Into the Specter

Chapter 18

(a/n) This is pure chaos, but honestly, that's this entire fic so enjoy aha. I listened to C'est la vie by Weathers on repeat while writing this chapter if that gives you a sense of the vibe.

Thank you for 2k reads omg, I appreciate all of y'all. <3

Flip grunts again as he pulls his bound wrists upward. On the corner of the desk, he's putting pressure against the zip tie in hopes of breaking free if he does it with enough strength.

His heart is beating fast, focused on getting out of this room before someone comes back.

Grimacing in pain, he pulls upward again. With a snap, his arms fling away from each other, zip tie falling to the floor. He rubs at the red markings around each of his wrists as he heads towards the door.

Flip has already looked through this room and there's nothing he can use as a weapon. Slowly turning the handle, he opens the door as silently as he can, making sure no one is out there. The hallway is empty as he quickly walks down it, keeping his footsteps as quiet as possible.

It looks like he's near the back of the building, offices neatly lined up as he turns another corner. If he can get a location on your crew it will be easier to avoid them. Right now, he's just blindly wandering.

Flip's about to turn another corner when he hears voices. Pressing his back to the wall, he shifts his head just enough to see down the hall in his peripheral vision. Looks like only one person, only a few feet away. Voices must be coming from one of the rooms.

He gets out of sight quickly and takes a breath, trying to figure out how to handle this situation. Even if he was only able to look for a mere second, he saw the guy was holding a gun. Facing away from him. Dark hair. Was that one's name Malta? Maltese? No, that's a dog. He almost laughs and wants to say to you, 'See? That's a dog's name, not Flip.'

He shakes his head, banishing the thought. It's like he can remember each one of your conversations without even trying. It's strange. Usually, it all fades into the background. Polite conversation. Small talk. All blends together. You're like a spark traveling through his life along a live fuse, carving your path with such distinctness that he has no choice but to be enraptured by your presence, anticipating the inevitable explosion.

Flip takes another breath, shifts himself around the corner silently, and takes two steps, sneaking up on Malta.

Without taking a breath, he wraps his right arm around Malta's neck from behind, pressing the crook of his elbow into his throat.

Malta's automatic response is quick, bringing both hands up to grab at the arm around his neck, causing the automatic weapon in his hand to fall, placing a priority on not choking.

Flip grabs the gun before it drops onto the ground and hooks the strap around his left arm. He brings that same arm up and places his right hand in the crook of that elbow. He uses his left hand to press into the back of Malta's head while the man struggles to get words out. Incoherent mumbles escape his throat, barely more than a raspy whisper.

Flip continues applying pressure and avoids Malta's swinging arms. It only takes about five seconds before the man goes entirely limp. Passed out.

Flip lays him down on the floor and stands. He checks the ammunition in the gun. Hopefully enough, but running low. He cocks it as silently as he can, holding it in his right hand as he steps over Malta who will wake up in a few minutes.

The voices are clearer now. He recognizes yours first. It sounds like London and that guy, Dallas, are in the office with the door closed.

He comes to the wall right beside the door and presses his back against it. Habit. Make himself as small a target as possible, even if it's hard to do as a 6'3" man.