Scott Medbury - Inga

The truncated scream was enough to alert the men in the guard’s room. The robot heard raised voices and running footsteps, before the door burst open.

The beautiful but now deadly robot lightly stepped over Garcia’s body to the threshold of the doorway. Marco, the new guy was keen to impress and beat the others to be the first man through the door of the Red Room. Inga grabbed the wrist of his gun hand and slammed the heavy red door against his shoulder twice, while pulling his arm back at an unnatural angle.

The weapon dropped from numb fingers and his bloodcurdling screams spooked the others into shooting ineffectually at the metal door. The robot, still smiling, began to slam the door repeatedly, pulverizing the unfortunate Marco’s shoulder and upper arm. He passed out just before she wrenched his limb from the mangled mess of his shoulder.

He fell backwards out of the doorway to the floor in front of his horrified co-workers as the door closed with a heavy thud.

“Jesus! What the fuck!? Hold your fire!” yelled a chubby guard named Ray, who also happened to be Danny Garcia’s best friend.

He bent over Marco and then began to drag him away from the door. The gravely injured man was unconscious, with blood pumping from his ruined shoulder at an alarming rate.

“Milos, go and get a towel! And call the boss or Andre or someone!” Ray screamed.

Milos ran back to the guard’s room.

“Was it Danny? Has he fucking lost it?” Ray asked as he tried vainly to staunch the flow of blood with his bare hand.

“I don’t think it was Danny…” said the other guard, Charlie.

Ray took his hand away and stood up, looking at the other man in disbelief.

“What… the girl? Bullshit!”

“I’m pretty sure the hand that grabbed Marco had painted nails…”

Ray stood up and charged at the door, hammering on it with his blood-soaked hands.

“Danny, come on out! What the fuck…”

The door was snatched open, and Ray found himself face to face with the beautiful girl they had lusted over earlier. Her white, polka dot dress was now marred by a large blood spatter. On the floor behind her lay his friend Danny, his head turned at an unnatural angle, his lifeless eyes staring up at the ceiling, a look of permanent surprise on his face.

Confused, he looked back at the petite girl. That was when he saw she was holding Marco’s severed arm, swinging it slowly back and forth like a batter warming up as he approaches the home plate.

Belatedly realizing the danger he was in, Ray began to bring his gun up. He was too slow. Inga swung the arm, clubbing him on the side of the head. The heavy blow poleaxed him, and he fell face first into the floor, his gun clattering onto the concrete.

The man behind Ray, a 24-year-old called Charlie, looked at her, stunned at what he had just witnessed. As her eyes fell on him, he took a step back, and reached for his belt. His hands grasped at nothing and he realized he’d left his gun behind when they’d run out to see what the commotion was.

Never mind. He pulled the switchblade knife out of his pocket and flicked it open.

“Come on bitch!” he said, baring his teeth.

He was still not quite willing to believe that the slender girl had been anything other than lucky. She had simply taken the others by surprise. Well, ole Charlie was ready for her. He crouched and began to weave the blade back and forth in front of him.

Surprising him completely, she dismissed him and turned away. Still holding the severed arm in her left hand, she bent over and picked up Ray’s gun, placed the muzzle against his temple and pulled the trigger.

“Fuck!” yelled Charlie, the concussion of the gunshot still ringing in his ears.

The girl looked up and stepped over Ray’s body. Charlie decided it was time to get the fuck out of there. He turned and ran, weaving as he went, waiting at any moment for a bullet in the back. Again, she ignored him and walked over to the gravely wounded Marco. She bent over and also shot him through the temple.

A quarter of the way to the stairway that led to the upper levels of the house, Charlie squealed at the gunshot and ducked, almost tripping before righting himself and continuing. Inga turned away from the body of Marco and stood up, raised her gun and aimed at him.

Before she squeezed the trigger, Milos ran out of the guard’s room, gun in one hand, towel in the other. He took in the fan of blood and brains around Marco’s head and immediately squeezed off a panicked shot at her.

It missed completely. Inga turned, bringing her gun around to face this new threat. His second shot grazed her shoulder. He didn’t get a third. Inga’s shot took him in the chest, throwing him onto his back.

Milos groaned and put a hand over the wound, hoping to stem the blood. His whole body felt numb, and he could hear his breath whistling with every ragged breath. He could only watch as the beautiful young woman walked over to him. He held up his hands in surrender as she aimed at his forehead.

“Please…”

She squeezed off two shots, then bent over and felt for a pulse. Satisfied, she stood up again and scanned the basement for the target who had run away.

She spotted him in the distance, now three-quarters of the way to the other end of the basement.

“Target acquired,” Inga said, to no one in particular and jogged after him.

Looking back over his shoulder, Charlie saw the smiling girl begin to pursue him. She still had the severed arm in one hand, and a smoking pistol in the other. Badly out of breath, he whimpered in fright and somehow found a way to run faster.

“Yes, yes, yes…” he panted as he closed the gap to the open doors that led up into the boss’s home.

He almost made it.

Slowing as he approached the opening, the murderous robot dropped the severed arm onto the basement floor with a meaty plop and skidded to a stop, raising her gun and steadying it with one hand as she aimed at the center of the fleeing man’s back.

Luckily, or unluckily, for Charlie, pistols don’t allow for expert marksmanship at a distance. He was five feet from the door when her shot took him high on the right buttock. The force of it sent him skidding face first into the polished concrete, coming to rest right on the threshold of the doorway. With a supreme effort and moaning at the burning agony in his butt cheek, he crawled through.

Over the sounds of his struggling breath he distinctly heard the sound of her bare feet padding on the concrete as she began to run again.

Adrenalin gave him a new burst of energy, and he dragged himself to his feet, bleeding from the ass, but alive. He began to pull the heavy double doors shut. If he could just get them locked and make it up the stairs…

Much to Ivan’s disgust, the reunited lovers spent most of the drive home tonguing each other’s mouths while he pretended to study the wet Chicago streets through the tinted window. Back in the Arrivals lounge of O’Hare, the couple had reunited with an ostentatious but somehow hollow display of affection that had drawn furtive glances from other travelers. Tatiana Molenski had barely acknowledged Ivan.

That suited him fine. He wasn’t fond of her either. She was the Russian equivalent of white trash, a girl from the slums of Moscow who had won the lottery by hooking up with Molenski on one of his frequent trips home. Not only that, she wore too much makeup and was loud and obnoxious. He couldn’t deny, though; she was a beautiful woman under all the shit she plastered on her face. Unfortunately, her beauty was only skin deep, and not in Inga’s league.

His mind turned back to Inga.

Interestingly, Molenski hadn’t mentioned his new toy to his wife. As a rule, they shared the same carnal tastes, whether it be girls or drugs, and Ivan often had to bear silent witness to their debauchery. Clearly, Molenski wanted to enjoy this particular ‘item’ all by himself.