All the King’s Queens – Chapter 13: Hide and Go Seek

“What the hell is going on?”

Officer Cunningham, who feels left out because he’s too young and inexperienced to belong at the “adult’s table,” urges Officer Gutierrez to fill him in on what’s happening. Gutierrez just sent a couple dozen texts to colleagues back at the police station who will have (in all likelihood) hordes of media people inundating them with phone calls and inquiries. By now, the national news media have picked up the story. It’s only a matter of time until the local press wakes up and smells the coffee.

“We don’t know for sure, but shit is definitely going down,” she says calmly. “The guy claims he’s hidden a bomb somewhere in the city. He’s threatened us by saying if we try to interfere with whatever it is he’s trying to do, he’ll give the order for the bomb to detonate. He claims the bomb can kill twenty to thirty people. Hell, we think he’s lying just to save his ass, but we can’t be too sure of that.”

“Holy shit!” Cunningham looks around at the small army of cops, SWAT officers, and FBI agents swarming the crowded street. All of them are itching to break down the gate and heroically rescue the hostages. Like in the movie “Braveheart,” you can only hold them back for so long until they snap and charge the hill with reckless abandon. But, they know better than that. If they storm the house right now, they increase the chances of hostages getting hurt. That would be unacceptable. “This is bad. Wow. I agree with you. I think he’s bullshitting us. But damn. Times are different. Shit like that happens all the time these days. We have to act like he’s telling the truth.”

“That’s the exact same conclusion we all came up with.” Gutierrez rolls her head in a circle several times to ease her built-up tension. She really needs a deep tissue massage from her favorite therapist once this crisis is over. And a tall stiff drink. “We just called a bomb disposal unit to show up here, with a few others on call just in case we need them elsewhere. Let’s pray it doesn’t come to that. God, what a nightmare.”

“It sure is…” This is all Cunningham can think to say.

Down the street, at least twenty news vans have parked just outside the blocked-off zone. The cops in charge of making sure nobody breaches the yellow tape hope they can be seen on camera, wanting their fifteen minutes of fame. Very few people enter into this profession for personal glory, but the allure of looking like a badass on the evening news can be irresistible. A few other cops are taking questions from reporters and giving standard scripted answers:

“We cannot comment on that at this time.”

“I will neither confirm nor deny those rumors.”

“Don’t quote me on that.”

“We will release a public statement about this on-going situation shortly. Please stand by.”

“Fuck off.”

Cunningham and Gutierrez chat for a few moments until Officer Dietrich interrupts them. Now with the feds essentially taking over the situation, he feels useless. Even though he won’t say this out loud, he doesn’t consider this situation serious enough to warrant federal intervention. This is a relatively standard armed standoff that he’s dealt with a handful of times before. Granted, those situations usually involved a single gunman holding (usually) an estranged wife or ex-girlfriend hostage. So the size, scale, and individual players involved (an infamous billionaire, three mysterious female companions, and a disgruntled employee) are the only factors that make this unique. Nevertheless, he wishes he could still be in charge instead of the stiffs wearing overly starched suits.

“Hey there. How is everyone doing?”

“Oh, you know. Wishing I were in bed sleeping instead of dealing with this crap,” Cunningham admits. This makes everyone chuckle.

“I know what you mean,” Dietrich admits. “Let’s not kid ourselves. This could get ugly. I also have my doubts about the whole bomb threat, but we can’t ignore it. Are they really going to arrange a private jet to pick them up as he requested?”

“Unfortunately, yes.” Gutierrez sighs, not wanting to give in to a terrorist’s demands. “We’re working on getting a small twin-jet airplane fueled and ready at Boeing Field. I sure hope the feds have a plan, you know, that they’re not making this shit up as they go. Because I don’t want to have to escort these assholes all the way to SoDo like they’re fucking royalty.”

“I hear you loud and clear,” Dietrich consoles. He looks down at the pavement.

Nobody speaks for a long, long time.

***

“Sit down, both of you.”

Stephen motions for Dylan and Henry to sit down on a stone bench situated between the garage door and the lip of the driveway. The feeling of cold, dusty rock against his bare butt makes Dylan wish he hadn’t let moss grow all over it. Henry doesn’t look like he’s enjoying sitting down on it either. Over on the other side of the gate, the cops and feds are still watching them like hawks circling their prey. The hostage negotiator guy and FBI lady confer amongst themselves, planning their next move like a chess grandmaster plotting their endgame.

“So you think you can get away with this, huh?” Dylan asks. Stephen whispers something inaudible to Roddy. He’s probably telling him that the whole bomb threat was complete horseshit and that he’s happy with how he played along and didn’t act surprised during the conversation.

“I sure hope so, buddy boy.” Stephen spits on the ground like a baseball player who’s stood in center field for far too long. “This wasn’t a suicide mission. This was supposed to be an easy job. In, out, go home, and make myself some pancakes before the sun rises. I guess breakfast will have to wait. Hell, I may have just eaten my last meal.” Stephen’s levelheaded tone surprises Dylan, as if he’s making peace with the fact that he won’t make it out of this situation alive. Roddy, on the other hand, doesn’t seem too keen on dying any time soon.

“Ah, fuck!” Roddy curses to himself.

“Don’t worry, my friend,” Stephen reassures his partner in crime. He places a hand on his weary shoulder. “Have some faith. I can figure out a way for you to get out of this. If the escape jet plot works, then we’ll go somewhere friendly, like a country without extradition laws. If not, and you do get arrested, I’ll still figure out a way for us to get off easy. Though, unfortunately, you may have to…snitch a bit.”

Roddy hates snitching (and those who snitch to avoid long prison sentences), but he understands its necessity. He’d have no moral qualms about snitching on someone who deserves to go down (for example, he knows a few drug dealers who are also into child pornography. As far as he’s concerned, they deserve to be taken out of business). Still, snitching is considered taboo for a reason. “Yeah, I figured. Fuck. Well, shit. Whatever it takes. Right?”

“Yes, indeed.”

Dylan and Henry look at each other. Henry has demonstrated remarkable composure in the face of all this chaos. When times are tough, you truly see who people really are. Henry, as Dylan has discovered tonight, is strong, resilient, and unafraid to do what’s right.

“I’m sorry you have to go through this,” Dylan tells his loyal chef. If surviving this nightmare isn’t deserving of a raise, what else would be?

“Don’t worry, boss. It’s all good. When we get out of this, I now have a fun story I can tell girls at the bar,” he laughs. Dylan smiles at his chef’s sense of humor. No matter what happens from here on out, Dylan knows he and Henry can live the rest of their lives with a clean conscience. Stephen and Roddy, however, will have to constantly watch their backs, look over their shoulders, pay attention to who’s driving behind them in the review mirror, and live in constant fear of being taken out by federal agents, military assassins, or fellow criminals who suspect they’ve snitched to the authorities. If that lack of comfort is their eternal punishment, so be it. Dylan knows full well what it’s like to live in fear, with guilt, with loneliness.

If these scoundrels have to live that exact same life, it’s the least they deserve.

***

“What do we do about him?” Monique points to Xander, who’s still breathing but solidly unconscious. Peggy and Melanie gather around his body while considering the moral implications of killing him like they killed Cortez.

“He’s not actively threatening us, but he’s far from innocent,” Melanie observes. She lightly taps him in the face with her foot. He doesn’t stir.

“I could shoot him in the fucking face right now,” Monique threatens, pointing the barrel of her gun directly at Xander’s sleeping head. “But fuck! It wouldn’t feel right.”

“Let’s just go. He’s unarmed. He’s not dangerous anymore,” Peggy, the sudden voice of reason, suggests. “We have bigger fish to fry. Like taking out the guy who’s breaking into the safe. Or rescuing Dylan and Henry. I don’t know where the fuck they are, but we have the upper hand now.” Peggy looks back at Cortez’s bashed-in face. The pool of blood around his corpse flows toward the free weight area. She hopes Dylan doesn’t mind the gory mess they’ve left behind.

“You’re right. Let’s ignore him,” Melanie decides on everyone’s behalf.

“Cool. Honey, you can take care of the guy trying to drill into Dylan’s safe,” Peggy says to Monique. The Olympic weightlifter nods her head. “Fantastic. Me and Melanie can go look for Dylan and Henry. We’re both armed, so we should be able to take on Stephen and that other motherfucker pretty easily. Oh, and sweetie, be careful. I wouldn’t be surprised if the safecracker dude is armed, too.”

