Rose turned in fear. She was thrown against the building. Her head exploded in pain. A hand clamped over her mouth. She knew who it was before she opened her eyes.
Mojo.
“You’re out of your depth, Mom.” He snorted, standing so close she could smell the cigar on his breath.
She pushed her terror away. She hadn’t come this far to be denied. Mojo thought she was only a mom. He didn’t know she was an action hero. She kneed him in the groin with all of her might.
“Ooof!” He staggered backwards, and she took off down the side of the plant, running for her life.
“Help! Help!” Rose veered around the corner toward the lighted bay on the loading dock. It was time for Plan B. There had to be employees driving forklifts there. “Help!”
Suddenly a recorded announcement blared through speakers mounted at the roof of the building: “All Homestead employees, please exit the building immediately, using the main entrance. Please exit the building immediately. This is not a drill.”
Oh no. Rose could hear the commotion inside the plant, alarmed voices and chatter, but she kept running.
“I’ll kill you!” Mojo panted, almost at her heels. He couldn’t use his gun or he would alarm everybody. He was big, but she was faster, scooting ahead.
“Help!” she screamed, but it was drowned out by the recorded announcement, on a continuous loop.
She tore past the tractor-trailers, aiming for the lighted bay. She could barely catch her breath. Terror and adrenaline powered her. Only four trucks to go. Then three, then two, then one. The loading dock was high, up close. Four feet off the ground.
Jump, jump, jump!
She leapt onto the dock, but it caught her in the waist. Pain arced through her stomach. She clawed the concrete for purchase, her legs flailing.
“Goddamn you!” Mojo growled, but Rose scrambled up just ahead of him, got to her feet, and darted through the open bay into the loading area inside the plant.
“Help!” she screamed, but the employees had evacuated. Forklifts stood where they’d been left, their headlights still on. The production machinery chugged away, like a ghost factory.
She raced through the loading area past the X-ray machines, deserted now. Boxes were piling up at the scanner.
She tore past the packing area, her thoughts racing. If she could find the main entrance, she could get help. She couldn’t die here. Neither could Eileen.
“You bitch!” Mojo shouted, out of breath, but he kept coming.
Rose blew through two swinging doors, her legs churning. She tore down a long hallway, burst through another set of doors, and found herself surrounded by lines of huge stainless steel machines that read PPM TECHNOLOGIES, with a myriad of red tubes.
She spun around, looking for a place to get out. A line of whirring knives sliced the potatoes. A line of sorters dropped them into a funnel. Conveyor belts fed them into cooking oil in covered tanks. The oil boiled, the air felt hot. She panted, her heart thundered.
There! Go!
She bolted for a set of rubber-tipped metal stairs, praying she could take them easier than the heavyset Mojo. If she ran him hard enough, she could keep the advantage. She bounded up the stairs just ahead of him. At the top was a rickety metal catwalk. She took off, running, setting the catwalk swinging.
“You’re dead!” Mojo shouted, charging after her. The catwalk jumped with his extra weight.
The next set of stairs lay ahead, and she ran down them, almost falling, then sprinted along the tile floor. She glanced over her shoulder.
Mojo was right behind her, almost falling, so she sprinted ahead and raced up the next set of stairs up to the catwalk, to tire him out.
“Damn you!” he shouted, but she ran along the catwalk, almost out of breath, clutching the metal rails not to fall.
Mojo ran behind her, keeping pace. She ran above the packing room, where the air got cooler, then got hot again over the next room, where the kettle-cooked chips were made. Stainless steel ovens with red tubes cooked the chips in open trays of boiling oil.
Rose tore down the next set of stairs. The room ended ten feet ahead. She had blown it. She whirled around on her heels, in terror. There was nowhere else to go.
She was trapped.