Sweat, Part 4

SWEAT
A Redemption Story
Part 3

 

     “Todos al suelo! Al suelo!” 

     Aida crouched near the end of the hallway, holding her pistol steady in both hands. Peering around the corner of the hotel’s front desk, she saw that the silk- and diamond-clad attendees were gingerly descending to the floor. Their disdain at being forced to do something so uncouth was barely overpowered by their alarm at the two men wielding the AK-47s.  

     The gunmen, both wearing Spanish military uniforms like Armando’s, though somewhat more second-hand, held large canvas sacks into which they were unceremoniously dumping the exhibit items. The sound Aida had heard from the suite must have been the glass breaking on these displays; the guests on the floor crouched and cowered on the finely glittering yet worthless shards as the men collected gemstone-encrusted artifacts dripping in rough gold and silver. 

     This room had three entrances: a wall of French doors that led into a small conference room, the hallway she was now covering, and the three archways that led into the main ballroom. The conference room held no exhibits; there were probably no gunmen there. She couldn’t see clearly enough to assess the ballroom, but she could hear more shouting and knew there were plenty of guests and artifacts to plunder in that area; she’d have to take these thugs out before she got across.

     “Ariana!” 

     Aida whipped the gun around and nearly hit Armando across the face with it. “Armando!” she whisper-shouted. He had followed her to the end of the hallway and knelt down next to her, bottle still in hand, without her noticing. She tried to slow her breathing again. She must really be off her game tonight. “I told you to stay!”

     “I couldn’t just sit there and wonder if you were still alive,” he replied, full of what Aida suspected was either reckless bravado or an attempt at chivalry. His slurred words and rosy cheeks made it difficult to be certain. 

     She shook her head. “I’ll be fine. You, however, are drunk and unarmed.”

     More breaking glass from around the desk. The two gunmen spoke to each other in a tongue Aida didn’t recognize --- but their brief duet of triumphant laughter was universal.

     “Well . . . that may be true. But I am not completely useless. What is going on?” Armando insisted, his eyes now glinting in anticipation of the firefight. Aida smiled in spite of herself. She was all too familiar with the buzz of action. Three . . . two . . .

     “What’s going on is, I’ve got to work. For the last time, stay here.”

     One.

     Aida ducked out from behind her cover and stood as she crossed behind the closer three pillars. The two gunmen, still intent on the treasures, took a second to realize someone was disobeying orders, another to realize that Aida was no civilian, and yet another to reach for their weapons, which had been slung around their shoulders to free both hands for looting. In that time, Aida took aim and fired two rounds at each of them at her leisure.

     They dropped behind a display.

     Without pausing, she ducked behind the furthest column in case someone in the other room looked to see what the damage was. From her vantage point, she could clearly see Armando’s finely chiseled jaw drop.

     “Quédense en el suelo, por favor,” Aida whispered to the few guests still sitting with their hands over their heads. Apparently this small area had only attracted a few couples and an elderly matriarch decked out in pearls. The woman looked up at her in confusion through bulbous eyeglasses, but Aida didn’t have time to satiate her or Armando’s curiosity.

     Aida moved at a crouch around two display cases and behind the centerpiece of the room. This was untouched by the gunmen, because it held only a model of the excavation site. As she rounded the corner, she saw the results of her perfect marksmanship sprawled out of sight of the ballroom: Headshots. No blood. No noise. No wonder their compadres hadn’t come to check on them.

     On hands and knees, she moved to the back corner of the model. Armando was now sitting next to the display on the wall across from her. “That was incredible!” he whispered, clearly and genuinely impressed. “You are fearless!”

     She shrugged and smiled, one teasing eyebrow raised.  “You ain’t seen nothin’ yet.”

     Aida smashed the corner of the wooden base open with one bare fist. Armando’s jaw dropped again. She knew that such a show of force was a completely unnecessary way to retrieve her spare weapons; the compartment had a secret door that would have slid open silently had she so desired, but she couldn’t help showing off a bit. It was rare that she had such an appreciative audience. And, she reasoned, the gunmen behind her wouldn’t argue if she said they were the ones who broke this display.

     Aida pulled a fitted double holster over her shoulders, snapped a new magazine into the semi automatic in her hand, and swept the sawdust from her knees. She realized Armando was gesturing to her. “Don’t I get one?”

     She scoffed indignantly. “Get your own guns!”

     He gave her a pair of cloud-soft puppy eyes. She sucked her teeth at him in annoyance and then slid a small revolver across the flagstone floor: the only gun left in her stockpile.

     “Just to defend yourself. I get it back at the end of the night. Got it?”  

     Armando nodded, trading the wine bottle for the cozy wooden handle. 

     Aida snuck around the display, her bare feet silent on the glass-sprinkled stone. Behind the leftmost column, which was the last of her cover, she spied three more gunmen in the ballroom, guarding the gang’s escape through the foyer. The hostages were huddled by the walls, leaving Aida a clear path into the room.  

     “Too easy.” She winked at Armando and ran, double-fisted, into the fray. 

