Summertime, Assassins, and Other Skullduggeries by Cunegan J.D

Author:Cunegan, J.D. [Cunegan, J.D.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2023-11-10T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter 13: Worse Than a Root Canal and a Colonoscopy

Time was, I would’ve literally followed Lola into an active volcano. Give her that golden ring everyone was so anxious about in that one really, really, really long movie, point her in the direction of the mountain, and let her know what time second breakfast is. Even now, long after our official break-up, my body responds to her pull.

It’s second nature at this point. I know to follow Lola, and she knows to reach for my hand to make sure we don’t get separated. I’m not too proud to admit (to myself, anyway) that my heart still flutters when our fingers touch. I hold my breath when the door to the storage closet opens—not because I’m scared, but because I don’t want to lose her scent just yet.

Okay, there’s a little fear, too.

When Lola and I spill into the hallway, I notice…we’re alone. This floor seems abandoned. The cops and the federal agents must be elsewhere in the building, convinced we aren’t where we actually are. The proverbial all-hands-on-deck are on deck somewhere else because the FBI has asked them all to jump, and the response has been how high?

I guess the officers think if they follow the FBI’s instructions with enough gusto, they’ll be on a fast track to a promotion to Quantico.

Yeah. About that.

Then again, I guess it’s not every day a police station has an assassin in custody. Even if Lola and I do escape today, this will probably be one of those stories the veterans of the department share for years. “I was here when…”

Then again, I don’t care for being on the cops’ radar. Or the FBI’s. Hell, for all I know, the CIA might even have a file on me. Some manila folder stuffed to the gills at Langley, so much redacting ink you could fill the Potomac.

Lola and I make it to the ground floor with far less trouble than I expected. Part of me is relieved by that, but I’m also on edge. It’s my natural state, especially when I’m on the run, but I also can’t shake the feeling this was all too easy.

No way we just…walk right out?

The hallways are nondescript, befitting of a place full of bland, boring, drab men. Framed photographs commemorating moments in Seattle history are the only decoration, as well as a map of the greater Seattle area, an indecipherable grid of street names that must mean something to someone.

There are paintings along one wall, exclusively of old men in suits—all white, all wearing impossibly priced suits, all sitting in front of wooden desks flanked by large American flags.

Police chiefs, mayors, and the like.

All smug with self-importance, even in paint.

We round the corner, and I frown. Because in the front lobby, there sits a security guard. Sure, he’s portly and likely not important enough to join the search for Lola and me—but still, he’s a uniform, and he’s armed.

Have I mentioned Lola and I very much are

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