17. Louise #2
Bracing myself against the back of the ratty sofa, I gulp down a breath of air and close my eyes, tilting my head back and focusing on the weight of the guns at my ribcage—the way the black denim hugs my body, the smell of the plastic wig fibers battling with the scents of the Saints; my mind not quite able to perform the mental math to trace my trajectory from my capture to this moment of unprecedented trust, of freedom.
Frank himself has put the guns in my hand—and at this very moment I could put each one of these bad dogs down without a second thought.
All of us fall into a bustling silence as we finish our preparations: the zippering of bags, buckling of belts, tying of bootlaces; the only sounds filling the small apartment.
I pull a pair of mirrored, bug-eye sunglasses from one of the paper shopping bags and use the reflection to apply a bit of the tinted lip balm Q picked up from the pharmacy to put some color in my wan cheeks and to temper the bloodless pallor of my lips after a week of shitty sleep and lack of proper food and water.
Around me, the Saints are in motion; Caz squirting lighter fluid into the small metal trash bin as Quentin and Frank empty the rest of the paper shopping bags into their duffels—slinging straps over their shoulders as Seb balls up the empty paper bags and tosses them into the metal bin.
No one seems to be paying much attention to me, allowing me to prepare myself in my own way—without additional instruction or criticism.
They really trust me to turn on everything I’ve ever known after seeing Susan’s confession—the loaded guns are proof enough of that.
Not just the guns, putting their lives quite literally in my hands—but the prospect of our escape to the woods to endure Quentin and I’s rapidly approaching heats, seems far too intimate—far too close after the last few days of me being drugged and dragged in chains from one safehouse ‘prison’ to another.
I run a hand over my lips. The memory of Caz and Quentin’s mouths on mine; the anticipation of Frank and Sébastien… of their kiss, their touch, their knots. I stop just short of allowing myself the thought of a bite, a bond.
“We’ve got company!” Seb sing-songs—his head pressed against the windowpane as he looks down to the sidewalk.
“There’s no way down if they’re already breaching.
” Frank grins, pulling a mentholated toothpick from the breast pocket of his leather jacket—biting down on it as he reaches for the piece at his lower back, a hand already on the doorknob.
“So, we’re gonna go up—and cross to the brownstone three buildings down; an old lady leaves the roof entrance open to get to her wash line.
” He grins manically, flicking the safety off with his thumb.
“Car’s out front,” Frank adds—tossing the keys to the stolen station wagon to Caz.
Caz catches the keys in a death grip, his gun still tucked into his lower back holster beneath his billowing layers—hoodie and threadbare flannel—his buzzed head covered with a black beanie, eyes obscured by large aviators with tinted yellow lenses.
“Seb, you stay mid-pack with Cazzy—I’ve got point, Q will buffer after you, and Lucifer will bring up the rear,” Frank continues to instruct—Seb’s hand already trawling through the messenger bag slung over his shoulder; a host of homemade bombs ready for the tossing, no doubt.
“Devil take the hindmost,” Seb grumbles under his breath, and Frank shoots him a dirty glare.
“Speak up Sébastien—I can’t hear you!” Frank growls.
“What if she makes a break for it? Or she puts a bullet in our skulls while we try to make our exit?” Seb challenges.
Despite all the sweetness he’s shown me, it seems he hasn’t forgotten or forgiven me for scalding him with hot tea before choking him out.
While I’ve surely sent his gamma body chemistry for a loop—he’s the only member of the Saints I haven’t made cum.
Perhaps his frustration has finally boiled over—at the worst of times.
A dizzy wave, something like vertigo, passes over me as I sink deeper into the realization—I’ve been a pawn in someone else’s game for far too long.
A pawn, ha.
With all this talk of the Windmill, white knights, and red bishops—I feel even less significant than the lowliest piece—simply one of the black or white squares the pieces trod upon in order to wage their own endless war.
“What makes you think I want to get to the bottom of this—to fuck up these assholes who lied to me, ruined my life, and killed my fucking parents any less than you do?” I boom from behind my mirrored sunglasses, baring my teeth at Seb to remind him that I’m not some sniveling little omega or beta girl he can order around. If I bark—it’ll be as bad as my bite.
Sébastien seems to find this satisfactory because he gives me a curt nod before adding, “Fine—you cover us. If anyone gets hurt—if Caz—” he starts, before cutting himself off; unwilling or embarrassed to say the words? I’m not sure.