“He is. But I have the element of surprise,” Monique points out. “Don’t worry about me. I’ve fired guns before. You don’t grow up in the Cuban neighborhoods of Miami without knowing how to protect yourself.” She clicks the safety switch off the Glock. Both Peggy and Melanie seem satisfied with her ability to handle a weapon.

“Damn, girl. I need you the next time I’m walking alone at night all by myself,” Peggy says. “Have you ever fired a gun before, girl?”

“No, never,” Melanie admits. She hates guns, to the point that she’s marched in more anti-gun protests than she can count. As a long-time Chicago resident, Melanie Wright knows far too well the destabilizing effect guns can have on a community. She’d prefer to carry the switchblade if she had a choice in the matter (despite where it’s been).

“Okay, no worries. Here. Take the knife. I’ve fired plenty of guns before, so I know what I’m doing.” Peggy and Melanie switch weapons. “It’s simple. Flip this switch to take the blade out. Just stab whoever is coming at you. It’s that simple. Look at what I did to that poor bastard. It’s very fucking sharp, so be careful. It’s a hunting knife, not something you’d use to open a Christmas present.”

Melanie looks back at Cortez’s dead body, remembering how easily the blade pierced his torso. It’s just like how it looks in the movies. Peggy is strong, but she’s no Michael Myers, or Jason Voorhees, or whatever horror villain you can think of. “Yeah, I figured it’s sharp. Thanks for the reminder,” Melanie jokes.

Peggy laughs. “Fucking fantastic. Let’s do this. Good luck, everyone.” The three ladies go in for a group hug. They’ve been through so much so far. Now is not the time to back down. Now is the time to take the fight to them. The three of them have lived their whole lives rebelling against what the culture believes about women and their role in society. They haven’t gotten to where they are now by acting passively. They arrived by being proactive, a little reckless, and forging their own path. This is nothing new to any of them.

“I’ll see you ladies on the other side,” Monique says. Ten seconds later, everyone splits up to carry out their assignments. What the “other side” looks like is now entirely up to them.

***

“Excuse me, Steve. We have an update for you,” Baker yells from afar. Stephen Callahan strolls back to the gate’s entrance at a leisurely pace in an attempt to convey confidence. He’s been in Big Business long enough to know that acting smart is oftentimes more beneficial than being smart. The same goes for self-confidence. Acting like you know what you’re doing will do more to persuade the people around you than actually knowing what you’re doing. He hopes this type of theatricality rubs off on these FBI spooks.

“What is it?”

“Your plane is almost ready,” Special Agent Mendoza says. “In case you don’t believe us, we have a live stream from Boeing Field that you can watch with your own eyes.” She takes out a Microsoft Surface Pro and holds it up for Stephen to see. He watches a live video feed of a small twin-engine jet being fueled and taxied onto a runway. It’s white with red stripes going down the sides. Not exactly the perfect aesthetic, but at this point of the evening’s festivities, beggars can’t be choosers.

“Excellent. Thanks. How far can this go?”

“From what I’ve been told, this is capable of making a transoceanic flight. You can pretty much land anywhere in the world without having to refuel, except for some parts of Africa and Central Asia. Unless you plan to arrive in Uganda or Kazakhstan, you can go anywhere without having to make a pit stop,” Mendoza explains. Stephen raises an eyebrow, as if he’s suspicious that this arrangement is too good to be true.

“Sounds fantastic. Do I get my own cocktail waitress to go along with it?” he jokes.

“No, that’s not part of the deal. And there’s no in-flight movie or complimentary bags of peanuts,” Mendoza responds dryly. “It should be ready in about fifteen minutes. We’ve expedited the process, so you don’t need to wait too long in line, so to speak.”

“And what about transport to Boeing Field?”

“All arranged. We’ll have a van ready for you, your men, and Mr. Tanaka in five minutes. We’re working on the logistics of clearing a path so no traffic will impede your journey. We wouldn’t want any concerned citizens to become vigilantes and take matters into their own hands, now would we?”

“No, that wouldn’t be ideal,” Stephen agrees.

“We’ll let you know when the van arrives,” Baker says. “You should probably go let your friends know about the deal you successfully struck with us. I’m sure they’ll be impressed to hear about it.”

“I think they will! I love this deal already. Thank you, kind lady. And sir.” Stephen salutes the two feds and then walks away. Baker and Mendoza don’t say anything as they watch him return to his comrade and two hostages. They didn’t, for obvious reasons, tell him that the plane is loaded with tracking devices, hidden cameras and microphones, and half the fuel capacity. She lied when she said the jet could make a transoceanic flight. It will barely get them to Hawaii, if they’re lucky to make it that far. The pilot is a trained Navy SEAL who will wear a normal-looking professional suit and tie. The co-pilot is also a SEAL. Two Special Forces agents will be hidden in the cargo trunk. Wherever they land, even if it’s in a country with no extradition laws, they’ll have a surprise waiting for them. It’s not a perfect plan, but they can’t be too careful if he’s telling the truth about a hidden bomb in the city.

Stephen Callahan excitedly approaches Roddy, Dylan, and Henry. After quickly explaining the plan, he instructs Roddy to go back inside the house and fill in the others about what’s going to happen. He hopes Thomas has broken into the safe by now so they can get away with the heist in addition to getting away scot-free. Stephen has already accepted the possibility that stealing Dylan’s documents will not succeed, but one never knows. It could still work if all goes right. After Roddy returns inside the house, Stephen sits down next to Dylan and Henry on the stone bench.

“God, my feet are killing me. I feel like I’ve been on my feet the whole time,” Stephen laments. “Looks like I’m about to get away with this, old sport.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure. You know they have something up their sleeve. The FBI won’t allow a common crook like you to escape with your balls intact. Don’t act so cocky,” Dylan warns.

“I’m sure they have something planned. But it looks like my bomb threat really scared them straight. Well, even if I don’t get away with this, and this is my last day on Earth, at least you learned your lesson, Dylan boy.”

“Oh? What lesson is that?”

“No bad deed goes unpunished.” Stephen points the barrel of his gun at Dylan’s penis as subtly as possible so nobody on the other side of the gate sees it. Dylan flinches. Henry does too.

“PLEASE! Don’t!” Dylan pleads.

Stephen puts the gun back in his holster. “Don’t worry, old sport. I wouldn’t do such a thing right now, not when I’m this close to getting away with it. But when we land in our final destination, wherever that is, you can be assured I’ll make you suffer before I kill you.”

Dylan stares straight ahead, refusing to dignify his threat with a response. Only Henry feels bold enough to speak up.

“No matter what you do to him, he’ll always have bigger balls than you.”

This makes Stephen smile. “I have no doubt about that. No doubt at all.”

***

Peggy and Melanie cautiously tiptoe up the stairs. All seems quiet on the ground floor. That doesn’t, however, mean that there isn’t any danger. The helicopters circling up in the sky get louder and louder with each step. Just as the two women arrive at the top of the staircase, they see Roddy enter the house through the front door. Both ladies duck to avoid being seen. Unfortunately, Roddy sees enough of Peggy’s wild frilly hair before they were able to hide from his sight.

“What the fuck? How did you escape?” Roddy shouts.

“Damn it! He saw us!” Melanie whispers to Peggy. Between the foyer and the staircase leading to the basement, there is a priceless marble statue of an Amazonian warrior princess sitting on top of a wooden pedestal. If a shootout is going to occur, it’s going to damage several pieces of expensive art. Yet another horrifying mess Dylan is going to have to deal with.

“Yeah, I know. DAMN!” Peggy whispers back. She decides to cut the pretense of them sneaking around. “Hey, asshole! We escaped again. But this time, we’re not going to run. We’re going to fight back.”

“We’ll see about that.” Roddy takes out his pistol and fires three shots in the direction of the staircase. One bullet pierces the marble statue, breaking it in half. The other two make the wood handrails explode in a cloud of sawdust. Melanie falls backward, landing on the ground floor with a hard THUD. Peggy doesn’t check to see if she’s okay because she’s too busy returning fire. She shoots a single shot randomly toward the door, hoping to either hit him or frighten him to death. It seems to work. Roddy hides behind a wall, looking down at the floor to see any suspicious shadows lurking around.

“Take that, motherfucker!” Peggy taunts. She briefly looks back to see if Melanie is okay. Both ladies are still naked, so they have nothing to break their fall. It doesn’t look like she was hit with a bullet, which brings Peggy relief. “You okay, girl?”

