The Bodyguard and The Rock Star

Fragrant flowers pelted the clustered group as they made their way toward the idling bus. Behind wooden barriers, fans chanted, “Giki,” the name of the rock star they had paid precious dollars to watch perform that night’s concert. Natasha walked close to the rock star, her eyes scanning all directions in search of potential threats to her client. She fought the urge to duck her head, hoping any roses thrown would be thornless. Although the screaming voices conveyed frenzy, the crowd remained behind the posted barricade, and Natasha allowed herself a moment’s relief. So far, the concert had gone smoothly and it looked like this gig was going to be not only easy, but fun.
White, cottony fabric smacked into her face, entangled in her hair and around her neck. Natasha peeled it away, trying not to breathe in. What was that smell? Bile rose in her throat when she realized she held a large pair of men’s jockeys in her hands. With a shriek, she dropped the underwear and swiped her face with her jacket sleeve, making phhht noises with her mouth. She froze when she noticed the others stuttering to a halt—watching her. This was not how a professional bodyguard reacted. She should be ready for anything.
“Keep moving.” Natasha gestured for the group to close rank, continue onward. She thrust out one hand as she strode along. “Somebody give me some liquor.” A silver flask slapped into her palm. She unscrewed the top, tilted her head back, and splashed the contents of the phial over her face. She held her breath to keep from inhaling the fumes as the sour odor of whiskey wafted over her. Damn, as potent as this stuff smelled, it had to have some heavy alcohol content, should kill any living germs. She poured the brown liquid on her hands and scrubbed her lips with her fingers. She swallowed hard, her stomach churning at the thought of what might have been on the underwear. No way was she going to do such a sissy-ass thing as throw up. A bodyguard never displayed weakness in front of others. She shoved the flask in her jacket pocket and picked up her pace.
Heat pierced her thigh a fraction of a second before a loud pop sounded nearby. Her leg gave way beneath her and she lurched to the side. She reached out to steady herself, locked onto Giki’s arm. The rock star stumbled and both went down, Natasha landing on top.
Warm fluid trickled down Natasha’s leg, pain flared along her thigh. Her hand explored her jeans, where a jagged hole oozed blood. Shock surged through her body like a jolt of electricity. She needed to get Giki out of here—now! The hard, rigid feel of her firearm as she pulled it free helped calm her rising panic. She struggled to stand, forcing her leg to move, and bit down hard on the inside of her cheek when the world began to tilt beneath her. The coppery taste of blood filled her mouth, but it worked: images sharpened and her mind cleared. Using her body as a shield, she helped Giki to her feet.
One hand gripped her gun pointed at the ground, the other clutched Giki’s arm. “Move.” Cameras strobed in the darkness, fans converged on them in a rush. “Now!” She pushed Giki toward the bus.
Once inside, Natasha collapsed on the floor. Her eyes could not maintain focus—a buzzing sound filled her head. A man yelled, “Call 911,” his voice bleeding pitch, fading away. Blackness descended over her, as dark and impenetrable as an executioner’s hood.