TO BE CONTINUED! 

Sweat, Part 3

SWEAT
A Redemption Story
Part 3

     A protracted and saccharine conversation involving the letter A. Snarky comments and giggles at the expense of the older dignitaries at the gala. Several waltzes in the ballroom that made Aida feel like a princess. And, at his insistence, a bottle of Armando’s favorite Spanish wine; even though Aida Rosenbaum was a few years shy of the drinking age in the States, Ariana Adams could be any age between 16 and 24.

     All memory of the mission cleanly forgotten.

The two lovebirds strolled away from the crowds of grey-hairs, hand in hand. Armando led Aida down a long stone corridor lined with thick, iron-bound oak doors. The ceiling was barely seven feet at the corners but arched up with many baroque swirls and spirals to a dazing twelve feet in the center, making it feel like they were giants in a tiny cathedral.

     “This part of the building was erected in the 16th century. It served as a monastery for the Catholic church,” Armando explained in a thoughtful voice, his cloudy eyes roving over the well-worn stone. “During the Peninsular War in the 1800s, when the French and Spanish armies were fighting and fleeing and fighting again, the monks in this church provided medical help to anyone who came to their doorstep, French or Spanish. They saved many lives and helped so many people. But when one battalion of Spanish soldiers found out there were French here, they threw torches into the library and nearly burnt the whole place to the ground. Isn’t that sad?” he asked. The poignancy of the moment was slightly dented by his burp on the last word.

     “That’s war for you. All’s fair, right? The Spanish soldiers were just trying to win,” Aida replied, swinging their clasped hands back and forth like a little girl. “Anyway, part of it survived, right? That’s why they incorporated it when they built this place.”

     Armando’s eyes slid out of focus. “Yes, I suppose.” He shook his head. “Let’s talk about something happier. Like how delicious this wine is.” He took another sip from the bottle, wiped his mouth on his sleeve, and handed the bottle to Aida.

“Or how beautiful this architecture is. Those monks sure knew how to build good stuff out of rocks.” Aida took the wine but didn’t drink; she could consume much without feeling drunk like Armando, but she didn’t like the taste of the alcohol as much as her companion did.

     “Or how beautiful you are,” Armando said suddenly. He stopped and turned to look at her, rosy patches on his rough cheeks and a cheesy grin on his face. His uniform was coming undone; his sash drooped off his shoulder and his jacket hung open, revealing a white undershirt and plenty of pectorals underneath. He gently stroked her cheek with the knuckles of his free hand. “Because you are. You’re like a dark angel.”

Aida gave him a half-hearted grin. “Thanks,” she said, looking down, “but I’m not really anything special. I’m just thin and muscular is all. It’s not the same as being beautiful.”

     Armando shook his head. “Mentiras.”

     Aida looked up. Even with her stilettos on, they were at eye level.

     “Don’t say that. You are truly a vision of beauty, and even more, you’ve got a beautiful soul. I can see it in your eyes, your smile . . . your lips . . .”

     It was very cliche. Aida knew that at least 90% of romantic threads in movies and television shows included lines just like that. But hearing it for herself, with those gorgeous grey eyes on her, made her heart beat faster.

     In an empty suite off the main corridor, they were kissing with an intensity and passion that Aida drank in. So much better than wine, she thought. Without taking his mouth off hers, Armando aimed and failed to toss his uniform jacket on the dressing table by the door. Aida felt his firm embrace pulling her closer, and she ran her hands up the back of his undershirt. The heat of the moment drew sweat from between his shoulderblades.

     He backed her toward the enormous bed. She didn’t know what kind of suite this was, but it was swanky as all get-up. The ornately carved wooden headboard matched the rest of the museum, and the welcoming satin bedding made a feathery poof as they toppled together on top of it. They curled together on the pillowy cloud of bliss, a bliss that wound inside Aida’s heart like a clock.

     POW! POW! POW!

     The sound of gunshot and the accompanying screams of the partygoers hit Aida’s eardrums through the door of the suite. She sat up straight, thoughts of the mission slicing through her hormone-muddled mind. How could she have forgotten? How could she have been so stupid as to let her guard down for even a few minutes?

     POW! POW! More shots drove her out of the bed. “What? What’s going on?” Armando mumbled, still prone on the sheets. Aida kicked aside their shoes and jackets, looking, looking - there! She scooped up her purse, pulled out the semiautomatic, and headed for the door.  
     “Just stay there, Armando!” she snapped at a whisper. Back against the wall, pistol in both hands, she looked through the crack in the door to see if she could assess the situation from there. More screams. Breaking glass. Male voices shouting. But no one within sight. She’d have to make her way back to the exhibits.
     Heart and lungs still working overtime, she glanced back at Armando with a pang. Why did work always have to interrupt her life at the worst possible moments? At least she was still dressed. “I’m so sorry, Armando. Wait here, okay? I’ll be back as soon as I can.” 
     Tearing herself away from his look of confusion, Aida checked for clearance, pushed open the door with her shoulder, and took off toward the commotion.