My rubber soles dragged violently across the scorching concrete of the promenade. The muffled sounds of the weekend shopping crowd faded into a panicked hum as I was pulled farther away from the central fountain. My neck burned. The locked collar of the suit dug mercilessly into my throat with every backward step. I slammed my thick, padded gloves against the inside of the fiberglass helmet, trying to signal that I was passing out, but the thick acoustic foam absorbed the frantic strikes.
A heavy set of metal double doors slammed open behind me. The guards dragged me backward over a raised steel threshold. The blinding heat of the afternoon sun vanished, replaced by the freezing, aggressive blast of industrial air conditioning. We were in the employee-only service corridors. The doors slammed shut, cutting off the noise of the mall entirely.
They dropped me.
I hit the linoleum floor hard. My fiberglass helmet cracked against the baseboard, sending a dizzying shockwave through my skull.
“Keep the tarp over him until the cutters get here,” Richard Vance’s voice echoed sharply through the concrete hallway. His expensive leather shoes clicked rapidly across the floor, pacing a tight circle around my collapsed body. “If anyone comes down this corridor, turn them around. Nobody sees this suit until it’s bagged. ”
“He’s not moving, Mr. Vance,” one of the guards said, his voice dropping an octave, suddenly nervous. “I think he’s out. ”
“I don’t care if he’s out,” Vance snapped, the corporate panic bleeding entirely through his polished exterior. “I care about that lock. Where is maintenance? Radio them again. ”
My vision swam in the suffocating blackness. I took a ragged, desperate breath, but there was nothing left inside the helmet. My chest heaved violently against the tight nylon harness. I reached up, weakly clawing at the thick internal zipper track, my fingers slipping uselessly.
“Got them. ” Heavy boots jogged down the corridor.
The heavy canvas tarp was ripped away. The harsh, flickering glare of fluorescent overhead lighting flooded the mesh screen. I felt a heavy steel tool press aggressively against the base of my neck, right where the nylon flap concealed the zipper pulls.
“Hold his shoulders down,” a new voice ordered.
The two guards pinned me to the floor. The heavy steel jaws of a twenty-four-inch bolt cutter clamped over the brass zipper pulls. A massive, deafening metallic snap echoed directly inside my helmet. The tension on my collar vanished instantly.
A hand grabbed the thick fur at the back of my neck and violently wrenched the zipper downward, splitting the suit open to my waist. The internal locking harness gave way.
I didn’t wait for them to help me. I shoved both padded gloves under the rim of the heavy fiberglass head and ripped it upward, throwing it blindly across the hallway. It hit the concrete block wall with a loud crack and spun away.
I collapsed onto my side, curling my knees to my chest as I sucked in massive, freezing lungfuls of air. The sudden rush of oxygen made my head spin. I lay there on the cold floor, coughing violently, my chest heaving beneath my sweat-soaked undershirt.
“Bag it,” Vance ordered instantly, stepping over my legs. “Bag the head, bag the suit, and throw that padlock in the incinerator chute. Right now. ”
I stopped coughing. I forced my eyes open, blinking through the stinging sweat.
Three feet away from my face, resting on the scuffed linoleum, was the padlock they had just snapped off my spine.
It wasn’t a cheap brass combination lock or a standard silver padlock from a hardware store. It was bright red. The heavy thermoplastic body was encased in a thick rubber bumper, and the severed steel shackle lay beside it. It was a lockout-tagout device. A LOTO lock. I had done graphic design work for industrial manufacturers; I knew exactly what it was. OSHA required them for locking out high-voltage electrical panels and dangerous heavy machinery so nobody could turn the power back on while someone was working inside.
They were strictly regulated. They were individually keyed. The only person who held the key was the specific employee who applied the lock.
Whoever locked me inside that suit didn't just want to scare me. They used a commercial safety lock designed specifically to ensure absolutely no one else could open it. They intended for me to stay trapped until they personally decided to return.
One of the security guards reached down to scoop up the lock.
I lunged forward, my bare hand scraping against the linoleum, and snatched the heavy red thermoplastic body just before the guard’s fingers could brush it. I pulled it sharply against my chest and rolled backward, pulling my knees up defensively.
“Hey! ” the guard barked, stepping toward me. “Hand that over. ”
I ignored him, keeping my grip tight around the red plastic. I flipped the lock over in my palm. The back of a standard LOTO lock always required an identification label to prove exactly whose lock it was. The white vinyl sticker on the back of this one was scuffed and stained with black grease, but the bold printed text was unmistakably clear.
PROPERTY OF SUNLAKE PLAZA MAINTENANCE. AUTHORIZED EMPLOYEE ID: MNT-814.
I gripped the lock so tightly the broken steel shackle bit into the base of my thumb.
“Give it to me,” Vance demanded, his shadow falling over me. He pointed a rigid finger at my chest. “That is plaza property. You are stealing corporate property. ”