Whitewashed

Poker Face

Chapter 4: Poker Face

All hell breaks loose the moment the word ‘safe’ leaves his mouth.

Unlike every gang fight in the history of movies, they all converge at once.

I’ll admit, the first thing that crosses my mind is a shrill voice somewhere between my subconscious and oblivion that shouts, “YOU’RE GOING TO DIE.”

However, immediately, one of them drops, holding his throat, blood oozing from the gaps between his fingers, his metal pipe clattering to the concrete floor. My first instinct is to pick it up, but I can’t move without getting in Haz’s way.

His knife seems to be in all places at once, causing the other men to jump back to avoid suffering a fate similar to their now dead comrade.

My companion’s motions are fast, faster than I thought possible- and yet somehow, someone slips past his guard.

I scream as my collar is grabbed and the person drags backwards, my left hip slamming into Belladonna.

“Wait! Wait Franco, don’t kill that one!” Montreal’s words come out in a sickeningly delightful tone. “That bitch is mine.”

“Let her GO!” Haz whirls around. Big mistake. He instantly gets a punch to the jaw.

My heart stops, afraid that he might black out and leave me alone, but he quickly recovers and I shake my head, “Don’t worry about me!”

There are orders not to kill me? All I have to do is make sure I don’t get kidnapped then. Haz, in contrast, still has to battle for his life.

I know that the man who has me in his grasp is by far stronger than me, but with Belladonna between us, I am able to grapple with the leverage that he can’t get an arm around my neck or waist to completely subdue me.

Another man falls to the floor with an awful ‘thud,’ blood draining into a pool from a wound I can’t see. All of a sudden, two more hands clamp down on me, these pulling at my upper arms. I struggle as much as I can, feeling the cold, still wet metal of the bike brush against my skin every now and again.

One person I can deal with. But two?

After a couple seconds, I figure out that they are trying to drag me over the massive object between us, so I hook my foot onto part of the motorcycle near the bottom.

Reaching back around, I claw at one of the hands, feeling the skin peel beneath my fingernails. Bile rises up into my throat again, but I have to ignore it. Now is NOT the time to be sick.

“Get her hands!” one of the men orders and thick fingers clamp around my wrists.

Not thinking, I bend in half as much as I can and partially pull the man over the precariously wobbling bike. That is all it takes to send the thing sideways. Amidst the chaos of metal colliding with concrete and the shattering of glass, I find myself lucky to be on the right side of the motorcycle, which happens to be the left.

Both of the men that had grabbed me are momentarily crushed beneath its weight, the small of my back slamming into a hot piece of unforgiving metal. I am quick to flinch away from it and get back on my feet.

Yet I don’t get to see my small victory for long as Belladonna’s headlight almost instantly goes out, leaving the warehouse in complete darkness.

I suddenly feel exposed on all sides.

Where is Haz?

I can hear the struggle going on, I can hear the two men trying to lift the bike off of their legs, and I can tell which direction both are in, but I don’t know how far.