{ ... }

۞

  The police stormèd Building Sixty Two shortly after.  A clue led them through.  Three-point-one-four-two.  A tip.  Anonymous.  An dark stranger facèd them.  An anonymous dark stranger with her finger on the trigger.  Sarai.  Cover-blown.  Had her codename become known?  

  She hintèd across the room …  

  {with a flick of a glance}  

  Then came her chance.  Their attention divertèd for an instant gave her the impetus to dive in the opposite direction.  

  For some reason, something that had gone missing had reachèd its way into the hands of The Situationists.  Sarai had enterèd earlier in the day.  It wasn't there.  A Logris splits a nucleus.  

  A shot flew across the room, hitting one of the walls and ricocheting up into the roof where it lodgèd itself.  Sarai had dashèd through a door into a back bedroom.  Scrambling across an unmade bed, as if one was the lover-of-make, she froze for a second.  As if she had momentarily made a mistake, she thought: °Do I take cover?  What happened to my cover?°  

  An officer reachèd the doorway.  Sarai took to the balcony outside the window, almost falling forward over the side.  She struck a pose …  

  {balancing herself a pose}  

  She could have been an angle.  Exhilaratèd by the chase, her chest was panting, her breasts tingling, her figure posing.  Photographique.  

  Shots flew into the window pane, blowing out the glass, in a vomitous cloud of shards as she turnèd her cheek, and threw her hands around her head for protection.  

۝