6.t.
His face felt
like rising bread dough and his nose pulsed with an agonizing pain. He knew he’d get those raccoon-eye bruises
from this. And he knew how pathetic he’d
look. Some people could pull off that
battered, I’m-a-bad-ass, you-should-see-the-other-guy look, but he wasn’t one
of them. It would be awhile before he
could score chicks again.
That
freak. That credit card freak had known
he was there. Tracking him somehow. The Outsourcer tried to review the sequence
of events, but his puffy, marshmallow consciousness could only recall
starbursts of pain.
“This
way. Down this way,” a familiar voice
came from someone. The Outsourcer peered through a seam in the cubicle
paneling. The Union ,
and that irritating credit card guy, were striding up the hallway on the other
side of the wall. Coming right toward
him. There was some sort of gun in the
credit guy’s hand. A yellow light on the
gun blinked repeated. As they came
closer a red light ignited accusingly.
The
Outsourcer’s mood flared, matching the fiery red of that damnable flashing
light.
They were tracking him.
The bastards.
That was
cheating!