“Yeah, I’m fine.” Melanie stands up, picks up the switchblade, and notices a bruise developing on her right butt cheek. Peggy is glad to see she hasn’t been shot but must instead focus on the enemy at hand.

“Alright, you cock sucking piece of shit. We’ve been through enough. This ends NOW!” Peggy carefully raises her head above the top of the staircase to see where Roddy is. He’s nowhere to be seen.

Roddy creeps up along the wall to get in a better position to shoot back. He almost hits his head against a painting of Cory Everson that Dylan commissioned to be created just for him. Roddy’s heart is beating rapidly, his pulse racing a million miles per second. He believes the element of surprise can work to his advantage, so he stops just shy of the edge of the wall and takes a deep breath. With his pistol in hand, Roddy dives across the floor and fires two more shots in the direction of Peggy’s voice. Both rounds hit a glass door leading to the living room, shattering it into thousands of shards. Peggy is nowhere to be seen because a moment earlier she snuck by and positioned herself on the opposite side of the wall from Roddy. He stands up, looks around, and wonders where the lady with the oversized boobs went.

Before he can react, Peggy swings her body around the wall and tackles Roddy to the ground. One of her former boyfriends happened to be a martial arts instructor who taught her a few lessons in hand-to-hand combat. Never in a million years did she expect those lessons would ever pay off. Peggy grabs Roddy’s head and slams it against the hardwood floor several times. His gun slides across the hallway, out of reach of either of them. Peggy’s gun falls no more than seven feet away, landing on top of a row of shoes. Roddy comes to his senses and kicks her in the shin. She falls backward in pain. He looks around to see where his gun landed but is met with a roundhouse kick to the chin before he can find it.

“OW!”

“That’s right, motherfucker! You’re about to be in a world of hurt!” Peggy backs up her words by punching him in the jaw with a swift uppercut. Roddy stumbles backward but does not fall down. Both combatants exchange a series of wild punches – some land, most of them don’t – until Roddy backs up into a coatrack. Peggy knees him in the crotch and then elbows him in the back of the head, causing him to crash to the floor. Dazed and suffering from dizziness, Roddy regains enough consciousness to wrap his arms around Peggy’s muscular legs and body slam her to the ground. She falls hard on the wooden floor.

The only thing Peggy can do is kick wildly in the air. Once Roddy regains his footing, he picks up the coatrack and tosses it at her. It’s not heavy, but the assortment of raincoats and jackets swamp her temporarily. Roddy eyes a gun lying on the floor no more than five feet away from him. He dashes to pick it up. This gives Peggy enough time to crawl away from the pile of coats and the tall wooden rack sitting on top of her. Just as Roddy takes ahold of the gun, she sees out of the corner of her eye a commemorative porcelain plate celebrating Dylan Tanaka’s graduation from the Hamburg Institute of Futurist Technology. It’s sitting harmlessly on a nearby table. She grabs it and smashes the plate against Roddy’s head before he can fire the gun. It shatters into thousands of pieces. Roddy falls backward, landing in the entryway of the dining room.

“Damn. Sorry, Dylan,” Peggy mutters under her breath, genuinely apologetic that she destroyed one of Dylan’s most cherished heirlooms.

Meanwhile, Melanie is still in the basement, wondering if Peggy could handle herself or if she should instead assist Monique. Thinking as quickly as she can, Melanie decides she needs a better weapon than a switchblade. A sharp knife is fine for close-quarters combat but not when you’re dealing with enemies with firearms. After a moment, she decides to go outside and try to find help. The police may be holding back because they’re afraid the hostages inside are being held at gunpoint and would be executed if law enforcement officers breached the premises. However, since all hell has broken loose indoors, that’s no longer relevant. Melanie remembers that there’s a door in the gym that leads to the backyard. She sprints at full speed back inside the gym.

On the ground floor, Roddy gets up and immediately realizes he’s in the dining room. He jumps on top of the dining table and hides behind the other side of it. Peggy finds a gun lying on the floor, picks it up, and slowly tiptoes toward her enemy. Even without shoes, he can hear her approach. This works to my advantage, Roddy thinks to himself. Come here, you little bitch.

“Come out, come out, wherever you are, motherfucker!” Peggy sings to her opponent. With both hands gripping the gun, she cautiously enters the dining room to look for him. He’s nowhere to be seen. This changes when Roddy grabs a chair and throws it at her. The chair lands exactly where it’s supposed to. Peggy falls backward and hits her head hard against the floor. She drops the gun in the process of falling down. Roddy then leaps over the table, finds a random steak knife still sitting around (which Henry preset for tomorrow’s breakfast), and charges toward the lady with big boobs who can handle herself pretty well in a fight.

“Fuck off!” Roddy picks up Peggy by the hair. He then stabs her in the stomach, but the blade doesn’t come close to penetrating her torso, unlike the switchblade that is specifically designed to cut through flesh. Still, it causes her to bleed. Roddy decides to try a different approach. He swings the steak knife at her face, slashing her cheek. Peggy screams in pain as the blade pierces her skin. She kicks Roddy in the knee, which momentarily disorients him.

Peggy retreats a few feet back to the far end of the dining room. Roddy takes several aggressive steps in her direction, swinging the knife wildly in pure anger. She touches her cheek, feeling warm blood trickling down her hand. This enrages her more. The stab wound in her stomach hurts less, though it’s real pain that she can’t ignore. Unarmed, Peggy’s back hits the wall, with Roddy still inching closer to her.

“You’re dead, bitch. I don’t give a fuck what happens to me. You’re mine.”

He charges with the knife. Peggy ducks the blade, which sticks to the wall. Roddy tries to dig it out of the drywall but cannot remove it. With all her might, Peggy balls her fist, cocks her arm back, and punches him square in the nose with every ounce of energy she has. This breaks his nose and sends him flying backward. Roddy’s head smashes against a window. The glass cracks but doesn’t break. Peggy grabs her fist and winces, sensing a few of her fingers may have gotten broken with that one powerful punch. Out of breath and bleeding profusely from both nostrils, Roddy smiles at the situation at hand. This isn’t his first rodeo. He’s been in several fistfights before. But never with a woman. Especially a woman who could hold her own against him.

“Damn. You muscle chicks are tough as nails,” he compliments her. He coughs up blood and spits it on the floor in front of her.

“Thank you, motherfucker. Even when you’re about to die, you remember to be kind and courteous.”

“Hold on. I’m about to die? No, no, no. You fucking bitch. You’re about to die!”

With all his strength, Roddy runs to her and tackles her to the ground like a professional football player. He puts both hands around her neck and squeezed hard. Peggy writhes around desperately, helpless to escape from his clutches. As he chokes her, Peggy feels her heart beating so hard she’s fully expecting it to leap out of her chest. Full of rage and adrenaline, Roddy is determined to choke her to death, which is the least she deserves. Her vision blurs. Her breathing becomes weaker and weaker by the second. Just as the oxygen is starting to cut off from her brain, Peggy attempts one final “Hail Mary” maneuver to avoid being murdered. She swings both of her powerful legs behind Roddy’s torso and wraps them around as tightly as she can. His hands fall away from her throat. After a few quick emergency breaths, Peggy moves her legs up around his neck. It’s a miracle she still has enough energy to do this successfully.

“Sorry, you son of a bitch,” Peggy taunts. “You’re about to find out how tough I really am!”

In one swell swoop, Peggy scissors her strong muscular legs around Roddy’s neck. Just a few days ago at her favorite gym in Las Vegas, Peggy successfully squatted 405 pounds for an astonishing 25 repetitions. Every single person in attendance paused their workout to watch her accomplish this amazing feat. She was as tired as can be afterward, but it was well worth it. She high-fived several people as sweat was dripping off her face. Today, she has the opportunity to utilize her strength for a good cause. Once she positions her left calf in front of Roddy’s neck and her right knee on the back, Peggy squeezes as hard as she’s ever squeezed before.

“Ohhhhhhh…fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck…”

As feeble as a newborn baby, Roddy feels the oxygen leave his system as Peggy’s powerful legs constrict his throat. He swings his arms around in a frantic attempt to fight back. It’s a useless gesture. Wanting to finish him off in style, Peggy jerks her legs together as suddenly as she can, like a real pair of scissors.

SNAP!

