“You do have a nice cock.” She shrugs and then comes at me slashing and stabbing, a whirlwind of sharp steel and silky, naked skin.
This time I’m ready. I twist and know I’m going to take a cut, but it’s enough. I get her feet out from under her and get ahold of her wrist, capture her momentum, and redirect it onto the floor. Her breath flies out as she hits the carpet under me, and the knives drop from her hands.
I throw my weight on her to pin her down, and now that I have her, it’s a matter of size. My ground game is good, hers isn’t, and I’ve got her. Once I get ahold of the rope it’ll be easy.
I could do to her what she did to me. With my knee in her back and the rope in my hands I’d just have to slip it around her pretty pale throat and twist, and that would be the end of it.
I could, but I don’t hurt women. I have a code.
Instead I drag her wrists together and loop the rope around them, and tie it tight, enough that it starts to turn her hands purple. She’ll wriggle out of it, but it’ll buy me some time.
“What the hell are you doing?”
“Tying you up.”
The rope is just long enough to pull her legs up and bind her ankles, too, and leave her hog tied. I lurch off of her and grab my pants, drag them on, shove my feet into my shoes, and pull on my shirt. Blood is already soaking through.
“You’re not going to kill me?”
“Nope.”
“Are you crazy? I’m going to come after you again. I took a contract.”
“I know.”
“You’ll have to kill me the next time.”
“Nope.”
She laughs. “No wonder Santiago is so disappointed in you. You should hear him talk about what a bitter disappointment the great Quentin Mulqueen turned out to be.”
“Tell him I said hi,” I pant, lurching into the bathroom. I grab a towel and press it against my side, and use my belt to hold it in place. The wounds on my arms aren’t bad, just scratches. I slip into my holster and pull my jacket on, and hope I can get out of the hotel without somebody asking why I’m bleeding all over the place. I stumble out of the bathroom, straighten up my clothes as best I can, and watch her wriggle on the floor a little bit.
“You’d better hurry up,” she says, smirking at me. “The longer you wait, the less of a head start you have.”
I stumble out of the room and let the door close behind me.
The fuck am I going to do now?
Okay, first, get the hell out of here. I head for the stairwell and lurch down, wincing at the pain in my leg. I’m not sure how deep that cut is. I didn’t get a good look and I’m not going to stop to get one now. Each step is a jolt of agony, until I finally reach the bottom and stop, panting. Fuck, I can’t go out through the lobby like this. I’ll attract too much attention. I turn away from the door and go down the next flight of stairs, into the ground level of the hotel. I just need to find my way to the parking garage, and I’m set.
Down here it’s all bare concrete and harsh florescent lighting. I blink a few times as I walk out into the hallway, and stop. I’m feeling pretty hazy, and my leg is damp with blood. I’m bleeding elsewhere, too. I keep forgetting. A touch to my coat sleeve and it comes away red, soaked through the fabric.
Fuck.
I swipe my hand down my side and start following the glowing red exit signs, hoping the exit will be in the garage. When I finally shove the door open and lurch out into the light, it’s like two hot pokers in my eyes. There are fucking cameras everywhere. No hiding this.
Stumbling, I leave bloodied handprints on my way down to the car, thankful I parked it on the ground floor, and slink behind the wheel. I have a first-aid kid in the glove box. I yank it out, sweep it open over the seat, and use the dull-tipped safety scissors to cut open my pant leg and peel away the blood-soaked towel.
It’s not a deep cut, but it’s a nice long gash and it needs stitches. For now all I can do is grit my teeth and put some field-dress bandages over it, to pinch the flesh closed. If that bitch had hit an artery there, I’d be dead already. Once that’s done I wrap it up tight and cut and tear away my jacket and sleeves, and shove my gun under the seat, and bandage up my arms in a hurry.
Goddamn, I’m a mess. I look like I’m a cow that got lost at a hamburger convention. She landed a cut on my face, and I didn’t even feel it until I saw the drying blood on my cheek. Not a bad cut, though.
Fuck me, what if she put poison on the blades?
There’s a ragged ligature mark around my neck, too. I look like death warmed over.
Once I get the car started I jab the call button on the steering wheel with my finger, and shout my way through the tedious commands to make a phone call through the car’s speakers.
“Dale,” I bellow.
“Dialing,” the cheery lady robot voice says back.
It rings five fucking times before he picks up.
“Quent?” he says. “I wasn’t expecting—”
“Me either. I’m hurt and shit’s gone south. I’m on my way to you.”