Chris woke to the warmth of the sun through the motel window. The throbbing in his head felt like the worst hangover of his life. Wondering if he had a concussion, he sat up slowly. A thin haze of dust motes floated in the pale yellow sunlight. Mickey stood by the window, tall and tense, peering through the Venetian blind.
"Morning." Chris stood up and walked over to him.
"Hey, come look at this."
"What?" He held the slats apart with his fingers and peeked out.
"The Jeep there. About three spaces right of our car. There's two dudes in the front seat, big motherfuckers. I don't know how long they've been sitting out there like that, at least since I woke up though."
"Shit." Chris could see them through the boxy grey machine's windshield. The one in the driver's seat was bald with a thick black goatee, eyes hidden behind little round sunglasses. The passenger had a slicked-back mullet and a cigarette dangling from his thin lips.
"They don't look like feds." Mickey said.
"No they do not. We better wake up Judy." He stepped back toward the bed, reached out, and shook her shoulder gently. She stirred.
"What's goin' on?" She mumbled, rising to a sitting position.
"There's a car waiting out in the parking lot. Think it's a couple of Simon's guys. We have to get out of here, fast."
"Oh son of a fuck. Go through the bathroom window. If they don't see us come out, it might buy us a little time." She was already lacing up her shoes. Mickey and Chris started to do the same. Judy pulled on her coat, then stood up and threw the bathroom door open. The window was about six feet up the wall, above the toilet. It was small. Very small. Eyeballing it, Chris probably would've said about one by one-and-a-half feet.
"Okay. Okay, yeah." He took a deep breath. "So we throw the bags out first and then get to the car."
"I'll drive." Judy said. "One of you guys can take that pistol. Mickey, will you be able to get us to your cousin's place?"
"Yeah, I think so. It's just straight south until we get past Salem, then I'll help you figure it out. Chris, you're gonna need to handle the gun. I can barely lift my right arm."
"Okay, got it." He said. Judy turned around, pulled it out, and pressed it into his palm. It was cold. Holding it by the barrel, he climbed up onto the tank of the grimy porcelain toilet. He braced himself before slamming the butt of the gun into the glass of the window. It shattered with three hits. After knocking the smaller pieces out from around the edges, Chris picked up his duffel bag and heaved it through the hole. Judy threw hers next, then Mickey tossed his out too. Last was the backpack of cash. Chris felt a twinge of nervousness as it flew through the broken window, part of him sure he'd never see it again. But this fear was soon overshadowed, because now it was his turn to go.
Draping his jacket over the windowsill to protect his hands from any stray splinters of glass, he perched on the lid of the tank again and timidly stuck first his arms, and then his head through the opening. The drop looked far too sharp as he stared down at the pile of black bags and the damp packed earth below him. Breathing in and feeling the windowsill squeeze against his ribs, he hurled himself forward. Chris tumbled through the air and landed on his left shoulder on top of the suitcases. It wasn't as bad as he had expected, but he knew he'd have a few more bruises. Not that any of that mattered much right now. He saw Judy's head sticking through the window and rolled out of the way as she fell down onto the bags beside him. Next was Mickey. He got halfway through, then gritted his teeth and groaned.
