[b][center][h2]Paige Kennedy[/h2][/center][/b]
[b][center][h3]Wednesday Night[/h3][/center][/b]

The walk from the elevator was again extended so much so that Paige was becoming accustomed to the stroll down the hallway. The maintenance bulletin that her apartment complex put out promised Wednesday as the last day of maintenance, but she honestly didn’t mind the slightly longer walk it caused her. The day had been fairly productive. She and her Chief met with the US Attorney to outline everything they were bringing to bear against Jackie and thanks to Milo’s cool acting chops, it was going to be a slam dunk once they got in front of the judge. The fact that he’d additionally threatened her, as a Federal Officer, was going to just be icing on the cake. Neither she nor Milo would even be needed to testify which was a plus. Like all law-enforcement, she [i]hated[/i] the massive waste of time that appearing in court entailed.

She entered with a slight sigh of fatigue, looking forward to just getting some rest and starting on her next case in the morning. She dropped some mail on the counter and took her gun off her hip, placing it on the top of the bar when she felt her phone vibrating in her back pocket. Annoyed, she took it out and looked at the number that was awaiting an answer and not recognizing it. Her thumb just grazed over the glass screen when an odd yellow line fell over her field of vision and she barely had half a second to drop her phone and get her hand up.

It felt like an extension cord, tough and rubbery against her fingertips. The slack tightened snugly around her neck in an instant as she heard her phone fall to the floor. From nowhere, she could feel the weight of a person behind her, breathing steady, unmoving and firm. His shirt was course, like a workman’s. She thought she could feel pockets with buttons. He held the cord firmly in both hands with the loop around her neck and with her back pressed against his chest he swiftly moved his foot around her leg to prevent her from squirming any further.

Paige squeaked for air through the small gap her fingers put between the cord and her throat. The shock itself had nearly taken the wind out of her lungs and she felt like a dog whose collar had been yanked hard. She got one leg up to the edge of the counter, feeling the rubber sole of her sneaker bend affirmatively under the bridge of her foot she used every ounce of muscle strength, adrenalin and survival instinct she could muster and launched herself backwards into his upper body with one massive leg press.

They rocked back crashing into the refrigerator and her attacker had to remove his other foot to steady himself against the push. Paige jumped again like a wild animal planting both feet firmly against the counter and launching them back into the refrigerator which shuddered against the impact with an even louder crash than before. The doors flung open in recoil and groceries spilled out onto the floor. She gripped the cord with her other hand feeling his grip tighten down even harder. She choked for air and kicked hard against the counter again. He felt like he lost his footing briefly in some of the spill and she was only briefly able to catch a complete breath before he adjusted his stance to prevent her from kicking again.

A load bearing wall pillar composed part of the bar area and with both of her hands grasping against the strain of the cord, she had no defense as he slammed her into the wall repeatedly. Flinging her by her neck, the first blow nearly knocked her silly and she yelped in pain. A decorative set of plates crashed to the counter and shattered. The second one was even harder, then a third. She could feel her strength fading and for a moment she could see herself: as a little girl back in Florida, sitting in church with her mother while her father preached, as a high-schooler at the prom, graduating from UF, joining the Marshals, hanging out with Ana and Milo. A dark haze began to fall over her eyes and she felt her hand fall away. She no longer had the strength to hold it up, but as it came down on the wrecked countertop, she felt something familiar amongst the jumble of broken dishes and mail envelopes… [i]Envelopes[/i]… She remembered. [i]That was it[/i]… [i]Milo’s knife[/i].

She had a small coffee cup on the counter where she kept it along with other little knick-knacks, pens, pencils and loose change. It was sharper than shit. She’d already slayed a few letters with it. With the last vestiges of strength and control left in her beaten frame and suffocated mind she wrapped her hand around the handle, pulling it from its small sheath and swung it behind her as hard as she could. 

Somewhere she had developed the notion that if she ever stabbed someone it would be gruesome, twisting and gory. The notion of it felt barbaric, like every knife was about as sharp as a regular kitchen knife and it would really take effort to do some damage. She had no [i]real[/i] concept of how sharp a blade could be honed or what it would be like when it impacted human tissue. There was almost no resistance when she felt the tip of small blade pierce through his pant leg and stop as soon as it was in all the way to the handguard. Immediately, she knew she was right about two things: There would be gore and her feet were no longer on the ground. 

Her attacker roared in shock and the sound of his cry was quickly followed by what sounded like water hitting the linoleum flooring. She could breathe again, full sweet breaths, but something was off, a sensation of [i]weightlessness[/i]. She was flying through the air. He had thrown her like a rag doll and she grazed past the pillar he was just using to bash her against. The scene was inverted though, she was almost upside down, barely having time to process anything before she felt her hip crash into something hard and partially constructed of glass. The whole piece crumped beneath her and she landed back on the floor on her head and shoulders. For the first time, she could see him and the mess that was her completely destroyed kitchen. He yanked the small knife out of his leg, but the floor and cabinets around him were already covered in blood that literally sprayed like a hose from the wound she made. Her body crumpled over and she lay on her side for a moment almost mystified by the sight of it. The scene looked like something out of a cheap horror movie the way it gushed out. He quickly ripped the sleeve from his shirt to tie around it, staggering as he did. [i]It was a uniform![/i] She thought as she watched. [i]The elevator company?![/i]

For the moment he was distracted she began to regain her bearings and the realization of the total pain she felt all over her body. Whatever he threw her into was now splintered wood and glass… The table… [i]the false drawer![/i] She was sitting on it. 

The man looked at her moving pitifully, his face sullen and unrelenting; he was still struggling with his makeshift bandage to stop the bleeding. His face snapped back towards the counter where he knew she had left her pistol. He flung the holster away and turned back at her, but was already staring down the barrel of her service Glock. 

It wasn’t as elegant or as balanced as her SiG and it felt like a brick in her hand, but the sights lined up in her tear-squinting gaze and Paige cranked off three shots that all struck home and dropped him to the floor in a heap. 

It was over.

Part of her was expecting to instantly hear a commotion. People clamoring to see what happened. But, for the moment, there was nothing but cold silence. She flopped back on her side and winced hard in the pain she now had time to fully realize. Many things felt cut or broken or just out of place and her head hurt badly from being slammed into the wall. She could see her phone on the carpet a few feet away from where she dropped it and managed to drag herself over. She hit the emergency call function on speaker and waited.

“911, what is your emergency?” A male voice came up crisply. It was the same guy that answered when she called to divert the bikers back at the Winter Party. It hurt immensely, but she had to smile a little bit.

She took in a deep breath, feeling not only how beaten she was, but that she was [i]completely[/i] exhausted. “This is Deputy US Marshal Paige Kennedy,” She coughed and gave her badge number, “I’ve got an officer down… which is me,” She coughed some more seeing small spatters of blood speckle the white carpet with her words, “…And one suspect with three GSW’s,” She looked over at the unmoving body of her attacker and gave it the finger, “He’s not gonna need an ambulance.” She gave her address and ended the call.

Straining up to a slouched sitting position against the back of her sofa she spit out a combination of teardrops, blood and sweat. Her shirt was matted to her side. She knew she was bleeding, but wasn’t sure how bad. Her hair was all over the place, still partly contained in its band while the rest hung wildly and stuck to her face where she could feel more blood from her temple. She didn’t know why and she did know all at the same time as she tapped slowly again on her phone leaving small red finger prints on the glass as she did:

[i][b]Milo:
Come over.[/b][/i]