I’m in the back.
I duck behind the wall, my heart hammering in my chest as heavy footfalls approach down the hallway toward me. The back door is right there, and yet it’s not an option because it’s in his line of sight and he has a gun.
I have nowhere to run.
“Shhh!” I hiss into the phone, hoping the dispatcher will understand me, will stay quiet so I don’t have to hang up on her. I dive under the metal desk, tugging the chair in as far as I can, until my body is contorted around its legs and my entire left side is crammed against the wall. I thank God that I’m dressed in all black and hope it’s enough, that he won’t spot my bare skin. The female dispatcher hides with me under here, my phone pressed against my chest, smothering any sound she might make. She’s my only connection to the outside world—and perhaps the last person I’ll ever speak to—and she can surely hear my heartbeat.
Polished black combat boots appear around the corner. They stop for five seconds, and I feel each one of those in my throat.
And then those shoes swivel and stalk toward me.
I can barely focus through my fear anymore, sure that I’m about to find myself looking down the barrel of a gun. Where are the police? They should be here by now. We’re not far from Daly City, hands down the worst area of San Francisco, where cruisers circle the streets like crows over a ripe cherry tree.
Around me, boxes topple and papers shuffle, and I pray to whoever watches down from above that this guy doesn’t decide to check beneath the desk.
“Found something!” he shouts. It’s followed by a snort and a low mutter of, “People still use these fucking things?”
I know what he’s found. The VHS player that records the feed from the camera in the front on a continuous loop. Ned’s never been one to keep up with technology trends and, instead, swears by what he knows.
Sirens wail in the distance. They’re so faint at first that I think I’m imagining them.
“Fuck! Did you trip an alarm?” That angry voice—Mario—out front yells, and I allow myself a shaky breath of relief because he’s heard them, too, so they must be real. Only a few more seconds and we’ll be safe.
Ned’s laugh—deep and throaty—carries all the way back. Good. Whatever that guy just did to him, Ned’s still capable of laughing. Tough bastard.
“Come on! We can’t get caught here,” the guy above me shouts. He starts fussing with the VCR, first pressing, then slamming the Open button. I know that’s what he’s doing because she’s a temperamental bitch and I’ve done the exact same thing once or twice when Ned’s asked me to change a tape over. “Fuck it,” he mumbles, and he begins to tug at the cables plugged in beneath the desk. He’s taking the entire machine. He wants whatever video proof might be on there, I guess.
And if he reaches down to unplug the cord, he’s going to find more than just a power strip.
I yank the plug out of the socket for him and hold my breath.
The sirens grow louder, three distinct wails now. “Come on!” His boots shift away from the desk. Footfalls pound down the hallway, and the guy named Mario appears, also in polished black combat boots. I can see him only from the waist down, but it’s enough to see him peeling a black glove off.
A splatter of blood coats his wrist.
“Who the fuck called the cops? I could have gotten him to talk. I just needed more time.” I guess he was obviously expecting to work Ned over at a leisurely pace. I ruined that for them, at least.
They barrel out the back door.
I’m still frozen, unsure if it’s over or not.
“Hello? Hello?” A muted voice calls out, over and over again, and I finally remember the dispatcher pressed against my chest.
“They’re gone,” I whisper into the air, my voice hoarse.