The sound of Roddy’s neck snapping in half echoes across the dining room. He falls to the floor like a ragdoll. No more breathing, no more moving, no more flailing of his limbs, no more of anything. He’s dead. Lifeless. Gone. Peggy’s face is dripping with both sweat and blood. She struggles to stand up, drained of energy and still in pain from multiple stab wounds (and having a chair thrown at her). She backs up against the wall, observing Roddy’s dead body lying awkwardly on the floor. His eyes are still wide open, which adds to the spookiness. Even though she just took a man’s life, she feels no remorse or regret. She’d do it again if she had to. In fact, she very well may have to soon.

“You see? That’s how tough I am, you fucking piece of shit.” Peggy sits down on the floor, catching her breath and trying to regain her composure before making her next move. “Rest in peace, motherfucker.”

***

Thomas has not stopped drilling away at the safe after Stephen gave him permission to resume his evening’s work. There’s no need to remain quiet, so why not keep going?

Isolated inside the storage room, Thomas is vaguely aware that there are potential problems involving the police going on. However, he doesn’t consider that his major concern. His first – and only – priority is to break into the safe. He estimates that he’s practically there.

“Alright, you son of a bitch,” Thomas says to the safe. “I think I’ve about had it with you. I’ll break into you soon enough. Just you wait.” He stares at the four used drill bits lying on the floor. All worn down to the sharpness of a butter knife. His fifth one is now firmly attached to the drill. He brought one more and hopes he doesn’t have to resort to using it. Pure Titanium drill accessories cost a fortune. Perhaps the loot they’re going to steal will help pay for it. But that’s not something he can think about right now.

If worse comes to worst, Thomas brought an emergency substance that could possibly help him get through the final few millimeters of metal. In his duffle bag, he has a large veil of aqua regia, a potent acid that can dissolve metal. There’s a syringe gun to go along with it. A mixture of hydrochloric and nitric acids, the combined corrosive effect can get the job done in a pinch. The reddish-orange color gives it an appearance of danger. Thomas doesn’t want to use it right away because of the poisonous fumes it releases after usage. He brought a gas mask just in case he’d have to resort to using the acid. His teammates, however, do not have such protection. Plus, he only brought enough to burn through the last final tiny layer of metal remaining. Once he creates a hole large enough, he will use a wire contraption that he brought to open the handle from the inside. It seems elementary, but that’s the way this safe is designed. It’s a walk-in safe, meaning people can walk through it and close the door if they so choose. It locks from the outside (obviously) but not the inside. So it’ll be like breaking into a car. Squeeze through the windshield and use a bent clothes hanger to do the rest. It’s that simple…theoretically.

Thomas chugs the rest of his water bottle and tosses it aside. He doesn’t care if he litters in this rich guy’s humungous house. That’ll be the least of his worries. Right now, he needs to focus on keeping his friends and himself alive. Stephen sounded really pissed when he last spoke to him on the phone. Thomas doesn’t want to know what’s been transpiring while he’s been cooped up inside here all alone.

After taking a short break, Thomas resumes drilling. He apologizes to the fifth drill bit in advance, knowing it’ll soon become as smooth as an elementary school kid’s pair of art class scissors. He puts his earmuffs, gloves, and welding mask back on and gets going.

Right outside the door, Monique creeps along the edge to listen to what’s going on. As she expected, it’s as loud as a construction site. The group could hear the drilling all the way in the gym, but the door being closed muffled the sound. She twists the doorknob and cracks open the door. A sudden blanket of noise assaults her as if she were suddenly transported to the middle of a naval shipbuilding yard. Monique cringes at the loud cacophony rumbling through her eardrums. She cautiously pokes her head through the door and is relieved to see Thomas Sellars all by himself. He is turned away from the front of the room. He’s hard at work, with sparks flying everywhere. She can’t see it now, but the carpet around the safe has been completely singed. It’s going to have to be replaced later. It’s beyond salvageable. Yet another expense to add to the bill.

The dreadful sound of metal scraping against metal at a rapid pace deters her from fully entering the room. Monique looks back to see if anybody is behind her. The coast is clear. She’s all alone with this guy. She decides that maybe it’s not necessary for her to get close after all. She has a gun, a projectile weapon that can be fired from a distance. Her uncle taught her how to shoot several years ago so she could protect herself from savages who may want to take advantage of her or rob her. It’s been a while since she last fired a gun, so she lacks the confidence to accurately hit her target from a distance. However, she can’t think that way. It’s now or never. She has to be a hero or die a victim.

It’s fortunate that Thomas remains somewhat still. He’s attached the drill to a tripod and just has to stand behind it and press the trigger while pushing into the safe’s door. This should make hitting him a bit easier. She extends both of her arms, squints both eyes, and aims for the back of his head. After taking two deep breaths, she fires one shot at the safecracker.

It misses. By a few inches.

“What the fuck?” Thomas rolls to the ground. Monique swears to herself. The bullet missed the top of his head by two or three inches. It makes a loud CLANG noise as it hits the safe’s metal door. The drilling stops. It wasn’t the noise that alerted Thomas to the fact that someone just tried to shoot him. It was the flash of light that flew across his face as the bullet made contact with the vault. Thomas crawls as fast as he can to his duffle bag. Monique dives behind an old couch sitting in the storage room.

“Well, well, well, it looks like someone escaped.” Thomas takes off the earmuffs, welding mask, and gloves. He throws the discarded items next to his bag. He removes a Remington 887 Nitro Mag shotgun, turns around to make sure another bullet isn’t heading his way, and points the weapon threateningly at whoever attempted to murder him. “Hey, asshole! Try that again and I’ll fuck your shit up. Don’t test me. I can handle myself in a fight, you hear? Who was that? Was that you, Dylan Tanaka? The black guy? The cute black girl? The, uh, other two bitches who are here? Huh? WHO’S THERE?”

Monique isn’t sure if she should respond or remain quiet. She knew he’d be armed, which is why she should have just sucked it up, entered the room despite the loud noises, and shot him at point-blank range instead of relying on her rusty aim. She doesn’t hear any footsteps, so she knows he hasn’t moved at all from his position.

“Don’t worry. You don’t have to be the talkative type. Soon, I’ll make sure you don’t have anything to say at all.”

He fires the shotgun at one of the glass shelves holding several of Dylan’s awards. It shatters everywhere, leaving several small holes in the wall behind it. The seismic boom pierces Monique’s eardrums. Even Thomas regrets removing his earmuffs. The shotgun blast leaves a small cloud of smoke near the vault. Monique figures this would happen, so she takes a risk and pops her head up from behind the couch. Before Thomas can pump his firearm to load another shell into the chamber, Monique fires two more shots in his direction. Both miss again, but they do temporarily disorient him. Thomas gets down on his belly and covers his head with his hands, as if that would make a difference.

“FUCK! God damnit, stop it! STOP! Let’s talk about this like civilized adults.” He looks up, hoping he can reason with whoever is trying to kill him.

“Civilized, you say? That’s rich, coming from assholes like you. Who broke into this house and started to terrorize us? It wasn’t me. It was you, motherfucker!” Monique waits for the cloud of smoke to dissipate so she can get a better look at him. He seems as scared as can be. The Remington is lying on the ground next to him. Thomas knows if he reaches for it, she’ll shoot him for sure. When his vision focuses on the person talking to him, he sees that it is indeed the cute black girl with the banging hot body. Although, while he objectively thinks she’s smoking hot, right now she’s a threat to his very life.

“True, true,” he says. “You’re right. We are the ones who spoiled your little naked party, or whatever the fuck you people were up to. I don’t give a shit. But hear me out. The shit we’re stealing is worth a fortune. You know that, right?”

“Yeah, I’ve heard.”

“Good. So you know that we’re here for a really fucking good reason. This isn’t a social visit. This isn’t my boss wanting revenge on his old boss. We’re here to steal intel that’s worth hundreds of billions of dollars on the black market. If you don’t kill me, and you help us escape, we’re sure to give you a cut of whatever we get for it. You hear me?” Thomas notices that his elbows are burning from pressing against the singed carpet. He tries to hide the pain and focuses instead on the imminent threat at hand.

“I hear you, but never in a million years would I strike a deal with you,” Monique declares confidently. “Dylan is a friend of mine. I would never betray him. Besides, what makes you think you and your boys will make it out of here alive? The place is roaming with cops. They’re everywhere. You’re trapped. There’s no escaping this.”

“WHAT? Stephen told me they’d be gone shortly. What the fuck happened?”

