by Kells, India
Said man was shaking hands with the men he’d been talking to and turned to make his way through the crowd in their direction when a loud boom caused the glass in the venue rattle until it exploded inward, showering the crowd with shards of glass.
Instinctively, Orla, like everyone inside, dropped down at the sound of gunfire. When she peeked up, the only people she saw moving were the security personnel. From their number, and how they were divided, she supposed their only focus was to protect Mr. Black and Mr. White—whoever he was—which meant everyone else had to fend for themselves.
Sloane crawled closer to her and hitched up her skirt up to reveal a gun strapped to her thigh. “You okay? Take cover and get out of here.” Was she a bodyguard too?
Orla saw men dressed in black making their way inside. Masked and heavily armed, their appearance didn’t bode well, and the crowd sensed it as well, as everyone scattered, their yells and screams deafening.
She heard a man screaming her name and was unable to pinpoint his location or identity. Scrambling back toward the wall, ignoring the glass biting into her palms and knees, Orla saw Sloane firing. It was almost surreal when her handsome companion, Sam, did the same. From the corner of her eye, she saw Damon making his way to the other side of the room, guns also blazing. He looked at her, but there was no way she could reach him. Bullets hit moving bodies, and it felt like a bad action movie. The attackers were all masked, and even though she didn’t know their motive or intent, they had no problem killing anyone that got in their way.
Quickly ditching her high heels, Orla watched as the masked men advanced toward Mr. Black, who had retreated with his bodyguards behind the bar. She heard a man shout as he was taken away kicking and screaming by the criminals. For the briefest of glimpses, Orla recognized Mr. Black. There were people lying down and blood on the floor. In the distance, she could see people running, disappearing through the trees. The police would be here soon, and the situation would inevitably turn into a standoff.
Eyes on the attackers, she tried to remain as invisible as possible as gunfire sounded around her, making her way behind the doors to the kitchen.
Her vision blurred then, the panic she’d kept at bay returning full force along with her PTSD symptoms. Her brain knew she had to remain sharp, to keep going, but her body wanted to dissolve into a puddle of fear. The noise outside the door was becoming deafening, reminding her she was far from safe, and that was what finally forced her to get up and move.
There was nobody in the kitchen; the staff had probably scattered as soon as the gunfight started. She passed the door where she’d left Damon earlier, knowing it was a dead end.
When she saw an exit sign as she turned a corner, she almost collapsed again. She was about to push the door open when an insistent buzzing caught her attention. It came from a door marked private. When it didn’t stop, she pushed the door open to investigate. She needed to make sure no one was injured inside and needed help.
The room was small and looked more like a storage area than an office despite the desk and file cabinet in the corner. A couple of coats were tossed on top of the desk, but she couldn’t locate the source of the sound before it stopped. She pulled at one of the woolen coats and a phone fell to the floor. She picked it up noting it was set to silent—the sound she’d heard must have been the phone vibrating against the desk. Thinking it might come in handy as she’d left her clutch in the main room, she put it in her pocket. She was ready to run when she noticed a black metallic briefcase. Again, it didn’t look cheap, and Orla wondered if it belonged to Black or White.
Common sense told her to leave it behind, but the reporter in her told her she’d regret it if she did, that whatever it contained was important. She warred with herself for several seconds. Taking something that didn’t belong to her went against the grain, but with everything that had happened in the last several minutes, it could be the clue she was looking for. It could also hold the key to why the masked men had wanted Mr. Black. Finally making a decision, she, she picked it up and sprinted outside.
The frosty grass beneath her feet felt like spikes, but she didn’t slow. She had to reach the line of trees first, get out of the open as quickly as possible. The noise dimmed in the background, slowly replaced by the increasing murmur of the city and distant police sirens. It was inevitable that one of the escapees would have the good sense to call the cops, although she suspected the majority of them would’ve rather kept the entire incident silent due to their less than stellar backgrounds.
