The world condenses into immediate threats and escape routes. The cheerful yellow walls and bright decorations of her home blur into smears of color as we progress.
Her house isn’t a fortress. It’s a dollhouse with papier-mâché walls that were never going to protect her.
Another bullet slams through the window as we reach the kitchen. The shooter is patient, waiting for me to screw up.
But I’ve been hunted before and know how to stay alive.
Chloe hesitates in the doorway, her face pale, sweat forming along with goosebumps.
“Keep going. Almost there.”
She nods, but her movements grow clumsier as fear and adrenaline flood her system. Shirt in hand, she yanks the fabric over her head while we continue to crawl.
Remaining low, I guide her around the kitchen island. The back door is just ahead, and I reach it first.
In a quick motion, I peek out the window.
The backyard is dark. No obvious motion.
But dark doesn’t mean safe.
Gripping my gun tighter, I push the door open.
Clear.
I pull Chloe out into the shock of cool night air.
Behind us, another bullet pierces through glass.
They’re trying to provoke me into acting impulsively. If I hadn’t shifted to kiss Chloe’s collarbone at the exact moment that first shot came through…
The thought chills my bones. Not for my own safety, but for hers.
She’s collateral damage in someone else’s vendetta against me.
The small, fenced backyard provides minimal cover. A maze of suburban property lines that could either trap or hide us stretches beyond it. I scan our options, quickly processing.
We can’t use the cars, with mine parked on the street in front of her house, hers in the driveway, and both in the shooter’s potential line of sight.
The events from the craft store replay in my mind.
The men we encountered in Hobby Hut weren’t random. Someone’s on my tail and has been for at least a day. Maybe longer.
They know my car. They might’ve already planted a tracker. Using either vehicle would be suicide.
My only guess is they’re after me because of the diamonds.
“What’s happening?” Chloe’s still clutching her pants in one hand, the other anchored on my arm. “Who’s shooting at us?”
“Not now.” I drag her toward the back fence. “We need to move.”
I help her over the wooden slats, her body clumsy with shock and fear, her jeans still bunched in her fist.
She’s a mess. A terrified, disheveled mess who has no place in my world of violence and calculated kills.
Yet she’s stumbling alongside me as I haul her into the deep shadows of the neighboring yard. Her breaths come in sharp, fearful gasps, but she doesn’t freeze in panic or break down.
Bravery? Stupidity?
