Frankie stood in Oz’s kitchen taking deep breaths, trying to calm her heart rate and regroup. She considered making tea to buy herself more time. Her first attempt to win over Oz hadn’t worked, but she needed to try again. What other option did she have? It was a miracle she’d stayed alive on her own as long as she had, but her luck would run out eventually. One didn’t take on a corporation like InvestBioX and live to tell about it if they were motivated to shut you up, and InvestBioX was very motivated to keep Frankie quiet.
For the hundredth time, she considered whether she’d be safer in jail before reminding herself, for the hundred and first time, that she’d be shivved within an hour of her stay. At least on the street she had a fighting chance. Getting bail was the only break she’d gotten since InvestBioX had framed her for murder. If she’d been smart she would have stopped digging into the company and enjoyed a life with all of her limbs and a beating heart, but smarts weren’t ruling the day. She couldn’t let them off the hook when she was so close to nailing the bastards.
Frankie yanked open Oz’s fridge expecting to see moldy takeout and an empty bottle of ketchup. She wasn’t prepared for the beautifully stocked shelves filled with fresh fruit, yogurt, hummus, vegetables, cheeses, and almost anything else her stomach could wish for.
“You’re a foodie?” She turned to get a better look at Oz who was once again settled into her disgusting recliner.
“No, I’m a person who likes to eat and respects my body. There’s a difference.” Oz raised her voice over the sound of the television.
Frankie had been living off fast food and what felt like table scraps since she’d been released so she fixed herself a heaping plate. Oz did say she could help herself. Once that was done she returned to her perch on the coffee table. She crossed her legs and balanced the plate on her knee.
“I think we got off on the wrong foot. Let’s start over. I’m Frankie Sender. I’m a short seller and I’ve been investigating InvestBioX. I think their supposed new drug is smoke and mirrors to cover up some shady finances. They’re the ones who framed me for murder and it turns out they’re also trying to kill me.” Frankie took a few bites while she let that sink in. Oz didn’t turn her way but Frankie could see she was interested.
After a long pause, Oz answered. “I’m still not helping you.” Another long pause. “What’s a short seller?”
Bingo.
“I thought you only cared that I’m a murderer.” Frankie took a bite of carrot and chewed slowly.
“I thought it was alleged murderer? Ready to plead guilty?” Oz had the slightest hint of a smile.
“When I’m not, allegedly, relieving people of their pulse and earthly soul, I bet on companies to fail. Most people make money on the stock market when stock prices rise, I make money, lots of money, when those stocks bottom out.” Frankie scrutinized Oz’s reaction. She seemed intrigued, not put off. Frankie still had her on the hook.
“I know what you’re doing. It’s not going to work.” Oz turned back to the TV.
So much for the hook.
“InvestBioX is trying to kill me. They didn’t expect me to get out on bail. They’re not going to stop what they’re doing, and a lot of people are going to get hurt.”
Oz turned fully to her now looking unimpressed. “Which is it, getting rich or the greater good? You need to get your story straight.”
“Who says it can’t be both? I can expose misdeeds and also make a ton of money. I learned to walk and chew gum a long time ago.”
Oz didn’t respond with anything more than a noncommittal huff. Frankie munched another carrot, evaluating her next move when the glass of the closest window exploded inward. Something hot whistled by her ear and thudded into the wall across the room. Another window shattered. Frankie knew she should do something, anything, but felt frozen in place.
“Get down.” Oz grabbed Frankie by the front of the shirt and yanked her to the floor. “Kitchen, now. Stay low.”
Oz’s command broke Frankie out of her daze. Frankie crawled, glass crunching beneath her hands and knees, toward the kitchen. She kept as low to the ground as she could while also moving like hell to get out of the living room. As Oz had pulled her to the floor, she’d realized it was a bullet that had nearly collided with her skull. The sound of them peppering the house was terrifying and a great motivator.
She risked a look behind her, hoping to see Oz following her, scared she’d witness her last moments, or worse, see her bleeding out on the floor. Thankfully, Oz wasn’t dead. She was tucked behind her damn recliner reaching into the drawer of the side table nearest the windows. If she was looking for the television remote, Frankie would tell the gunman where to aim.
Relief rushed through Frankie like the first sip of a cool drink on a hot day when she saw Oz retrieve a gun from the drawer and make her own way toward the kitchen.
