Chapter 22
The voices stop right outside the door. I jab the speaker button, cutting Grim off mid-ramble. Alejandro and I both drop behind the desk, knees bumping as we hit the carpet. The laptop screen is still up—progress bar at one hundred percent. Fucking finally.
I whisper, barely audible, “I’m taking this laptop with me. Make sure no one can trace it.”
Grim’s answer is quick, cocky. “I got you, S.”
I snap the phone shut, kill the laptop, and shove it into my bag. “Let’s get the fuck out of here.”
When we hear silence outside, I ease the door open a crack, watching for movement. The hallway’s empty. I nod at Alejandro, and we slip out, silent, closing the door behind us. I lock it with the multitool—muscle memory by now.
Then the radio static hits. Somewhere close. A voice—male, tense, half a floor away: “Be advised, possible suspect matching description. Female, five-nine, dark skin, big hair. Security sweep in progress. Do not approach—repeat, do not approach alone.”
My blood goes cold. I catch Alejandro’s eye. We both know who they’re talking about.
He mouths, Dumpster.
I mouth back, No. Rear door.
We have the argument—no words, just a battle of wills and hand signals. He wins, probably because I can’t risk us both getting caught, and because I’m pissed but not stupid.
I climb into the dumpster, as quietly as possible. It smells like cleaning chemicals, burnt coffee, and corporate rot. Alejandro yanks a pair of headphones out of his uniform pocket, pops them in, and starts humming off-key like he hasn’t got a care in the world. I glare at him. He grins and winks.
He grabs a big wastebasket from under the shredder—full of freshly destroyed paper—and dumps it right on top of me. I shoot him a look that says I will kill you, but he only shrugs and keeps moving.
The guard comes around the corner. I hear the wheels slow, the little squeak as Alejandro stops. The guard’s voice is clipped, suspicious. “Hey. You see a woman back here? Five nine, five ten—”
Alejandro pulls out one earbud and gives a blank look. "Lo siento, no hablo nada inglés."*
He rattles off something fast in Spanish like I just work here, shrugs, then slides the earbud back in and keeps pushing the cart, whistling something out-of-tune.
The guard mutters, then moves on, shoes squeaking down the hall.
I don’t breathe until I hear Alejandro’s footsteps again, pushing the cart away from trouble. Goddamn. I’m making him pay for the paper shreds. I’ll be picking confetti out of my hair for days.
I’m cramped. Hot. There’s paper in my bra. I text Grim while Alejandro wheels us down a side hall.
SAINT: can you hack the security system of the building we’re in?
GRIM: that question offends me
SAINT: we need to be invisible
GRIM: give me 30 seconds
Alejandro pulls the dumpster into a dead corner, out of the line of sight.
“Coast is clear.” He offers his hand and I glare at him.
Not mad just, really? He’s watched me scale a nine-foot fence with broken ribs.
Doesn’t matter. He still offers, because sometimes the killer steps back and the gentleman shows up. I take it, just to speed this up.
The flip phone vibrates.
GRIM: you’re a ghost.
Perfect.
I shoulder my bag and nod at Alejandro. “Let’s go. We’ll take the main elevator—Grim’s watching.” He nods, falls into step, head down like he’s just another night shift nobody.
As we walk, he glances over. “How’d you end up with the Grim Reaper on speed dial, anyway?”
I just smirk, firing back the line he gave me yesterday: “You have your contacts. I have mine.”
I punch the elevator button. It dings open, empty, and we step inside. I hit the lobby and as the doors close, I exhale.
Two floors down, three business suits step in—one yammering about stocks, another texting, the third pretending to ignore us.
The next stop, two delivery women wedge themselves in looking at Alejandro first, then me.
Red insulated bag clutched in hand, cheap perfume, the scent of burritos overlaying the day’s sweat.
Alejandro and I exchange a look—neither of us like where this is headed.
Floor nineteen the mother fucking doors open again.
And we all stare. Seconds pass and it’s not until the doors start to slide shut that anyone moves.
Everyone gives way for a goddamn clown to join us.
Full makeup, rainbow wig, shoes that squeak like an old mattress, and a bunch of balloons.
He grins at us all, then stares ahead, blank-faced.
The doors slide shut, trapping us with our own personal horror show.
Two floors go by. No one breathes. I can’t take it anymore. I sigh, long and heavy. “Oh, for Christ’s sake. Let’s get this over with.”
I snap out and kick the ever loving shit out of the nearest delivery lady right in the back. She goes flying into the panel, elbow mashing the emergency stop. Elevator jerks to a halt and all hell breaks loose.
One delivery girl is down, but her friend lunges—spring-loaded blade popping from her sleeve. I catch her wrist, snap the bone, and she screams. I rip the knife from her hand and drive it into her windpipe—twice, fast, no hesitation. Like two bites from a snake and she drops.
