Page 52 of Agency
Low and slow, I made my way into the central living area, my boots sinking deep into the plush hotel carpet with every step. From the proximity of the sound of Stella’s door closing, her room had to be right off this main area.
“Thomas, you got ‘em?” asked the familiar voice from somewhere else in the penthouse.
No. Familiar-sounding. There was no way that voice belonged to him. No way.
“Calling now,” replied Thomas, his cell phone’s glow lighting up the side of his face almost as brightly as a flashlight. “I’ll let you know what I find out.”
I was already moving, low and slow but with directness, up behind Thomas. I brought down the butt of my pistol on the back of his head as as the phone began to ring.
Thomas went down with a grunt and thud, as if he were a marionette whose strings had been snipped by giant scissors. His phone tumbled from his hand and skittered across the floor.
A digital disconnect tone blared. I crunched down hard on the screen with the heel of my boot and silenced the device, then stepped over Thomas’ crumpled form and went for the only closed door off the living room.
“Thomas?” asked the familiar-sounding-but-definitely-not-actually-familiar bodyguard from the front of the penthouse. “You get them? What’d they say?”
I needed to move. Fast.
“Thomas? You there?”
Dammit. I went to the corner adjacent to the hallway, flattened back against the wall.
Bootsteps were already coming back down the tile from the entrance, and I could tell from the way he was stomping that the approaching bodyguard sensed something was wrong.
Thud thud thud, his bootsteps kept coming. Just around the corner now and—
I dropped myself by a foot and struck out with my right arm just as the bodyguard passed, hit him right in the gut with the butt of my pistol.
Unprepared for my strike, the air went out of him with a surprisedwhooshand he doubled over.
I kicked at the back of his knees, knocking him to the ground.
He rolled over on his back and looked up at me, and his deep, piercingly green eyes found mine.
My breath caught in my throat, as if I’d been the one struck.
The bodyguard reached for my weapon, his fingers clasping over the grip and the trigger. Struggling, I bent his hand back towards his forearm as I twisted out and away. As I did, our fingers tangled on the trigger, its pull tuned sensitive enough for a hair to fall and fire a round.
Pop pop!
The gun went off, barely producing any recoil. .22 rounds went snapping off into the dark corners of the room as I regained control of the weapon, and then I was drawing back and trying to disengage.
I didn’t want this.
But the bodyguard came at me again, his features still hidden by the shadow. I should have shot him, I knew. My training thrummed in every part of me, screamed that I should fire as I brought my weapon down to focus on him.
I couldn’t!
I knew those broad shoulders–knew that shadowy jaw line. I knew that tussle of blond hair, and those glittering green eyes.
I hesitated. How could I not?
His hand came up, slapping aside my weapon. Suddenly, I realized he didn’t know me with the mask I had on. I brought the gun back around as he began to rise from his knees and come at me in a rush.
His head, right there. Stomach clenching, I struck the butt of my pistol right at his perfectly formed temple.
He fell to my left, tumbling to the plush hotel carpet, his face slackened for the moment, and fell into the dim lights of the city still streaming in through a slit in the curtains.
There couldn’t be any doubt, then, or anymore lying to myself. He hadn’t just sounded familiar. No, he was familiar. Not just his voice, either.
