It was 11:53 on Monday morning when Janice dove under her desk after the third shot rang out. She didn't realize what was happening with the first two. They seemed to be coming from the direction of the main conference room. Next came yelling and screaming. All hell was breaking loose. Two more shots. It was definitely a handgun, semi-automatic by the rate of fire, possibly a 9mm. Janice knew, from all the times that her husband, Jack, had taken her out to the shooting range, what they sounded like and because she owned one herself. Unfortunately she had left it in her car after going to the gym before work this morning. She really felt like an idiot.
A high profile shooting in a near by office building last year, where five employees were killed, prompted her husband to insist she get her concealed weapon permit. She had only completed the course last month and keeping her weapon with her at work still hadn't become habit.
"If I live through this, I will never forget my gun again," she promised herself.
Several more shots and screaming sounded. People were now running by her office and down the hall. Crouching under her desk, she was too paralyzed with fear to move.
She looked at her watch. It was 11:55. Jack was supposed to come by the office for a lunch date at noon. Five more minutes and she would be safe. He was trained to deal with things like this. Jack was a detective with the Metropolitan police and a member of the S.W.A.T. team.
"Please God, let Jack get here in time," Janice whispered her prayer.
There were a few more shots but farther away this time. Two more coworkers ran past her door crying and calling for help. Janice reached up on her desk and pulled down the phone and dialed 9-1-1. On the third try she got it right. She was trembling in fear.
The operator informed her that the police were already on their way and would be there shortly. She was then asked to describe the shooter and his location.
"I am on the fucking floor under my desk. How the hell should I know?" she tried to whisper.
After a few more pointless questions from the operator, Janice hung up in frustration.
Silence. No more shooting or yelling. Did he kill himself? Was he out of ammunition? Did the police get him? She looked at her watch again. It was noon. Jack! Where was Jack?
Worming her way out from under her desk and half-crawling she peered out her office door but couldn't see anyone, but did see the bloody shoe prints on the carpet leading toward the elevator though. It was only thirty feet away. Once inside, she could get to the lobby and safety.
Deciding not to wait for her husband, she made sure the way was clear, and then made her move toward the elevator. The doors instantly opened when she pressed the down button as if it had been waiting for her escape. She jumped in and quickly pressed the button for the lobby.
The doors began closing.
"I made it! I made it!" she said to herself.
Just before the doors were fully closed, a hand came through the opening, causing them to automatically open again.
"Oh no!" Janice screamed as she slumped to the floor. Her heart sank.
She knew this was the end. This guy was going to kill her, right there on the floor of the elevator. Shaking violently, she looked up to see the face of her killer.
"Jack! Jack! Its you!" Janice cried out with relief, jumping to her feet.
He was now inside and no longer blocking the doors. They closed and the elevator proceeded to shake as it made its way down to the lobby.
So relieved to see her husband, Janice put her arms around him, kissing him repeatedly. Jack was here now. She was safe. Everything was going to be OK.
A moment later she sensed that something was wrong. He wasn't hugging or kissing her back. He just stood there, rigid and emotionless.
Backing away from him, she finally noticed that there was blood all over the front of his clothes and his shoes. There was a blank stare on his face.
He turned and pushed the emergency button on the control panel, causing the elevator to jerk to a stop.
"Jack? What's wrong? Why is there blood all over you?"
His eyes were icy cold as he reached into his back pocket and pulled out several photographs and handed them to her.
Janice just about fainted when she saw the first one. It was a picture of her and her boss, Joe Pratt in bed together. It appeared to be an image capture from a video. The rest of the photos were similar in nature.
When she looked up at Jack, his gun was pointing at her. His face was no longer that of her husband, but that of a crazed killer. In that instant, as she let the pictures fall to the floor, Janice realized that she could now give the 9-1-1 operator a full description and location of the shooter.
"I guess you forgot that I am a detective my dear." Jack said.
She never heard the last gunshot.
