The women stepped out of the service exit at the rear of the building and into a shadowy alley as police, fire and every manner of emergency response vehicle arrived with wailing sirens. Taking but a moment to compose themselves, Erika and Betty hurried after the mysterious Meera out to the sidewalk and into a growing crowd of gawking onlookers. Shouldering through the mass of people, the trio moved out of the mass of people, hurrying to create distance between them and the building.

  Meera glanced behind her, Erika and Betty at her heels, but she didn’t see the gunmen yet. They would follow, but she doubted they would bring a firefight into the streets of a major city.

  Bangs of gunshots tore through the air, the tall buildings amplifying and echoing the thundering noise. The three women instinctively ducked as screams and shouts called out from every direction; people scrambled for safety in terrified confusion.

  Meera saw the group of gunmen, weapons held at the ready, shoving through the scattering crowd. They were searching, trying to sort through the dozens of running, terrified people for their targets, for them.

  Three police officers appeared, emerging from the fleeing pedestrians, and pointed their blunt, clumsy revolvers. The shooters offered no reprieve and gunned them down with no consideration.

  “Keep moving and stay low!” Meera hissed and hurried forward, Erika and Betty following right behind. The streets were a stampede of people fleeing for their lives, falling and stepping over each other. Gunshots rang out again, this time into the crowd. Civilians tumbled lifelessly to the hard street; others dropped where they stood and covered their heads, praying to be spared.

  “Freeze!” shouted one shooter, followed by a gunshot that breezed by Erika’s head and smashed into a shop’s window a few feet away. She turned to see the gunmen aiming at her. Between them lay prone, perhaps lifeless, bodies on the street. She felt rage boiling within her.

  Erika pulled on the strap of the briefcase, bringing it high on her back as she turned away. “Stay in front of me!” she shouted to Meera and Betty.

  “This way,” Meera pointed ahead, and they started sprinting, the way clear. Behind more shouting men and screams, bullets fired around them, at their feet and just past their heads. It only made them run faster as they dashed past building after building.

  “Here!” Meera called, to great relief for Erika, and they rounded a corner into a vacant lot. The scarved woman immediately pivoted and shunted against the brick building. She yanked her pistol free and fired off several rounds from the cover. She hit the nearest gunman and ducked away as a torrent of gunfire pelted the bricks, spraying debris into the air.

  A compact beige car parked on the far side of a large trash container, mostly hidden from view, cast in shadow among the tall buildings surrounding it. The woman converged on it and quickly got inside, Betty and Erika diving into the cramped back seat as Meera shoved a key into the ignition and turned. The engine sputtered and coughed.

  “No!” she screamed. “You piece of…” She turned the key again, reeving the gas as she carefully worked the clutch. It failed again.

  The shooters reached the entrance to the lot and opened fire at the vehicle, bullets striking the front hood of the car and banging loudly against the trash bin.

  Meera turned the key again. “Come on, darling,” she pleaded, and the engine finally roared to life. She slammed the gas; the car’s wheels spun, peeling off rubber as the little car flew around and out of cover. Meera plowed through the group of men, sending one over the roof of the car as they flew out into the street.

  In the backseat, Betty and Erika huddled together, crammed as low as possible. Meera picked up speed, shifting up as they quickly made distance. She glanced at the rearview mirror. “It’s safe. For now.”

  Erika and Betty slowly rose, looking sheepish, hair a mess. After a quiet moment, Erika looked at her roommate, who was leaning back, eyes closed, breathing deeply.

  “You all right?” she asked.

  Betty let out a heavy exhale. “I’m… okay.” She opened her eyes. “I told you not to bring that damn thing.”

  Erika was stunned. “This is my fault?! How was I supposed; ” Already frazzled and distraught, she stopped herself from boiling over. “Fine. But there’s nothing to be done about it.” She held back stinging anger. “You should head home. There’s no reason to put yourself through this.”

  Betty shook her head. “No, we should head back home.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.” Erika sneered.

  “Ridiculous? We just almost died!”

  “I know! That’s why I need to find my brother! Whatever the hell is going on, he’s in danger,” she gestured to Meera in the driver’s seat, “and this lady’s husband too, apparently. But I don’t need a babysitter.”

  “I’m not your babysitter, Erika,” Betty groaned. She was prodding an old grievance. “I’m your friend trying to talk some sense into you. We got lucky in there. You just buried your damn mother! You should be somewhere safe, mourning, not getting shot at.”

