by Harper Riley
I nod.
“Be careful.”
Jaws nods, his whole face lit up now, and sprints up the stairs ahead of me.
A few second later, there’s the bang of shots, then an “Ouf!”
“Jaws?” I call, but the only response is a scuffling sound.
My legs spasming with fatigue, I throw them ahead more.
“Jaws?” I call again, the question coming out a strangled cough, “Jaws, you good?”
For a few terrifying seconds, there’s no response; only the diminishing sound of footsteps.
Then there’s a gurgled cough, and, “Yeah.”
Next thing I know I’m in front of a ragdoll version of Jaws. He’s slumped, the pool of his own blood from his twisted leg growing.
He tries at a smile, then gives up, grimaces.
“Bastard got me, but I got him too. You can finish him, Boss.”
I’m hardly hearing him. All my attention is on his upper left thigh, where he’s balled up his jeans to try to staunch the blood.
Jaws gives his head a painful-looking shake, then strains his head up so the scar on his neck is visible.
“Don’t be an idiot, I’ve had much worse. Go now – you may not get another chance.”
I don’t move.
If his reminding me of the last time I nearly cost him his life is the way to get me to leave, then it’s not going to work.
Jaws’ eyes are boring into mine.
The footsteps above are getting quieter.
Jaws shoves his hand in his pocket and gets out his phone. He jams some buttons, then presses it to his mouth and says, “Pip, my man. Yeah, why don’t you come on down? Yeah, maybe make it fast-like, got a bit of a situation.”
A pause, and then three worms of irritation wiggle on Jaws’ forehead.
“No I don’t know where we are, can’t you just track the call?”
A sigh, then the worms disappear.
“So, you’ll stop by? Yeah, maybe disable the elevators first. Yeah, yeah, the Boss is just going actually.”
Jaws shoots me a significant look, and I do.
I go. I go without looking at him. Because if I do, if I take in that beet red color his face’s taken on, then I won’t be able to leave at all.
I leave my friend, so I can find my sister. So I can end this.
I run up the stairs after the sound that’s now nearly inaudible, but I can still just make out. Footsteps, high, higher up.
The only other sign that I’m headed the right way, that Carlos didn’t dash into one of these other floors, is the occasional dribble of blood.
Jaws must have got him good.
On every level, my legs protest more, and I push them on harder.
Chunks of thoughts occur to me, all dismissed indiscriminately:
How many flights is this now? 20? 30? 60? How many more can I take?
Throwing myself up another flight is always the answer. However many it takes. I have to do this.
Every new thought is a new ratchet of pain, my feet now throbbing remote sacks of meat.
And yet, the one thing driving me forward, that sound, that pitter-patter of footsteps, is getting the slightest bit louder every flight.
Until it vanishes altogether.
I race up the next flight and immediately see why: I’m at the Penthouse. There’s nowhere else for Carlos to run now. I’m here.
I throw open the door to a desk that looks very recently empty: the guestbook’s page is still half-turned, the swivel chair twisted to the side.
I take out my Glock, scan the area once, then again. There’s a hallway with several doors, any of which he could be behind.
Now, which door contains the fearful little shit that I’m going to put down like the dog that he is?
My gun stops at the first door, which is as good a guess as any. After all, Carlos just got here, didn’t have hours to plan out where to hide.
I kick open the door and a shower of bullets greets me.
I lunge behind the desk.
Guess door #1 it is.
My breath is harried with exhilarated fear. I inhale, then exhale. Inhale, then exhale, then throw my arm out and shoot at the door.
“Where’s my sister, Carlos Piccolo?” I yell.
A series of bullets from several directions fly an inch over my head.
I freeze.
One gun can’t shoot from several directions.
“Not here,” a male voice yells back.
“If we let you go, then go!” another voice yells.
I pause there, crouched behind the desk.
Should I take the voices up on it? There’s clearly several of them, all of them armed.
A new volley of bullets votes in favor of going.
My knuckles are white on the gun.
I swear.
I’m so close. I’m so fucking close I can practically hear his strained wheezy little breath.
My phone rings, more shots explode beside me, and I pick up the phone.
“Not a good time,” I say.
“It’s Jaws. Pip is almost here, but the boys won’t be for another 10. You good?”
Some shots fly by my other cheek.
“Yeah, I will be,” I say.
A pause, then, “Uh, is that you coming down the stairs?”
I curse.
“No.”
Jaws lets out a nervous whinny of a laugh, then says, “I’m sure it’ll be fine.”
“I’m coming,” I say and hang up.
Looks like the decision’s been made for me.
I lift my hands, rise and run.
“I’m going!”
And then I do.
I run back to the door like a smart coward, like a strategic fool. Like a good friend.
Sometimes I hate doing the right thing.
As I race back down the stairs I raced up mere minutes ago, I make a promise under my breath, “You’ll pay for this Carlos Piccolo. I don’t care if it’s the last thing I do; I’ll make you pay dearly for this.”
Descending seems to take a third as long as ascending did. Maybe it’s knowing that there’s an end to these seemingly nonstop steps, maybe it’s that Jaws could very well be dying down there, but I race down with an energy I didn’t know I had left.
