Someone is breathing loudly. No, it sounds more like an asthma attack. I try to peel my eyes open, but nothing happens. It seems as though my body doesn’t seem troubled about this news because sleep seems more appealing somehow.
“Otis, what do we do?” a woman cries. Is she worried about me? That’s odd. I don’t remember getting into a crash and I’m lying down on something hard and pointy. My back aches and I try to roll over but a strong hand on my shoulder prevents me from doing so.
“I’m not sure Mrs. Philips. It seems that all we can do is wait,” the driver says. Wait? Are they talking about waiting until I wake up? Because I’m awake. It’s difficult to speak since my throat is on fire but I manage one word, “Peter.”
“Chelsea, be quiet,” he whispers. His demand sounds panicked. And judging by the fact that he isn’t asking about me, something else is going on. I sniff thinking that the smell of antiseptic would clog my nose and discover that it reeks of mold. Now, I’ve got to figure out what’s going on. I open my eyes and it takes a minute for them to adjust. Peter, Otis, and I are in a basement. A woman with jet black hair and chocolate brown skin is sitting beside the driver and a man holding a gun is standing by the exit. That explains why none of them have gotten free. True panic sets when the door at the top of the stairs opens and two men descend the stairs. They also have guns. They look from me, to Peter, To Otis, then at the woman as if trying to decide something.
“We need to wait until the rest of them get here,” the man that stands guard says.
“Jack, we should probably start now,” one of the gun men argues. Jack shakes his head and scratches at his thick beard.
“Tony, the boss calls the shot. You know what we’re supposed to do.” Tony sighs and runs back up the stairs. Jack glares at the other man.
“Why are you standing there?” The man who has ash blond hair and a beach ball sized belly smirks.
“A new shipment is coming through. You are going to need our help,” he smirks. Jack sighs before tapping his gun against his thigh. Apparently, this guard is trigger happy. I look at Peter who has a black eye and dried blood around his mouth and instantly know that this is bad. His smile is gone and it has been replaced by weariness. It seems as though he has no idea how we are going to get out of this. I don’t have a clue either. Part of me wants to slump over in defeat. The other half wants to bolt up the stairs. Either way I’m dead. But that idea isn’t appealing. Let’s just face it, I’m a coward. The thought of being shot at makes me queasy.