  “I don’t have a choice.” Erika snapped back. “Max is missing, and men with guns are out to get me, and him too probably. I can’t just walk away from that.”

  “This is out of hand. You’re just a secretary. Just give the briefcase to the lady, who we know nothing about, by the way, then go to the police and tell them your brother’s missing and then let’s go home.”

  “So now you want the police?” Erika mocked.

  “You go to the police. I don’t want to get shot at anymore, and neither do you. Leave this to people who can handle it.”

  “The police can’t handle this,” Meera interrupted.

  “Maybe you can,” Betty bit back, “but we’re not soldiers or whatever the hell you are.”

  Erika didn’t want to argue this further. “If you want to leave, you can leave.”

  Betty held her tongue. This was going in circles, and more than that, the look in Erika’s eyes was something she hadn’t seen before. It was determination, or maybe even bravery.

  “Where are we headed anyway?” Erika asked Meera.

  “Your brother’s apartment,” Meera answered.

  “Oh.” She thought for a moment. “What about those guys after us? Wouldn’t they think of that?”

  “I’m sure they have. They were waiting at the office. I’ll have to sneak in.”

  “Sneak in?” Erika looked at Betty, who was staring out her window, dejected. “Past those guys?”

  “Those guys are thugs with guns. I can handle it. Can either of you drive?”

  “Uhh…” Erika couldn’t.

  “No, she can’t,” Betty said unhappily. “But I can.”

  “Good. You two wait in the car, ready to go as soon as I get back.”

  “You’re expecting to be shot at some more?” Betty questioned churlishly.

  “Let’s hope for the best, shall we?” Meera offered.

  Betty pursed her lips and crossed her arms. She looked at Erika, who smiled faintly back.

  “What are you looking for at Max’s?” Erika asked.

  “Ravi, my husband, came to Max for help. They knew each other from the war. Someone at Ravi’s work had approached him. He’s a serious man, but whatever it was frightened him. He set up a meeting with Max, but I don’t know where, and then he went missing.”

  Meera drove through the city, life going on outside as normal despite the surreal violence they had just experienced. Leaving the bustling downtown area, they entered a quieter residential area. Lining the street were well-groomed trees with bright autumn colors, casting long shadows as the afternoon wore on and the sun descended toward the horizon.

  Meera slowed the car a bit as they approached a brick, U-shaped apartment building, with a courtyard at the center. She looked out at it, her eyes darting as she picked up various details: parked cars, pedestrians, open windows, anything that might give her some clue of how to get in, and what to expect.

  The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  “This is it?” Erika asked.

  “Yes. You don’t know where your brother lives?” Meera asked.

  “No,” Erika said with a hint of regret. The building was attractive but not what she had expected. She knew Max to have been a successful lawyer, where he always seemed so busy and supported her and their mother with no fuss. She imagined he lived in a luxurious townhouse, though she also knew him to be a man of simple tastes and disinterested in excess. So perhaps this did suit him.

  Meera drove past the building and then took the next left, went around the block again and found a parking space on a street perpendicular to the building. She turned off the car and looked back at the two women. “Keep the key in the ignition but turned off until you see me. An idling car will attract attention.”

  “Let’s hope it starts again,” Betty mocked.

  “You stay in the backseat,” Meera said to Erika, “and keep your head down. I’ll be back soon.” She exited the vehicle, walking away casually.

  “What do we think of her?” Betty asked as she climbed into the driver’s seat.

  “I’m really not sure,” Erika replied. “She says her husband’s missing, but how many housewives know how to shoot a gun like that? She’s got to be a soldier, or a spy maybe? I read about female spies in the war.”

  “A spy for who? India?” Betty asked. “You ever heard of this guy, Ravi? Max ever mention him?”

  “No, but that doesn’t mean anything. Max doesn’t talk about the war. Or much of anything, I suppose.”

