“No?” the man chuckles, and then says something to someone else, making them laugh.
I glance down the hallway to where Jett is crouched, next to the door of one of Patricia’s neighbors. He’s dressed all in black with a silenced pistol in his hand, a black hood pulled low over his eyes, leather gloves on his hands.
My belly twists again when I think about Rebel back in the car, curled up under a pile of blankets.
I despise these men for making me leave her.
I need to get this done as quickly as possible.
“I said no, you fucking loser,” I spit, slamming my fist against the door. “You wanted me. I’m here. Now, why don’t you take your limp dick out of your hand and open this fucking door. I’m carrying something.”
“Oh yeah? What’re you carrying?”
“My life savings, you asshole,” I yell. “I brought my life savings because maybe that will end whatever this is. So open the fucking door.”
“Got some fire in you, ain’t ya?” the man chuckles darkly. “Maybe we’ll have a couple of go’s at you before we turn in your scalp. You’re not my type, frankly. But I’ll take a swing at anything these days.”
Footsteps move toward the door.
I draw in shaky breaths, my throat feeling raw, my chest tight with the nonstop drumbeat of my heart.
What if he just shoots me through the door?
I step slightly to the side, wincing with every creaking of the floorboards, thinking about how crazy it is that a few hours ago I was on the other side of the door.
What with everything that’s happened with Jett, it feels so much longer.
“Wait,” another man says.
“Wait, what?” the first man snaps.
He’s closer now, right on the other side of the door.
I can see his shadow.
There’s a click.
His hand is on the door handle.
He’s standing right there.
“If her hands are so full she can’t open the door, how did she knock on it—”
Some crazy impulse rises up in me.
All I can think about is Rebel in the car all by herself, probably whining because she doesn’t know what’s going on. I think of Patricia in there, maybe tied to a chair, maybe bloody from where these evil bastards have tortured and toyed with her.
I snatch my hand forward and grab the door handle, pushing it down and shoving it hard.
The door flies open and the man shouts something, leaping backward, a black-clad figure going for his gun.
And then Jett is at my side, driving his shoulder into the door which the man is trying to close. He flurries into the apartment, smashing the hilt of his gun against the man’s throat. The man chokes and stumbles, and Jett shoves him roughly aside and springs deeper into the apartment, gun raised, searching.
Hardly aware of what I’m doing – it’s like I’m watching myself – I run into the apartment and grab the man’s gun from his hip.
I aim it at his prone form.
“Stay there, asshole,” I snap, intending the words to come out full of confidence.
But instead, they sound like a child playing dress-up, unconvincing, a quaver beneath them.
I glance up briefly.
Patricia’s apartment is a mess, her stylish wall hangings in crumpled piles on the floor, her sleek white-leather couch dappled with red and upturned, her coffee table shattered, the glass winking in her hipster naked-bulb lights.
From her bedroom, men shout and there’s a crash and a bang, but not a gunshot.
“You really got the stones to pull that trigger, girl?” the man on the floor sneers, blood spewing from his shattered nose.
Its Markus, I realize, the man from my apartment earlier tonight.
“Just try me,” I snap.
He shrugs and leans back on his elbows, as though he’s making himself comfortable.
Time seems to slow, torturing me.
My mind returns to the day Patricia found me sitting outside the railway station with Rebel in my arms and a deep burning in my chest.
I’d been caught riding without a ticket, unceremoniously thrown out. Rebel was all I had in the world, a gorgeous baby Chihuahua I got from a rescue shelter when I had a waitressing job and a studio apartment.
But then I lost the job and the apartment, and I was destitute, on the edge of ruin.
Sitting outside that railway station was truly rock-bottom.
And then Patricia appeared like a guardian angel.
“Why so glum?” she smiled, striding over to me in her hipster blocky boots.
She was so stylish, this regal, supremely cool woman kneeling down to pet Rebel and then smile at me. My first thought was that maybe she thought I was homeless and was going to give me change, but instead, she stood back up and smiled.
“This is going to sound completely insane,” she said. “But would you like to interview for a job?”
She advanced my pay so I could get another apartment.
She awoke a love of event-planning inside of me that I never knew was there.