Instead of running toward the main bridge heading directly downtown, and where most of the police would come from, she followed the Lakefront Trail along the water toward Saint Joseph Hospital. At this time of night, the chance of being noticed was slim, especially with the firefight continuing behind her.
The more she ran, the more certain she was she hadn’t been followed. Where was Damon? Was he okay? And that woman, Sloane? And Sam? Compared to the attackers, those three had the best chance of survival in her opinion. Had she been the only who hadn’t brought a gun to this shindig?
After a few minutes, her lungs on fire and with the increasing certainty she was alone, Orla arrived where the trail met Lake Shore Drive. She could’ve followed the main road, but instead decided to use the path that went under the overpass alongside the canal, staying out of sight as much as possible. Her feet were numb from walking on the cold asphalt, but it didn’t matter. The only safe place was her apartment, and once she’d made it through the tunnel, she’d be able to call a cab. Concealed under the overpass, she stopped for a minute to catch her breath and remove her wig and shiny dress before stuffing them into a trash can. She donned the coat over her underwear and buttoned it, thankful for the warmth it offered. Grabbing the briefcase, she saw a shadowy figure blocking her route to safety. She paused mid-stride and looked around, unsure which direction held the greatest threat.
The man looked large, and in the darkness, Orla couldn’t see his expression. The space wasn’t wide so sprinting around him wasn’t an option.
Her body was at the end of its adrenaline reserve, and she knew it would shut down on her soon. She needed to get out of there, get in a cab and go home where she could crumble in safety and privacy.
Her hand tightening on the handle of the briefcase, she was ready to defend herself as she confronted the man who didn’t move. “Get out of my way.” Glad her voice was loud and steady, she waited for him to respond, but he remained silent and her heart rate spiked.
She thought about threatening to call the police, but knew it wasn’t the best option. How would she explain being in her underwear and a man’s coat in a park in the middle of the night?
The man remained silent. Orla looked behind her then back at the stranger, taking one first step in his direction, and then another, her hand tight on the briefcase, ready it to use as a weapon if necessary.
It wasn’t until she was almost out of the tunnel that she realized the tall, broad man blocking her way was a dense bush just beside the pathway. Her body coiled so tight she thought it would break in two, she started to shake as she walked past it. She felt like a boiling pot about to bubble over, another sign she knew was related to her remnants of PTSD. That and imagining things that weren’t there.
When she spotted a cab at a corner, a sensation close to tears seized her throat, but it wasn’t a sob that poured out of her, but unstoppable laughter. All the fear, panic, exhaustion that made her legs shake turned into a fit of giggles as she got into the warm vehicle and with difficulty told the driver where to go. The driver didn’t say anything but watched her with weary eyes. It was obvious it wasn’t the first time he’d seen strange behaviors like hers in the middle of the night.
Holding the briefcase against her chest, Orla let the giggles turn into silent tears, praying she didn’t lose her mind, at least not quite yet. Please, not yet. Not until she could stop this impending madness.
Chapter Eleven
Sam fought b
ack his rage when he lost sight of Orla during the gunfight. His instinct was to sprint after her. The attack had been unexpected, and there was no way of knowing how many of them there were, and if any remained outside taking care of the runners like Orla.
It was the last thing he wanted to think about as there was nothing he could do about it in the middle of a fight. He and Sloane were outnumbered and outgunned even though they’d made headway against the masked men wearing head-to-toe black body armor, similar to what SWAT teams wore. The bodyguards, more concerned with protecting their clients than the civilians and employees being showered with bullets, had escaped, ushering their charges out of the line of fire.
Support was needed. Ducking to avoid being hit, Sam slid behind a half-wall and fished his earpiece from his pocket, inserting it in his ear. “Devin!”
God bless him; the hacker responded immediately. “Here and ready. Got hold of the cameras. Cops are on the way. ETA 7 minutes. From what I could see, there are five baddies inside, and an additional four outside standing between two catering vans. Running the plates, but no result so far. This is organized and fucking dangerous.”
