Flee Read Online Free PDF

for a metal
tube to contain them. What laypeople call silencers are actually suppressors,
which are able to reduce the sound considerably, but it's still louder than a person
clapping their hands together. The rock music, however, coupled with the shower
noise, effectively covered the shots.
    Since
I'd acted on instinct and not forethought, I rolled onto my bad shoulder. Agony
stormed through my body, snatching away my breath. My vision blurred. Bright firefly
motes darted and swirled in front of my eyes. I pushed myself onto all fours.
Not able to hold weight, my arm gave way, leaving me to scurry on three limbs.
Sight compromised, I used the shower sound as a compass, imagining the layout
of the room in my head.
    The
hitwoman was between me and the exit. An aisle of lockers were to my left. I
guessed I was three yards away from them, and I crossed the distance in less
than three seconds, scooting onto my butt with my back pressed against the cool
metal, a handle jamming into my shoulder and bringing out fresh stars. I shook
my head, willing my sight to return, and noticed peripheral movement on my
right.
    I
pushed myself to my feet, half-staggering/half-sprinting into the shower,
hearing two suppressed shots clang into lockers behind me. The temperature went
up a few degrees, water vapor coating my face. My throat was closing up from
fear, but I forced air through it, filling my lungs with steam. My heart rate
was off the charts. I had nowhere else to go, and in a moment the assassin
would corner and kill me.
    Bathrooms
don't offer much in the way of weapons. If this had been a private residence, I
could have grabbed the porcelain toilet tank cover to use as a bludgeon, or
smash a mirror and attack with a shard. But public toilets had no tank covers,
and the mirrors were safety glass. The doors to the stall hung on heavy-duty
hinges, impossible for me to remove. Going hand-to-hand against someone with a
gun was a last resort, and even then I only had a five percent chance of success.
With my injured arm, and my spotty vision, I cut those odds to two percent.
    That
left one alternative. And a weak one at that.
    I
sensed movement behind me but didn't bother to check. The tile floor was wet
with soapy footprints, and I dove forward onto my belly, momentum taking me
past the towel bin and into the shower stall. I snatched a fallen towel as I slid
by, going under the shower curtain, the spurting nozzle drenching my head and
back and compromising my hearing even further.
    I
flipped over, onto my butt, onto my knees, the towel getting soaked. Then I was
back on my feet, swirling the towel in my good hand, bursting through the curtain
and raising the dripping cloth like a whip.
    I
struck where I assumed the hitwoman would be, at face-level as she was coming
around the corner. It was my best and only chance.
    The
towel snapped, cracking like a gunshot… on empty air. She had anticipated my
attack and was already backing out of range, her gun up, the head shot
inevitable.
    But
she hesitated.
    Just
what I needed. I whipped the towel around again, tossing it at her face and
going in low. I jammed her in the chest with my good shoulder and drove with my
legs.
    Her
shot went off over my head, the sound cracking loud in my ears despite the
suppressor.
    I
kept moving, forcing her backward two steps—three—four—half on her feet, half
falling. Blood rushed to my ears. I pushed harder, fighting not to slip on the
tile floor.
     Her
backward movement shuddered to an abrupt stop. Her body went limp, sagging in
my grasp. We hit the floor.
    I
wound up on top of her, my face pressed to her chest, my arm around her back. I
shifted my arm, snaking her neck under my armpit, ready lean back and snap her
neck, but her head was surprisingly limp. I disengaged, staring at the wet
towel still on her face, a towel that was quickly turning pink. Glancing up, I
realized why—I'd bashed her head into the corner of the sink.
    I
kneeled, prying the gun