Page 14 of A Dance With Devils
Snatching out the gin instead, I pour some into a small glass and down it, all the time still attempting to remain somewhere near controlled. What now? I don’t know. There’s nothing here to defend myself with short of knives, and that potential isn’t filling me with confidence given his speed dealing with Brett earlier. Look at the wall, that’s all I’ve currently got. Maybe run for it before he takes what he thinks is owed to him?
I flick a glance at the back door, contemplating the idea, as I hear his footsteps approach the kitchen. I’m fast, but that fast? Not sure.
“You could try running,” he says, from somewhere. “I’m less fit than I used to be.” Less fit?
Jesus.
I keep staring at the wall, my hand clasped around the glass. As if he isn’t fit enough already. Toned. Tight. Not that I’d know what’s under those loose fitting clothes, but I’ve got a damn good idea because I’ve been thinking about it most of the fucking night.
My head shakes. Stupid. Stop it.
One of the kitchen table chairs scrapes the floor, making me jump, and I spin around to see him sitting down. There’s nothing but a calm look of self-possession on his face. Collected. Relaxed. Absolutely in control of what’s going on around him. The fact that he is both pisses me off and tempts me into thoughts which are unreasonable. I should be scared for my life, not looking at him as if he’s something to enjoy. And yet, I’m finding myself fixed in place, gaze taking in all the features he’s got to offer. Long eyelashes. Soft, wide mouth. Hard eyes, though. Stern cheekbones, the kind that comes from cynicism and scorn.
Contradictory.
He’d suit a politician’s suit more than this trashed appearance.
“Where do you come from?” I ask.
His lips quirk. “In the face of danger, you ask that?”
“You’re dangerous? I hadn’t noticed.”
He snorts and gets something out of his pocket, small and round, intricate, on a long chain. Necklace? Something. No idea what it’s for. The top of the ball gets opened, something pressed, and he closes it again to lay it on the table in front of him.
“Balls and chains,” he says, leaning back in his chair again. What? “Maybe you’re my Alice. How fast can you run, Alice?”
I frown at that and reach for the bottle of gin again, unsure how he knows my name. I guess Whit might have told him, but I don’t see why he would, and he definitely shouldn’t have. It was his damn idea to use Ally rather than my real name in the first place and now he’s telling everyone? Not everyone maybe, but why this one?
I tighten my robe again and sip the drink this time, unsure what to do, say, or think. I’m shivering, though. A little fucking freaked out now, if I’m honest. But running? Yes. That I can do. Should. But he’s still sitting there with some kind of half smile on his face, his eyes staring straight at my eyes and nothing else. No questions, no conversation. No movement. Not even a fucking blink of those eyelashes which I seem fascinated with, regardless of the real and present danger of him being in this house.
It’s endless, his stare. It seems filled with questions he’s not asking. Or maybe it’s not. Maybe it’s just filled with visions of what he’s going to do to me and how I’m going to pay for my end of this bargain he thinks we’ve struck. There’s no bargain as far as I’m concerned. None. He did a job for me is all. Maybe I should offer to pay him, not that he needs the cash obviously, but it would pay my debt down if that’s what this is all about.
I’m doubting it is.
I don’t know how much time goes by like that. We’re just looking at each other, nothing to say apparently. It’s partly fine by me. I might be nervous, but until he moves there doesn’t seem much to be worried about. He’s just stationary. Damn fine to look at in all honesty. And now I’ve calmed down a bit, thought sensibly, if Whit let him come back here he can’t be all that bad, can he? He certainly isn’t someone I need to feel real fear about – not like the others.
The sudden roar of noise outside the house makes me jump and stumble, the glass dropping from my hand in the process. My eyes fly to him, panic rearing up so quickly I feel like vomiting. Blinding lights start bleeding through the house, all the surfaces and walls glaring back at me, as I grab onto the back of a chair to stabilise myself. He doesn’t move, nothing more than the side of his lip curving upwards some more in the broken lights.
My hand shields my face, the other one going to my ear to try and dampen the sound of an engine. So loud, and yet still he’s not fucking moving an inch. I can hear the front door rattling, the fucking house rattling let alone the door. I squint around erratically, watching as black clad figures pass by the front windows and more light floods the whole damn place. And then my feet are running me towards the back yard, the bread knife snatched into my hand, before I’ve given any more thought to it all or Malachi.
Five strides, my hand reaching for the handle, and I’m out and clattering down the old wooden steps to head for the gap in the back fence. I’m only halfway across the ground when I’m pitched and slung upwards until I land with a thud on something hard. Terror rages through me at the impact, and my hand whirls the knife to attack. It strikes hard and I relish the sound of a bellow of pain before I’m dropped.
My feet kick out immediately, launching me upwards and away from whatever the fuck this is. I get all of ten more steps, hand reaching for the back gate in the mess of wind and sound, and then someone’s hands take my legs out from under me. I’m moved, shoved, forced to the floor until weight lands on top of me to hold me in place. I see then, see the guy in black clothes and a black balaclava holding me down. He’s big, quick as he rips the knife from my grip and forces me over onto my front.
My arms are wrenched up behind me, something strapped around them until they’re locked tight at my wrists. I’m so shocked I can barely scream for help, as my face gets squashed into the cold, damp ground, let alone ask what the hell is happening. And the sounds are all so fucking loud. All of them: the continuous, heavy dull thud somewhere, the voices talking into phones and shouting at each other.
Wind rushes over my skin again, swathes of it kicking up the dust and dirt into my eyes, but I see another set of dark legs go racing passed me, a big fucking gun hanging low in his hands. And then another. And another. They’re everywhere. Clicking noises. The echo of more feet running in from somewhere across the old slabs of concrete.
Oh god, they’ve found us.
Panic, fear and dread swim through every muscle and thought in me, making me fight the man on me in the hope that I can get up and run again. Everything’s so blurred. No clear sight. Just me thrashing and squirming around in vain, a mouth full of earth, and no fucking hope of escape. It’s useless. Pointless. He’s too big, too smothering, and my neck is in his hand and forced downwards again before I’ve even managed a decent attempt.
I eventually get some sort of balance and clarity of vision, as I’m hauled to my knees. I pant and spit out mud and dirt, eyes wide at the sights around me. Lights still flash. One near blinding me. I blink and squint, head turning to get away from the glare, but it’s as endless as the noise. Can’t see, can’t hear, can’t think straight either, as I shake in this guy’s hold and try to hold back the tears that are coming. I’m not crying. I’m not. I’ll talk my way out of this, find an answer just like I did before.
Darkness suddenly envelops the area. Everything stops but for the sound of that low, heavy thud of noise somewhere, and that’s when I get a glimpse of something ten feet out from me in the shadows. A man. Everything in me tries to back away, tries to run for freedom, but I’m held so fast nothing is changing anything. This is it. Time’s caught up with me.
My mind spins in circles, brain searching for words to help me out before they get to Brett and Brandon too. There isn’t anything. All I can see or feel is the guy crouched low, regardless of my lacking clear sight of him. He’s got a hood on, though.
