Lena closed her eyes and threw .
They arrived to find the mall’s main entrance chained shut, but a side door near the loading dock was ajar. Inside, the air was thick with dust and the ghostly smell of pretzel grease. Flashlights cut through the darkness, illuminating overturned kiosks and mannequins with missing limbs. Then they heard it—a rhythmic, almost hypnotic slap-slap-slap coming from the old arcade.
The Referee’s fist—the rock—slammed into her open palm. Paper covers rock. Game over.
His scissors cut her paper. A soft, mocking snip-snip sound escaped his lips. Lena felt a flash of rage. She unbuttoned her tactical vest and let it fall. Then her polo shirt. She stood in a plain gray sports bra, her arms crossed. Marcus looked away, not out of prudishness, but out of a pure, protective fury.
The Referee, now in cuffs, was led past them. He looked at Lena with something like respect. “You’re good,” he said. “But next time, I’m bringing the ‘Extended Edition’—best of fifteen.”
“All units, we have a 10-96 at the old Meridian Mall. Mental subject. Possible hostage situation. Approach with caution.”