Story code: ST-001504
Part 2: The Barefoot Sprint
The thick muscle of the guard’s forearm tensed under Marcus’s fingers. For a fraction of a second, the bustling municipal lobby froze. The clatter of shoes, the hum of the X-ray machine, the distant ring of phones all seemed to vanish, replaced by the heavy, ragged breathing of the man whose wrist Marcus held in a vice grip.
“Let go of me,” the guard hissed, his face flushing a deep, mottled crimson. He didn’t let go of the black PVC tube; instead, he planted his boots and tried to rip his arm away.
Marcus moved with the yank, refusing to surrender the leverage. “Do not break the notary tape,” Marcus repeated, his voice low, projecting only to the man in front of him. “It is a Class C felony to tamper with a sealed municipal bid before the clerk logs it. You break that seal, you go on the hook for the compromised filing.”
“I said back off!” The guard brought his free hand up, slamming his palm hard into Marcus’s shoulder.
The shove pushed Marcus back, but his fingers remained locked around the man’s wrist, dragging the guard forward with him. The black plastic tube twisted between them. The red notary tape stretching across the cap groaned, a tiny white stress line appearing in the thick adhesive.
*Snap.*
Not the tape. The guard’s radio crackled to life as he fumbled for the microphone on his shoulder. “Code three at the main checkpoint! I have a combative individual!”
Marcus snapped a glance at the digital clock on the desk. 3:58 PM. Two minutes.
If they arrested him, the Eastside annex was gone. The city would seize the defaulted property by morning. He had to de-escalate, but he couldn’t lose the documents.
Two more guards were already jogging over from the metal detectors, their heavy utility belts jingling. The head guard-the one who had unclipped the velvet rope for the men in the navy suits-was marching directly toward them, his hand resting menacingly on the handle of his collapsible baton.
Marcus looked up at the mezzanine. Elaine Sterling was no longer leaning against the glass. She was walking briskly toward the glass-backed elevators, her heels clicking rapidly against the tile. She wasn’t just watching anymore; she was heading up to the fourth floor to make sure the clerk’s doors locked exactly on time.
“Last warning,” the guard spat, reaching to unclip a canister of pepper spray from his belt. “Release me.”
Marcus let go.
But as he released the wrist, he clamped both hands onto the PVC tube and twisted hard against the guard’s compromised center of gravity. The sudden loss of tension sent the guard stumbling backward, his boots skidding on the polished linoleum. The tube slid freely into Marcus’s hands.
Marcus didn’t wait for the guard to recover. He didn’t look back at the gray plastic tray containing his loafers, his leather belt, and his phone. He spun on his heel and bolted.
The cold shock of the lobby floor bit into his stockinged feet as he sprinted past the X-ray conveyor belt.
“Hey! Stop him!” a voice bellowed from the checkpoint.
Marcus aimed himself at the grand marble staircase that spiraled up the center of the rotunda. The elevators were a death trap; they were sluggish, and security could halt the cars between floors with a single key turn. The stairs were his only option.
He hit the first marble step at a dead run. The stone was freezing, dusted with microscopic grit that tore at his thin dress socks. He took the steps two at a time, his thighs burning almost instantly. The heavy black tube smacked rhythmically against his spine with every violent bound.
Below him, the lobby erupted into chaos. The sharp squeal of rubber soles against stone echoed up the stairwell as the guards gave chase.
“Lock down the fourth floor!” a radio voice squawked, the frantic sound bouncing off the high, vaulted ceilings.
Marcus rounded the landing of the second floor. His lungs screamed for air. The adrenaline was dumping into his system so fast his vision began to narrow, leaving only the polished brass handrail and the relentless upward curve of the marble steps. He felt a sharp, piercing pain in his left heel-a dropped staple or a shard of hard plastic slicing through his sock-but he couldn’t afford to break his stride.
He reached the third-floor landing. 3:58:45 PM. Or close to it. He didn’t have his phone to check the exact seconds, but his internal clock was screaming at him. Seventy-five seconds left.
He hauled himself up the final flight, pulling desperately on the brass railing to compensate for his tiring legs. The fourth-floor fire doors loomed ahead. They were heavy steel, painted a dull municipal green.
Marcus hit the push-bar with his shoulder, bursting out into the hallway.
The fourth floor was a long, cavernous corridor lined with frosted glass doors and antique brass light fixtures. At the very end of the hall, perhaps fifty yards away, were the heavy oak double doors of the City Clerk’s office.
Standing in the threshold of those doors was Elaine Sterling.
She had beaten him up there in the express elevator. She was holding a large silver pocket watch in her palm, looking directly down the corridor at Marcus as he stood gasping by the stairwell. A clerk in a gray cardigan was standing next to her, looking deeply anxious, her hands resting tightly on the brass handles of the oak doors.
Elaine raised her eyes from the watch and met Marcus’s gaze. She gave a small, almost imperceptible nod to the clerk.
The clerk began to pull the heavy doors shut.
“Wait!” Marcus roared, his voice cracking as he forced his burning legs into a sprint down the long corridor. “I’m here!”
But the hallway wasn’t clear. Midway between Marcus and the clerk’s office, the glass elevator doors pinged and slid open. Three municipal security guards poured out into the corridor, forming a solid, blue-shirted wall blocking his path to the closing doors. The head guard drew his black steel baton, flicking his wrist to snap it to its full, rigid length with a sharp metallic clack.
“On the ground,” the head guard commanded, his voice echoing off the frosted glass. “Right now.”
Marcus didn’t slow down. He kept running, clutching the black tube to his chest, staring helplessly at the rapidly narrowing gap of light between the clerk’s oak doors.