A Mexican businessman sat on a wide-backed dark leather chair with a cocktail in his hand, watching the half-naked girl standing on the mirrored platform in front of him. The other girls were standing nearby. Club Fire's VIP lounge was missing two things, Angela Rothman, and the Mexican's American counterpart. The only thing keeping her from crossing the ten feet of fuzzy purple carpeting, separating her from the room to the left marked private, was the other member of the security team from the van. His dark eyes peered out from under a black baseball cap. His hand was already moving toward the pistol tucked in his waistband.
A drink caddy with expensive bottles of liquor and wine were lined up behind glasses atop a polished silver cart on wheels, dividing the distance between Hatch and her adversary. Gunshots would alert the others. Gunshots would greatly reduce her chance of survival.
Her bootlegged pistol was already up and on target. The front sight post hovered over the Club de Fuego's red flame emblem stenciled into the form-fitting black shirt. She had him dead to rights. The security team member, who was of similar size and height as her, had his right hand tightly gripped on the gun tucked in the front of his pants. The white of his knuckles looked like big pearls as the fear seizing control of his mind increased the tension of his squeeze.
If this were game of slapjack Hatch would've won, hands down. Question now was, what to do about this paused standoff. Seize the opportunity that presents itself and be ready because it may be the one you least expect. Her dad's voice in her head brought an added layer of clarity to Hatch's already intense focus.
Keeping her weapon on target, Hatch thrust-kicked the metal cart, stomping her boot into the push handle and sending it torpedoing forward at the man. Instinct took over and he released his gun hand to stop the rapidly approaching cart. A moment later, the beverage tray slammed into his midsection with a crash.
Hatch was already pouncing as he cast the cart aside. She snatched a diamond encrusted bottle of champagne as the tray crashed to the floor beside them. Hatch swung for the fences and connected with the man's chin. The impact from the bedazzled bubbly spun him in a drunken pirouette and sent him into dreamland before he hit the ground.
Hatch searched his pockets just as she'd done with the man in the hall. Finding a similar cache, she secured the downed guard, zip tying and gagging him. She took the gun he'd unsuccessfully tried to pull on her, and instead of keeping it as she had the other, Hatch walked over to the half-naked girl standing in front of the businessman. He was still rooted in frozen terror on the seat in front of her and she handed the dancer the gun out of necessity. If she was to effectively clear the next room, she had to ensure the wealthy A-lister didn't escape and alert the others. His panic-stricken paralysis would only hold him so long.
The girl shook her head. Her eyes watered. "Please—no." Her broken English barely comprehensible through her ragged breaths as she tried to choke back tears.
"It's simple," Hatch pressed the gun into her hand, not wanting to give any more time to this debate, "if he moves, shoot."
The girl's trembling hand accepted the foreign object Hatch forced on her. She was scared. And Hatch didn't want her to pull the trigger. In fact, when she'd quickly assessed the four girls standing around the seated man, the girl Hatch selected was probably actually the least likely of them to actually use the gun. It was the reason Hatch chose her. Hatch couldn't afford to have the gun go off while she was searching the other room. On a moral level, Hatch didn't want to force this girl, who looked in her late teens, to shoulder the burden of taking a human life. Hatch had experienced it enough to know the toxic effect it had on one's life.
The gun vibrated in the girl's hand, but she managed to keep it pointed in the direction of the seated VIP. "He moves, you shoot," Hatch repeated before hustling off to the closed door of the private room. She'd kept her eye on it since taking out the guard and was surprised nobody came from inside to investigate the noise. Could mean a lot of things. None of them good.
The door was locked. No matter how remote, explore all avenues until you find a way around. Sometimes you'll find the doors of life locked, and then what? Do you quit? Raise the white flag? No. You kick it in. And that's what Hatch did.
She booted the door, striking with the heel of her boot just above the knob. Normally, she would've donkey kicked but didn't want to breach the unknown with her back turned, so Hatch opted for the traditional method of raising the knee and stomping out. Less reliable, but more tactical in a one-man, or one-woman, dynamic entry situation.
The door's frame cracked, and the free-swinging door slammed against the inside wall of the small room. The private room was nothing more than a sex closet, containing only a bed and a nightstand. Mounted by a series of hooks, the wall to the left was a sadist’s dream board. Tasseled whips and rods of different thicknesses hung for a client's choosing. The American VIP member had opted for a long, pointed needle. Hatch couldn't fathom its purpose but assumed it had one because there was a similar tool on the wall rack. She knew the purpose for which it had been made was not how the terrified businessman now wielded it.
When Hatch entered, he was already tucked on the opposite side of the bed with the tip of the needle pressed firmly into the neck of the girl on the bed. The girl's red hair spilled across a pillow and in the dyed highlights Hatch saw it wasn't Angela. The girl's naked body was tied by bungee cords to the four black wrought iron posts rising from the corners of the bed. She was unconscious, or at the very least teetering on it. A teardrop clung to the end of her thick eyelashes and captured the light from the flickering candle on the nightstand, the only source of light for the otherwise pitch dark of the room.
The shirtless businessman exposed a corner of his shoulder. Hatch brought her aim to the small bit of exposed, sweat-covered skin showing from behind his bound hostage. The restraints binding her body made it impossible for him to completely hide from view. Whatever tv show this user of women had learned his hostage-taking skills from didn't seem to be working in his favor.