“Don't you worry your pretty head.” I purse my lips in an air smooch in Seb’s direction.
“We’re getting out of here. Now that my little Saints have provided me with the proper tools—” I cross my arms over my body to retrieve both of my guns.
“We’re not just going to make it out alive, we’re going to do it in style.
” There’s a distinct pair of clicks as I disengage the safeties.
“Oho!” Frank beams, that giddy rancor lighting his features like a Christmas tree. “ Your little Saints? Seems like our Lucifer is up for a bit of the old ultra-violence.” Frank actually licks his lips.
“There’s something freeing about finding out most of your life has been a lie and you’ve got two loaded guns in your hand,” I sigh, the heft of the metal in my palms bringing me a deep calm that I haven’t felt since before I left for the Diamond Center settling over me as Frank nods to each of us—confirming we’re ready to make a break for the roof.
“So, you’re ready then?” Frank shakes out the tension from his shoulders—all of us loaded, ready to spring.
“To get out of this shit-hole, wasting whoever gets in our way? Yeah, I’m ready,” I confirm at the back of the pack.
Wyatt fucking Earp.
I steel myself as Frank swings the door open and we launch into motion.
Immediately we are met with the sounds of boots moving on stairs beneath us.
Stern voices telling hysterical tenants to keep their doors closed and to shelter in place; the occasional apartment owner shouting their displeasure or a baby crying punctuating the sound of a group of professionals making their way up the stairwell toward us.
As we begin our trek to the rooftop, leaving the fourth floor and our temporary hiding spot behind us as we race for the sixth floor exit to the roof deck; I peer down the stairwell at the plainclothes officers and agents pooling in the vestibule around our recently abandoned apartment—a small metal battering-ram appearing from the liquid crowd of denim and canvas concealing Kevlar and nylon as more agents flow up the stairs behind the others; eager to clear the upper portion of the building.
Evidently having seen the same unfolding events, Seb deemed it a good time to produce a long metal pipe fitted with a small plastic box, duct tape and a mess of wires; tossing the DIY bomb through the open spiral of the stairwell—the shiny bit of aluminum arcing through the narrow spindles of the Bannister—dropping onto the landing of the 5th floor with a deafening BANG, a cloud of smoke, and a flurry of shrapnel.
We round the spira-mirabilis, dust and debris lifting in a plume to chase us up the concrete and metal steps; Frank’s boot making a loud clang as he kicks the push-plate on the door to the roof.
“Move it!” Frank barks, already busily traversing the empty roof—boots thumping over the black tar paper as he makes a beeline for the building next door—another three floors taller than the roof we’re currently on.
His path is a direct course for the tracery of black metal fire escape on the crumbling brick facade.
Q and I slam the door to the roof shut—Quentin pulling two metal spiked wedges from his bag, dropping them on the ground and swiftly kicking them beneath the narrow space below the bottom of the door and the roof—the oversized shims jamming the door shut quickly and effectively.
Frank kicks over a stack of wooden boards and half empty paint cans—laying the rickety stretch of treated wood across the narrow gap between the buildings; one end of the board resting atop the roof’s ledge, the other end resting precariously over the rail of a fire escape landing.
“Go, Go, Go!” he shouts—ushering Caz and Seb over the dubious ‘bridge’—steadying the board with his own iron grip as they step lightly across.
Quentin crosses himself—then bounds across the board on feather feet—hardly touching down, leaping like a gazelle across the divide with little difficulty.
“You too—get a fuckin’ move on!” Frank snaps and I shoot a quick glance back to the door, clearly rattling on its hinges as the breach team—and the battering ram we saw earlier, no doubt—attempt to make their way to the roof.
I holster my guns before I step onto the board, still steady in Frank’s hands—arms spread out to their full wingspan to balance like a tightrope walker, my heart jumping into my mouth when I hear the dry, hollow, telltale crack of the wood—when I feel Lady Gravity begin dragging me toward the ground nearly six stories below.
In the split second as I begin to fall, Seb is the first one to reach for me—his eyes wide with panic; Caz screaming my name as Quentin hurries in to latch his arms around Seb’s waist like an anchor as Seb’s heavily tattooed hand—with its signature chipping black matte polish clamps around my wrist.