Page 6 of Asher Black (The Five Syndicates)
My fists clench. This guy is scary, sure, but they’re all cowards for not doing anything. But then again, so am I. I’m the one who’s hiding in the restroom. I have to help her, but what can I do? He has a gun, for goodness’ sake. A gun.
After my time spent traveling through third world countries, I’ve gotten used to weapons and danger. But this is America. The richest nation in the entire world. It’s supposed to be safe here. I’m not supposed to be in a situation involving a gun on my first day back.
I close the bathroom door, doing my best to keep quiet. My heart is pounding as I debate my options. Obviously, I have to help the girl. But if I go out and fight him, it would just be putting us both at risk. My self-defense training consists of kicking a handsy teenage boy in the balls back in high school and literally nothing else. I can’t beat a gun! I wouldn’t even know where to start.
The security guards are also out of the question. Alerting them will require passing this guy. Again, he has a gun. I’m not a fool, and I don’t have a death wish. I won’t be playing hero today.
I remember my phone in my clutch. I can call the police and hope they get here in time. That’s what I’m going to do. It’s the best option, I reassure myself. I pull out my phone and dial 9-1-1, waiting with baited breath at the sound of the dial tone. I pull further back into the restroom to keep quiet.
“9-1-1. What is your emergency?” The operator’s voice is deep and masculine, calm and strong.
It soothes me immensely.
I close my eyes, allowing his voice to give me strength for a brief moment. “Uh…” I hesitate, unsure of what to say. I’ve never called 9-1-1 before. “I’m in the bathroom at a club, and there’s a guy out the door with a gun. He’s choking a girl. What do I do?”
“First of all, ma’am, remain calm. Is the club crowded?”
“Yes,” I say, struggling to keep the incredulity out of my voice.
Is he serious? This is a Friday night in a college area in the most populated city in the United States. Of course, it’s crowded.
“What club are you at?”
“Rogue.”
There’s a staggered gasp on the line before the operator recovers. He says, albeit weakly, “And there’s a male with a gun?”
“Yes.”
I’m starting to get a bad feeling about this. Well, I already had a bad feeling, but that was mostly worry for the girl. Now, it’s worry for me, too.
Am I stuck in the Twilight Zone?
If so, where’s Bruce Willis?
And how the Hell do I get out?
The operator finally speaks again, “Are you sure you wish to report this?”
My jaw drops.
What? Really?
Are cops even allowed to ask that when someone reports that a scary guy has a gun in his hand and is strangling a woman? This is beyond odd. Is this a thing? Are guns considered foreplay in New York? 50 Shades of Grey hasn’t prepared me for this.
Oh, gosh.
What if I just interrupted kinky sex?
That’d make me no worse than Blue Eyes. And he’s an asshole. I don’t want to be an asshole. They’re gross and ugly and smel—I force myself to stop my nervous mental rambling. It’s one of my many bad habits.
I peak my head out again in time to see Scary Guy running his hands down the side of the girl’s body. It’s slow and sensual, but the gun is still there. Light reflects off of the trigger, winking at me in spite of its deadliness. It can go off at any second.
The uncertainty running through me passes from my system. I pull back into the restroom, assured that I’m doing the right thing. Plus, I was scared for the woman before, but now I’m increasingly uncomfortable with my role in this. I want to leave as soon as possible without being the primary witness to a murder, and the cops are still my best bet.
“Yes,” I say firmly, leaving no room for doubt.
“Are you sure he’s not a security guard?”
