Page 38 of Striker

Queenie and the other old ladies jump to their feet and begin moving into the back storeroom. She asks one of the startled employees, “Does this place have a basement?”

The woman nods. “Yes, but you can’t go down there. It’s not finished.”

“Forget about that,” Queenie demands. “Does it have a door that locks? Can we barricade ourselves in there?”

Just then, one of the prospects squeezes off a shot. The employee jerks back, stammering, “Yes. Yes, we can.”

Tessa is suddenly by their side. “Good. We need to get moving. Your four employees need to come too.”

Unfortunately, I only count three employees. I get a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach when I realize the fourth one was at the front desk when the violence started.

The woman takes a step back as someone from the front returns fire and one of the prospects hits the floor. “I don’t understand what’s happening.”

That makes two of us. I freeze up as I try to process what’s happening. I can’t take my eyes off the prospect on the floor. His leg is bleeding, but he pulls himself up to the doorway and keeps firing.

A terrified woman bolts through the door, leaping over the injured prospect and running to her manager. She doesn’t look injured, thank goodness. She’s panicking while trying to explain, “I don’t know who they are. Five men barged through the door demanding to know where our customers were.”

This can’t be happening, I keep thinking. Yet somehow, it is. It’s surreal that our spa day turned into whatever in the hell this is.

“Talk while you move, girl. You’re holding everyone up,” Queenie says harshly.

The woman from the front remembers something. “Wait, they’re looking for someone who’s not even here. One of them said, ‘Find the old ladies.’ They’re after old women. Just tell them there are no old ladies here and they’ll go away.”

My head jerks up and Queenie and I make eye contact. She snaps, “Don’t linger, Beth.”

I start moving towards the back with the rest of them, but before I can get halfway across the room, the prospect at the door jerks violently. It only takes a second for me to realize he got shot, this time in the chest. Without thinking, I rush over, pull the towel from around my neck and press it against his wound. With my other hand, I untie my robe and somehow manage to tie it around his still bleeding leg wound. Keeping the pressure on with one hand, I use the other to pat his cheek. “You have to get up and get moving, Ben. You have to come to the basement with the old ladies.”

At this point, he’s not with the program at all. His head is lolling to one side and he’s not getting up on his own. I start trying to get him to his feet. The other prospect keeps returning fire. “Get him out of here. I’ll cover you.”

I pull my hair clip out and use it to clamp my robe together in the front. Then I heave him to his feet and drag him along. He wakes up after a few steps and tries to walk while still leaning on me. I’ve still got one hand on that towel trying to keep the pressure on his chest. We’re almost at the door in the back of the room. Queenie appears in the doorway and rushes forward to get on the other side of the prospect.

Just when I think we’re going to make it, the other prospect goes down as well. Almost immediately the guy from the gray Silverado steps through the door with a gun in his hand. That’s the first inkling that I have that this is still about me. I’m the reason these prospects got shot.

Queenie whispers, “Move faster, Beth. We can’t help Tray, but we can save Ben if we hurry.”

We pick up our pace but they’re on us within seconds. All we can do is shove the prospect through the door and hope for the best. Maybe I can talk them into taking me and leaving Queenie alone. It seems like a good plan in my head, one that even has a chance of working.

“Look, I’ll go with you. Take me and leave Queenie alone.”

The man throws me a disgusted look. “You’re damn right, you’ll go with us. Someone wants to have a word with you.”

Glancing at one of the others, he orders, “Take them both. Don’t give them a chance to run.”

The one that grabs me is heavy-handed. He jerks my hands behind my back and zip-ties them. If I’d ever wondered how these thugs were going to walk us out of the spa in broad daylight without anyone noticing, that question was answered when Mr. Silverado turned to leave. He has the word SWAT written on the back of his black jacket.

“Are you sure it’s her?” the one with his hands on me asks.

Glancing over his shoulder, my longtime stalker replies, “Of course, I’m sure. Get her out to the van and stop dawdling. You’re paid to follow directions, not question them.”

The look on Queenie’s face as her hands are zip-tied behind her back tells me she’s already thinking of ways to get us clear of this situation. So, I’m not terribly surprised when she takes advantage of the fact that once outside, we split into two vehicles. The one who I assume is the leader gets into a dark SUV and they put us in a white panel van.

The minute the SUV moves ahead, Queenie jerks away from the guy holding her arm. Instead of running away, she turns, leans her back against the van to brace herself and kicks him in the balls hard enough to double him over and make him fall to the ground. I turn and knee my guy in the balls as well. He doesn’t hit the ground, but he’s doubled over. I follow Queenie’s good example again by kicking him in the face as hard as I can. It only takes the driver a few seconds to come around, grab us and throw us in the van one at a time. He’s bigger and rougher than the other two. Queenie immediately tries to get back out of the van but the first two climb in and shove us back. They strap us into the safety belts and pull them much tighter than necessary, likely because they’re mad and want to punish us.

I’m a little shell-shocked and playing follow the leader with Queenie but I’m not sure what else to do. She’s small but fierce and I can tell they weren’t expecting her, and by extension me, to resist, much less kick them in the family jewels.

I’m self-conscious because my robe is gaping open around the chest, because I used the belt to stem the blood flow on that prospect’s leg. Not only that, but the hair clip holding the front together is trapped under the safety belt and cutting into my stomach.

But Queenie doesn’t let up, even though she’s immobilized. She verbally berates them. “Do you even know who we are?”