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 histemple. 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 theopportunist, 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.
