Page 136 of Dating Goals
“I’m sorry,” I whisper to Griffin as the guards cut his zip ties, haul us to our feet, and take us away.
“About what? Getting kidnapped? Not your fault.”
“No, about Thomas. I shouldn’t have gone on that date.”
Griffin blinks. “We’re discussing this now?”
“Well, we might die, so…” I shrug.
“We’re not going to die. Not today. Any chance you’ve got some kung fu moves up your sleeve?” he whispers.
“I’m good, but not that good.”
I counted at least ten guards on this level alone.
We’re marched down a sterile white corridor, and Griffin’s eyes never stop scanning our surroundings. The two burly guards keep their weapons trained on us, maintaining a professional distance.
“How badly are you hurt?” I whisper, eyeing the dried blood on Griffin’s temple.
“Only a bump on the head. Nothing compared to taking a slap shot to the face.”
The guard shoves Griffin forward. “No talking.”
Griffin stumbles but recovers with surprising grace. As he rights himself, I notice him fiddling with his watch. An expensive-looking gadget with too many dials for telling simple time.
The guards stop us in front of a reinforced door. One punches a code into the keypad while the other keeps his gun trained on us. The door slides open to reveal a small, windowless room with two metal chairs bolted to the floor.
“In,” the taller guard orders.
Griffin steps forward first, suddenly tripping over his own feet and collapsing against the guard. “Sorry! Hockey injury. Knee gives out sometimes.”
The guard shoves him off with a grunt.
But Griffin presses something on the side of his watch, and a tiny whooshing sound fills the air. A nearly invisible wire shoots out, wrapping around the guard’s ankles. Griffin yanks, and the man crashes to the floor with a surprised yelp.
I drive my knee into the second guard’s groin (I’ve discovered I really like that move). He doubles over, and I bring my elbow down on the back of his neck. He crumples beside his friend.
Griffin stares at me, mouth agape. “Remind me never to upset you.”
“You can thank me by getting us out of here.”
Griffin presses another button on his watch, and both guards convulse briefly before going still.
“Did you kill them?”
“Electromagnetic pulse. They’ll wake up with headaches.” Griffin peers outside. “Coast clear. Let’s move.”
We sprint down corridors, ducking into alcoves whenever we hear voices. Alarms begin blaring, red lights flashing overhead.
“They know we’ve escaped,” I pant.
We skid around a corner, nearly colliding with a startled technician, who drops her tablet with a clatter.
“Sorry!” Griffin apologizes before shoving her into a supply closet and jamming the handle with a broom.
“Canadians,” I mutter. “Even breaking out of an evil lair, so polite.”
We navigate through a maze of utilitarian hallways until we reach an emergency exit. Griffin checks his watch again.
