Page 43 of Shadow Blind

Dizziness hit her. The scene was so surreal. There was Trident, howling and hissing and rattling the cage with an ear piercing—wake the dead—kind of racket. And then Tag behind the cage…creeping up on Stick Man with predatory stealth. It felt like the two didn’t belong in the same scene at the same time. Like they should cancel each other out.

Stick man straightened, but he was so distracted by the cage shaking and feral growling, he failed to notice the danger approaching from behind.

She expected Tag to draw his gun. One was clearly visible—its black handle poking up from the leather holster snugged beneath his armpit. Wouldn’t a weapon give him an edge in the coming battle? Apparently not, since he ignored the gun. Instead, he slid behind Stick Man and wrapped his right arm around her would-be-assailant’s neck. With a sharp step back and a jerk of his elbow, he yanked Stick Man off his feet. He followed that movement with a rapid twist of his torso and threw his prey to the carpet, where he landed on his stomach. Once her unwelcome visitor was down, Tag dropped onto the guy and wrenched both arms behind his back.

Just like that, the battle was over. Stick Man let loose with a couple of startled gasps and shimmied his shoulders. The muscles in Tag’s arms bunched as he pressed down harder on his captive’s wrists until the wiggling stopped.

Tag looked up at her, his breathing easy, his eyes calm. “We’ll get you off to Aiden as soon as we offload these bastards.” He scanned her, his gaze lingering on her scabby arms. “Either of these jokers hurt you?”

Demi shook her head. He must know from the condition of her scabs that those wounds were days old, acquired long before her unwelcome visitors had knocked on her door.

“Tell you what,” Tag said, his voice conversational, “once we’ve got these two tied up, you can take a couple of whacks at them. A little punishment for the trouble they put you through.”

With a slow, confused shake of her head, Demi just stared back. Was he joking? Serious? His calm, casual demeanor could point to either. She turned her attention to Stick Man, who was just lying there, his cheek pressed against her tweed carpet…like he’d completely given up.

Good God, talk about anticlimactic. Tag had taken the guy down in a second—maybe two—with absolutely no effort. He wasn’t even breathing heavy. With Aiden’s caution about how much danger she was in, she’d expected her unwelcome visitors to pose more of a threat.

“No?” Tag shrugged, his attention returning to his captive. “Well, let me know if you change your mind. There are flex cuffs in my back pocket. Grab two and bind this bastard’s ankles.”

That’s when she realized she could hear again. Or at least hear things other than howling, growling, and cage rattling. She bent to peer into the cat carrier. Had her furry demon perished from a stress induced heart attack? A huge, metallic green eye glared back at her. Well, he wasn’t dead. Strange that he’d gone so silent.

“Demi?” Tag’s calm voice brought her eyes back up. “The cuffs?”

The cat was quiet and secure for the moment. She’d wrap the crate with duct tape after she secured Tag’s prisoner. She straightened, skirted the crate, and plucked a couple of plastic cuffs from Tag’s back pocket.

“There’s another guy in the kitchen,” Demi told him, as she zipped tied stick man’s ankles.

“Tram took care of him. When you’re done with the ankles, bring a couple of those ties up front.”

Demi plucked two more plastic cuffs from his pocket and scooted up until she was kneeling beside Tag.

“You’re doing great.” Tag shot her an approving glance and shifted his knee further up Stick Man’s arms, freeing his wrist. “Cuff his wrists. Be prepared. If he’s gonna try anything, it will be now.”

Apparently, Stick Guy didn’t have the energy, or maybe the nerve, to fight for his freedom. He simply lay there, placidly, letting her cinch the plastic ties around his wrists.

Once Stick Man’s wrists and ankles were bound, Tag yanked on the cuff straps until the plastic was so tight it cut into the guy’s skin.

“That should do it.” He straightened and rose to his feet. “We’ll get you out of here as soon as our backup arrives to take charge of this bozo and his clown car associate.”

“I need to get some duct tape to reinforce the cage.” She glanced toward the kennel, which was silent and still. She’d better get to work before the cat recovered from his stupor and tore the crate apart.

“What the hell do you have in there?” Tag shot an absent look at the plastic cage. “It sounded like a velociraptor. It made a great distraction.”

“A cat. An injured, very unhappy cat.”

His gaze dropped to her scabby and scratched up arms. “Is it responsible for the condition of your arms?” He shook his head. “That won’t sit well with Aiden.”

“Just a miscommunication. He’s stressed and scared.” She kept the explanation vague. Trident didn’t need an even worse reputation. Besides, it wasn’t a lie. Trident was frightened and did not realize she was trying to help him.

As she turned toward the door, a grunt sounded behind her. She spun to check on Tag with such speed she almost fell over, only to find her rescuer following behind her with his captive slung over his shoulder. Good God, the amount of strength it must take to haul someone the size of Stick Man across the room without staggering.

Thank God Tag was on her side…or more like Aiden’s side. Did he know she’d broken up with his former teammate? Granted, Aiden had gotten the news secondhand through Kait. But telling him over the phone that she hadn’t changed her mind about calling it quits on them and then refusing his calls constituted a breakup, didn’t it?

A thick, woolly numbness set in as she swung back around to pick up Trident’s carrier and take it into the living room. The condo was eerily quiet. Almost hushed. Like she was divorced from reality or caught in a dream.

She found Trammel’s captive in the living room, sitting on her couch. Had the fake priest been harder to subdue? She hadn’t heard sounds of struggle, but she’d been in the bedroom and Trident had been making a God-awful racket. Still, of the two men who’d showed up at her door, she suspected the muscle-bound guy was the dangerous one. Which was odd, as Stick Man appeared to call the shots.

Even bound at the ankles and wrists, the fake priest made her skin crawl. It was his eyes. The muddy, dead sheen to them, like his soul had vacated his body. She’d have to get rid of the couch now. Every time she looked at it, she’d remember him sitting there, his cold, dead eyes locked with malevolent intent on her face.

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