—Tracy Chapman, “Fast Car” Knocking. On the bedroom door. Faye turned off the faucets on the sink in the bathroom across from the bedroom. She’d kept that bathroom door open. Refused to be trapped blind in there. Morning light filled this commandeered apartment. Condor’s .45 lay on the bathroom sink. Her Glock rode in its holster on her hip. She wore the ballistic vest and pants from yesterday. Yesterday, that was only yesterday. She dried her palms on her pant legs. Tucked Condor’s pistol into the belt over her spine. Stepped out of the bathroom without looking in its mirror so she could better ignore the best chance for Condor and her to escape, survive, and perhaps even triumph. Knocking. “Just a minute.” Faye stepped to the kitchen counter where a water glass stood tethered to the bedroom door. Lifted the glass free of its tether, a strand of dental floss that then fell like a fishing line to the kitchen floor and along the bedroom’s white door. “Okay.” Faye stood back to avoid a charge-out.