“I don’t know why he thought that or what he promised you, but there are literally hundreds of cops out there, surrounding the house on all sides,” she says, hoping there’s a kernel of truth to that last part. “You’re done. Your ass is going to jail. You might as well give up. Move your hands away from the shotgun, you hear? If you don’t do as I say, I’ll blow your head off.” Monique steps closer to him, careful to avoid stepping on any broken glass. She doesn’t look to inspect the damage because her gaze is laser-focused on her enemy’s face. She stops walking when she reaches within ten yards of him.

“Oh my God, you look so fucking hot,” he marvels. Thomas moves both of his hands behind his back. He’s still lying on his belly. As Monique steps underneath a ceiling light, he gets a better look at her figure. She’s sculpted from head to toe, perfectly curvy, and as strong as an ox. She’s not tall, but that doesn’t mean she’s not intimidating. She’s as strikingly beautiful as any woman you’ll ever lay eyes on. Absolutely breathtaking. If he’s going to die now, he’s glad she’s the last thing he sees before meeting his maker. “I’m sure you know that already.”

“As you can tell, I keep myself in pretty decent shape,” she teases. “I’m glad you noticed. It may be the last thing your eyes ever see.”

“If that’s the case, so be it. I can die a happy man.”

Still naked, Monique St. Martin’s gorgeous black skin perfectly complements her chiseled muscles. She’s not as bulky as Melanie Wright or as erotically built as Peggy Cole (her small breasts won’t earn her any brownie points from teenage boys or immature men), but she definitely can hold her own against anyone. Dylan once said her body is like poetry; an artistic rendering created to demonstrate what the human physique is capable of achieving. Her strength gives her raw power that comes out in all sorts of ways: how she walks, how she talks, how she moves, how she lives her life. At first, she thought he was exaggerating. But as time has gone on, she’s fully realized the power she can have over people. She’s always been able to stop people dead in their tracks, even before becoming a world-class athlete. But since she started training for the Olympics, she’s noticed people have been treating her differently. She’s not just a cute, fit black girl from South Beach. She’s a goddess. An angel. A queen. A one-of-a-kind.

“That might be your fate. Maybe.” Monique points the gun at Thomas’s head. He closes his eyes, accepting his inevitable fate. Then, she takes her finger off the trigger and lowers the Glock back to her side. Thomas opens his eyes after several seconds of deafening silence. He expects to be dead but clearly isn’t.

“What? Can’t bring yourself to kill someone?” Thomas’s heart is racing like an Olympic sprinter. He sees a hint of sadness in her pretty face, a shroud of regret. What’s with her change of heart? Is she considering taking him up on his offer? What gives?

“No, I already killed someone today. Your friend. The guy with the accent. Don’t know his name, though.”

“Oh shit. Him. Well, he’s a dumbass and had it coming. But still. Fuck you for that!” Thomas slowly rolls away from the shotgun so he can get in a better position to converse with her. Talking while on your stomach is difficult work. Monique notices him moving into a sitting position but doesn’t stop him from doing so. As long as he’s not attempting to retrieve his gun, she won’t shoot him.

“Thank you, I appreciate your honesty,” she smirks. Monique takes a few more steps forward so she really won’t have an excuse to miss if she had to fire. “Tell me, do you have any, you know, potential buyers of the stuff Dylan has sitting in that vault? Hm?”

This makes Thomas smile. Maybe this black bitch does want to make a deal! He will see how far he can push this opportunity. “We do, actually. Two potential buyers, but one who really, really, really seems interested. I can’t tell you his name, but he’s kind of a big deal in our world. The other buyer is a rogue state that’s about to be overthrown anyway, if the CIA hasn’t done so already. Still, they’re in the market if they offer us enough dough. And if their currency is still worth a damn.”

“Who is this guy, if you don’t mind me asking?” Monique winks, hoping this catches his attention. He’s clearly aroused by her, a fact that has not escaped her. She can see a budding erection forming in his pants. He’s not trying to hide it.

“Oh, I can’t tell you that. You know the way things are. People in my business prefer to remain anonymous.” Monique spreads her legs out slightly, exposing her hard pink clitoris. He doesn’t even attempt to pretend like he doesn’t notice it. Her large meaty bud looks so enticing to him. He wants to lick it so badly, even if it’s the last thing he ever does. “I mean, uh, I’d probably get killed if I told you about any of our buyers. Heck…I…I’ve already said…said too much.”

“Would you rather die now, or die later? I think Dylan would like to know who’s interested in buying his top-secret information. If you don’t squeal, I’ll shoot you dead right now and not think twice about it. If you talk, like a good little boy, I’ll make it worth your while.” She flexes her left bicep, bouncing it up and down at will. Thomas feels his groin further tighten. His breathing intensifies. He’s trying to not lose control but is failing spectacularly.

“H…how would you, um, do that? What would you make it worth my while?” His jaw drops wide open, taking in every inch of Monique’s flawless physique. Her pubic hair is neatly shaved down to a narrow strip. He can only imagine what her pussy tastes like. He’d love nothing more than to suck on that pretty pink clit of hers until she comes and comes and comes and comes…

“Just use your imagination, little boy. Your dirty, filthy imagination.”

Monique is now inches away from him. She kicks the shotgun off to the side so it’s well out of reach. Thomas doesn’t seem to notice or care. All he can focus on is her. Monique understands her sexuality well and how to use it to her advantage. She’s done that all her life. It’s why it infuriates her that she suspects Jake is having an affair with another woman. Who could possibly stray when they get to fuck a woman like her every single night? It doesn’t make sense. This is why she strongly hinted to Dylan earlier today that he may get extra lucky with her. She wants to fuck Dylan just to get back at Jake for fucking, of all people, her sister!

Monique’s sister, Charlotte St. Martin, has always been a flirty girl. She was the social butterfly while Monique was the quiet athletic one. While Charlotte was partying away, Monique was at the gym, working on her craft. Even though she’s younger, Charlotte has had three husbands already before turning 24. Her third husband seems to be on his way out the door, meaning she’ll get married a fourth time sooner or later. Probably before Christmas. For as long as she’s known Jake, Charlotte has always flirted with him in a playful, harmless manner. Apparently, the “harmless” part came to an end when she caught her giving him a blowjob in the garage during their cousin’s birthday party. Monique never confronted him about it. She knew it would devastate their relationship. She also has no idea how long this had been going on. She still wants to marry him, but the image of Charlotte on her knees servicing him is forever seared into her memory. So instead of making a big deal of it, she decided she’d cheat herself. Dylan Tanaka is the perfect man to do it with. Jake’s already jealous of his wealth. He’s never felt right about him sponsoring her. He’s really not comfortable with Monique and Dylan meeting occasionally for muscle worship “playtime.” He puts up with it because it’s free money, but the emasculated feeling he gets knowing another man gets to (consensually) touch his girlfriend’s body has driven him bonkers to the point that he felt like he needed to “get back” at her somehow. Giving in to Charlotte’s flirty charms was how he chose to exact his emotional payback. Still, Monique hopes this was a one-time fall from grace, not a habitual sin.

“My God, you are sooooooooooo fucking gorgeous!” Monique extends her foot toward him. Thomas reaches out to feel her calves. He’s not normally into “muscle chicks,” but he’s going to have to reconsider his thinking after seeing a woman like her up close. “Unbelievable. I can see why you were invited here to this party. Why Dylan Tanaka likes you so…so damn much. No party would be complete without, uh, you here. Wow!”

“Keep touching me. Please. Touch my body to your heart’s delight!”

Thomas takes her commandment to heart and runs with it. He squeezes one of her thighs with both hands, feeling its rock-hard structure. He cannot believe a woman could be built like this! Next, he lightly flicks her pink clit with his index finger. She pretends to moan with delight, when in reality she wishes he had clipped his fingernails ahead of time. Thomas leans in closer so he can lick her hamstrings. Monique turns around so he could have full access to her ass. He doesn’t hesitate to inspect it. Cupping both butt cheeks greedily, she kindly wiggles her hips so he can experience their jiggle. He sniffs her anus, hoping a fart comes out so he could smell it. He becomes disappointed when nothing happens. Feeling her perfect butt will have to suffice, then. His erection is ready to tear his underwear.

“Would you like a lap dance, baby boy?”

“YESSSSSSSSSS! That would be incredible. Yes, please. Girl. Ma’am.” Before he can stick his nose up her butt, Monique turns around to chastise him.

“First. I’m a woman, not a girl. Second. You don’t get a lap dance, or anything, for that matter, unless you tell me the name of your buyer. Sorry, but that’s the rules. You must abide by them.”

