Page 16 of Guarded from Sabotage

A heavy body slams into me, knocking me off my feet.

I crash to the ground, my knees and hands slamming into the hard pavement.

Pain flares, hot and stinging.

As I scrabble to get up, a heavy weight presses into my back, shoving me down. My chin bounces on the ground and a rush of coppery blood fills my mouth.

“Stay down.” The voice is low. Menacing. “Don’t move, or I’ll hurt you.”

“What do you?—”

“Shut up,” the man hisses. “Don’t talk.”

Then he leans down, his breath sour and hot against the side of my face—I can’t see him, and I’m too afraid to look—and he snarls, “Don’t fucking move until I’m gone. I have a gun, and I’ll shoot if I even see you move. Got it?”

A small, keening sound works its way up my throat.

“Got it?”

“Yes,” I whisper. I can barely hear myself over the sound of my thundering pulse. “I got it.”

“Good.” It’s darkly satisfied. Then he shoves me against the pavement again and yanks my purse off my shoulder.

After a terrifying moment that feels like an eternity, the pressure on my back eases.

My heart stops. A litany repeats in my head.Please don’t hurt me. Please don’t hurt me.

And then.

Footsteps race off. The parking lot goes quiet again, except for my shuddering breaths and tiny whimpers I’m pretty sure are coming from me.

I lay on the ground, shivering in fear, wondering how long I’m supposed to stay here. He didn’t say. Is one minute enough? Two? Is he still out there, lurking behind a car, waiting to shoot me?

Finally, I gather my courage and get back to my feet, bracing myself for a blast of pain.

But nothing happens. And when I glance around the parking lot, the man is nowhere to be seen.

So I run. Knees screaming in pain, breath sawing in and out in ragged gasps, hot tears streaming down my cheeks, I bolt for the door of the building.

When I get there, I bang my hands against the glass door, because of course my badge was in my stolen purse. Leaving behind smears of red on the glass, I shout, “Please, let me in. I work here, I was mugged! Please let me in!”

I still can’t stop shaking.

The tears have stopped, but my face is tight and hot and swollen.

My knees are throbbing in rhythm with my pulse, and my palms are raw and aching.

My chin is sore and the inside of my lip is swollen from where my teeth cut into it.

It’s hard to take a full breath and my heart is still racing. I feel odd—kind of detached and floaty, like I’m watching all this happening to someone else and not me.

The two responding officers are over by the door, talking in low tones and casting occasional glances over at me. Carlos, the custodian who let me inside, is hovering in the doorway to the hall, his face pinched with concern and a hint of fear.

He’s afraid they’ll accuse him, I realize. Carlos has his Green Card; I remember him mentioning it proudly during one of our brief conversations. It was right after I’d started working here, and I stayed late, so I ran into him while I was heating up the tamales I’d brought for dinner. We got to talking about my mom, and how she was actually born in Mexico, but has dual citizenship because of my American grandfather.

Worry for Carlos brings things into focus. I have to make sure they know he had nothing to do with it. He couldn’t have. The voice I heard outside had a Northeast flatness to it; not even remotely close to how Carlos sounds.

“Officer Hague?” I have to repeat myself because the first time I speak, it’s barely a whisper. “Can you… I just wanted to say something.”

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