“Sloane, report.”
A vile curse reassured him the former cop was still alive. “They’re mercenaries for sure. And they’re wearing fucking body armor. We need to regroup and assess. If we move, we’ll be killed.”
“We need a way out. And I need eyes on Orla.” At Sam’s command, there was a pause, and Sam hoped it was because Devin was busy and not because there was a technical problem. Or worse.
“I have a view of her exiting the building and running away. No baddies in the direction she took as far as I know. You and Sloane are my priority now.”
Sam thought about staying and getting his hands on one of the men in black so he could get answers, but the risk of injury or exposure was too high. He took another quick look and saw a man he had met briefly as he worked the room earlier. Mr. White was being pulled away by his protection squad. His partner, the burly man who introduced himself as Mr. Black, was neutralized and taken away by the masked invaders. Questions about the quality of both men’s protection would have to be staved off for now, but it was greatly lacking.
From a distance, sirens could be heard, meaning their location would soon be flooded with blue.
“Devin! Now would be a good time.”
As he spoke, Sam saw the swarm split into two entities trying to escape, but still shooting at each other like it was high noon at the O.K. Corral. He felt more than saw Sloane rush to his side. He aimed at the kidnappers and fired. Thankfully they didn’t have the same technology as Noctem did and he knew the best place to hit was the underside of the jaw. From his angle though it was an impossible shot unless the victim looked up. Sam smiled when he saw another way. “Sloane, get that big chandelier down. Now.”
Blowing a strand of pink hair from her face, the ex-cop aimed. If anybody could hit the thin chain, it was Sloane. She was a crack shot and had been the top of her class at the academy.
Sam didn’t watch her, and aimed at the closest commando and prayed his accuracy was still up to par.
It was a matter of half a second. As he knew she would, Sloane hit the chain, and the chandelier emitted a groan as it swung, drowning out the gunfire for an instant, just enough to draw the attention of his intended target. And Sam fired. A spray of blood appeared, and the man crumpled.
“Okay, guys. I have an escape route. Move, now.” Devin’s voice was almost deafening in his ear.
Sloane was on her feet in less than a second, but Sam continued to shoot, keeping the rest of the invading crew from recovering their dead colleague.
Sam made his way through the bodies and broken furniture, keeping his attention on the retreating group, gun ready until he reached the fallen man and crouched beside him. The body spasmed, and blood gurgled from the wound, but Sam wasn’t paying much attention. Careful not to leave any prints, he removed the hood as Sloane moved to his side.
“We’d better leave as Devin said. I don’t feel like explaining this little party to the cops.”
Sam took out his phone and took pictures of the dying man. With a sigh, Sloane examined his pockets. “No ID, and I’m not surprised. He’s a hired contractor.” She removed one of his gloves and held his hand up. “Get his prints for Devin.”
“Devin doesn’t want pictures. He wants both your asses out of there. ETA two minutes. But if you want to relax and welcome the cops instead, please stay where you are.”
Sam heard every word and ignored the usual sarcasm from the hacker. “Shit. We need more time.”
“Well, sorry guys, but the window is closing. We’ll find another opportunity, but I need you out. Now!”
This time they didn’t hesitate. Devin’s instructions were clear and to the point as always and led them to a flashy silver car at the end of the parking lot. Red and blue lights were arriving at great speed via the road on the other side of the building, and the invaders were nowhere to be seen.
“Get in the car and go!”
Sloane kicked the door. “We don’t have time to hotwire it. What were you thinking?”
As if on cue, the lights flashed, and they could hear the sound of the lock. “Get in. I’m using the car’s keyless capability to start it.”
Sam sat behind the wheel, and the engine roared.
“Now, I’ll disable the lights. Go straight until you reach the edge of the trees, then turn right. Keep going until you see a small service road to your left. It will lead you back to the highway.”
