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!