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I held his eyes and felt a growing sense of dread. I’d lost the element of surprise, and he no doubt thought the same. It felt as if a timer had started a countdown and our inevitable collision course had been set in motion.
He climbed off the machine in one deft movement, wiped his forehead with a towel, and left the gym.
I watched his head disappear as he quickly descended the stairs, then I rushed out of the mezzanine and took the same stairs two at a time, and entered the men’s change room. All three toilet stalls were empty. I turned to check the shower stalls as Poulson rounded a corner.
When two bodybuilders came in chatting about work, Poulson turned to the vanity and washed his hands.
I looked for something to do while both men claimed bags and started to undress whilst talking about work. I stepped to a part of the bench unoccupied by bags, and sat down to check my shoes, keeping Poulson in my peripherals.
He dried his hands at a dryer, then approached me. He took the bag to my right and walked out.
I got up and side-stepped with one of the men who stepped the same way I did. After our dance, I went out and took the steps two at a time.
I ran through the reception area and stepped out into the hallway as a lone figure hurried down the ramp to the car park. I broke into a run, my footfalls heavy against the carpeted floor. The figure turned, and a flash or worry swept across Poulson’s face. The angle of the ramp gave me some momentum, and I launched at him quicker than I expected. I rammed him against the wall, and the wind left him.
He jabbed at my crotch, and it distracted me enough that he broke from my grip and sprinted outside. As he sprinted to the left, he wrenched car keys out of his gym shorts.
I did the same as I ran to my car, parked to the extreme right of the car park, which had become a little busier since I’d arrived mid-morning.
From my car, I craned my neck to see which car Poulson got into. As he ran, he furtively looked behind until he stopped at a black Toyota Corolla.
I unlocked my door and watched.
As soon as the top half of Poulson’s head disappeared, I got in and started it up, reversed out from between the bollards, and drove in his direction. I needed him back in my sights, and peered through windscreens and car windows for any movement. I followed the arrows to the exit, checking each row of parked cars as I went.
When the Corolla pulled in front of me, I pulled out sideways onto the street, on high alert for stray dogs or toddlers on the footpaths.
We negotiated a series of roundabouts and cut in front of traffic already making their approaches. Poulson cut in front of an SUV, who locked their brakes up, sending a waft of smoke blowing across two lanes. I accelerated and passed on the inside shoulder, and the acrid smell of burnt rubber wafted through the vents.
He eventually pulled into a motel called The Pink Flamingo, jumped out, and disappeared into a room before I had the chance to park straight.
Being the off season, the car park was clear of people. I watched the door he went into, and waited. Thunder cracked somewhere close, and three black cockatoos flew overhead, screeching at the top of their lungs. It either meant days of rain, or imminent death.
After a handful of minutes, I got out. A cool breeze tickled my arms, and I struggled into my jacket. I had no cover between the car spot and the motel. I felt exposed as I walked across the pot-holed parking lot and checked for any signs of movement. I slipped on my knuckle dusters and approached the door with my ears primed.
I heard movement behind me, but I was too slow, and someone shoved a gun hard into my ribs.
