Dizzy-headed and exhausted from having just run faster and farther than I could have imagined possible. These old asthmatic lungs wheeze and whistle as I gasp for every deep-rattling breath.

Trembling, my back pressed flat against the cold metal of the dirty elevator floor. Wet with sweat, yet, chilling and covered in goose bumps. Every muscle in my body stiffens as aches and pains pulsate throughout.

Alone, for the first time in my life afraid, and desperate for a way out of this ten by eight feet cubical, alive. There are few options and a strong unlikelihood of me mustering enough energy to escape. But, if I want to live, it is urgent that I contemplate my next move.
   
Thinking back to a few hours before as I sat mumbling drunk, feeling sorry for myself, and making excuses for the selfishness and disregard for others in my past, I struggled to tally the countless apologies that I owe.

Distraught, in a lame and boisterous rant within earshot of every patron in the tiny bar, I admitted that at my death the world would be a better place.

However, at this very moment, I would do anything to live. Even the thought of previous sweethearts who brought on the melancholy mood and supplied me the excuse to overindulge, seems but a distant memory of little to no importance. This is another example of my ever-changing priorities.
 
By now, in all probability, the rogue agents have stationed themselves outside every elevator door, on every floor. Waiting for me to exit, sights of their weapons honed in for the chance to riddle my body with bullets and silence me forever.

Keen and as intent as a bat, my ears listen and filter sounds that might help me negotiate the enemy’s position. My whistling airways and pounding heartbeats combine with the pops, cracks, and screeches of the tension-stressed cables that lift this chamber from floor to floor, to confound and obscure my hearing.

The numbered lights just below the ceiling and a flash of fluorescence from the space beneath the doors signal the elevator’s ascent to the next level. Muddleheaded by having just outrun an army of suppose-to-be good guys hired to kill me, the rising altitude and my fear of heights causes me to be suddenly overwhelmed by the sensation of falling.

Claustrophobic, nauseated, and hardly able to lift my head, there is no time to be sick. I must get up. I need to magically disappear into the darkness or figure how to outrun a speeding bullet if I hope to avoid being shot full of more holes than cheesecloth.

Staggering to my feet, I steady my weight against the wall and take hold of the mop in the corner. There are six floors to go before I reach the top. So, needing to do something fast, I climb up onto the house-cleaning cart, push up a ceiling tile with the mop handle, and then, somehow, manage to worm my way through the small opening on top of the elevator.

I slide the tile back into place below me. Now, I strategize my next move, watching and waiting from atop the elevator, soon to be squished between the concrete above. Things look bad. Desperate and time running out, I jump for an attached ladder on the rear wall and grapple with my hands and feet to make a death-defying grasp.

With barely enough room for clearance, my hands latch onto the slick metal steps with a death grip as the capsule squeaks and pulls against my skin, leaving the effects of a floor burn on my back and arms. Then, soon as the elevator car passes, being cautious but quick, I climb down three floors.

Listening for the elevator doors, I hear them open. Loud blasts of gunfire perforate every inch of the compartment, ripping its interior to pieces. Ricocheting bullets bounce off the concrete walls spraying me with hot fragments of lead that pierce my unprotected skin. Then, for an instant, all is quiet.

The doors close again. The elevator begins its decent. I can only hope that they assume my dead body is slumped and hidden behind the housekeeping's supply cart.

There is no question. My body would be torn to shredded beef had the cart not been in the elevator car. How else could my fat ass have gotten off the ground, through the ceiling, and jumped to the ladder. Now, I have to figure out how to get out of this shaft before they realize that I’m not dead.

When the elevator reaches the ground and they pull out the cart to see I am not there, it leaves nowhere else for me to be but in the shaft. Then, they will take aim from every opening on every floor and use me for target practice.

Cameras are angled so that the security department of the hotel can observe and zoom in on any room or portion of every hallway. The instant that I open any elevator door I'll be surrounded with gung ho G.I. Joes, FBI, Swat teams, and those that scare me the most, the pistol-toting dweebs looking to be a hero.

Being afraid of heights in the first place offers little encouragement for me to go higher. It’s almost imminent that they will trap me once I reach the roof. Chances for survival risky at best, I want to avoid a situation with only two options. Surrender or hide on a ledge, as neither seems a viable alternative to a chicken shit at heart.

Whether I lose my footing and fall as I climb over the edge of the building to scale down, or jump, what does it matter? Same result. My guts splatter all over the street below with more mushy colors than a rotten tomato.

Therefore, I cannot see me dangling, knees knocking, with little or nothing to hang onto, searching for an open window or a gracious genie to rescue me.
  
Time isn’t my friend—and I need to make a decision—quick. So, ruling out the roof, I know that if, and when, I open elevator doors on any floor, I will probably die on national television.

I begin to climb down, placing each foot one after the other against the ladder rungs, soft and cautious being quiet and careful not to fall. With my head swimming as I go, it’s a long way down.

In my estimation, the trip down takes fifteen minutes before making ground. I kneel behind and below the elevator compartment, fully aware that any minute every door above will fly open, and the second they spot me a thunderstorm of bullets will rain down from all directions.

The elevator door opens. Nothing happens. Porous as a sponge, light rays from the hundreds of bullet holes speckle through its cab all over the dark shaft's walls like lights from a mirror ball on a dance floor.

Stuck in a bad situation, I cannot surrender for fear of dying, and I’m about to become a mangled mess if I don’t. 
 
There are concrete blocks and a few two-by-twelve scraps left from the building's construction. I stack two blocks on each side and lay the longest piece of lumber across them. This gives me something to stand on, at the perfect height for me to put an eye against a floor-level hole and observe the whole lobby and entrance doors.

The lobby is hectic inside as uniformed officers hustle in all directions, some stopping to view the destroyed elevator capsule. I listen from just below their sight as they talk about me.

“It won't be long.” I hear a group of them laughing and joking. “Every unit is almost in place with stadium lights positioned on every other floor.”

“Any minute now, every door will push back to finally expose the criminal.” Criminal, what in the hell are they talking about? I don't even know what this is all about, but I'm definitely no criminal.

There is a serious misunderstanding here, but how am I supposed to tell them, when all they want to do is shoot first? I'm just a drunken private investigator who must have stepped in the wrong pile.