This breaks Thomas out of his trance. He returns to normal, puts aside his horniness for a moment, and regains his professionalism. “WOW! Damnit, woman. You almost had me. Sorry, but no can do. That’s confidential information. There’s no way I’m telling you that, unless you agree to help us get out of this mess. Will you do that?”

“Let’s discuss this logically,” she offers. Upset that her plan didn’t work, she now attempts to use reason to uncover their plot. “What the fuck can I do to help you escape? It’s not like I’m aware of some secret passageway that leads to an escape hatch. I don’t think Dylan has a panic room where you can hide out until this whole thing blows over. You’re stuck. Soon, the police will storm the house and find you all, if they haven’t already. I don’t know. We’re in the basement. I’m sure there’s a lot of shit happening upstairs that I’m not aware of. Anyway, what can actually I do to help you? Huh?”

Thomas leans against the safe in a sitting position. He must tread carefully if this is going to succeed. He can tell this isn’t a dumb bimbo he’s dealing with. She’s smart. She knows what she’s doing and the unfortunate pickle he’s in. “Alright, fair points. All of them. Okay, you’re right. What can you do for us now? Well, I’m not talking about now. I’m talking about later. You’re right that we’re not going to escape. We’re going to get caught, arrested, tried, and convicted for multiple felonies. That’s inevitable. It’s going to happen. I’ve accepted that outcome. That also means the loot inside this vault isn’t going anywhere. But, the cat’s out of the bag. You, your friends, and all of us know what’s in there. We know how valuable it is. Hell, some of it may be illegal. Who knows? What I do know is that it can’t stay hidden there forever. Dylan Tanaka can try to hide his past, but he can’t ever run from it. It’ll catch up to him eventually.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“What I mean is that even if we don’t succeed at stealing his precious documents, someone else will. Others are aware of what he has hiding in here. We’re just the only ones with the balls to try to steal it. Stephen Callahan, my boss, approached several guys to help him with this job. Most of them said no. The four of us, however, said yes. Which means a shitload of people out there knows what he has hidden behind this metal door. Oh sure, he’ll increase security by an exponential amount once this hostage crisis comes to an end. That’s also inevitable. But he can’t remain secure forever. He knows this technology, this “smart combat tech,” or whatever the fuck it’s called, will eventually fall into the wrong hands. Maybe by criminals like us, or government bureaucrats looking for better ways to kill Arabs.”

Thomas looks like he’s building a cohesive argument, but Monique can’t quite figure out what it is yet. “Where are you getting at?” she asks. She has to know.

“Where am I getting at? Isn’t it obvious? I’m sure the police and the FBI, or even the CIA, will want to know what Dylan has hidden in here. So the next person who attempts to open this safe won’t be using a drill like me, but instead will come armed with a search warrant. Tanaka doesn’t want this shit to get in the hands of the feds. That’s why he locked it up here in the first place, right?”

“Right.”

“So let’s make a deal. You and me. Screw the others. They’re fucked, as far as I’m concerned. I’ll stop drilling right now. I’m close, but not close enough. When I get arrested and find myself rotting in a federal prison cell, you tell Tanaka that one of our sellers is one of the most ruthless criminals in the world. That’s not a lie. That’s a fact. Trust me. So, he can either risk this guy, who’s one bad motherfucker, coming over with a whole army of armed thugs…or he can sell it off to a more respectable group of people, like the CIA or the Army or whatever. Yeah, they’re armed thugs too, but they’re, you know, considered “respectable” for whatever fucked up reason.” Thomas feels his mouth getting dry. He wishes he had another full bottle of water around. He’ll have to push through it if he’s going to persuade her successfully. She hasn’t interrupted him, which is a good sign that she’s actually thinking about what he’s saying.

“And how does this masterful plot involve you and me?” Monique raises an eyebrow. She keeps a close watch on him, making sure he’s not stalling just so he can dive for the shotgun and blast her to bits. That would be less than ideal.

“Ah, I was just getting there,” he begins. “Tanaka won’t want to sell it to any bad guy, obviously. He’s a monster who let innocent Arabs die, but he has a heart. Sort of. He also doesn’t want a repeat of tonight’s festivities. When word gets around that Dylan Tanaka has valuable intelligence hidden in his home, other people will come by to try to steal it. And they’ll come in larger numbers than the five of us who showed up tonight. You think we’re dangerous? Ha! You ain’t seen nothing yet, sister. We’re boy scouts compared to the guys our primary buyer has at his disposal. So, he can choose to sell it to the government. Given the national scandal that happened last time, this sale would have to be kept real secret. As in, so secret nobody without a top-level security clearance would know about it. That includes criminals like our potential buyer.”

“Oh, I see,” she interrupts. “Even if Dylan sells his documents to the government, thugs like you and your buyer will still stop by thinking he still has it. Right?”

“You’re smarter than you look.” Monique stomps on his shin. He grimaces in pain. “OW! FUCK! Sorry about that. Damn. Okay, okay, okay. So, if Dylan wants to live the rest of his life in peace and quiet, not paranoid every night that an army of gangsters will show up at any given moment and bomb his house back to the Stone Age, he needs to sell his stuff to a disreputable buyer, like the rogue state I mentioned. Or a terrorist organization. Or one of the Mexican cartels. Or a rival corporation that does business in warzones. Doesn’t matter. Word about that would definitely get around the campfire. If he does that, he’ll wash his hands of this shit, and never spend another day in his life worried that someone will try to put a bullet through his brain.”

“So, my job is to not only convince him of this but to insist that you should help facilitate this deal?” Monique gives Thomas a self-satisfied look. She may not look like a bookworm, but she loves spy novels. It’s one of her guilty pleasures. She’s always been fascinated by dirty deals like this. She never imagined she’d ever be a part of one. This goes to show that one never knows which direction life will take you.

Thomas laughs heartily. He loves the fact that she’s a smart cookie who doesn’t need anything spelled out for her. “YES! That’s exactly it! Dylan can make a deal with the courts to get me a reduced sentence. I’ll serve a year in prison, maybe less. In exchange, I’ll be a free man with a much larger reputation in the criminal underworld. I will spread rumors that Dylan Tanaka sold every scrap of paper he owns to the government. He’s now clean. He’s worthless. He’s useless. He’s not worth bothering anymore. Hell, maybe I’d be telling the truth! Maybe Dylan Tanaka will sell his intel to the feds. Who knows? I don’t care. I don’t give a fuck. What does matter is that I can serve a useful role in spreading that rumor across the criminal community. Everyone will think this is true, whether it is or not. And he, and you and your friends, will spend the rest of your lives in peace and tranquility.”

“What if I refuse to go along with your charade?”

“If you refuse to play along, dear lady, and every criminal out there, including the Big Enchilada I mentioned to you, still thinks Dylan Tanaka is in possession of the smart armor tech documents, well, fuck. He’s screwed. And guess what? So would you. And your friends. And that chef guy. Everyone Dylan Tanaka knows will be vulnerable. You could get kidnapped at any moment. Snatched right off the street. Or while you’re sleeping. You’d be held for ransom. Then Dylan would have to give away his dirty laundry. Or else you’d die. Or he’d die. Get the picture?” He pauses to breathe. Monique seems to understand exactly where he’s getting at. She looks down at the ground for a moment, soaking it all in. Is he right? Is that nightmare scenario likely? Can she risk it? She’s already experienced enough trauma for one night. She cannot imagine having to live the rest of her life in fear. Fear of death, torture, kidnapping, and other horrible things. This asshole could serve a useful purpose in convincing the criminal underworld that Dylan is no longer in possession of the buried treasure.

Or would he?

“Whether you like it or not, whether you realize it or not, you’re now just as involved in this as me, Dylan Tanaka, my boss, or anyone else,” he continues. “You can’t escape this. Your fate and his fate are now tied together. What do you say?”

Silence. No one breathes or moves a muscle.

“You make a persuasive case,” she finally says. “I’m impressed. You really just pull that out of your ass?”

“Well, not really.” Thomas chuckles. “I’ve been thinking about this for a while. You don’t agree to do a job like this unless you have an escape plan, a Plan B, a get-out-of-jail-free card. In this case, a literal get-out-of-jail-free card. This ain’t Monopoly. This is real life. So, what’s your answer? Can I expect your cooperation?”

