Page 89 of Accidental Alliance

The guard’s eyes flick past me to Matteo, my own gaze following. My son is hunched perfectly on the edge of the cot with his head down, one hand pressed to his stomach while his shoulders bunch up near his ears.

The guard stiffens. “What do you mean, sick?”

“He’s really dizzy,” I lie. “I think whatever was in the food earlier got him sick. He needs to see a doctor.”

He hesitates. He looks over his shoulder toward the noise coming from down the hallway, the noise more distant. No one is near enough to help him decide.

“I can call someone to drive down to⁠—”

“No.” I let panic sharpen my voice. “Look at him. Please. Just take him to see a doctor at the hospital.”

The guard swallows. His eyes dart around my face, clearly searching for some kind of discrepancy. When he finds nothing, he pushes the door further open. “Step back from the door.”

I do, giving him enough room to cross the threshold without touching me. Behind him, the door yawns open just enough for me to see down the rest of the hallway. Instead of the usual set of guards lingering just beyond the doorway, all I see are dark shadows.

Perfect.

I move the second he starts toward Matteo. I slip the metal piece from my sleeve into my hand and then charge for him. I do not go for his throat when my body slams into the back of his. That would be far too messy to deal with and too loud if he got a scream out before I can finish.

Instead, I slash up the side of his face, near his eye. He hisses and instinctively jerks back. I drive my shoulder into his shoulder from behind and shove him down to the ground with every ounce of strength terror has gifted me.

He stumbles and falls to his knees.

“Run, Matteo!” I whisper.

He bolts.

I catch the guard’s arm with both hands before he can grab my son and twist, using the motion my father drilled into me until the joint pops in my hold.

The guard gasps in pain and arches to the side to yank himself from my grasp. I slam the heel of my palm into his nose right as his mouth opens to scream.

He falls onto the floor with a choked curse.

I am already moving before he can try to get up again. I find Matteo huddled in one of the shadowed corners of the hallway. I grab his hand and pull him with me. The corridor is dim, lit by low strips of light along the floor.

Most of the noise comes from the far end near the lower entrance in the opposite direction I pull us in.

Matteo’s hand is slick in mine, his breathing turning ragged. I duck my head and pull him close to the wall to keep him out of view because I do not know whether Elio is watching the feeds or not.

Someone will soon discover the guard struggling on the floor and call for backup if they haven’t already.

I guide us to a recessed doorway nearly hidden around the next corner and press him flat against the wall behind me just as two enforcers pass the hallway junction carrying heavy wooden crates in their arms.

Matteo makes a tiny sound, barely perceptible, and presses into my back, his entire body shaking.

The men continue past us, their boots heavy against the floor as the crates creak in their arms. I hold perfectly still, every muscle locked as their retreating footsteps fade. One of them laughs at something under his breath. It is such an ordinary sound, so careless and human that rage flashes white behind my eyes.

When they disappear around the next corner, I count three silent beats. Then I tug Matteo with me again and turn toward what I pray is a storage exit or a garage access to the outside. There has to be one. Safehouses like this are built for discretion to keep things moving where police or enemies are least likely to see.

I find a door at the end of the next hallway and reach for the door handle, surprised to find it already unlocked. For one wild, blinding second, hope rises so quickly in my chest that I nearly choke on it. As I pull the door open, the last thing I’m expecting to see is a room encased in plastic.

For a moment, all I can do is blink at the bizarre display.

Milky sheets hang from the ceiling and walls, taped down in overlapping layers that ripple faintly from the movement of the door opening. The floor is covered too, plastic stretched beneath dark smears that immortalize the boot prints that walked through it. A single overhead light glows from the corner, turning the entire room into something out of a movie.

Through the milky film, I can see what looks like a figure hunched over. My stomach turns so violently, I have to tighten my grip on Matteo’s hand to keep from stumbling back. The figure inside the plastic-covered room moves suddenly, one twitch of a shoulder that freezes me in place.

The plastic distorts him, blurring the lines of his body and face from view, but something about the shape of him sends a cold chill sliding down my spine. My mind rejects it before I know what I am seeing.