She walked over and picked it up, feeling its heavy weight in her hands. She gripped it with both hands and kept it trained on the floor, approaching Reykon cautiously, as though he’d spring at any moment.
A tear slipped down her face as she observed him, sleeping, as though nothing in the world was wrong. Peaceful.
She shifted her grip on the pistol, grinding her teeth together. If she left him alive, he’d come after her and would certainly find her. There was only one option that guaranteed her escape in totality. Still, as she held the executioner’s weapon in her hand, as she looked at the man sleeping peacefully in front of her, the same one that had viciously abducted and threatened her, she knew there was no way she’d pull the trigger.
“Damnit,” she cried, taking her hand off the trigger and clicking the safety back on. She set the gun on the bed and looked at the room. Backpack, jacket, gun. She grabbed the jacket and slipped it on even though it was about two sizes too big, then donned the backpack. She tucked the gun into her waistband, knowing she didn’t want it there for when he woke up. A moment was afforded to inventory; she knew that the remote had been in the right pocket of his jacket. There was a black cylindrical item in the left pocket; she let it be, cautious to what it may do.
She crept closer to his unconscious body, digging in his pockets with tense hands.
Car keys. Wallet. She checked it quickly, seeing a wad of cash. She closed it and put it in the jacket pocket.
Her heart had gone into hysteria, at the thought of her successful escape. She took one more glance at Reykon’s body, finding it entirely still. A moment’s panic surprised her at just how still he was. She waited there, until she saw one rise and fall of his chest and found her own breath releasing in relief.
Robin left the room and closed the door as though nothing had happened, holding onto the car keys with a death grip.
She found herself in a labyrinth of hotel rooms, a long hallway with endless repeats of the same door. She felt the panic well up inside of her and started running, her chest cramping to get a breath in.
It seemed like an eternity before she found the stairwell. Just as the elevators dinged and the fear that she’d be spotted set in (she had the gun in inside of her waistband, which could attract attention), she slipped past the door, and started sprinting down the stairs, three at a time.
She went out the first exit sign she saw, and the crisp night air greeted her.
Robin remembered exactly where he’d parked the car. Sure enough, it was there, just waiting. Even as she clicked the doors unlocked, she felt an irrational disbelief at her success.
But it had worked; nothing stood in her way. Reykon wasn’t waiting there for her, to crush her hope. She slipped inside and set the backpack in the front seat, then turned the car on. The engine growled to life under her hand and she gripped the steering wheel.
A smile of amazement broke out on her face and a hysterical laugh escaped her lips, a moment before screeching out of the parking lot at 75 miles per hour into the pitch-black night. She had no clue where she would go, other than any direction away from him.
Chapter 4: Escape
Reykon
The world slowly came back into focus, his head pounding. There was a strange metallic taste in his mouth, and he swallowed, hard, trying to wet his throat.
In an instant, he remembered.
Robin.
Smart girl, he thought bitterly. The error had been entirely his fault – he’d left the jacket out there for the picking. He would have done the same in her position.
It was a mistake he’d never make again.
He opened his eyes and saw the circumstances with half-conscious confusion. First, he pulled at his arms, and found that they were tied behind a chair, along with his legs. He groaned, straining against the thick cords.
“I think he’s awake,” a woman purred.
It wasn’t Robin’s voice.
He winced at the bright lamp that assaulted him. He’d never been on the receiving end of knockout powder; now that he had, it gave him a newfound respect for all those he’d used it on. The recovery was brutal; a slow burn that left you feeling hollowed out and ill.
After a moment, his eyes focused on four figures standing around the room. The first was a hulking, heavyset man, mid-twenties, with long, shaggy hair. He wore faded jeans and a frayed baseball hat, complete with a thick flannel. Two women, both tall, near Amazonian figures, lurked in the middle. One had dark hair, with blue eyes, and the other had red hair, with green eyes. He didn’t really get much more than that.
At his top level of alert, he would have been able to tell you how many freckles they had with a single glance. Now, though, he felt like a bowl of oatmeal that had been left on the stove too long.
His gaze shifted to the final character, a strapping young buck, about thirty, with caramel blonde hair and mahogany brown eyes. He wore a flannel, sleeves rolled up, revealing muscled forearms, despite his slimmer form (compared to the downright tank standing across the room) and cargo pants. He wore thick boots, suede with chunky soles.
“Hello there,” Reykon said. The words felt strange in his mouth.
The woman with dark hair snickered. “He’s drunk.”
“Nah,” red head replied. “It’s that powder stuff they use. His girlfriend must have gotten the drop on him.”
The woman with dark hair raised an eyebrow in mock concern. “Having performance issues? Don’t worry, it’s more common than
