For one moment, I’m staring into the featureless black visor of the helmeted gunman. It’s like looking into Death’s eyes. Reflective. Soulless. And then he raises the weapon and aims it directly at my window.
Instinctively, I duck. Though it’s completely unnecessary. The bullets pockmark the bulletproof glass, and then the bike accelerates and shoots off ahead of us.
“Fuck!” I bite out, half-expecting the driver to go off after them. Already they’re barely visible ahead, weaving through the cars. Ignoring the red light ahead, our driver spins the wheel and turns sharply down a side road. The car behind us motors past, and an instant later, I realize the guys inside will be the ones giving chase.
Good luck with that.That bike took off like a bat out of hell.
“Shit,” I hear the guy in the passenger seat say under his breath. “You good, Mr. Ricci?” he says over his shoulder to me.
“A-okay.” I give him a thumbs up. The side window has a row of baseball-sized white spheres where the bullets hit the glass. Spiderweb-like tendrils radiate out, leaving the window misted. But the inside surface is still smooth when I run a fingertip over the window.
“Holy fucking shit!” I say under my breath. Thank God Dario thought to send this baby out for me. There’s no way my vehicle would have withstood that onslaught.
And there’s no doubt in my mind that this was Whitlock’s doing.
Motherfucker.
At least I was prepared for him this time. I hear the voice of the passenger making a quick call.
“Small incident. Anticipate a five-minute delay,” he says into the phone. Not bad going, considering we just survived an assassination attempt. I sink back into my seat and wait for the adrenalin to diminish as we make the rest of the trip in silence. There’s a long pause as we stop outside the address Raoul had sent me earlier. The guy has climbed out and is carefully scouring the street around us, clearly on high alert. It's only when half a dozen more men arrive that he finally opens my door. I clamber out and look up at the building they’re about to guide me toward.
What the fuck?
∞∞∞
Andy
I step out of the small internet café and take a moment to pull the dark hoodie over my head. Paired with oversized black shades, I’m pretty confident nobody could recognize me. I hate going out in public, and every interaction has that now-familiar swirl of nausea building again. My nerves are strung out like razor wire.
I pat the front of my jacket, checking for my phone to shoot off a quick text. I’d convinced my banking friend to let me use her credit card details to order a small recording device online. I’d spotted it during a google search – shaped like a little black pendant, it’s voice-activated and connects automatically to my phone. I can wear it like jewelry without drawing attention.
It’ll be delivered to her address in twenty-four hours, and already I’m feeling anxiety about the whole thing. If I’m going to face Mark, I need a backup plan. If I don’t make it out alive, the least I can do is get him to confess somehow. I’ve agonized over it for hours, and the only thing I’ve been able to come up with is to go in with some sort of a recording device and post his confession onto the Cloud…
What if he wants to meet before it arrives?
I take a deep breath and try to stop my mind from spinning out of control. Overthinking this situation is going to drive me crazy. I make my way onto the sidewalk and start walking. There’s a bit of a commotion across the street, and my stride falters. People are staring at a huge dark vehicle pulled up outside a gleaming skyscraper. The damn thing looks like a tank, and I can’t help staring too.
And then I see him.
Towering over a bunch of guys in black suits, his posture is unmistakable.
Oh, God…Mateo.
My heart is in my throat. My feet stop moving without me realizing it. Why wouldn’t they? Every part of me wants to bolt across the street and throw my arms around him. My chest feels like a weight has been dropped on it.
He glances around, nodding as someone says something to him. Even from across the street, his pull is magnetic. The strong lines of his face feel like they’ll permanently be etched into my mind’s eye, but I retrace them now. Longingly.
God, I miss him so much…
The men with him seem agitated, and as I see one of them running a hand down the vehicle’s bonnet, I realize they’re examining some sort of damage. Bullet holes?
Fuck no! Please…
The whole reason I got out of there was so that he’d be safe. And it seems it hasn’t helped. There’s still a bullseye on his back. Even separated, I’ve put him in danger.
Dammit, Andy. You’re a curse!
I pull my hoodie closer, but it’s so damn hard to tear my eyes away. I want to touch his face. Hold him close. I want those sweet moments back again.
