What do we do? she mouthed.
Abbie wasn't sure but answered anyway, mouthing, Listen.
"What now?" This was a woman. Her voice was quiet but penetrating. Abbie had no trouble hearing it one room down.
"We're screwed is what," said the worrier. "Orion’ll blame us. You know what he's like."
"Shut up," said the smoker. "Forget Orion for the minute. This is what it is. We can't bring the prick back to life, so we make the best of it."
"How?" The woman again.
"Take everything. "Files, laptops, the ciggie packets from his bins. Everything. We don’t need him alive. We just need what he knew.”
Abbie took a step back, took Christine's arm, nodded at the door. Let's move.
Christine's eyes widened. Are you sure?
And from next door, the woman again. "You want us to gut this office or all of them?”
Abbie gave Christine a pointed look as the leader, Smoker, responded.
"We gut the building; take anything that might be relevant. Ain't a chance I'll risk missing something so we can get to bed quicker. We do this right, get the stuff, then we’ll deal with the body.”
Abbie was tugging Christine towards the door. They were taking a significant risk, but what choice did they have? Abbie had no intention of taking on four unfriendliness who were probably armed and definitely in a bad mood. Even if one of them seemed to be a wimp. She certainly didn't want to get caught in a room with no way out. Fleeing, for now, was the safest option.
Next door, the group started gathering items. Once their arms were full, they'd dump what they'd stolen in their car and return for more. If they emptied Davesh's office before they filled their arms, they'd move right on to room two. Abbie and Christine's room.
There was no time to waste.
Still holding Christine's arm, Abbie grabbed the handle, turned it right, opened the door, turned it left, let go. Glancing into the hall, she saw Davesh's office door. Wide-open. She could see the back of a bald guy, working his way through a filing cabinet. Christine's eyes widened.
Ignoring her temporary companion’s fear, Abbie nudged Christine into the hall and stepped out after. As though she was a worker bee, this was her office, and she was going home for the day, she turned back and retook the handle. Turned it, pulled the door closed without a sound, turned it. Released.
The bald man was still working through the files. Able to see no one else, Abbie met Christine's eye.
Calm.
Retaking the frightened woman's arm, Abbie led her down the hall. They didn't run because running was noisy, and they'd be caught. Abbie didn't look back because she knew looking back wouldn't help. If they were seen, the viewer would shout. It was human nature. Abbie would get fair warning.
Christine tried to look back once. The moment Abbie saw her neck twist, she squeezed her companion's arm and shook her head. After that, Christine kept her eyes fixed on the goal ahead.
They reached the water cooler, the door to the stairs.
From Davesh's office, someone said, "Son of a bitch."
This time, Christine did spin. Abbie glanced back, but no one rushed into the hall. They weren't the subject of the slur. So far, the baddies hadn't made them.
Abbie released Christine, took the handle, opened the door to the stairs. All with that same calm caution.
She nodded to Christine.
Go.
Christine did as told, taking the top step and working her way down. Abbie was pleased to see she didn't rush, didn't stomp. Her movements were almost silent.
Once Christine was three or four steps below, Abbie stepped after her, dragging the door behind, turning as she moved until the door was almost closed, and Abbie was facing Davesh's office.
The bald man at the filing cabinet rose, twisting as he did to face the gaping office door.
Abbie closed herself onto the staircase. Paused.
"Hey, what the hell?"
And turned to Christine.
"Okay," she said. "Run."
As though Baldie had heard Abbie and believed she was talking to him, he burst from Davesh’s office and charged down the corridor. With a squeal, Christine almost tumbled down the stairs in her haste to reach the bottom.
Abbie turned the handle at the top and opened by an inch the door into the upstairs landing.
Christine turned the handle at the bottom. Pulled.
Baldie was still coming. Listening, judging every step, Abbie waited. Lowering herself, she raised a leg while trying to retain her balance on the narrow stairs.
“It’s locked,” Christine screamed.
Abbie booted her door. It flew out, crashed into Baldie, sent him spinning. The force of the blow sent Abbie backwards. Grabbing the bannister, she just about escaped falling down the stairs.
“It’s locked, it’s locked,” Christine was saying, still tugging the door.
Baldie was rising. A woman appeared at the end of the hall, exited Davesh’s office, withdrew a gun from her jacket. Unlike Baldie, she was calm, collected.
“We’re trapped,” shouted Christine.
“Try pushing,” said Abbie.
She was turning as she spoke, rushing down the stairs after Christine, who now shoved the door and spilt onto the ground floor. Abbie raced down after.
Baldie returned to the stairs’ peak as Abbie reached the ground. A hollow thud signalled the firing of a silenced pistol as Abbie stepped onto the dealership's sales floor. The shot smashed the wall, missing Abbie by inches.
As though desperate to reclaim his spent bullet before someone else stole it, Baldie barrelled down the stairs.
Christine was at the main doors. She looked back at Abbie, who nodded. Pulling the door open, the young woman disappeared into the night.
Baldie burst onto the sales floor, gun ahead of him, pointing towards the spot where Christine had been, seconds before.
He growled, and Abbie appeared in his peripheral, arms swinging.
A metal stool smashed his face, shattering his jaw, pummelling his skull, sending him crashing to the ground.
With the state of his jaw, screaming only made the agony worse. He couldn't stop himself. Not until Abbie appeared above him, raised her boot, brought it
