Page 53 of Caught in His Sights

A red flash catches my eye, drawing my attention to where Caleb’s phone signals a silent alarm.

His lips brush my ear again. “Stay still.”

Movements quiet, he slides out of bed, his warmth vanishing to allow cool air to sweep in. His pale skin glows in the dim light coming from the hallway. He only wears a pair of black boxer briefs, the muscular lines of his body flexing as he bends over the nightstand.

In a fluid motion, he reaches under the top and pulls out a gun, then looks back at me, his voice barely audible. “Move as quietly as possible and go into the bathroom. Lock yourself inside.”

I nod, my heart pounding with fear, and slide off the bed. My legs shake as I tiptoe across the room, and the soft carpet gives way to cold marble beneath my bare feet.

As I shut the door, I catch one last glimpse of Caleb slipping out of the bedroom doorway.

Pale light filters through the narrow window above the free-standing bathtub, and I use it to search for anything that will serve as a weapon. Under the sink, I find a knife, and behind the toilet, a gun. But I’m not trained to use either and am just as likely to hurt myself as I am to injure the intruder.

In desperation, I grip the towel bar, ready to yank it off the wall, only for it to slide silently out of one side with ease. Of course, it does. Caleb has weapons secreted all over the house.

When I pull it free, the rod feels heavy and solid in my grasp. It’s as good as a baseball bat.

Pulse pounding, I step into the shower stall and crouch to not be seen in the oval mirror above the sink. The metal slips in my sweaty palms, and I struggle to steady my breathing, focusing on the sound of my heartbeat.

The sudden explosion of gunfire from downstairs startles me, and I almost drop the towel bar from my shaking hands. A crash follows, and my heart pounds so hard I fear the invader will hear it.

I strain to listen past the rush of blood in my ears, trying to make sense of what’s happening.

“Police!” someone shouts, and I sway as relief washes over me.

Thank goodness Caleb lives in a rich area of the city, where the law enforcement is motivated to respond quickly to alarms.

I let out a shaky breath, the makeshift weapon dipping toward the shower floor.

From the bedroom comes the sound of the door slamming open, but instead of Caleb, a different, equally familiar voice calls out, “Oliver, are you here, son?”

Confusion clouds my thoughts. What would Detective Wells be doing responding to a call in this neighborhood? We’re well outside his precinct’s jurisdiction.

The bathroom knob rattles, and my grip tightens on the metal rod as the door bangs against the wall as someone kicks it in.

Heart pounding, I scan the room and spot a small mirror atop the medicine cabinet over the toilet, giving me a view of the entrance. The detective stands in the busted frame, a gun in hand as he scans the room. The revolver design isn’t police issue, and he’s not wearing a uniform.

“Oliver, where are you hiding, son?” Wells slinks farther inside, his movements not those of a man coming to the rescue.

He lifts his weapon higher, revealing the gloves he wears, and dread clenches in my gut.

Where’s Caleb? Did the detective take him by surprise and overwhelm him?

I can’t imagine this old man getting the jump on a trained assassin. But every instinct in my body screams that Wells didn’t come here to save me.

As he nears, I lunge out of the shower and swing the towel bar with all my strength, knocking the revolver from his grasp. It flies into the mirror, shattering it on impact. Shards go flying as the gun bounces into the sink and fires, blasting a hole into the drywall beside Wells’s head.

In the chaos, I dart past him, but the galley-style bathroom limits the space, and Wells’s bulky frame blocks my escape. He grabs hold of me, his fist connecting with my stomach, sending me crashing to the ground. Glass bites into my arm and leg, pain flaring through my nerves.

Wells cracks his knuckles and steps closer, a mean expression that I’ve never seen before twisting his features.

I struggle to sit up, blood streaming down my limbs, and grip the toilet for balance. “Why?”

The detective’s lips curl into a cruel smile. “Because you wouldn’t stop pushing about the missing Omegas. That anonymous tip was the last straw, though. Especially after you weaseled your way into Caleb Rockford’s bed. We couldn’t risk you convincing your rich boyfriend to look into our activities.”

The detective who had come to Caleb’s house the other day, who also had no business in this neighborhood, must have said something. “What are you talking about? I didn’t send a tip.”

“Oh, come on.” He lumbers closer, glass crunching beneath his heavy boots. “You tagged me, Oliver. Might as well have signed your name on it. You were always too nosy. Just like your brother.”

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