Thinking long and hard about his proposal, Monique wanders off a few paces, away from Thomas Sellars. He eyes his shotgun, waiting for the perfect time to snatch it. She doesn’t turn her back toward him so that such a thing doesn’t happen.

“Sorry, but I still got to say no. You make a strong argument. You really do.” A profound look of disappointment casts over Thomas’s face. He truly thought he could strike a fortuitous deal with her. “Oh. By the way, you know how you said only you and your friends had the balls to come over here and crash our party?”

“Uh, yeah. Why?”

“That may have been true a minute ago. But not anymore.”

Monique points the Glock 19 at Thomas’s balls and fires a single shot. Unlike the last three times she attempted to shoot him, this one is a direct hit. Monique tunes out the sound of Thomas Sellars screaming his lungs out as his testicles explode in his pants. The sound of a drill screeching against metal is thoroughly unpleasant, but the sound of an egotistical asshole painfully getting castrated is music to her ears.

“Ouch. That’s got to hurt,” she murmurs to herself.

A pool of blood rapidly forms around Thomas as he writhes around in pain. He grabs his crotch in a desperate attempt to keep whatever genitals he has left intact. It’s an exercise in futility. There’s nothing left to salvage. He wheezes as his dry mouth and empty lungs make screaming impossible. Monique stands over him, trying to think of something witty to say. Nothing clever comes to mind.

“Oh well,” she laments. “I guess I’ll just have to enjoy this without a laugh line.”

***

Melanie was careful to walk around Xander’s sleeping body as she approached the door leading to the backyard. Thankfully, he didn’t stir. Still sleeping like a baby, Melanie made sure he was still breathing. He was. That was enough to ease her guilt. She could have sworn she choked him to death. It would have been a legally justifiable homicide, but it still would have wracked her conscience for years to come.

After carefully closing the door behind her without making any noise, Melanie is greeted by the deafening sound of helicopters flying overhead. She waves her arms wildly, hoping it would catch somebody’s attention. Unfortunately, they’re flying too far high to see her. Plus, their searchlights aren’t pointing at the backyard. This angers her.

“Damn! Come on, what’s going on here?” She sprints around the side of the house to access the driveway but stops when she sees an endless stream of red and blue lights flickering in the distance. “Wow! Look at that. The whole police department must be here.”

Without her glasses, she can’t see beyond the gate. There’s a crowd gathered behind it. She isn’t sure if there’s anyone on the inside of the gate (other than Dylan, Henry, and the bad guys, of course). She watches to see any sign that the police have already broken through and stormed the house. That doesn’t appear to be the case. She’s also hesitant to walk through the driveway out of fear that Stephen Callahan or the other guy would shoot her if they saw her sneaking around.

Melanie turns around and sees through a window Peggy fighting one of the goons in the dining room. “Holy shit!” she exclaims. She runs to the window to see if there’s any way she could help. It seems like Peggy is handling herself pretty well. She and the guy are on the floor. She has her legs wrapped around his neck and…

SNAP!

“Wow!” Melanie exclaims with pride. “Damn! You go girl!”

It’s obvious to anyone who’s watching that the guy’s neck snaps like a twig. Melanie doesn’t need to hear it to know it. He falls to the floor, as lifeless as a stuffed teddy bear. She watches Peggy stand up, wipe some blood off her face, and mutter something to the dead corpse lying on the floor in front of her. As of now, at least two of the five bad guys are dead. There could be others – Monique could have killed the safecracker guy by now – but she doesn’t know for sure. No use speculating on things you don’t know for certain. Melanie decides it might be best to return inside to check on Peggy and assist Monique (if she needs it). The world-class professional female bodybuilder turns around to go back indoors the same way she came.

Simultaneously, Xander’s eyes open. Groggy and suffering a massive headache, he cannot remember what just happened to him. He looks around, noticing that he’s still inside the gym. The lights are off and nobody else is here with him. Where did everyone go?

“Holy shit, I feel like crap.”

Xander attempts to stand up and promptly fails. He knows he needs to get some oxygen through his system before he can do anything physical. After twisting his head in a circle a few times, he notices someone lying on the floor. He’s dressed in all black, so it must be one of his guys. Xander gets to his feet and wobbles closer to the unmoving figure.

“WHAT THE FUCK? HOLY SHIT!”

The sight of Cortez’s face bashed in by a heavy dumbbell is enough to make him want to vomit. The splatter of brain tissue and pool of blood forming around his body gives off an awful smell that Xander will never forget for the rest of his life. He takes a step backward, looks away, and coughs once the stench of gory flesh seeps into his nose. Then, he reaches for his holster to look for his Glock. When he realizes nothing is there, he begins to panic.

“Those bitches escaped! Where did they go? I’m fucked!” He tries to think of an escape plan. It’s become clear to him that the mission has failed. It’s unsalvageable. He might as well quit and try to dodge jail time. He notices a door leading to the outside. The cops are sure to be everywhere, but are they patrolling the lake? Xander chooses to take this risk and swim away if that is what’s necessary to avoid capture.

Before he can take a step toward the door, it suddenly opens. Melanie, still naked and looking as intimidating as ever, stops dead in her tracks in the doorframe. She and Xander stare at each other for a long time in complete silence. A few loud POP-POP-POP sounds in the background break their makeshift staring contest.

“What the fuck happened here?” Xander growls. Melanie clears her throat to speak.

“You’re about to lose. Your friend here is dead, you’re completely surrounded by cops, and there’s no way to escape,” she says. Both of them flinch when a super loud BANG noise echoes throughout the basement. “Just give up. You can’t win.”

Xander examines Melanie’s big bulky body from head to toe. He could have sworn that she’s a dude who got a sex change (or something like that). Her voice is deep, but not deep like a guy. More like deep like a teenage boy going through puberty. She seems feminine enough, though she has more muscle than most football players he’s seen on TV. She’s not pretty enough to compensate for the fact that she’s built like a man. She even has a small dick – or whatever that thing is between her legs. He’s definitely not turned on by her, but he is intrigued by her physique. In a parallel universe, he’d hit on her if he saw her in a bar. But right now, she’s the enemy who may have a gun.

“You took my gun, right?”

“No, I actually just have this.” She takes out the switchblade, waving it in the air as she releases the blade. “So you’re not in danger of getting shot. Besides, I’ve never fired a gun in my life, so I’d probably miss if I tried to.”

“Uh huh. Well, that’s good for me. You may have stolen my pistol, but I have a backup!” Xander reaches into his back pocket and takes out a Colt King Cobra, a six-shooter revolver that’s small enough to hide in his jacket pocket. As if everything were moving in slow motion, Melanie’s brain immediately recognizes that Xander has pulled out a weapon and intends to use it. She dives to the ground on her right side to avoid getting hit. Xander fires the Colt once at her, missing by several inches. The bullet ultimately hits a wooden fence a few hundred feet away.

“Damn!”

Melanie crawls away to escape the line of fire. Once her feet clear the doorway, she stands up and sprints away from the house as fast as she can. Since she’s trained most of her adult life to become as bulky as possible, she’ll admit that she’s a slow runner. Her muscles add more weight to her frame, making it difficult to pick up speed. Hopefully, the darkness of night will provide cover from gunfire. As panicked as she’s ever been, Melanie heads for a large rhododendron bush located near the pond. She’s walked through Dylan’s gorgeous Japanese-style garden many times before, so she’s familiar with the entire layout. She just hopes her memory is good enough to lead her through the maze of plants, trees, and shrubbery in complete darkness.

“Where the hell are you?” Xander screams as he dashes outside. Melanie ducks behind the bush, hoping he didn’t see or hear her. She doesn’t dare stick her head up to find out.

The beautiful backyard is nothing new to Xander. The entire team has seen photographs of it from both satellite pictures and gardening magazines. Before Dylan’s fall from grace, several home and garden publications frequently came over to profile his famous backyard. Stephen Callahan wanted to make sure his team became familiar with every square inch of Dylan Tanaka’s property. So when Xander storms around looking for Melanie, he doesn’t stop to admire the scenery. The only thing on his mind is finding her. Or him. He still doesn’t know which it is.

A sudden rustle of branches makes Xander turn around and fire one shot at a harmless willow tree. He doesn’t hear anybody cry out in pain, so that was a waste of ammunition. Speaking of which, he takes a mental note that he now has four rounds remaining. His box of spare rounds is sitting in the SUV, which seems so, so far away. When he listens to the sound of helicopters flying in the sky and sees several flashing red and blue lights off in the distance, it makes the distance between here and their parked vehicles seem that much further away. If he’s going to escape from this place alive, he’s going to have to go through the water in the opposite direction.

