Before when I drove into the port, I felt uncomfortable. I felt like I didn’t belong there. But this time, right now, bright and early Monday morning, it’s completely different. I’m ready to kick ass in this new job, and I’m ready to begin a new case as an official part of the team. I’m ready to shed the fear that has been ruling my life for way too long.
I came early today on purpose. Before-school daycare had spots for my kids, and Ozzie is always here, so I figured he could let me in and I could sit down at one of the cubicles and go over the preliminary file that Lucky sent me via email over the weekend. I want to be ready to knock their socks off in the meeting, to show them how serious and dedicated to the job I am. I have a little less than ninety days to show them my stuff, and I’m ready to prove that no one can do this job better than I can.
I pull up to the front of the warehouse and let the car idle for a few seconds. Should I feel bad about ringing Ozzie’s doorbell at seven o’clock in the morning? He doesn’t seem like the type to sleep in, but if he’s had another wild night with my sister, I guess it’s possible.
I chew on my lower lip as I consider my next step. Maybe I should wait just a little while longer. I could always open up my laptop and do some work in the car. I’ll buzz him at seven-thirty. Or maybe . . .
My next thought is yanked right out of my head when a sound off to my left distracts me. My window is halfway open, letting the cool morning air in. I hear footsteps.
I turn to look just as something flashes in my peripheral vision.
“Don’t move,” says a man’s deep voice.
My eyes bug out as my brain computes what they’re seeing. In my near vision is the barrel of a gun. It looks so much bigger up close like this than I would have expected after seeing them on television.
Then it hits me. This gun is real. This isn’t TV. You are being held up by a criminal with a weapon that could kill you in less than one second! I have never seen this man before in my life. He’s heavy, sloppy, in need of a shave, and not attractive. Surprise, surprise: real-life criminals do not look like Colin Farrell.
My jaw drops open, but I can’t seem to make my voice work.
“Where’s Toni?” he asks.
I blink a few times, hoping my heart is going to start working again real soon. I’m on the verge of passing out from sheer terror and also a severe lack of oxygen.
He wiggles the gun at me. “Are you deaf? I asked you a question. Where’s Toni?”
“Uhhh, in bed?”
The guy leans in closer, giving me a better look at his scraggly face and a heavy dose of his morning coffee breath. Damn. My hand goes up on its own and slowly waves the space in front of my nose, trying to clear the air a little.
“You think this is funny, huh? You know what this is?” He pushes the gun in through the window, stopping the end of it just by my left eye.
I blink a few times. My eyelashes literally brush up against the metal. “That’s a gun. I’m pretty sure that’s a gun. It’s kind of hard to see when it’s resting on my eyeball, though.” My breath is coming out in little gasps. I look up at him, pleading with my eyes. “Please tell me there aren’t any bullets in it.”
His southern accent is thick. “Now, why in the hell would I pull a gun on you and not put bullets in it?”
“Because you don’t want to go to jail for shooting me?” A girl can dream.
“Unlock your doors.” He pulls the gun away from my eye and points it at the corner of my door.
“You want my car?” My fingers move very slowly over to the unlock button of my door, like they have no choice but to obey.
In the back of my mind, I’m thinking that if I were watching this happen to someone on a television show, I would know the right thing to do. I would probably be yelling at the girl in the car, telling her, “Don’t open the door, dumbass! He’s going to kill you!”
But I’m not watching television. I’m sitting right here, the star of the show, and it’s a really bad scene. I find that there’s a certain amount of paralysis involved in being terrified. My body does not want to listen to my brain right now. Maybe it’s the gun. Maybe that’s the real problem here. When there’s a gun pointed in my face, I find I’m very motivated to do exactly what I’m being ordered to do. It’s so much easier to ignore an armed criminal from the comfort of my family room. How very inconvenient.
The locks go up. I expect him to tell me to get out, but he walks around the front of the car, pointing the gun at me the entire way. Next thing I know, he’s climbing into the passenger seat.