d get her Molotov cocktail on and save me from having to do anything.

She was on her third trip down the street when the door at the top of the steps flew open and a man walked out, the streetlights catching off of something long and metal in his hand.

The woman seemed to see or sense the danger as well, yanking her hoodie strings tighter around her face as she started to pick up her pace. It wasn’t exactly a run. She was trying not to draw attention to herself in case the guy was just stepping out for a smoke or something.

My windows were cracked to let in some fresh air, enough that I could hear it when the man on the steps called out.

“Hey!” he yelled, making the woman push her legs a little faster. “Get your ass back here,” he called.

Then he was rushing down the steps.

And the woman was running.

But not out toward the cross street.

Nope.

She was running directly at my truck.

Before I could even think to hit the locks, she was yanking open the door, and rushing inside.

It was then I saw another glint of metal.

As she aimed a gun at me.

“Drive,” she demanded.

Even if I didn’t want to, she left me no choice with the man rushing forward, arm lifted, ready to hail bullets on the truck.

Of all the ways I could have anticipated this night ending, getting shot at while being carjacked was certainly not on that list.

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