One. Frontal assault.
I die in three seconds.
Two. Wait for her to leave.
Me at her back.
Three.
Something so stupid it loops back around to genius.
I choose door number three.
In the trunk I’ve got:
- a bright yellow high-vis safety vest I stole from the city worker who got sassy with me
- a hard hat with a GoPro already mounted (Orion’s old one)
- a clipboard from work
I throw the vest on, slap on the hard hat and suddenly I’m city inspector.
I walk straight up to the two guards like I own the pier, bat over my shoulder like it’s a fluorescent light tube I’m replacing.
“Evening, boys. Got a surprise inspection and a Halon dump scheduled in two minutes. Your boss inside?”
Guard One immediately looks like he’s calculating how much prison time he gets for shooting a city worker.
Guard Two is already backing up. “We didn’t get no call.”
“Tell that to the fire marshal when this place turns into a vacuum chamber. Move,” I say.
They bolt inside to warn Oksana.
Perfect.
I follow ten steps behind, casual as hell.
Inside is big open space, pallets, one overhead sodium light flickering like a horror movie.
Oksana’s barking orders in Russian, gun out, looking for the threat that isn’t gas.
The guards are yelling over each other, pointing at me.
Oksana spins, raises the gun.
I flick the hard-hat light on, blinding 5,000 lumens straight into her face, and charge.
She flinches at the light for half a second.
That’s all I need.
I come in low under the gun, swing the Coop’s bat two-handed like I’m trying to hit a home run into next week.
Connects with her right wrist first. Bones crunch like dry kindling.
The gun clatters.
