Free 3 Thank God it's Monday by Robert Michael Page B

Two. She gripped the SIG Sauer
tighter, confident in her ability to use it, but anxious.
    Hallie ducked behind the receptionist’s desk, avoiding the
glass from the entry and putting her back against the wall. It was darker here
and she was afforded a great view out into the cubicles and offices beyond. No
one stirred. The only lights on were the running lights along the center to
illuminate the cubicles.
    The groan came again. It was originating from the office
closest to the waiting area. Kyle’s office. She took a deep breath and raced as
quietly as she could across the carpet to the doorway. With her back to the
wall, she breathed slowly through pursed lips. She used one hand to pat her
handbag in her pocket. It held a spare magazine.
    Hallie counted to three and pivoted quickly into the open
doorway. She was immediately assaulted with the musky-pungent, iron-rich scent
of blood. The floor was covered in a large pool of it.
    Kyle lay draped over the desk, his face a mask of pain. He
licked his lips and groaned again. A red stain blossomed on the front of his
shirt and his right arm seemed twisted at an impossible angle.
    Then she saw the other body at Kyle’s feet. A small man in a
dark, tight-fitting outfit. One that she imagined that Jake wore from
time-to-time as an assassin. His face was not visible, but she could tell by
the back of his skull that he was East Asian. What appeared to be a Yakuza
tattoo curled up around the base of his neck and down one exposed arm.
    The blood on the floor was mostly his.
    Hallie used her foot to turn him over. His eyes were glazed
over and his mouth slack. The blood was coming from his head. Something had
caved in the front of his skull, bone fragments and brain matter were plastered
to the carpet where his head lay. Hallie tried to contain her bile. She put a
hand to her mouth and began to wretch.
    “No stomach for it, Monday?” Kyle asked. His laugh was
punctuated by coughs and a grunt as he sat up.
    He held a bloody paperweight in his good hand. The other
hand was misshapen, the thumb pulled back at a sharp angle and his index finger
severed. The shoulder and elbow had been broken or dislocated.
    Kyle caught her staring.
    “He must have thought I was right handed,” he chuckled
wickedly. Coughed again. Blood spattered onto his shirt. “Ugh. I think he still
killed me,” he admitted. He kicked the assassin in the chest, rolling him over
onto the floor onto his back.
    “We need to get you to a doctor,” Hallie said. She did not
holster her pistol.
    Kyle looked at her, pointed to the pistol in her hand with
his eyes.
    “You don’t trust me?”
    She felt like crying.
    “I don’t know who to trust anymore.”
    “Fair enough. Do you think they would send someone like him
to kill someone like me if I wasn’t someone you could trust?”
    “Why didn’t you tell Jake about Camilla?” she asked. She
fought the accusative tone in her voice. If Kyle was right, it would be unfair
for his last breaths be spent in an interrogation.
    She had to control herself. She was on the edge of crying. That
would ruin it. With men, sometimes a well-placed cry could move mountains. Other
times, crying was a trigger for men to dismiss everything you were saying.
    He shook his head as if drugged, his eyes closing in slow
motion.
    “He was too vulnerable. I could not tell him yet. He was
processing too much too fast. He hadn’t even come to grips with almost killing
his father.” He spoke as if in a dream.
    “Kyle. Wake up.” Hallie fought the urge to shake him. “Jake
didn’t know that Gabriel was the President. He didn’t know it was his father. How
did that not ever come up?”
    Kyle opened his eyes, his body swaying. He put the hand with
the bloody paperweight on the desk for support. He breathed heavily.
    “Oh. Well. That explains a lot. It never came up directly. We
can watch the footage again. We kept things formal out of respect. You know,
called him President or Commander in