“Hmmmmmm…” Xander ponders to himself. Should he try to hunt down this bitch or save his own hide and escape now? He knows Lake Washington is just a hop, skip, and a jump away. He’ll have to climb a fence to escape the property, but that’s small potatoes. He’s done shit like that many times before. However, the memory of Cortez’s brain splattered across the floor will never go away. He feels obligated to avenge his death (as a professional courtesy).

Even if it means delaying his grand escape by a few minutes.

“This fucker really wants to kill me,” Melanie whispers to herself under her breath. “He could easily escape, but he’s not. Why?”

Xander runs toward the walking bridge connecting one side of the pond to the other. Melanie, safely located about eighty to ninety feet away, watches him hastily move away from her. This is a fortunate development, she thinks. The further away from him, the better off I’ll be.

“Hey girl! Where you at?” Peggy yells off in the distance.

“Shit!” Melanie says a bit too loudly.

After crossing the walking bridge, Xander turns around and sees the chick with the big boobs wandering around with two pistols. She’s still naked (does anyone wear clothes around here?) and totally oblivious to his presence in the garden. He crouches low to avoid being seen. There’s a single lamp attached to the bridge, so he could be seen if he’s not careful. And she’s packing heat. He must tread carefully if he’s to make it out of here alive.

“Melanie! Where are you? I killed one of them. That’s two down, I think? Did you get the other guy?”

Melanie really, really, really, really wants to tell her to shut up – for her own sake. The “other guy” she was supposed to kill is not only still alive – he’s armed with a revolver and is somewhere in the garden! Melanie looks around the ground and finds a rock. It’s not perfect, but it’ll do.

“So, you killed two of my boys?” Xander mutters to himself, filled with rage. “Fuck this shit!”

He fires two shots in Peggy’s direction. The first bullet misses and pierces a small stone water fountain. The other bullet enters the side of Peggy’s left boob and exits through the other side. Her right boob is unharmed. She falls to the ground, grabbing her chest, crying out in pain.

“FUUUUUUUUUUUUUUCK! OWWWWWWW!!!”

“Peggy! NOOOOOOOOOO!!!” Melanie stands up, locates Xander, and throws the rock as hard as she can at him. It hits him right in the face, square in the nose. Melanie was never very good at sports, so it impresses her that she apparently possesses the throwing accuracy of a baseball infielder during times of duress. Xander drops the gun in the pond and falls backward. He lands on his butt. Like a lioness protecting her cubs from an apex predator, Melanie leaps to her feet and sprints toward her enemy combatant. Full of scorching hot anger, her sense of logic has been thrown out the window. She doesn’t know how badly Peggy has been hit, but that doesn’t matter right now. All she wants is payback for what he just did to her.

Just as Xander gets to his feet, Melanie dives at him and knocks him back to the ground. They wrestle on the grass for a few moments. Once she lands on top of him, Melanie wildly punches him repeatedly in the face. Out of breath and seething with wrath, she looks down at her victim. His entire face is a bloody mess. His nose is broken beyond repair. He’s even lost one of his front teeth. Before Melanie can punch him again, Xander tries to plead with her.

“Stop! Stop! STOP! Stop it right there. Fuck! I got it. I’m fucked. You have me. I dropped my fucking gun in the water. So you’re okay,” he says. Xander coughs when a river of blood pours into his mouth. Melanie quickly turns her head to check on Peggy. Miraculously, she’s still standing; holding her left boob with one hand and carrying a Glock with the other. She turns back to Xander and punches him in the throat for good measure. He gasps, all the air suddenly leaving his lungs.

“You’re damn right you’re fucked. You just shot my friend, you fucking piece of shit. You bastard!” She tightens her strong legs around his torso, squeezing the last few particles of air out of his lungs. He decides that if he’s going to die right here, it’s not the worst way to go.

“Well, shit. Just kill me. Go ahead.”

“I…I have nothing to kill you with. Unless you want me to choke you to death. I put you to sleep once. I can put you to sleep permanently if you’d like.”

“No, that’s okay.” He coughs again. “Being killed by you would be an honor. I never thought a tranny would be the one to do me in…” Before she can punch him again, Xander finds the rock that she threw at him and bashes her in the face with it. Melanie falls to the ground, rolls to her side, and tumbles into the pond. The SPLASH sound makes him laugh out loud. He then gets up, spits into the water, and sees Peggy pointing the Glock right at him. Her entire body is shaking from both the pain of being shot and the uncontrollable rage of almost being killed.

“Uh oh!”

Xander runs away, leaping over hedges and ducking low hanging tree branches as Peggy fires every round at the bastard who tried to murder her. After emptying the magazine, she tosses the useless weapon aside. She didn’t hit him once, a testament to how much pain she’s in. Even though it’s dark, she can clearly see him sprint back inside the house. This isn’t the first time Xander has had to duck gunfire. While serving in the U.S. Marines, he got into several firefights with Iraqi insurgents before being dishonorably discharged from service. He breathes a sigh of relief when he returns back indoors.

Peggy sees Melanie crawl out of the pond, soaking wet and consumed with anger. Then, Peggy falls helplessly to her knees.

“Oh FUCK! This hurts like a son of a bitch,” Peggy wails. Melanie bends down to attend to her friend. There’s blood, but not as much as she was expecting.

“Are you okay? Is it bad?”

“Nah, it’s not too bad. It hurts like a motherfucker, but I’ll be alright,” she says. “It… it went through my boob. Which…which is basically all silicone. So I guess you can say, uh, he didn’t hit any flesh. W…which is good.” Peggy laughs to brighten the mood. Still mad as hell, Melanie smiles at her friend’s lightheartedness. Even after being shot by a maniac, she can still find the humor in it all. That’s quite an accomplishment.

“When all this is over, looks like you’re going to have to see your surgeon again,” Melanie jokes.

This makes Peggy laugh some more, but she stops when the pain suddenly returns. “Damn it! This night has been one long fucking nightmare. The bastard ran back in the house. Is Monique okay?”

“I have no idea. Shit! I forgot about Monique. I hope she’s fine.” Melanie brushes away a leaf that’s stuck in her hair. She feels her cheek. Chances are it’s bruising up badly. It is.

“We need to rescue her.” Peggy stands up with Melanie’s assistance. Her boob is bleeding a little bit, but not as bad as one would expect. Probably because the bullet hit mostly silicone and not internal flesh. “The other gun is over there, right where I dropped it.”

Melanie looks in the pond for the revolver. She cannot locate it in the dark murky water. “Well, I’m still unarmed. Sort of. I still have the knife.” She points to the switchblade sitting behind the rhododendron bush. Suddenly, she notices the chashitsu (a traditional Japanese teahouse) several yards away. “Hey, do you know what’s in there?”

Peggy looks to where Melanie is pointing. “Oh yeah. It’s where Dylan stores the gardening equipment. Why?”

“There may be something useful in there. Come on.”

First, Melanie jogs to the rhododendron bush to retrieve the switchblade. Then, she and Peggy trudge toward the teahouse. They see it’s locked by a padlock. Melanie sticks the edge of the blade into the lock and twists it, hoping this works just like it does in the movies.

“Come on, come on, come on!” Melanie pleads with the padlock.

“It’s not going to work. That shit only happens on TV…” Peggy stops speaking when Melanie successfully unlocks it. She smiles at her friend. Melanie tosses the padlock to the ground and opens the teahouse door. “Good for you, girl! That’s some gangsta shit right there.”

After fumbling around in the dark for a few seconds, Melanie finds a light switch and flips it on. Two bright lights turn on, brilliantly illuminating the interior of Dylan’s glorified toolshed. Inside the teahouse are various gardening tools, bags of fertilizer, spare work gloves, tree and lawn care books, rags, buckets, birdseed, hoses, a lawnmower, a leaf blower, and…

…a 20-inch gas-powered Helinski Class-A chainsaw.

Joey, Dylan’s stoner gardener, just purchased this chainsaw earlier this week. He used it for the first time yesterday morning to trim the willow trees. It’s obnoxiously loud and intimidating to wield, a fact that makes Dylan thankful that he hired someone else to do this type of work. Melanie sees it hung up on the far wall. She looks back at Peggy, who seems to be thinking the exact same thing she’s thinking.

“You get the gun,” Melanie gleefully instructs her friend. “I’ll take this.”

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