Page 51 of Glamour and Grit

“Run,” he snaps.

“I can’t leave you.”

Dane’s teeth bare in a snarl as he bears down on the door.

“Run, dammit! Now!”

I turn on my heel and rush into the darkness. His words ringing in my ears still, I run to the end of the hallway and look back.

Dane releases the door and holds his gun with both hands. The mop handle splinters and snaps in half. Dane greets the first man through the door with a bullet.

Shouting, shooting, and screaming. The smell of gunpowder and fresh blood. The sound of my own heartbeat thudding so loudly in my ears I just know the mobsters can hear it, too. There’s nothing I can do but run and hope that they don’t find me. And that they don’t kill Dane.

I hear more gunshots behind me as I stumble onto an abandoned set. This one looks like some Game of Thrones type rip-off. A king’s throne, tapestries of stags on the wall, and a rack of deadly weapons.

Unfortunately, I don’t see a way out. I turn to leave the way I came in when I hear footsteps approaching. Diving behind the weapons rack, I try to stifle the sound of my own panicked breathing.

For a second I have a hope it might be Dane about to enter the set. Instead, a tall, pock-marked man arrives. He has a pistol in his left hand. His right hand, he cradles up against his body. A white handkerchief wrapped around that hand is already growing red with blood.

The look on his face terrifies me. He’s not out for anything but hurting someone. Preferably Dane, who I assume shot him. But anyone will do.

If he finds me, I’m as good as dead.

The man scans the room, his nostrils flaring. A grin spreads over his face.

“I know you’re in here, Selene,” he says. “I can smell your perfume. Chanel, if I’m not mistaken. Good taste. Come on out, and I won’t have to be rough with you.”

He grimaces, and nearly drops his gun. The man looks down at his bleeding hand and groans.

“Jesus fucking Christ. I’m going to have to get surgery. I hate going under anesthesia. It always makes me feel like I’m dying. And between you and me, the doctors that work on people like me didn’t get A’s in medical school. That tattooed leatherneck is going to fucking die. But you and I can still be friends.”

His smile fades, and his pocked face contorts into a mask of rage.

“I said come out, you fucking bitch!”

He’s going to find me if I don’t do something. I’m right next to a dozen weapons, but they're fake. The blades aren’t sharp, and are made to collapse inward to create the illusion of stabbing someone.

They’re still heavy and massive. Maybe I can tip the weapons rack on top of him? But it’s latched onto the floor. I have to undo the latches, and I don’t think I can do that silently.

I carefully reach down and undo the first. He doesn’t react. Maybe he’s hard of hearing, or, like me, the sound of his own blood rushing through his veins drowns out almost everything else.

Latch two down. One left to go. Already the weapons rack, made to look good rather than to function, tilts heavily to the side. Its frame twists in the middle as it can’t support its own weight.

He notices when the final latch comes undone, but it’s too late. The rack comes crashing down onto him and I run like Hell. I can hear him cursing and shouting behind me, but no bullets come flying my way.

More gunshots ring out inside the massive structure. Dane, taking care of business, I hope. God, I pray he makes it out of here okay. If he gets hurt or killed because of me, I don’t think I can stand it.

I come around a row of broken lighting fixtures and find the exit door. I know it’s the same one from before because of the broken halves of the broom lying nearby. One more door, and I’ll be out of here. I can get to the truck, call for help. We can still make it out of this.

I push out of the door, tasting the open air and freedom. For about a second, before I realize I’m standing right in front of Guido and Petty.

“Well, well, well,” Petty says, a smile spreading over his face. “What do we have here?”

I start to run. A sharp retort crackles in the air, and I flinch away from flying plaster. Did he just shoot at me? No, he shot at the wall next to me, but it was damn close.

“I wouldn’t,” he says, shaking his head. “The next one might not miss. I’m not what you’d call a marksman with this thing. Guido, collect her, please.”

The big goon comes my way, hands outstretched. I scream but he clamps a hand over my face. I can’t breathe, he’s smothering me!

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