Felicity
I want to be brave, but the truth is fear is stabbing me like a knife. It stabs into my head, causing it to pulse, and into my heart, causing it to beat furiously. It stabs into my arms, causing them to feel heavy, weighed down. It stabs into my finger, causing it to grip the trigger weakly.
The door slides open and I see sunlight for the first time in days. I imagined I was being held in some evil villain’s lair, the kind of thing you see in a James Bond movie, but when the door opens, I am met with a hallway with flakes of paint chipping away. Off to one side sits disused equipment, half-covered with tarpaulin, and out of the window which sits opposite the elevator, I see a grey car park.
But I only have half a moment to observe this.
Ten or so men crowd in the hallway, Mr. Black’s men, all of them holding rifles, all of their sights trained on us. No, not us. Just at Bear. I’m too valuable to them, I realize.
Bear aims his gun and is about to fire when—bang!
The room is filled with blinding white light and a ringing so loud it drowns out the sound of the alarm. I cover my ears. I want to sink into the wall and disappear. My ears feel like they’re bleeding. I try to open my eyes but they’re hazy. I can’t see a thing.
Then the sound of bullets tears through the air and all thoughts of bravery leave me. I throw myself to the floor and cover my head with my hands, squeezing my palms against my ears against the noise. Bang-bang-bang, as bullets pepper the air around me, pinging off metal and smashing into wood and drywall.
It lasts what seems like forever, but then a firm hand grips me on the shoulder and hauls me to my feet.
“Open your eyes, girl.”
Slowly, I open my eyes. Bear looks down at me, his single eye blood-red from the explosion.
“What the . . . what the hell was that?” I wheeze.
I look down the hallway as I ask the question. All of Mr. Black’s men are laid out flat, dead. I turn away. I can’t bear to look at them. Smoke drifts up from Bear’s gun.
“It was a flashbang grenade,” he says.
“Wait, did you . . .”
He nods. “Aye.”
“I didn’t even see it,” I say in disbelief.
“I’ve been doing this a long time, girl,” he says. “They didn’t see it either. And by the time they knew what was happening . . .”
“Yeah,” I say weakly. “I see that. I . . . uh . . . you’re a good shot.”
My head still rings and speaking is difficult.
Bear nods. “Aye, that I am. Seems this old bear still has some fight in him, eh?” He nudges me gently in the shoulder. “Prop open the door. I need to move these men, keep the doors open.” He tilts his head, listening. “Dammit, there are more up here. Quickly.”
I hold open the elevator door as it beeps continuously at the obstruction. Bear goes to the closest dead man, grabs him by the arm, and drags him toward me. He drags him all the way to the elevator doors and drops him there. Then he nods at me, and I step from outside the doors. A moment later, the doors try to close, somebody downstairs pressing the button. But they close on the dead man’s torso, blocking it off, beeping over and over.
“Right,” Bear says. He heaves a sigh and waves a hand at me in a follow-me gesture. “Time to get you out of here.”
“What about Roma?”
Bear’s face goes tight. “He’ll catch us up later,” he says.
I’m about to respond when two men run into the hallway. They both hold the big, chunky rifles of Mr. Black’s men and have the same tough faces, scarred and battered through years of fighting and bloodshed. If I saw one of these men on the street, I’d never dream that anybody could take one of them, let alone both. Bear drops to one knee, aims, and fires twice. Two clean shots take the men right in the head; they drop.
He stands up and begins jogging toward the end of the hallway. I have no choice but to follow. I keep thinking of Roma. Where is he? I ask myself. Where the hell is he? Bear rounds the corner and I follow. We crash through an old rickety door, squeaking as it’s forced on its hinges, and out into a wide open factory area. The stairs are like the stairs of a fire-escape, metal railings but not contained within walls; I can see the entire factory. Disused equipment sits pressed against the walls and the floor is covered in a layer of dust so thick I spot it from up here.
Bear jogs down the stairs and I jog after him. I feel as though I am outside of my body, watching myself. Watching this inexperienced woman follow this hardened killer. This kind-hearted killer, but hardened nonetheless. We reach the floor, our footprints marking the dust like snow, and make for the exit.
Bear lifts his massive leg up, aims, and kicks the double doors. They swing open with a sound like tearing and sunlight attacks my face. It’s so bright after days of the black bag and the cell that I have to cover my eyes and squint through my fingers. Then, slowly, I part my fingers and look up at the stark blue sky. I almost cry at the sight of it. I think: I’m free. That’s immediately followed up with: But there is Roma?
Bear takes me softly by the arm and leads me to the car park. “Have a pick-up stashed here,” he says. “They thought I was one of them, one of the guards. That’s the mistake Mr. Black made when he hired mercenaries. They’re good in a fight, but they’re not observant. A hitman should be a killer and a detective.”
I’m shocked by how calm Bear is talking, by how gently he grips my arm. He’s just killed a dozen men. I think of the bloodbath in the hallway and wonder how it’s possible somebody could cause carnage of that magnitude and then speak calmly afterwards.
He leads me around the corner of a small outhouse—I glance inside and see a broken-down toilet—and to a red pick-up truck. He opens the passenger side door. “Okay, let’s get to it.”
“But . . . Roma.”
“I know him well,” Bear says. “If he’s not here by now, it’s because he can’t be.”
“But—”
Suddenly, there’s a loud crash followed by the tat-tat-tat of gunfire from the direction of the factory. Without thinking, I jump into the car. Bear jumps in after me, starts it, and pulls away. The tires screech and we reverse into the car park.
Roma stands at the doors. Beyond him, seen only as a mass of moving heads from where I sit, are around ten men.
I press my hand against the glass, screaming: “Roma!”
Roma shakes his head, lifts his weapon, and fires at us. I flinch. The bullet whizzes overhead.
“It’s a signal,” Bear grunts, putting the car into gear. “It means he wants us to get the hell out of here.”
Before I can protest, Bear screeches out of the car park.