  At the corner of the street, Meera made a casual turn down the block, her destination several buildings down. She walked like any other woman returning to her home. Though one with her skin color wouldn’t be like any other living in this neighborhood. She was unusual here and would attract attention, which meant getting out of sight as soon as possible. Reaching the building, she turned off the sidewalk, heading down the alley on the nearest side of the apartment complex. There was a fire escape, and some leaves piled into a corner, but nothing else. No bins or boxes. The ladder was out of reach. Moving under it, judging the height of the last rung, she looked at the brick wall of the building and took a breath. Stepping back a few paces, she sprung forward, jumped, planted one foot on the wall and shoved off, reaching out with her hands and managed to just reach the bottom rung of the ladder, her body swinging about as it noisily descended. She landed awkwardly, nearly losing her balance, but dashed up the ladder, stepping off and onto the first landing, the ladder swiftly rising and clanging back into place. Hurrying up three levels, Meera kept her eyes forward, not wasting the effort to see if she’d been spotted; there was nothing to be done about it if she had.

  On the third floor, she examined the tall window that led into a long hallway. It was thankfully unlocked and pushed open easily. She stepped through onto a carpeted floor. The hall was empty of other people, but that was little comfort. Meera considered several likely scenarios: an apartment was being used to surveil Max’s; Max’s apartment itself was compromised and a trap set; or a combination of both. If one of the other apartments had been taken over, it would most likely be the one across the hall from his. His apartment was number 312. Meera looked at the nearest door. It read 305. She walked forward on light feet, looking back and forth as she passed the stairwell and came to 309, then 310. She stopped and listened. Music was playing somewhere, probably from the floor below. She approached 311, ducking below the peephole, and put her ear to the door. A radio was on inside. She knocked and put her hand behind her back, gripping the pistol holstered under her blouse. She waited a few seconds and knocked again.

  “Coming!” came the voice of a woman, and then the door opened. She was elderly, with white hair and thick glasses. “Oh, my. Hello there.” The appearance of a woman with dark skin at her door took her aback.

  “Hi,” Meera said in a friendly, chipper tone. She put on an American accent. “I’m Max’s new girlfriend, and he left something at his apartment and asked me to fetch it for him at work. You wouldn’t have a spare key, would you?”

  “Max?” the old woman responded, unsure.

  “Yes, the man who lives across the hall from you,” she gestured behind her.

  “Oh, him. No, sorry, dear. I don’t have a key. That boy keeps to himself.”

  “He is shy. Well, no such luck. Thank you for your time,” Meera said and smiled.

  “Take care dear,” the woman began to shut the door but paused, “I just wanted to say, I think it’s wonderful that someone like you and him are…” she hesitated, “dating, or whatever you call it nowadays. I once loved a colored man…” she trailed off wistfully, “But my parents would never have allowed it. So, I ended up with Harold instead.” She snorted. “He’s dead now, thank God. Well, bless you, dear.” And she closed the door.

  Meera turned to Max’s apartment and stepped to the far side of the doorknob, against the wall, and pulled out her pistol. There was a very good chance someone was inside, and they were now prepared for her. She centered herself, feeling her heart beating, kept her breathing naturally and calm. Meera focused on what she could hear. Seconds passed and then minutes. Her body unmoved; gun held firmly at the ready. Finally, she saw the doorknob twist and the door move just a fraction, and she lunged into it, slamming forward, knocking a man behind it to the ground. The door flung open; before her stood another man, slow to react. He reached for a handgun at his hip, but she fired hers, shooting him in the forehead, blood spraying against the far wall. Looking down, the man on the floor scrambled to recover a submachine gun he’d dropped. Meera fired again, bullet through his temple. Blood gushed onto the floor. She waited a second, not moving, listening, gun at the ready, trusting her senses and resisting the adrenaline. It was quiet.

  The door across the hall opened again. Meera quickly moved back to the entrance, hiding her pistol from view. She smiled at the old woman, a look of concern on the neighbor’s weathered face. “What was that noise?”

  “Sorry about that. I found my key. The door was stuck, took a few kicks to get it open.”

  “Gracious, you pack a wallop! I hope that boy never pisses you off,” the old woman let out a snort and shut her door.

  Meera closed the entrance and then turned around, still on her guard. She stepped forward cautiously. The entryway had a rack on the left and a door on the right, cracked open. It was a closet. She moved into the main area. Three windows on the far wall looked out onto the courtyard. The apartment was plain, with white walls, few decorations or photos. Max wasn’t the sentimental type, she gathered. There was a fireplace on the right wall, well stocked bookshelves surrounded it, with a painting on the mantel above. Before it a small couch and coffee table with a mess of papers atop it. In the far corner, a leaf desk pulled open.