But there’s no time to savor it. I fling the knife across the box, and it buries itself in a businessman’s hand—gun and all—pinning it to the elevator wall. He squeezes off a round that barely misses Alejandro’s head. It blows out the corner light, glass raining down.
Alejandro moves like he was born for this. He yanks the blade free and, without pause, stabs it straight into the top of the guy’s skull. The man drops, eyes wide, blood painting the wall.
He’s barely clear before the clown barrels into him—the painted-on smile is no longer happy.
It’s all rage and desperation crammed into five square feet.
Alejandro takes the hit, back slamming into metal, but buries elbows in the clown’s back until the guy stumbles.
Then he drives a boot into the clown’s nose, snapping his head back, making him stumble into the opposite wall.
The second businessman, greed in his eyes, tries to take out the clown for the bounty—brass knuckles flashing. The clown ducks, and the man’s fist shatters against the wall with a sick crunch.
I’ve got the first delivery woman—she’s recovered, wild-eyed, blood on her teeth. She leaps off her dead partner’s back, using the wall for height, but I duck and let her fly over me. She crashes, rolls. I catch her by the neck, drag her down, and break it with a grunt.
A gun comes up—the third businessman, finger trembling on the trigger and aimed at my chest. I grab his wrist, twist, and slam him into the wall.
My hand closes over his and I make him fire until the clip’s empty—holes in the paneled ceiling, nowhere that matters.
He’s shaking. I smash his nose with the butt, then bring it down on his temple.
He slumps. I grab his chin, shove the barrel into his eye, and push.
I hear the squish of his brain around the gun’s barrel as much as I feel it.
He convulses once, then goes slack jawed. One remaining eye rolling back.
Alejandro’s still at it with the clown—blows flying, both bleeding. Alejandro takes two to the ribs, then grabs the clown’s head and drives his face into his knee, hard enough I hear teeth shatter. He grabs the clown’s balloons, wraps the strings tight around his neck, and starts choking him out.
I straighten my back, hands on my hips, breathing hard and take in the final show.
“You just going to watch?” he grunts, not looking at me.
“Pretty much,” I say, letting him finish his work.
The clown goes limp, slides to the floor like a sack of rotten potatoes. Alejandro waits a beat, then lets him fall.
“Maldito gilipollas,”* he mutters before spitting on the clown’s crooked wig. He starts shoving bodies out of the way, working his jaw.
“Looking for some souvenir teeth?” I pant, leaning against the bloody panel as my phone vibrates in my back pocket. Miraculously not shattered. “They don’t make ‘em like they used to,” I mutter, eyeing the carnage as I flip the screen. Grim, of course.
GRIM: Maybe find a new elevator.
I huff a laugh, stuffing the phone away. “We need to find a new ride down.”
Alejandro, ever the opportunist, snags the gun the first businessman dropped and tucks it behind his belt. Then he stretches up—tall bastard—and pops a ceiling tile, exposing the guts of the elevator shaft. Cool air, a ladder, and freedom.
He leaps, grabs hold, and hauls himself out with barely a strain. He turns and leans down, hand extended.
I sling my backpack over my shoulders and step up, not even eyeing his grip, just taking it.
“Oh, now you have no fuss to make when I offer my assistance?”
We lock wrists and he pulls me up with barely a grunt, muscle flexing. In an instant I’m beside him, peering into the black maw above.
“You know,” I pause for dramatic effect. “You talk with the confidence of a much taller man,” I say, fighting the smirk.
He gives me a look like I’ve lost it. “Are you fucking kidding me?” He stands up to full height, arms out. “I’m six-six. You want a measuring tape, baby? I'll let you measure something else while you’re at it. See how small I am."
I roll my eyes and head for the ladder bolted into the wall.
He follows, grumbling under his breath about “short people slander.” I climb, hands sure, blood still drying on my knuckles.
Below, he pauses just long enough to draw the gun, aims, and fires a single round into the elevator cable.
The cable snaps, shrieking, and the box full of corpses plummets into darkness with a grinding roar.
“Overkill, much?” I say, still climbing.
“Cleanup,” he calls back.
At the next floor, I wedge my multitool into the crack between the elevator doors. It takes some force, but the lock gives and they open just enough. He gets his fingers in and pries them wide. “Could a short man do that?”
“Mm, probably.” My nonchalance is killing him.
We slip into a deserted hallway, cool tile underfoot, fluorescent lights humming.
I hit the button for another elevator, just two battered assassins waiting politely for the next ride.
“Hey.” I nudge his shoulder. “Think we’ll get a mime next?”
He snorts, wiping a bloody knuckle on his jeans. “Fuck you, Saint.”
* "I'm sorry, I don't speak any English."
* “You fucking idot,”