Subterfuge: pt 2

My ears rang, white dots popping in my eyes as I fell onto the sidewalk, looking at the diner as it crackled with vibrant orange flames. I could hear her, almost distantly, yelling at me to get up as she took a few steps back. She had been carrying a gun, despite what Matthew's crew had been saying. I realized almost immediately that she had known we were watching her, knew that we were going to check her for weapons, and hid the handgun behind one of her shoulder blades, where we wouldn't be able to see it.
This, however, did not explain why the diner had so rudely been bombed, or why my counterpart, her name allegedly being "Nichole", was shooting at a few policemen arriving on the scene, EMTs behind them only by seconds. I shook violently, the ringing in my ears getting louder and louder until I was almost completely deaf; making the sounds of my primal screams of fear sound like whimpers. She dragged me up, pulling me into a run after her before swinging me into an alcove of a decrepit apartment building. She turned the gun on me, yelling at me over the sound of the flames and the sirens.
"Open the door!" she bellowed, gun digging into my shoulder blades. Weakly I managed to kick it open, falling inside as she entered and slammed the door with a small laugh. It was deathly quiet in the building, dust caking everything in sight. She let out a small, almost innocent sounding laugh. "You picked the wrong day to do your job, Boy Scout." She muttered, walking up the stairs. I pulled myself up, and looked dismally into a dusty mirror by the door.
I was met with a pointed, almost elfin face. This was normally tanned, but in my fear and pain it had paled dramatically. Two green eyes the colors of moss were bloodshot with dilated pupils, cowering behind the metal frames of glasses. The wiry copper hair, still brushed back for some unknown reason, was flattened by sweat, which stained my over shirt and glistened on my small musculature. In all respects, I looked more like a crack addict or a deranged lunatic rather than a high-ranking soldier.
I took my glasses off after noticing a rock had become embedded in them, making my world become comfortingly blurred. I looked at my wrist, which was making my hand lopsided with a painful burning sensation, decided I could do next to nothing in regards of splinting it, brushed off my inconspicuous white polo and blue jeans, and limped my way up the stairs.
She stood in the hallway, beside a window that overlooked the diner. Charred bodies were being removed by the ambulances, a spray of ash covering the sidewalk. This she seemed most concerned with, staring at the dark grey flecks for a few minutes before she turned and walked towards an apartment door.
"Who were they?" I queried softly, my voice hoarse. The ringing had stopped, but the screaming had left my throat raw. She looked at me briefly, her dark blue eyes shooting a double-barreled shotgun into my soul.
"Take a wild guess, boy scout." My eyes narrowed.
"I have a name!"
"One I don't care about, I imagine." She topped this with a shrug, opening a door to reveal a clean, but abandoned, apartment. I followed (unsure to this day as to why), closing the door behind us. She twirled the gun with a finger, grabbing it by the muzzle and using the butt to tap the drywall. "Remove your watch; it has a microchip in it that lets them track you." She murmured, apparently finding some drywall she liked before smashing it in with a fist. Her hand squirreled down into the hole, bicep flexing for a moment before she removed it, and turned to a couch, covered with a sheet.
I removed my watch as I watched her move the couch, ripping up the carpet underneath it to reveal a trapdoor which swings open. She looked at me, as if trying to choose her words very carefully. What she did instead seemed to take the word 'tact' and bludgeon it to death so it could never be used again.
"You can come if you like, boy scout. If you'd like to stay in this cesspool and get killed by your own men then you're more than welcome to; I'm sure they'd appreciate it considering how slow they are." Her eyes narrowed briefly, accentuating the Native American scowl on her face. "Either way, boy scout, if you so much as whimper when asked where I went I will find your mother so I can cut out her eyes and tongue then send them to you in prison, do you understand?" With that, she jumped in, disappearing through the hole.
I debated calling after her that my mother is in fact, dead, but then a shudder erupted along my spine when I thought of any possible alternatives. I looked behind me, the sounds of yelling echoed through the building; the cries of my very men.
"Dmitri Richards! We know you're in here! Come out now with your hands up, and bring Nichole with you!" It was Matthews; the sound of his unmistakable voice sent more than chills up my back, heart racing. I heard gunshots, most cracking the door. I looked at it, then at the slowly closing trap door silently, almost pleadingly, waiting for some sort of signal.
This turned out to be a battering ram against the door, tearing the door off of its hinges. When the soldiers entered I was nowhere to be found, having ducked into the door, the metal hinges silently pulling it shut. I turned, squinted towards a dim light silhouetting her frame, and followed her in a crouch-run, shoulders scraping against the sides of the dingy corridor, my head down as I plunged into the gloom.