  On her left, a rectangular table with more disheveled papers. A lamp hung from the ceiling above, too simple to call a chandelier. She moved around the corner from there, where it opened to the kitchen, overhead lights on. Ceramic tile floor, green walls. She could smell cooked butter. Someone had been cooking recently. The intruders had made themselves comfortable.

  She moved back to the other side of the apartment and found two doors, both closed. One directly ahead, one to her right. Bedroom and bathroom, she assumed. She moved to the right one, stood beside it and knocked. If there was anyone left, they knew she was here. No response. She reached over, unlatched the door, and pushed it open, staying clear of the entrance. It was the bathroom. No one inside, and nothing else of interest. She moved to the remaining room, repeating her tactic, standing aside and easing the door open with her foot. It was the bedroom, lights off, the only window covered by opaque curtains. The bed was a mess, probably used recently. She leaned in, found the light switch and flicked it on.

  The door abruptly swung back, knocking her pistol from her hand and sending it spinning across the floor. A man emerged from behind the door and grabbed her left forearm. She swung at his face. He blocked, grabbed her other arm and then head-butted her.

  “Fuck!” she spat out, her nose smashed. The attacker yanked her body down by her arms, his knee punching into her chest, knocking the wind out of her. Meera gasped, and the man shoved her to the ground. He marched past and picked up her pistol from the floor, giving it a cursory examination.

  “You with RJR?” he asked, with an unnerving calmness. “You’re experienced. I didn’t think any of you saw combat. Where the hell did you learn to fight like that?”

  Meera gradually caught her breath, the man patiently waiting with her gun held casually. She glared at him.

  He shook his head. “Shame.” Aiming the pistol at her, he hesitated for a split second, and she lunged, barreling into his chest, the gun going off, bullet shattering into the ceiling, drywall spewing out. She dug sharp nails into the hand holding the pistol, drawing blood as they fell to the ground, the gun clacking across the floor and out of reach. He quickly grabbed her throat and squeezed. Meera twisted and kicked, but couldn’t break free, trying to pry away his choking grip to no avail. She bent her right leg and pulled free a hideaway knife. She stabbed him in the side. He screamed and released his grip, rolling off her to cover his wound. She held onto the knife and stabbed him again in the chest. He let out a guttural moan as life faded from him.

  Meera wiped the knife clean on the now-deceased man’s black shirt and sheathed it back into her boot as she got to her feet.

  “My father. My father taught me to fight like that.”

  She recovered her pistol and checked the bedroom again. Returning to the living room, and started her search of the papers strewn about the coffee table. Case files and little else. She moved to the desk, the drawers all pulled open and contents dumped. On top of the desk, placed neatly in one corner, a small, thin black book caught her eye. She flipped it open. Max’s calendar. She turned to the previous week and looked at the day Max was to meet with Ravi. He had jotted down Guff–7.

  “Guff?”

  Looking about his desktop and then the floor, and found a Rolodex, picked it up and started flipping through till she found a sheet for Guff and a telephone number. She pulled out the entry and reached for the phone, still set in its cradle, at one corner of the desk. She dialed the number and after a few rings, a person answered.

  “Guff. How can I help?”

  “Yes, what’s your address?” Meera asked politely.

  “Lighthouse Point.” The voice was unsure. Then added, “It’s invite-only.”

  “I see.” Meera hung up the phone.

  Looking around Max’s desk more, and then the bookshelf nearest to it, she found a map book and pulled it out. Opening it to the local area, her eyes scanned along the shore, finding Lighthouse Point at the end of the cape. Tearing the page out, she folded it and put in her pocket as she headed for the door.

  Out in the hall, she found the elderly woman waiting, looking worried. “I heard more noises. Is everything okay?”

  “Wouldn’t you know it, Max has a rat problem,” Meera shook her head. “I stepped on one. Yuck! I’d let the superintendent know otherwise you’re going to have an awful smell.”

  “Oh dear. That is awful,” the woman responded and hurried back into her apartment. “I’ll give him a call right away!”

  Leaving the same way she came, Meera returned to the car. Betty moved to the passenger seat. Pulling the map from her pocket, she handed it to her. “You can help me navigate. We’re headed here, Lighthouse Point.” She tapped the location. “We’re here,” she pointed to another spot some miles away within the city.

  “Run into any trouble?” Erika asked from the back seat.

  “Yes. But it’s taken care of.” She started up the car and pulled away from the curb, knowing the first few turns to make to get out of the area. “Your brother will want to move, though. And he can forget about his deposit.”