“Run, Mary!” he chokes.
I don’t think; just bolt for the back. Flats skidding on broken tile, purse slamming against my hip. I ram into the door behind the old soap machine, half-expecting it to be locked, jammed, cursed.
It opens.
Thank God.
I stumble inside. Slam it shut. There’s no bolt, so I press my whole weight against it, useless as that is. I’m in some kind of back storage room, maybe once used for detergent or mop buckets. Now the air is thick with dust.
Crack.
A bullet punches through the doorframe, metal pinging behind me. I drop. Knees scraping the floor. Purse sliding. My heart’s not beating right; it’s pounding like a jackhammer.
Oh, my God. Oh, my God. Oh, my God.
I crawl behind a busted dryer tipped halfway off its base. One of those industrial ones, dented and caked in lint. It smells of mold and melted plastic, but it’s the only thing between me and them. I wedge myself behind it, knees tucked to my chest, sweat sliding down my back.
Outside, Dave’s whimpering, rambling. His voice is high, desperate.
And then— Laughter.
Not the human kind. Cruel. Vicious.
“Finish him.”
Dave screams. Sharp. Guttural.
They’ve got him. Oh God, they’ve got him. I press my hand over my mouth, stifling a sob, purse clutched like it’ll save me.
Those ledgers—those stupid papers—are why I’m in this mess. Tears stream down my face, hot and stinging, mixing with the sweat. I’m dead. I’m so dead. My brain’s a mess, flashing to the blood on Grandma’s porch, and the threatening call…
My whole body’s shaking now. Not trembling—shaking.
The air back here is worse. Thicker. Dusty, hot, metallic. There’s a small window near the ceiling, but it’s covered in grime and mesh wiring. No way out.
I’m trapped. They’re going to kill him. Then me.
A loud crash. The back door shatters.
Boots on concrete.
I press myself deeper into the gap behind the dryer, rust biting my palms, legs cramping. I try to slow my breath. Be invisible.
It doesn’t work.
His silhouette fills the doorway. Huge. All black. Face like a scar carved into flesh.
His gun swings low. But his eyes— They find me instantly.
“Suka,” he sneers, voice thick with lust as he reaches in and hauls me out, dragging me to my feet. Then he’s grabbing my blouse and yanking it open, buttons popping, exposing my bra. “Might as well enjoy you before you’re done.”
“No! Fuck off!” I struggle, kicking, but he’s too strong, pinning my arms, his breath hot and rancid on my face. I’m choking on panic, tears streaming.
This is it. I’m dead.
Before he can say more, a wet crack splits the air. A hole blooms between his eyes, blood oozing down his face, thick and dark, splattering my blouse.
He collapses, heavy, his gun clattering.
