The Spirit of St. Louis shrank back, confronted with the specter of Sarin. The woman had turned into a cloud of yellowish gas, advancing menacingly upon her. Here and there in the shifting billows Sonja could make out a face, perhaps an arm or a leg. Sonja dimly remembered high school history lessons about the First World War, a brief WMD seminar the St. Louis police had forced her to attend. Just holding her breath wouldn't be enough, some gas could maim or kill simply by skin contact. She knew that much, as she stumbled backwards away from Sarin.

What could she do? How could she defend herself? A swung bat or thrown fireball would be inconsequential against this foe. A trick to restore Sarin to a solid state would take too long to put together. And Sonja certainly couldn't just try to outpace her and get to the hostages, the end result would be a pile of dead bodies. She looked around, desperate for something useful, then lit on what she hoped was salvation.

A janitor's closet, tucked inconspicuously behind the counter.

Sonja ran, glad she had chosen to wear sensible shoes, slid across the marble countertop, made for the door of the janitor's closet. He dared not look back, but the hissing sound behind her didn't particularly bode well. She couldn't afford to deal with the locked door, and thus with a flick of the wrist burned away the deadbolt in a flash of blue flame. Sorry, bank. By all means, bill Barclay-Hoffmeyer for the damage, but I'm sure your customers will understand. She threw open the door, feverishly tossed aside mops and boxes as the hissing sound stole upon her, as she felt a cool and deadly breeze touch the back of her neck. Sonja had to keep in a shriek of relief of she found the thing she was after, grabbed it, shoving the plug into a handy wall socket and feeling the device roar to life.

Sonja spun around, holding her breath, the powerful suction hose of the running vacuum cleaner shoved into the middle of the cloud of poison gas. If this didn't work, she'd look pretty stupid. Or, for that matter, be pretty dead.