“I’m assuming these are the people who want to kill you?” Oz checked her weapon and grimaced. From her seat on the floor, she opened kitchen cabinets and blindly fished into drawers until she came up with two more magazines and a pen that looked like something a spy might find useful. She tucked her finds in her pocket.
“Unless you were expecting guests.” Frankie flinched at another burst of gunfire.
Her nerves felt exposed to air, raw and alight.
“No, but they seem to keep showing up anyway.” Oz motioned Frankie to follow her. “They’re going to get tired of shooting at us from outside pretty soon. They’ll need to come in and make sure we’re dead. We can’t be here when they do or we will be.”
Frankie didn’t like the sound of staying put or leaving the house. Hiding in one of the kitchen cabinets seemed like an option they should consider.
“Come on, you tried to hire me ten minutes ago to protect you from exactly this. Don’t get cold feet on me now.” Oz made the universal “hurry up” sign.
“I’m not.” She totally was. “I’m reevaluating if my trust in you was misplaced. How do I know you’ll keep me safe?”
“You don’t. But they definitely won’t.” Oz pointed in the direction of their assailants.
“Fair point. Off we go then. what’s the holdup?” Frankie shooed Oz along. Whether Oz knew the banter was the only thing keeping her from completely losing it, she allowed Frankie to boss her right out the back door and into the side yard.
Oz pushed her against the house, and they inched along, pressed flat against the siding, until Oz could peek at their attackers. “You sure brought a party.” She pointed back the way they came and they made the slow shuffle back. “We’re going over the fence. My neighbor’s got a motorcycle we’re going to borrow. It’s parked next to his garage.”
Frankie stopped abruptly and turned to Oz. “You can’t steal your neighbor’s motorcycle.”
“Your moral compass is very confusing.” She gave Frankie a little shove, which got them both moving again. “When I tell you, go over the fence. I’ll give you a boost. The keys are under the rock by the front tire.”
When they reached the fence, Oz hoisted Frankie then followed with a graceful leap. Frankie ran to the bike and retrieved the keys. “Do you know how to drive this thing?”
Oz tucked her gun in her waistband and looked behind her warily. “It can’t be that hard.”
Frankie would have taken more time to explain the intricacies of riding a motorcycle but no one had time for that. “I’m driving. Hold on and don’t throw off the balance.”
She straddled the bike and motioned Oz to get on. Oz started to protest. Frankie pulled the gun from Oz’s pants and handed it to her. “If anyone follows us, shoot them. You can’t do that if you’re up here.”
That seemed to appease Oz enough to climb behind Frankie as she started the bike. It roared to life between her legs and she peeled out of the driveway. Oz snaked an arm around her waist which was unexpectedly distracting. How could she notice something like that while running for her life? Her multitasking skills were next-level.
“They’re coming.” Oz was barely audible above fear, adrenaline, and wind whipping by as they flew down the road.
Frankie’s heart rate, already dangerously high if the palpitations she felt pinging around her chest was anything to go by, kicked up another two or three levels. Who the fuck was coming?
“When I say, make a hard U-turn so I can get a better shot. Then head for that alley we just passed.” Oz tapped her on the shoulder to make sure she understood.
Why would they head back toward the people with guns and a murderous attitude? Didn’t an alley mean a dead end? She didn’t want to end up dead. In a stack full of shit days, this one was starting to set itself apart. Not to mention Oz was asking her to do the near impossible.
“You know it’s nearly impossible to do what you’re asking me to do without dumping the bike and getting us killed?”
“You wanted the keys, I don’t want to be dead. Don’t dump us.” Oz tightened her grip around Frankie’s waist.
It probably wasn’t worth arguing, but Frankie had a strong urge anyway. Before she could, Oz squeezed her tighter and yelled “now.” Frankie assumed that was the signal so she closed her eyes against the sight of instant death and spun the bike. As she expected, it took everything she had to keep the bike and the two of them upright.
She didn’t know what gunshots felt like, but she hadn’t noticed passing over into the great beyond so she opened her eyes and hit the accelerator.
“You’re doing great. Hard right into the alley in three, two, one, now!” Oz fired at their pursuers as Frankie made the turn.
As soon as they were in the alley, Frankie’s vision narrowed until all she could see was the wall looming at the end of the pavement in front of them. “Now what, Oz? We’re trapped in here.”
“Hey, it’s okay. We’re not trapped.” Oz squeezed Frankie’s waist gently. “After the dumpster, make a hard left. You’re going to have to keep your speed so we can make it up the stairs.”
