Fake It Till You Ace It

Iverson wrapped his hand firmly around Brenda's elbow, supporting her weight as they walked out of the shop. He pulled the heavy glass door shut and turned the key in the deadbolt.

Brenda tried to jerk her arm away. "I can walk, Iverson. I'm not an invalid."

Iverson didn't let go. His grip was like a steel vise, gentle but entirely immovable. He kept his hand firmly under her elbow, guiding her down the cracked sidewalk.

They walked slowly past a row of dead businesses. Plywood boards covered the windows of the old bakery and the laundromat.

Brenda stared at the wooden boards. Her shoulders slumped. The fear of ending up exactly like those empty storefronts was written all over her face.

Iverson felt the shift in her energy. His chest tightened. He needed to pull her out of her head.

"So," Iverson said, his voice dry. "Did you like the megaphone? I got it for twenty bucks. I was thinking of using it as my new alarm clock."

Brenda's head snapped toward him. Her eyes flashed with irritation. She reached up and smacked the back of his head with her open palm. "You little shit."

Iverson ducked, pretending the slap actually hurt. He rubbed the back of his head, but a small, genuine smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

They reached the intersection.

Suddenly, the roar of a modified engine tore through the street. A matte-black Dodge Charger sped around the corner, its tires squealing against the asphalt. The windows were rolled down, revealing a car full of men covered in neck tattoos.

An empty glass beer bottle flew out of the passenger window.

It shattered against the curb, inches from Brenda's feet. Shards of brown glass exploded across the sidewalk.

Iverson reacted on pure instinct. He grabbed Brenda by the shoulders and shoved her behind his back, shielding her body with his own. His eyes tracked the taillights of the Charger, his gaze turning into pure, frozen murder.

Brenda gasped, her fingers digging into the fabric of his gray hoodie. She was shaking.

Iverson turned around. He forced the lethal coldness out of his eyes and gave her a reassuring pat on the shoulder. "It's fine. Just some drunk idiots. You okay?"

He didn't wait for her answer. The hairs on the back of his neck were standing up.

He shifted his eyes to the corner of the street. Two men in dark jackets were leaning against a brick wall, smoking. They weren't looking at the shattered glass. They were looking dead at Iverson and Brenda.

Iverson recognized them instantly. They were Rocco's lookouts.

A violent surge of adrenaline pumped through Iverson's veins. His heart hammered against his ribs. He knew exactly what this meant. Rocco was hunting them.

He didn't let his face change. He couldn't let Brenda panic.

He wrapped his arm tightly around her waist, practically lifting her off her feet, and forced her to walk faster. "Let's go. The market is just ahead."

The wholesale warehouse was a massive, decaying concrete building. The exterior paint was peeling off in huge, gray flakes.

They walked toward a rusted metal side door beneath a faded yellow sign that read EMPLOYEE ENTRANCE. Iverson pulled it open, and they stepped into a dimly lit, industrial corridor. The air inside was heavy, smelling strongly of damp cardboard and mildew.

They walked toward the main passenger elevators. A yellow plastic sign hung over the doors: OUT OF ORDER.

Brenda let out a frustrated sigh. She pointed a shaking finger down a dark hallway to their left. "We have to use the freight elevator in the back."

Iverson nodded. He kept his arm around her as they walked down the narrow, windowless corridor.

The motion-sensor lights above them were failing. They flickered violently, buzzing with a sharp electrical hiss that made Iverson's teeth ache.

He walked silently, placing his feet carefully so his sneakers made zero noise. He was listening. Straining his ears for any sound behind them.

They reached the heavy metal doors of the freight elevator. Iverson pressed the up button.

The digital display lit up red. The elevator was on the third floor, slowly making its way down.

Then, he heard it.

The heavy, metal fire door at the entrance of the hallway groaned open.

Iverson's spine locked. Every muscle in his body instantly coiled tight, like a spring ready to snap.

The sound of heavy boots hitting the concrete floor echoed down the narrow hallway. It wasn't one person. It was multiple. And they were walking with aggressive, deliberate purpose.

Ding.

The elevator arrived. The massive metal doors slowly began to slide open.