Bloodshot - Cherie Priest [77]
“What the fuck is going on?” she demanded in her man-voice.
“I have no idea! But we need out of here, now—” which was an understatement, because the floor was clear enough that, with a bit of shoving, the suited men were able to run toward us.
Still holding me by the shoulder, Rose shoved me forward and I let her. Nothing could be gained by fighting between ourselves, after all, and she knew where we were going. I didn’t. I asked, “Is there another way out of here?”
“This way,” she said, propelling me face-first into a very large woman (or man?) who didn’t like getting hit, but who was too drunk to do anything about it. I ricocheted off her (him?) and almost into another support pillar under the balcony, but I steadied myself and wiggled out from Rose’s grasp. I was going to need more mobility than her vise-like handhold would permit.
“Which way?” I asked, and this time she shoved me back, around a corner, down into a very dark place that, after one more turn, was all but pitch-black.
She stumbled and I heard a shuffling sound that indicated she’d decided to jettison the shoes, which—let’s be fair—was a totally great call. I didn’t know how she could walk in the things, and I say that as someone who was running in four-inch heels. “Where are we?” I wanted to know.
She said, “Storage. Move it.” And she gestured with the shoes, which dangled from their straps in her hand.
“I can hear them behind us.”
“Thanks. Like I need the motivation.” She whipped back and took my hand, but they were getting close—very close. Close enough to be scrambling for a light switch somewhere behind us, only a few yards back.
So I said, “No, let go.”
“I’m not backing us into a corner—it opens back here, to an alley.” And then she smashed against something hard, and it didn’t move. I piled up behind her; I just couldn’t stop in time, and I smacked my face into the back of her shoulder, earning me a mouthful of sequins and a moment of panic.
“It’s locked!” I blurted.
“It shouldn’t be,” she complained. “From the outside, maybe?”
“They tend to be pretty well prepared,” I said feebly. Then I added, “Work on it.”
She sputtered, “What?”
“Work on it. Bash it down if you have to. I’ll take care of these guys.”
“What if there are guys outside?” she asked, which was a perfectly valid question.
I said, “We’ll cross that bridge … oh, just work on the door.” As I ran back into the corridor without any lights, I added over my shoulder, “We might not need it anyway.”
The first suit never knew what hit him. The darkness meant nothing to me, or next to nothing, and I cut through it quickly. I jumped at the last second, grabbed him by the throat, and twisted his head until his skeleton snapped and everything inside the suit ground to a halt. The man went limp and I picked him up, held him low, right around knee level, and flung him down the darkness like I was bowling for feds.
But by then the other three guys suspected something was amiss. I heard whispers going back and forth between microphones and earpieces, but my ears were badly bludgeoned by six hours of too-loud music, and I didn’t catch anything but a collection of ferocious hisses. They were spreading out, and crouching down—I could tell that much.
I took the opposite approach and reached up for a set of pipes that ran above my head. I could see them in the blackness, slick as eels along the ceiling, worming through the building like veins. I propped one foot up onto the nearest crate and it jingled faintly, revealing that it was filled with small decorative bells, damn it all to hell. Might as well have been packed with exploding whoopee cushions for all the noise it made. But with a shove and a jump I’d reached the overhead pipes and hauled