3. Louise #2
My hips jut back—slamming my pelvis into his crotch with great force—a pained whoosh of breath leaves my attacker as he curves over my back instinctively from the groin strike.
I use his own momentum to complete the motion of his forward flip—laying him out flat on his back.
A shocked groan-gasp escapes him as the wind is knocked out of his lungs.
Newly freed from my towel choke collar, I let out a loud scream. “HELP!”
My hand is on the brushed stainless doorknob when suddenly I’m yanked off balance by my ponytail—pain screaming through my nervous system as I fumble backward—the room kicking off at an angle as my head is forced back.
I’m about to let out another pained yelp when the blade of Hans’ hand swiftly meets the side of my throat—a strangled gasp escapes me as pain blossoms hot and fast, my hands moving instinctively to the sensitive area.
With a single strike, he’s likely disabled my ability to use my voice for at least a minute or so. This isn’t your run of the mill A a few black and whites already on the way to bail me out.
Then again, if my digging and sniffing around Covartis is what has brought the likes of Hans to the Diamond Placement Center to dispatch me… Who knows how much the local pigs are going to help.
No time to dither. I make my way—still barefoot—across the tile, grabbing one of the metal framed lounge chairs from the perimeter of the pool and charging at the pane of glass with its legs stretched before me to break the barrier.
I hear the high tinkling sparkle of breaking glass sing out around me—my feet suddenly aflame with the pain of treading broken glass.
Instinctively, I throw the chair to the side—having served its purpose in shattering the plate-glass window standing between me and a potential path to escape.
I’m about to jump over the knife-like protrusions of glass at the base of the broken window—adrenaline muting the pain in my feet as I flee my would-be captor—when I am unexpectedly slammed to the ground by a laundry trolley filled with used towels.
I look up frantically from my place on the ground, expecting to see Hans—bleeding through his work-issue white athleisure pants, a look of rage on his face.
Instead, I am brought face to face with the catering service kid with the bad wig from Lowry’s retirement party.
Except he isn’t wearing the bad wig right now—a blue gray canvas ball cap to match his janitor’s coveralls covers his low bleach blond buzzcut; his patchwork of intricate tattoos spilling onto his hands and neck from the cuffs and collar of the purloined jumpsuit.
“What the fuck?” I manage to croak out, my voice starting to return to me after Hans’ open hand strike.
Before blondie can get his hands on me—I’m up and scrabbling for the door to the men’s locker room on the opposite wall of the pool area. My feet leave smeared bloody footprints in my wake as the fake janitor yells something unintelligible after me.
I burst through the doors, my duffel bag slapping against my lower back as I shove my way through the group of alphas, talking excitedly about their placement appointments as I continue my mad dash for safety.
Exploding from the men’s locker room—I slingshot myself out of the main hallway and down one of the side aisles of guest rooms—fists pounding each closed door as I make my way down the narrow corridor, my hoarse screams begging for sanctuary in vain.
I’m nearly at the end of the hall. An abandoned maid cart is the only thing standing between me and the alarm-wired door at the end of the hall; the tiny green ‘Exit’ sign glowing as if heaven sent.
My hands, numb from adrenaline and clumsy with panic, close over the edge of the cart as I prepare to swing it out of the middle of the hallway when I catch the animalic scent of sweat against an undertone of sweet neroli, bright ginger, and silken oud.
Click.
I hear it before I feel the muzzle—cold as ice pressing into the base of my neck.
“Ah, ah, ah! Not so fast, mon petit pièce brillante.” A man’s voice, ragged with laboured breath, purrs from over my shoulder.
I freeze in place as the man strides into my peripheral vision, the handgun in his teacup grip glaring at me down its black shining snub nose.
“Hands where I can see them, Chère,” he warns, his silky voice firm as he jerks the muzzle of the gun upward to illuminate his instruction.
I say nothing, just lift my hands clumsily off the cart—knocking the push broom from its metal bracket and onto the floor as I go; a spray bottle of glass cleaner lands on the carpeted floor with a muffled thud.
“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 say mon 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.