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She doesn’t look like she’s ready to run.

Probably because she thinks I’d shoot her if she did. And I’m basically on top of her anyway. She wouldn’t have a chance.

My brothers’ squawking in my ear doesn’t help me fucking focus. I tune them out. They know my protocols.

But I have some big problems. There’s one active shooter in here with me in his sights. Cops might be on the way. And there might be more gunmen either outside or en route.

This was supposed to be quick, with a clean escape for me. And somehow, I now have a captive who’s witnessed me kill multiple assholes in the past few minutes.

One who could identify me.

One who for some unknown reason I don’t want to let go.

I have limited bullets left. So I slowly count in my head, then I look around. “Give me the bottle next to you,” I hiss at her.

The girl does as I command.

I launch my arm back and throw it. Glass shatters midair when the man shoots it. I jump to my feet and take him out, my bullet ripping a hole in his head.

The girl in the booth screams. At least she’s still alive.

And now it’s time for us to move.

Not out the exit door, but through the secret one.

The one I’m hoping they don’t know about.

I grab the girl’s arm and pull her to her feet. We quickly move down a hallway past the bathrooms. I shoot off the lock on the one marked Staff Bathroom and haul her into it, and then down into the last toilet stall, through the door at the back of the empty little room.

She makes gasping, mewling sounds now, like it’s all hit her at once. But she still hasn’t screamed. Yet.

“Shut the fuck up,” I say, “or I’ll kill you.”

“Please don’t. Let me go and I won’t?—”

“How is that shutting up?”

We’re inside a long corridor that bends and twists and leads us into a warehouse a block away. It’s dark in there, but now I can hear sirens and shouts from behind us.

“Please, please let me go. My dad?—”

“Fuck that. Why’d that guy grab you in front of the club?”

“I don’t know… His friend knows my sister. I-I had to get something for her.”

That story has more holes than a moth-eaten sweater, but I let the lies slide. For now.

“What’s your name?”

“Joy,” she whispers.

Another lie.

I nod, playing along. "Frank."

Her eyes flick to mine, unreadable. I know she doesn’t believe me, just like I don’t believe her. But it doesn’t matter. What matters is getting out of here before the cops flood the place.

“It’s Frank,” I say into my earpiece, my voice calm despite the fury thrumming beneath my skin. “Need a pickup.”