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“Hurry up, man. I got a bad feeling,” one of the accomplices mutters.
“Yeah, yeah.” He reaches down and grabs two fistfuls of my shirt, pulling me off the stair. “Where the fuck is the jewelry, bitch?” He's in my face, shaking me with each shouted word.
I try to bring my hands up to my face when I feel something wet and warm by my hairline. “Wh-what?”
He elbows my hands away and lets go of my shirt. I hit the stairs with a thud, the edge jamming into the middle of my spine.
“I said, where's the fucking jewelry?” He backhands me before he finishes asking the question.
I hear yelling in the background, but my ears are ringing too loudly for me to make out any words. My head lolls to the side and I try to cup my cheek on instinct.
But I feel like I'm underwater. My arm feels heavier than it should be, and it takes too long to bring it to my face.
He bends down, so his face is right in front of mine. Terror scrambles my senses, and my hands and legs start trembling. I look at him with a sobering realization.
I might die tonight.
“I asked you a question, bitch,” he growls.
He's close enough that I can smell his breath, even through the mask. My stomach churns at the sour, putrid stench, and I try not to gag.
Though maybe vomiting all over him would actually help. Might buy me enough time to scramble up the stairs and find a weapon.
“I don't have any jewelry,” I tell him, trying to keep my voice steady. But it started trembling with the rest of my body, and now I can't seem to make it stop.
“Wrong answer,” he snaps.
He reaches behind his back, and fear unlike anything I've ever felt before floods my veins. I scramble up the stairs in the strange crab-walk position I'm stuck in. I make it two stairs before there's a gun in my face.
An honest-to-god gun.
I've never even been this close to a gun before. Everything inside me slows down. I don't feel myself trembling or hear my ragged breathing. I don't see anything beyond the radius of this evil man in front of me, holding a gun to my head.
And then one sound filters in. It might be the best motherfucking sound I've ever heard.
A motorcycle.
I look at the man in front of me, and I grin.
“Fuck, someone's coming,” one of them rushes out.
“Time to go, asshole. Leave the girl,” the other one says.
The guy in front of me doesn't move though. “We didn't complete the mission. I'm not going back empty-handed.”
“We're not. We got plenty of shit. Let's fucking go,” one of them insists.
I still can't see anything beyond the man in front of me. I'm doing my best to block out the fact that I'm inches from certain death, but a cold sweat breaks out along the back of my neck. I'm trying my hardest just to hold on.
I've never passed out before, but if I had to guess, I imagine the black spots dancing at the edge of my vision are a good indicator.
He climbs one step, looming over me once more. “Just tell me where the fucking jewels are and this will all be over.”
I shake my head, my vision swimming. “I don't have any.”
He brings his hands to his head, resting his gun on top as he leans back. “Fuck,” he yells, elongating the middle of the word, stretching it out into several syllables.
“Fuck this. If you want to go down because you don't know when to walk away, fine. But we're out of here,” the talkative one says.
