The girl shook her head. Her eyes watered. "Please—no." Her broken English barely comprehensible through her ragged breaths as she tried to choke back tears.
"It's simple," Hatch pressed the gun into her hand, not wanting to give any more time to this debate, "if he moves, shoot."
The girl's trembling hand accepted the foreign object Hatch forced on her. She was scared. And Hatch didn't want her to pull the trigger. In fact, when she'd quickly assessed the four girls standing around the seated man, the girl Hatch selected was probably actually the least likely of them to actually use the gun. It was the reason Hatch chose her. Hatch couldn't afford to have the gun go off while she was searching the other room. On a moral level, Hatch didn't want to force this girl, who looked in her late teens, to shoulder the burden of taking a human life. Hatch had experienced it enough to know the toxic effect it had on one's life.
The gun vibrated in the girl's hand, but she managed to keep it pointed in the direction of the seated VIP. "He moves, you shoot," Hatch repeated before hustling off to the closed door of the private room. She'd kept her eye on it since taking out the guard and was surprised nobody came from inside to investigate the noise. Could mean a lot of things. None of them good.
The door was locked. No matter how remote, explore all avenues until you find a way around. Sometimes you'll find the doors of life locked, and then what? Do you quit? Raise the white flag? No. You kick it in. And that's what Hatch did.
She booted the door, striking with the heel of her boot just above the knob. Normally, she would've donkey kicked but didn't want to breach the unknown with her back turned, so Hatch opted for the traditional method of raising the knee and stomping out. Less reliable, but more tactical in a one-man, or one-woman, dynamic entry situation.
The door's frame cracked, and the free-swinging door slammed against the inside wall of the small room. The private room was nothing more than a sex closet, containing only a bed and a nightstand. Mounted by a series of hooks, the wall to the left was a sadist’s dream board. Tasseled whips and rods of different thicknesses hung for a client's choosing. The American VIP member had opted for a long, pointed needle. Hatch couldn't fathom its purpose but assumed it had one because there was a similar tool on the wall rack. She knew the purpose for which it had been made was not how the terrified businessman now wielded it.
When Hatch entered, he was already tucked on the opposite side of the bed with the tip of the needle pressed firmly into the neck of the girl on the bed. The girl's red hair spilled across a pillow and in the dyed highlights Hatch saw it wasn't Angela. The girl's naked body was tied by bungee cords to the four black wrought iron posts rising from the corners of the bed. She was unconscious, or at the very least teetering on it. A teardrop clung to the end of her thick eyelashes and captured the light from the flickering candle on the nightstand, the only source of light for the otherwise pitch dark of the room.
The shirtless businessman exposed a corner of his shoulder. Hatch brought her aim to the small bit of exposed, sweat-covered skin showing from behind his bound hostage. The restraints binding her body made it impossible for him to completely hide from view. Whatever tv show this user of women had learned his hostage-taking skills from didn't seem to be working in his favor.
But there was still the possibility he could push the needle inside the girl's throat before she could kill him. Slim, but present. "You move and you’re dead. Drop the needle!"
"I'll do it! I swear to God, I'll jam this thing so deep!" spit flew from his mouth as he spiraled out of control, "Get the hell out of here or I'll kill her!"
"You don't want to do this. Put it down."
"Hell no! You're just going to kill me." His eyes darted past Hatch.
"Nobody's dead out there if that's what you're looking for. I don't have all day, and the longer you take in making it, I can't guarantee this bullet here doesn't rip through your shoulder."
The frantic hostage taker tried without success to press himself further behind the girl, but to effectively hold the needle to her neck, he could not. And the effort left him in no better position than when Hatch first made the offer. No gunshots, she told herself.
"Let me tell you how this is going to go. First, I'm going to shoot you in the top of your right shoulder. It's not going to kill you, but the pain of it will make you wish it had. You will be in screaming agony in a matter of seconds. I will then fire a second shot after the first one moves you safely away from that girl. However, you will not feel this second shot because the jacketed forty caliber round inside this gun will pass through the front of your skull at nearly thirteen-hundred feet per second, killing you instantly."
Her aim never wavered as she negotiated the terms of surrender. He didn't utter a response. Hatch watched the businessman's shoulder rise and fall in rhythm with his breath as he weighed the offer. Hatch took the slack out of the Glock's trigger as her timeline in which she would make the decision for him rapidly approached.
The gunshot that came next cracked like a whip and caught Hatch completely by surprise.
Seventeen
The shot hadn't come from her gun. It came from the other room. Hatch spun to see the source of the discharge. Smoke seeped from the end of the nickel-plated pistol, encircling the head of the tear-stricken girl who'd fired the shot. Her eyes apologized to Hatch as she and the other three girls made a mad dash for the hallway door while the expensive wardrobe of the dead man in the lounge chair absorbed the blood spreading out from the center of his chest.
The dying man's agonal breaths were drowned out by the wild scream from inside the room where Hatch stood. The shirtless American had launched himself into the air with the needle outstretched in his right hand looking like a pirate diving off the top mast.
Hatch sidestepped the poorly planned attack at the last second, allowing the deranged man's momentum to do the heavy lifting. His forehead struck the corner edge of the doorframe with a sickening thud. Until he let out a whimper, she thought the impact might've actually killed him. One solid stomp silenced any further resistance.
Hatch had no time to spare if that shot had been heard over the chaos of the club. There was a chance it wasn't. But Hatch didn’t like playing those odds. In less than twenty seconds, she had stripped the guard of equal size out of his clothes. Seconds later, Hatch was now wearing the clothes of the man she'd bested with a drink cart. Hatch tucked her shoulder length hair inside the ballcap and cinched the brim down, hoping to block her face from view.
Hatch then set about undoing the knots and freeing the girl's hands and feet. "Gracias," she muttered. Her voice was stronger than Hatch expected, but then again if you're drugged and bound to a bed maybe it's best to put your mind elsewhere. Hatch spoke softly but firmly. She needed to get this girl out of the room, but she needed her functional enough so Hatch could address any threats.
"Do you speak English?"
"A little." The weakness in her voice was matched by the trembling wave of her hand.
Hatch was able to get the girl up. With each passing second her assailant's smashed face rested against the frame of the door, she seemed to grow a little stronger. Hatch got the girl into her old clothes.