Severance Package

Molly was bleeding.

Molly was trapped.

Molly was screwed.

Ania loosened the fourth screw and flicked it away. The blade was heavy in her hands, the edge sharp. It would take effort to swing the blade with only one arm. But the exertion would be worth it: The weight of the steel would drive the edge even farther into whatever it encountered.

Maybe a human neck.

A face.

They didn’t plan it, but Amy and Nichole opened both doors at the same time.

First thing that moved, Amy decided, was getting shot to hell. Even though she had precious few bullets in her gun. But all she needed was one. One shot could flush out her quarry. And once she showed herself, Amy would wrap her hands around the bitch’s neck and squeeze and spit in her face until she …

Ania heard footsteps to her left.

And to her right.

The ones to the left sounded closer.

She held the heavy blade high.

Stared at the carpet. Waited for a shadow to appear.

Nichole used the classic two-hand stance, gun out in front, ready to blast away at anything hostile. This morning, Molly Lewis certainly qualified.

She’d ducked away once before. She wouldn’t this time.

Nichole was thinking about a particular button on Molly’s perfect white blouse. It gave her a target. The button that rested a few inches to the left of her heart. Aim for the button, drift right, then blast away. She fixated on that button.

She fixated so much, she didn’t fully notice when something cold and wet lashed across her wrists.

Ow.

What had hit her hands?

Oh God.

No.

Nichole staggered backwards.

Where …

… were her hands?

Ania felt the gunmetal on the nape of her neck. Heard the click.

“Freeze,” Amy said.

Still another mistake, Ania realized. Up until a minute ago, she thought she only had one person stalking her. There had been two. Nichole Wise. And Amy Felton.

Nichole had been easy—one swing. Now she was either in shock or busy searching the floor for her hands.

But that had left Ania wide open.

From behind.

And Amy had taken full advantage.

The blade in Ania’s hands was too heavy. By the time she swung it even a quarter of the way, Amy could blast her spinal cord to pieces.

“Drop it.”

Ania did. The floor of this part of the office, a shared workspace, was covered in linoleum. The heavy blade landed with a dull thud.

“Hands above your head. Lock your fingers together.”

Then, she called out, “Nichole? You with me?”

This was all wrong. Somehow Nichole Wise survived her deathblow, and Amy Felton had overcome her fear of heights. Two more disappointments in a long string of them. Had they caught all of that on-screen? Nichole’s miraculous resurrection? Amy’s courageous climb?

What were they saying now?

It was unacceptable to kill someone only partway. With Amy Felton, it had been calculated. Nichole was different. Nichole was supposed to be dead. Ania should have gone for an insurance shot. But in that moment— when escape to the other office seemed paramount—it hadn’t been a priority. Nichole had stopped breathing, thanks to a paralyzing blow to her diaphragm. She should not have been able to draw another breath on her own.

What were they saying about Ania now? Gun to her head, forced to surrender her weapon?

“Let’s go,” Amy snarled, then grabbed the collar of Ania’s shirt, spun her around and pushed her forward, back in the direction where Amy had come from. A few feet down the hall, Amy gave her a violent push, and Ania’s head bounced off the drywall. Amy yanked back on Ania’s shirt, then pushed her forward again.

“Move it,” Amy said. “You’ve got a date with a window, bitch.”

Nichole leaned up against the nearest available wall, intending to ease herself down to the floor, nice and easy. Instead she stumbled. She tried to catch herself with her hands, but no. That couldn’t be right. Her arms usually had hands attached to them.

Look. There was one. On the floor.

The other was still attached.

Sort of.

Ania smiled.

… smiled.

Ah yes, Amy.

Let’s go to your office.

Let’s have a date.

On the way to her office, Amy smashed Molly’s head against dry-wall three more times—which was impressive for a journey no more than a dozen feet. The third time, the wall actually shattered, paint chips and dust drizzling down to the carpet.

Amy’s office door was slightly ajar. Amy knew she had closed it tight when she had escaped. She hadn’t wanted to tip Molly off.

“Why is my door open?”

“Your boyfriend’s waiting for you,” Molly said, then turned to offer her profile. A crooked creek of blood ran down from her hairline. Her lips were curled into a tight little smile.

Amy pushed Molly’s head forward so that it slammed on her door, which had the curious effect of both punishing Molly and causing the door to open all the way.

A second later, Amy wished it hadn’t.

Ethan was perched behind her desk, his hands hanging—palms up—off the metal arms of her chair. The delirious smile on his face would have caused Amy’s soul to leap, if the smile didn’t look so … unnatural.

“Ethan?”

Ohgod.

Ethan couldn’t be …

Ania dropped to the ground, then swept Amy’s legs. Amy’s face hit wall. The gun tumbled out of her hand.