Page 8 of Penny for Your Saints

With a single strike, he’s likely disabled my ability to use my voice for at least a minute or so. This isn’t your run of the mill A&B, this guy’s a professional and I am unprepared, unarmed, and in deep fucking trouble.

Working against my rising panic, I reach out for the edge of the sink as I begin to fall backward—my hands unable to gain purchase on the beveled linoleum. Blessedly, my fingers close over the stick-clicker pen at the edge of the counter—my fist closes around the modest writing implement as I fall to the floor.

Hans struggles to swallow down his own scream of pain as I slam my fist backward with enough force to jab the dull ballpoint pen into the side of his muscular quadricep, just above his knee.

Once more, pain forces Hans to lose his grip on me and I bolt for the door—too fast for my assailant—the pen still jutting from the bloody wound in his thigh.

With one hand desperately clasped over my bruised throat, the other smeared with blood, I take off down the hall barefoot—my feet making loud slapping sounds as I tear down the hall, crashing through aestheticians carrying trays of tools cursing me out as soon as I’ve barreled through them.

Whoever is attacking me—whoever is after me—they aren’t going to stop for Diamond Center staff. They may not even want me alive.

The hard drive.

My bloody hand snatches the plastic card from the pocket of my robe as I round the corner into the women’s locker room—a chorus of clucking, pissy cosmetologists erupting into shrieks of fear as I careen down the hall.

Vaguely, I register another wave of squeals and screeches as my pursuer, Hans, breaks through their line—his footfalls heavy and fast behind me.

I sprint flat out to the locker room—not bothering to stop and dress once I make it to my locker on the wall of narrow doors. Ismash my plastic keycard against the lock mechanism until the motorized cylinders chitter open. I grab my duffel from the brass hook, before I hurdle over the wooden locker room benches toward the swinging doors out to the pool area.

My hand has only just made contact with the metal push plate of the double doors when I hear a ripple of screams from behind. Hans busts into the locker room—the proverbial fox in the henhouse.

Numbly, I realize that I have no real endpoint—no safety in a finish line or a sanctuary that I am running to. I don’t have a car in the lot with a gun strapped to the underside of the driver’s seat, no saferoom, no backup on the way.

My eyes scan the surface of the pool—a few swimmers getting their laps in, a dozy lifeguard sitting in a metal chair at the far end of the room, a line of floor to ceiling windows that open into the interior courtyard let sun into the sweltering tiled room, thickening the air with the scent of chlorine.

My best bet would likely be to make my way back to reception, and the possibility of one of the staff members calling local law enforcement. Hopefully, one of the aestheticians Hans and I bowled over—bleeding and screaming—would have already sounded the alarm to management; a few black and whites already on the way to bail me out.

Then again, if my digging and sniffing around Covartis is what has brought the likes of Hans to the Diamond Placement Center to dispatch me… Who knows how much the local pigs are going to help.

No time to dither. I make my way—still barefoot—across the tile, grabbing one of the metal framed lounge chairs from the perimeter of the pool and charging at the pane of glass with its legs stretched before me to break the barrier.

I hear the high tinkling sparkle of breaking glass sing out around me—my feet suddenly aflame with the pain of treadingbroken glass. Instinctively, I throw the chair to the side—having served its purpose in shattering the plate-glass window standing between me and a potential path to escape. I’m about to jump over the knife-like protrusions of glass at the base of the broken window—adrenaline muting the pain in my feet as I flee my would-be captor—when I am unexpectedly slammed to the ground by a laundry trolley filled with used towels.

I look up frantically from my place on the ground, expecting to see Hans—bleeding through his work-issue white athleisure pants, a look of rage on his face. Instead, I am brought face to face with the catering service kid with the bad wig from Lowry’s retirement party. Except he isn’t wearing the bad wig right now—a blue gray canvas ball cap to match his janitor’s coveralls covers his low bleach blond buzzcut; his patchwork of intricate tattoos spilling onto his hands and neck from the cuffs and collar of the purloined jumpsuit.

“What the fuck?” I manage to croak out, my voice starting to return to me after Hans’ open hand strike.

Before blondie can get his hands on me—I’m up and scrabbling for the door to the men’s locker room on the opposite wall of the pool area. My feet leave smeared bloody footprints in my wake as the fake janitor yells something unintelligible after me.

I burst through the doors, my duffel bag slapping against my lower back as I shove my way through the group of alphas, talking excitedly about their placement appointments as I continue my mad dash for safety.

Exploding from the men’s locker room—I slingshot myself out of the main hallway and down one of the side aisles of guest rooms—fists pounding each closed door as I make my way down the narrow corridor, my hoarse screams begging for sanctuary in vain.

I’m nearly at the end of the hall. An abandoned maid cart is the only thing standing between me and the alarm-wired door at the end of the hall; the tiny green ‘Exit’ sign glowing as if heaven sent.

My hands, numb from adrenaline and clumsy with panic, close over the edge of the cart as I prepare to swing it out of the middle of the hallway when I catch the animalic scent of sweat against an undertone of sweet neroli, bright ginger, and silken oud.

Click.

I hear it before I feel the muzzle—cold as ice pressing into the base of my neck.

“Ah, ah, ah! Not so fast, mon petit pièce brillante.” A man’s voice, ragged with laboured breath, purrs from over my shoulder.

I freeze in place as the man strides into my peripheral vision, the handgun in his teacup grip glaring at me down its black shining snub nose.

“Hands where I can see them, Chère,” he warns, his silky voice firm as he jerks the muzzle of the gun upward to illuminate his instruction.

I say nothing, just lift my hands clumsily off the cart—knocking the push broom from its metal bracket and onto the floor as I go; a spray bottle of glass cleaner lands on the carpeted floor with a muffled thud.

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