Mister One marched up to the stage. The actors, despite their best intentions, had abandoned the play and were cowering at the back. Mister One paid them no mind: he climbed up onto the stage and turned so he could look over the audience. Shit yeah: surveying my guys like a fucking boss, he thought. This is awesome.
Four of his guys — Misters Two, Three, Four and Five — were combing the aisles, grabbing up loot and pointing their guns at anyone who looked like they’d been remiss in throwing valuables their way. Mister Six had stayed behind to make sure no one snuck out the front doors and Mister Seven had come up on the stage with him — he was rounding up all the actors and back stage folk. And that left Mister Eight to collect their ‘hostage.’
Except, of course, Rachel wasn’t there.
JD looked up at the thug who’d stopped next to him. The guy looked young, reasonably fit, and was carrying a pistol. Anyone else would have thought he looked dangerous. “What’s up?” JD asked.
Mister Eight didn’t answer. Instead, he turned to look at the stage. “Uh, boss! The girl ain’t here! It’s just some doofus!”
JD, still looking up at Mister Eight, cocked his head and frowned slightly. “Doofus?” he asked. Then he pointed at himself in surprise. “Wait! Me?!”
Neither Mister Eight nor his boss answered. “Shit!” the boss shouted. “Mister Three, Mister Five, get out there and check the restrooms — anywhere she might be hiding! We gotta find her before the cops show up!”