I give a tight nod.
“You think you’ll be right to get out of the city?”
He’s pushing at me for details, but it feels more like a guise for stalling, and it makes me uneasy. I shift in my seat, not wanting to call him on it unless I have to. There’s no point jerking each other’s chains if it’s not a problem.
“Yeah. Think I can handle it.” I incline my head in a gesture of thanks. “Nothing’ll end up on your rap sheet if I don’t.”
“It better not.”
He glances around the room again and the hairs on the back of my neck dance. He should be gone by now, halfway along the way to ditching the car at the nearest shopping centre while making sure he’s not seen.
What the fuck does he want?
“You need something more, man?” I push the bag of drugs towards him in case he’s blind, but he doesn’t reach for them. The guy seems way too casual, way too relaxed, like he’s got way too much time on his hands.
I need him to get out.
I didn’t order a weapon, but I can see one distorting the line of his jacket. Fair enough, I wouldn’t walk into the middle of nowhere to meet a convicted felon without one either.
But in that situation, I might assess the risk, weigh up the advantages and disadvantages, and pull the trigger, taking everything for myself.
I don’t know Razek well enough to read where in that process his head might be. All I can use to judge is he’s still here and the longer he remains, the less likely I’ll be alive when he leaves.
My muscles stiffen, tensing ready to spring. The scissors are still sitting out on the bench, hardly a match for a gun but since they’re the only weapon within reach, they’re better than nothing.
I could throw the bag in his face, distract him long enough to lunge for them. Or it could be better to lunge forhim, wrestling for the weapon with all the inherent danger that it might detonate aiming the wrong way.
The scissors or the man.
My mind is still tossing the options in the air, yet to settle, when I hear a sharp crack from outside.
I’m on my feet, running. Razek just ahead of me.
He pulls a gun, solving one question. I grab the scissors on my way past, then barrel out the front door.
CHAPTERSIX
NADIA
The brick hitsagainst the glass, sending a sharp retort cracking through the air. It falls to the ground, bouncing lightly on the gravel.
The glass doesn’t break. Seriously doesn’t break. I squint at it in disbelief while my mouth goes dry. There isn’t even a scratch.
My muscles have been tense throughout my escape attempt. Jaw clenched and shoulders hunched around my ears while I slid the window up, expecting at any moment one of the low voices from the kitchen would hear the telltale squeak of the painted wood.
My legs were stiff blocks as I crept to the pile of bricks, selecting one that looked breaking-window-glass worthy.
Now my body sags as I stare at the failure. The brick didn’t even cause a crack.
I jerk around as the front door slams open and a man runs straight at me. He’s got a gun in his hand, something I’ve never seen before in real life.
Panicked signals broadcast at full volume but in such opposition to each other that my limbs tangle trying to work out which directive to obey first. Run. Cower. Pick up the brick and throw it at the man since he’ll probably break easier than the car window.
The latter solidifies into action and as I straighten with it hefted in my hand, I see Malakai following his friend out of the house with more caution. His body is tense but resting lightly on the balls of his feet, ready to run.
He has a pair of scissors in his hands and if I wasn’t about to die, it’d be comical.
A tiny middle-aged woman with a brick and an overgrown man running with scissors.