By the time I get there, Pip is just arriving.
His black eyes looked goggled in his round bowling-ball head.
I speak between wheezes for air.
“They’re up there” – huh-huh – “Too many” – huh-huh – “Another time” – huh-huh “Fuck ‘em.”
I freeze, then scrutinize Jaws. There’s no way Pip came from above.
“Hey, where’s...”
Even through his clenched face of pain, Jaws manages a smile.
“I lied. Knew you’d rather die than let them get away.”
Fury surges through me. I step forward, ready to hit Jaws, kick him – anything. But he looks so pitiful, slumped half-dead there that I can only swear, and let Pip lift his poor broken form.
As Pip and I run down the rest of the stairs, in Pip’s arms, Jaws provides an unwelcome accompaniment as he admonishes us to turn around:
“Awww, fuck ‘em is right! We’ll be back! They’ll be sorry! Can’t wait ‘til I get my hands on that shithead Carlos, he’s gonna be sorry he was ever conceived.”
At the last statement, he suddenly flops back motionless.
When we finally reach the bottom of the stairs, we race into the lobby.
Morgan Freeman is eyeing us like a bull ready to stampede, but just as he gets up from his desk, we get out of there.
Miraculously, our van is right where we left it, parked at an incredible curve beside the curb.
We throw ourselves into our 80’s throwback van, and I start driving.
Jaws is still out cold. Pip is silent. My own disappointment is the loudest passenger in the car:
Why couldn’t I have waited 10 minutes? Or better yet, not let my anger get the best of me, follow C
arlos from a distance, have him lead us straight to his office, hit it when he least expected it?
I’m planning a surprise attack on their house, why couldn’t I use the same caution for their office? I could’ve just missed out on my best chance to save Hannah.
My hands on the steering wheel are so white and tense they look like they might snap off.
And now? We’ve got nothing. The boys will get there too late.
Pip’s low baritone breaks my reverie, “Pulse and his guys have arrived. You still want them to go in?”
“Yeah,” I say, suddenly realizing where I should be.
Back there, leading the charge, telling them where to go, what to watch out for.
I literally just left them blind and clueless, walking into what could now be a trap.
“Hey Boss?” Pip says, his voice hesitant.
“Yeah?”
“I told them you were on the penthouse, that the guys were armed.”
I exhale in relief.
“Thanks Pip. Don’t know what I’d do without you.”
I stop just in time for the red light, the whole car screeching to a noisy, bad halt.
I pull down the mirror and look into it. I look the same as ever, just a bit shaken.
What’s gotten into me lately? I’m getting sloppy, making mistakes.
I put the mirror back up.
I know what’s gotten into me – or rather, who. It’s an absence and a presence. Two women I care entirely too much about.
Ten or so minutes later, when we get to the hospital, I let Jaws and Pip go in while I sit in the car, call Pulse.
Let’s see how the guys are doing. If they’re fast enough, maybe they can hit the Piccolo office before it’s too late and there’s nothing left to hit. Maybe they can find something that will help me find Hannah. Maybe this is it.
“How’s it going?” I ask.
“Gavy, brother,” Pulse’s nasally shrill comes back, “Right, we’re here. The big black office place. We got them on the fly. Running, burning shit. We didn’t kill anyone, but the place is trashed.”
I curse.
“So what, you want me to hold the place 'til you get back here, right?”
The casualness of his tone gives me an idea.
“Yeah, and Pulse?”
“Yeah Boss?”
“How... long exactly do you think you could hold it?”
Not missing a beat, Pulse says, “Aw, s’long as you want it. The only resistance we got was this Morgan Freeman guy on the first floor, wagging his tongue at us. My guy bought him off with some muffins or some shit, right. But you make sure to come down in the next week, you got me? I got shit to do, can’t have my guys sitting ‘round here watching porn for a week. It’ll make ‘em fat, lazy.”
A loud hee-haw laugh, then, “Right, really just fatter and lazier, who’m I kidding?”
“Great man,” I say, “Thank you. I owe you... beans next time we hang. See ya.”
I hang up the phone, check the time and pump my fist up in victory.
It’s 10:45. I still have time. I’ll be late, but I still have time.
For all of it.
Now I can check on Jaws, see Tony, get laid, search the Piccolo office and live happily ever after.
I lift the chain on my neck, look down at it.
No. No, I won’t be happy until I’ve found my sister, but I have to keep myself sane in the meantime.
Inside the hospital waiting room, the front desk nurse is a bitch.
“Your friend... Jaws,” she says, pausing pointedly at the name, “Has just been taken in for surgery.”
“I know that,” I say in my most patient voice, which, right now, isn’t all that patient at all.
“But he’s going to be okay. He’s not going to lose his leg or die.”
The blonde bitch lifts her glasses so they’re a further barrier between us.
“I’m not at liberty to say.”
And that’s it. My time is up: I’m supposed to sit down.
I don’t move.
She returns her attention to her computer, clicking away, as if she doesn’t notice that I’m still standing here, waiting for a real answer, ready to bash her head into her stupid white MacBook.
“Boss,” Pip says, putting a hand on my shoulder.
