I holstered my gun as my last shell-casing hit the ground.
"Here goes nothing," I muttered. I swung the chair at the window.
I grabbed at the curtains. They ripped. The footsteps grew louder. My eyes darted around the room.
"This is a bad idea," I whispered as the traffic swooshed by five stories below. I wrung the telephone's cord around my arm. The door clicked open. I jumped. The cord cut into my wrist. The footsteps stopped. I held my breath. They left. I grappled for another hold. My fingers slipped.
The cord swished through the air.