Page 9 of Penny for Your Saints

“Did Covartis send you?” I grind out through gritted teeth—hands held limply above my head.

“Of course not, Chère—I may be a criminal, but I’m not a servant of the devil himself,” my attacker laughs.

I can’t see any detail in his face—in his frame, only the vague positioning of his hands and the gun.

“Well, that’s a relief,” I test the waters—shifting my weight onto my right foot ever so slightly.

“You gave a good chase, but now it’s time you come with me, eh? Much easier this way." The edge of my vision robs any details of his face from me, but it's good enough to judge distance.

"So, be a good girl and let us leave quietly—what do you saymon petit pièce brillante?"

I'm no secret-agent level polyglot, but I know enough to understand the name my attacker has gifted me, 'My little shiny coin.’ Or perhaps, the less direct translation, 'my little shiny penny'.

The momentary panic of his acknowledgment of my last name slashes at my confidence, but I bat the intimidation away, turning to face my assailant directly as I lift my left foot—bleeding, throbbing with pain—off of the carpet.

"I say, fuck you, Frenchie," I hiss, slamming my foot down onto the head of the push broom in a fevered explosion and blossom of agony.

The gunman doesn't have the time to react—the long wooden handle of the broom rises up from the ground to meet my open hands as I deftly help the makeshift bow staff along its arcing path through the air and into the delicate wrist bones of my attacker.

The crack of the gun next to my left ear nearly drops me to my knees, the loud ringing and near deafness threatening to keep me from gaining a proper grip on my improvisational weapon, but somehow, through the haze of adrenaline I manage.

"Putain!" The gunman spits. His teacup grip disintegrates and his gun falls to the floor, blessedly not firing on impact.

Even though I know it will only press the jagged shards of glass deeper into my foot, I step on the handgun and kick it down the hall in front of us. The murderous hunk of metal skims over the low pile carpet nearly silently.

Though he nurses the wrist that I made contact with first—the hand cradled limply against his soft stomach, the bones quite possibly broken—his other hand snaps out like a pit viper. His deft, tattooed fingers threaten to close around the cowl neck of my bathrobe, or possibly the cross body strap of my duffel.

I twirl the broom over my wrist like a majorette spinning her baton. The wooden handle sweeps through the air with a whistle as I guide the polished shaft over my lower back. My other arm locks the staff in an uncompromising line as I spin toward the gunman—his eyes widen desperately as I pinwheel past him. The outstretched handle strikes him squarely in the back as I whirl away from him in a whipping of fiery red ponytail, a flourish of bloodstained terry cloth, and rip-stop nylon duffel.

I hear the gratifying sound of the air being knocked from his lungs in a low'oof,'but not the expected clatter of him eating shit after being knocked off balance.

Instead, I complete my spin—my face nearly coming to blows with his heel as he rounds on me with a blisteringly fast back fan kick.

I unhook my arm from the broom handle, swinging the bristled head up from the ground to catch his kick as it zooms toward my head. The polished wood of my makeshift staff meets the curve of his achilles, halting the momentous arc of his strike and sends him reeling backward.

"Oh, shit!" I hear a voice from behind and risk a backward glance over my shoulder. It's everyone's favorite fake janitor bringing up the rear—his hands distinctly free of weaponry.

"Make yourself useful and go get Q, eh!?" My sparring partner shouts down the hall.

Deciding that blondie is the lesser of the two evils, I turn back to my immediate problem—his eyes track me warily as he flexes his injured hand, testing to see if it's in usable condition.

"I can't find the boss man! Q's knee is fucked up—I have to get him back to the van—can you handle this!?" I hear the blond man yelling from the far end of the hall as I dodge a lightning fast jab from the gunman's apparently not-so-broken hand.

"Don't worry aboutle patron, just get your skinny ass to the van." My temporary 'dance' partner grits out as I redirect another of his punches with a circular wauke block—using his own body weight and momentum to guide him easily past me. His muscular frame nearly tumbles to the floor on the follow-through.

I'm so busy being proud of myself and keeping my eyes on the green illuminated exit sign prize that I don't see him from his place on the floor, his leg sweeping low, with deadly speed, for my ankles.

With the broom still instinctually locked in a death grip in my hands, my teeth clack loudly as I hit the ground. My chin strikes the carpet with a telltale burst of heat and subsequent sharp sting of rug-burn. I let go of the broom and flounder onto my hands and knees—struggling to lift myself off the ground and sprint for the fire exit.

Another slash of heat and stinging pain flares at my throat as the cross-body strap of my duffel bites into the tender flesh of my neck—my attacker's hands gripped tightly into the dangling straps, unwilling to let go.

In a split second decision, I shrug out of the nylon webbing strap and abandon my precious hard drives to my pursuers. As much as I hate to do it, they won't be any good to me if I'm dead.

Like a sprinter launching from the starting blocks, I launch forward—newly unencumbered adrenaline screaming so loudly through my veins that I don't even feel the shredded soles of my feet—towards the metal exit door as it looms larger and larger in my tunnel vision.

My fingers splay out, arms stretched before me in anticipation of slamming into the push bar, the howling whistles and lights of the triggered fire alarm. It’s only a stride or two away—just within reach, when the door suddenly swings outward—the outside sunlight dazzling my vision; the screaming alarm blurting out the pounding of my own heart in my ears.

I barely have time to register the silhouette of the man in the doorframe—tall and rugged, Burnt coffee brown hair in a wild toss above his crazed electric blue eyes, a gleaming manic smile visible through the bushy thatch of his thick beard, the gleaming barrel of a tranquilizer gun catching the high afternoon sun.

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