Pulling the gun from her holster, she approached each dressing room slowly. She did a quick sweep of each one she passed but saw nothing out of the ordinary. It was only when she approached her own that she caught sight of a man inside laying on the ground on his side.
She tiptoed slowly into the room, her body tensed and ready, her eyes darting around to see if other people were in the room with him.
The lights were off, and she thought briefly about flipping them on to use them to her advantage, but decided against it. Though a flash of light helped with the element of surprise, it could also alert someone else if they were nearby and she didn’t want to risk that. So, she’d take him down from behind.
He wasn’t moving. Something was off about him, but she couldn’t figure out what it was. Was he passed out? Dead? Or did he sense her, somehow realize she was near? Was he waiting for her to approach first? Should she once again become an actress who needed something from her dressing room? Or should she stay in the role of the supreme spy bitch she was?
She settled for the latter.
She walked up behind him, swept her leg out, and kicked him in the back.
He slid across the floor and crashed into a heap of props nearby, the resulting clatter and crash echoing around the room.
What?
She approached the body slowly…only to discover it wasn’t a body at all.
It was a mannequin. A fucking mannequin.
Not one of those stiff mannequins used for store displays, but averyrealistic one used as stage props for dead bodies, sleeping bodies…basically anything that didn’t require an actual actor but did require the appearance of one on stage. They were incredibly lifelike except up close, and an audience would rarely be close enough to tell, unless there was raised seating on the stage.
She’d been bested by a fake body.
Christ, her head wound must be worse than she realized if she’d mistaken a mannequin—even a realistic one in the near dark—for a human.
“Goddamn it.” She kicked it again just because she felt like it, and wished she were wearing heels so she could kick the shit out of it a little bit more. Heels were lethal.
Suddenly, another man burst into the room, this one with a pistol drawn, and she lifted hers automatically in return.
“Ethan?”
“Anda.”
He dropped his gun to his side and went to her. She dropped hers and wrapped her arms around him when he reached her.
So, at least he didn’t hate her for what she’d done to him earlier. That was progress.
“Are you all right?” He pulled back to look her over then pressed her against him once more.
She settled her head into the crook of his neck, a space she’d always liked. “Are you okay? I’m sorry about—”
“Don’t worry about it. I understand why you did it. If I’d been in your place I might have done the same thing. I should have just gone along with you from the start instead of trying to stop you.”
“You shouldn’t be here. You need to stay safe.”
“Too late for that.”
She pulled back so they were face-to-face. “What do you mean?”
He explained to her what had happened to him with the fake agent, and her blood ran cold, then hot, then it seemed to be blazing with fire.
They tried to kidnap him! Motherfucking bastards. They’d pay for that.
He looked around the room. “Were you fighting with somebody? I thought I heard a struggle.”
“It’s nothing.”
“Is someone here?” he pulled away, his weapon once again drawn as he prowled around searching.