Sam slammed the gas, and the sports car skidded before hitting the grass. There was no way to avoid tire tracks, so outrunning any pursuers was the best option.
Devin was correct, as usual, and Sam turned onto the small dirt road that was barely an improvement from the turf.
“Now, according to the satellite, there should be a bunch of trees as you approach the main road. I’m watching for incoming cars, just be ready to hit the gas hard when I tell you. We don’t want to end up in a chase with the cops. Do you copy?”
Sam slowed, and he could see the main road where two more police cars flew by. “Loud and clear. Waiting for your call, Dev.”
The low hum of the car filled the silence. It was unusual for Sloane to remain quiet in situations as they found themselves, but Sam guessed she understood they didn’t have the luxury of missing their window of escape.
“Now! Go!”
When he slammed the gas pedal, the car swung from left to right before the tires gripped the pavement and propelled them forward with force. Grateful for the responsive ride, Sam took a sharp turn to the left and never let off the gas. Flying down the road, the car was a thing of beauty until they blended into the flow of traffic.
“We’re out. Good work, Devin.”
“Yeah, well done me. Thanks for the extra strands of gray hairs, you motherfuckers. By the way, I’ve disabled the tracking system, so that will give us some time.”
Now that his brain wasn’t in evade and escape mode, Sam returned to the matter at hand. “Orla. Give me an update, Devin!”
“Hey! Shouting won’t make the search go any faster, dumbass!”
About to snarl and give him a piece of his mind, Sam was stopped by Sloane who put her hand on his forearm. The quick glance was a silent warning.
“Just give me a status, that’s all I ask.”
Devin mumbled on the other end of the line. “My program is scanning all accessible cameras in a one-mile radius around the theater. It’s taking time because I’ve initiated a secondary program to record the camera feeds for us, but erasing them for anybody else. That way, your escape will remain undetected, as will Orla’s. Now, I’m programming your GPS to return to base. Sending you to another part of the city to ditch the car will take too much time and computer resources. Follow the route I programmed. I’m controlling the cameras along the route. It will look like you’ve disappeared.”
The screen embedded into the d
ashboard switched to a display the road to take. Sam was irritated by the time it took, but he had to acknowledge Devin’s efficiency and thoroughness under the circumstances.
The return to base was quick, and Sam drove the luxury car smoothly into their underground parking lot, taking the spot the closest to their private shop. If the vehicle had to be dismantled, it would be more practical.
Sloane followed as Sam headed directly to the lair where he found Devin, his gaze riveted to the wall of screens surrounding him, like at the helm of a strange starship. Sloane ditched her high heels with a groan of pleasure and slid in beside him as he stood beside the hacker.
Devin didn’t move, instead typing a series of coding that reminded Sam of Sanskrit. “You got out in the nick of time. I have eyes on the theater, and the cops are everywhere. Far from what I could garner, there are four deaths. Nobody alive left on site. If there were wounded, they all vanished before the boys in blue arrived. Nonetheless, it’s one big cluster fuck.”
“What’s a clusterfuck?”
Sam cringed when he heard Lance’s voice behind them. He turned to look at his boss and wasn’t surprised to see his frown. “An incident at the Theater on the Lake. We went in undercover at a private party hosted by Maximon and the place came under attack.”
Lance’s eyes darkened as he wobbled to the command center, his wound clearly bothering him, but not diminishing the danger radiating off him. “What do you have on them?”
Sam shook his head. “Nothing yet. We were hoping to get more information on Mr. Black and Mr. White, the heads of Maximon, but the evening was interrupted.”
Devin brought up the theater’s inside camera on the main screen just as the squad started firing.
Sloane shook her head. “They arrived out of nowhere, using catering trucks as a decoy. Devin was monitoring all available cameras in the area, but there weren’t any outside to hack.”
“And that’s why you should’ve asked for back-up. Two or three of ours on the outside would’ve given you enough eyes to anticipate rather than react. But the better question is why you went as civilians? And was that decision linked to a certain journalist?”