Chapter Twenty-Seven
An exit sign glows red above a heavy-duty door down the hallway where the restrooms are.
I push through it to find myself in an alleyway just out of view of where the shooter must be, where their scope flashed against the setting sun.
A dumpster’s stench assaults my nostrils, at odds with the tingle of champagne still on my tongue.
I make my way quickly but cautiously toward the main road.
Brian’s BMW sits parallel parked across the street.
No shots ring out as I peer around the restaurant.
The flicker I saw is now gone. Probably, whoever’s there lies in wait.
They’ll sit, motionless, until Brian or I emerge from the restaurant. And that’s when they’ll take their shot. The area is wide-open, with light coming from behind the would-be killer, so no matter the hour, they won’t be blinded.
I consider texting John What the actual fuck?
Did you put another hitter on the Big Job?
but decide it wouldn’t be like him—jobs are generally given to one assassin at a time.
Though it is possible. He did say his boss was putting pressure on him.
Or maybe Brian is so bad that multiple agencies were contracted.
Maybe someone heard how much they are willing to pay and decided to take a shot, to try to collect, maybe—
I exhale, clutch my gun in both hands. At this range, it’s useless. Despite what Hollywood would have you think, handguns are most accurate at short distances, ideally thirty feet or less. Add on a moving target, and it’s even less.
I glance around the edge of the building again.
A car whizzes by. A mother holds the hand of a preschooler across the way.
With no one else in sight, I speed walk across the street in the direction of the sniper, gun again hidden by my shawl.
At the end of the alley is another dumpster, and above that, a fire escape.
Glad Brian chose flats instead of heels, I yank my hair into a bun at the nape of my neck, wrinkle my nose, and carefully step up onto the edge of the trash receptacle.
Black and white plastic bags, rotting food, a random shoe—disgusting.
When I turn back to the fire escape, I inspect a combination of steel stairs and terraces and a ladder.
A drainage pipe runs to one side of it, and I reach for that, balancing myself as I get a foot on the second-floor landing.
And then I’m good to go. I hurry up one set of stairs, then another, keeping my footsteps light so the steel doesn’t shake or clatter against the building.
Halfway up—it’s five or six floors—my phone chirps.
“Dang it.” I need a whole new setting on the damn thing. Not Bedtime and not Do Not Disturb, but maybe Busy Killing Someone, Text Me Later. This fabulous mode would automatically turn on when my heart rate climbed, when my phone sensed me sprinting.
I pause long enough to take a quick glance at it—it’s John, of all people, like he can tell I’m busy on an unsanctioned kill. Or maybe he felt like someone was walking over his grave when I considered messaging him a second ago.
John: Update, please?! Boss is breathing down my neck.
“Oh, fuck off.” I tuck the phone back, climb to the top floor.
The fire escape stops one floor short of the roof, and I’ve got another fifteen feet I’ll need to somehow scale.
The building—an ugly matte gray thing only corporate America would build—is flat, with nothing to grab on to, no hand- or footholds.
Entirely unhelpful. A glance in the closest window tells me it’s someone’s top floor apartment.
A pug stares back at me, tongue hanging out of his mouth.
I whisper, “Good boy,” and he—or she?—cocks his head at me.
Pressing my fingertips to the glass, I try to slide the window open, but it’s either locked or painted shut. The pug wiggles, like he’s pleased as can be someone’s trying to get closer to him, even if it’s a killer breaking into his owner’s home.
I creep to the next window, which gives, easily sliding up. It leaves me in the unenviable position of having to climb past an assortment of spiky cacti on the windowsill and directly into a kitchen sink overflowing with ceramic plates and steak knives.
“It’s like breaking into Kevin McCallister’s house,” I mutter. The pug snorts—either appreciating my Home Alone joke or smugly reminding me that he is far too young to understand my millennial humor.
I clench my teeth and squat low, trying to slide my body in without letting my hoo-ha touch an unidentifiable smear of something that I hope is chocolate.
Remind me to never wear a dress again. I’ve nearly made it when the pug leaps in the air, yapping at me, nearly reaching the height of the counter.
I yank back. A sharp sting on my right butt cheek tells me I’ve failed to avoid the cacti.
“Move,” I hiss at the little dog, placing my hand in the only square of counter space not covered in dishes.
He stumbles back a step, sits, tilts his head at me again.
Stepping onto the rim of the sink—aah, air-conditioning—my skirt rides up as I try to climb down without toppling, and suddenly the pug gets a full view of my ass.
You don’t know this about me, but I despise panty lines, as well as thongs, and therefore go commando anytime I’m wearing something sheer—like tonight. In other words, my undies are in the back of Brian’s BMW…but I’m starting to think I should reconsider this policy in the very near future.
I yank down the hem of the dress, give the dog two pats on the head, and also remind him (definitely a him) it’s polite to look away, then pull the window shut and hurry toward the front door, one hand clutching my ass where a cactus spine is still sunk into my flesh.
I’ve no sooner gotten out of the apartment and into the hallway when my phone dings again.
This time, it’s not John.
Brian: Everything okay? Do you need help?
Shit. I’ve been gone at least ten minutes. I tap out a fast response: Just lady issues! Be out soon.
That’ll shut him down. No man wants to hear about lady issues.
A final staircase leads from the top floor of apartments to the roof.
This time, I walk slowly, gun in a two-handed grip aimed at the door that exits outside.
The shooter could come down at any moment.
And I don’t want to be huffing the second I step outside, having sprinted up a staircase; no, I want to be deathly silent.
Taking the stairs carefully, I pause at the top to listen. To press my hand to the doorknob, to push it open, golden evening sunlight pouring through the entrance, temporarily blinding me. No bang-bang or splintering of wood. Only stillness.
The hardest part about my next move is that I have only a vague idea of where this door leads.
It’s somewhat central to the building, and it’s closer to the back than the front.
But the shooter might be right on the other side of it, waiting for me.
Or they might be tucked behind an air conditioner’s condenser unit, the fan inside whirring loudly, leaving them clueless to my arrival.
I take a breath and step out onto the roof.