I shrug him off.
“Boss,” he says again.
“Pip,” I say, not turning, my voice now a furious boom, “This woman....” – I check her flower-stickered name tag – “Ms. Marple here, was just about to give me a real answer.”
Her frightened glance flicks to me.
“Boss,” Pip says.
“So, is he?” I demand the glass partition, “Is my friend going to be ok? How serious is it?”
Miss Marple is trembling and I’m enjoying it. Let her tremble. Let her tremble and whine and call whomever she needs to, whoever’ll be at the other end of the phone her hand is inching toward.
I will see Jaws if it’s the last thing I do.
“Boss, he’s going to be okay,” Pip says, his low voice steady and sure, “You saw him. It was just his upper leg. He’s going to be okay.”
“Still waiting for an answer,” I say, my voice even louder now, blaring out over all the others, rendering the room to a mute box.
The trembling bitch grabs the phone, and I grab my gun in my pocket.
We stare each other down, her livid, trembling, pink flab of a face and mine, smiling at the wreckage I will make of this place if she calls security, if she doesn’t tell me what's going on with Jaws.
“Gav,” Pip barks, his hand gripping my wrist, stepping in front of me, forcing me to look at him.
“They’ll get the cops involved, kick us out. Maybe even worse”
He says the words slowly and they sink in slowly, the bars of a cell sliding into my slow-nodding head, sliding through the fire in my veins, unclenching my knuckles off the handle of my gun.
“Take care of him,” I say to Pip, and stride out of the waiting room without another word.
Chapter 18 - Torrie
He’s late. He’s never been late before.
I check my phone for the fourth time in the past minute, then remind myself: you’ve only met him two times before, and the first wasn’t planned. You’re being stupid, there is no “always” with someone you barely know.
Still, with everything that’s gone down these past few hours, I’d be stupid not to be worried.
I had to block Carlos’ number on my phone, he’s been calling me so much.
I already got his and Clarence’s 20 other panicked messages: that our office was found, that none other than Gavin Pierson and his men came knocking, guns in hand. That Carlos and the others barely escaped at all.
It took all I had to respond merely with: Do what you have to. Get out of there. Will discuss tomorrow, after Carlos basically ordered me home.
I’m not his puppet and I didn’t ask for this. And if I need a night off to get away from all this insanity, then I’ll take it.
I check my phone again and sigh.
Is sleeping with the enemy really getting away from it though? And, more than that, how can I think that Gavin’s coming here is anything other than the Grand Finalé to his retaliation stunt?
You better be there by 11:30 was the text he sent me half an hour ago.
And I am here. Waiting. Terrified. Alone.
Hands snake around my waist, and I freeze.
What if he feels the gun?
“An on-time kind of girl, I like that,” he whispers in my ear, his hands shoving my pelvis to him, “I’ve got some big plans for you tonight.”
A shiver of excitement goes through me.
I want to find out these big plans and yet, finding out may be the death of me.
HIS HAND IN MINE LEADS me up the stairs, through the door on the side marked: CN TOWER.
Funny, you almost miss it beside the big overblown restaurant and souvenir signs. Maybe that’s the point: misleadin
g unwary tourists into purchases instead of experiences.
Then again, it’s easy to spot others being misled; it’s not always so easy when it’s yourself. What would others see when they looked at my life?
A frightened fool, walking straight into the trap? A clueless idiot, not asking questions when her albino enemy opens the door easily, even though it should be locked, even though the whole place should be closed? Walking, no questions asked, toward her doom.
“So, you own the CN Tower, basically?” I finally ask.
We’re weaving through the lobby, which is basically a sea of shop stands, everything indistinct and similar in the dark.
“Even better,” Gavin says with a smirk, “I own everything.”
“Oh really?” I ask, raising my eyebrows.
He shoves me to a sunglass stand, his hand right between my breasts.
“Really.”
Several frames rattle to the floor. We stare at each other for a minute, then he removes his hand.
As I lean over to pick the fallen frames up, he chuckles, pats my butt.
“You’re so... good.”
After I’ve returned them to their spots, I turn to him and envelop him in a kiss.
Then, breaking away, smirking myself, I say, “You have no idea.”
Gavin pauses, cocks his head at me, but says nothing. His hand grasps mine once more, leads me on further, past more stands toward the elevator.
With everything so perfectly preserved and empty, it’s like we’re in a ghost town, in the aftermath of an apocalypse.
“Fascinating, isn’t it?” Gavin says, “Sometimes I pay people to go in their buildings when no one’s around, just to walk, think. There is something bittersweet about being alone in so much space.”
He falls silent, as if remembering I’m here.
When he stops, his hand slides to my leg, then freezes.
“You didn’t,” he says, a smile playing on his lips.
His hand slides up further, feels the top part of my stockings, then the strap of my garter and snaps it.
“I did,” I say, my gaze locked on him as I roll up my skirt to reveal both garter belt straps.
His hand locks on my skirt, and mine locks on his shirt.
“Not yet,” I say, backing away.
His grip on my skirt doesn’t budge.
“Now,” he says, letting go, striding over to the elevator and jamming the button.