“Dumpster? Stairs?” Frankie’s hands were trembling where she gripped the handlebar. Without realizing, she slowed the bike.
“Don’t slow down.” For the first time Oz sounded uneasy.
The sound of metal pinging off metal a foot to their left was all Frankie needed to gun it again. Oz returned fire. Frankie jumped every time a shot rang out and Oz’s twisting and turning made controlling the bike difficult.
“Here’s our turn. Hold on.” Frankie hoped Oz heard her so she wasn’t the victim of centrifugal force.
Another barrage of gunfire chased them as they exited the alley. Oz crashed into her back and grunted loudly. She held tightly to Frankie as they bounced their way up steep stairs that seemed to climb well into the rapidly darkening sky.
Frankie white-knuckled the handlebars as they climbed. It felt like trying to hold an over-caffeinated jackhammer. Her jaw slammed shut so rapidly on one particularly violent bounce she immediately tasted blood and worried about the state of her tongue.
Keeping control of the bike as they pounded and caromed up the stairs would have been an unbelievable challenge under any circumstances, but having Oz plastered to her back proved a special kind of test. Perhaps sensing the precariousness of their relationship with the laws of physics, Oz was holding tightly to Frankie. With each jarring jolt, they moved as one on the bike which Frankie found weirdly intimate and distracting as hell.
After what felt like an eternity in a rock tumbler, they finished the ascent and emerged onto a deserted street lined on each side by warehouses and office buildings. Frankie didn’t recognize anything despite being nearly on top of where they’d started. Frankie slowed the bike and looked around. No gunman in sight. She took a real breath. The oxygen felt sweet in her lungs.
“We only have a few minutes until they figure out where those stairs lead. First right, then second left. Park the bike behind the shipping containers and we can walk from there.” Oz’s words were clipped and raspy. “When we get there you can tell me where the hell you learned to ride like that.”
Frankie’s urge to know where they were going was overruled by her overwhelming desire never to be shot at again. She revved the engine and followed Oz’s directions. When they reached the shipping containers she cut the engine and walked the bike behind the first row, making sure it was out of sight from the road.
Once off the bike and on the move, Frankie realized there were hundreds of shipping containers, stacked three or four high, in neat rows, stretching for God knew how far. She was immediately lost, but Oz seemed headed somewhere specific so Frankie followed.
After a long jog, much longer than was appropriate for Frankie’s footwear, Oz finally slowed. It wasn’t until they crossed into the glow of an overhead light that Frankie noticed the blood dripping down Oz’s arm, snaking along her fingers, and oozing over her gun.
“Why are you bleeding?” Frankie didn’t mean to sound so histrionic or be so loud.
Oz glared at her. “It’s what happens when you get shot.”
Frankie took a deep breath and looked skyward. “You got shot? Were you planning on telling me?”
“I’ll probably need your help getting patched up, so yes. But not until we’re both safe. You’re not someone who faints at the sight of blood, are you? I’ll quit if you faint while stitching me.” Oz motioned Frankie to follow and they darted to a set of containers set off by themselves.
Oz looked around quickly then turned the combination and unlocked the heavy padlock securing the door. She pulled Frankie inside and secured the door behind them.
“You can’t quit if you haven’t been hired. Does that mean you’re taking the job?” Frankie crossed her arms and tried to look like the answer wasn’t more important to her than anything else in her life.
“I take umbrage at my house being used as target practice. And like you said, you’re only an alleged murderer. I’ll keep you alive until you can either prove you didn’t do it or I see compelling proof you did. After that, you turn yourself in.” Oz rummaged in a cabinet and pulled out a surprisingly large first aid kit. She pawed through it with her uninjured arm, the conversation seemingly over.
Frankie took a deep breath, then another. Oz was going to protect her. Suddenly she felt wobbly. Her nerves felt as jangly as the bike bouncing up the stairs. She looked around the small space for something to calm her rattled system. It looked like a survivalists dream. Food, sleeping quarters, you name it, it was here. What was this place?
She looked at Oz, hoping for answers. All she got were more questions. Why was one look from Oz enough to settle her anxious thoughts? Why could she still feel the heat of Oz’s hand on her stomach? Since when did she have a thing for badass women who knew their way around a gunfight? And most importantly, why was she thinking about any of that when there was a price on her head?