Page 122 of Stealth Mission

Our ragged breathing and stamping feet sound like racing horses in the night. “Freeze, or I’ll shoot!” I yell, with my arms pumping, my bare feet kicking up dust in my wake.

To my right, the other gunman sounds like a clydesdale. But he’s moving fast too. Like a freight train powering along the row of plants.

Ahead, the intruder stutter-steps and turns at the end of the row, taking off toward a cluster of buildings.

Dammit. He’s going to have cover.

I lower my stance and race toward the building on the left in the row of three buildings, heading toward the last place I saw him. When I reach the safety of the corner, I press my back to the wall, dragging in ragged huffs of air.

A shrill whistle startles me. It’s a quick signal that someone on my own team might make.

But I’m not with my team.

There’s a movement by the next building. It’s the shadow man with his hand up. Signaling me to go to the left.

What the fuck is going on?

I’m not following the order of someone I don’t know. It could be a trap.

I flip him off and disappear around the corner to the right.

Quieting my breathing, I listen for the intruder. He can’t be far. I will catch him. Keeping my feet light, I move along the edge of the structure, pausing before I move past an open window.

The building is a shed of some sort. The window has no glass or other coverings, making the shed an easy place for someone to climb inside and hide.

Surely they wouldn’t be that dumb. But I’ve seen criminals do some pretty idiotic shit. Adrenaline shuts some people’s brains off.

Unless it’s an ambush set up for me.

I glance around, but hold myself deep in the shadow of the building, staying out of the ambient light from the moon.

Where are you, you son-of-a-bitch?

I slip past the window and move along the further, approaching the door with caution.

The dilapidated wood is crooked on the hinges. The place where a handle used to be is empty. Old paint is peeling off in curls.

I take a small step, preparing to kick the door the rest of the way open.

But a burst of movement makes me throw up an arm.

My hand collides with a solid forearm. I whirl around and come face-to-face with the other man. Not the intruder. The shadow with the gun.

Vik.

Fucking hell.

Between heavy breaths, he says, “He’s on his way back to the house.”

I slam a palm into his chest and shove him back. “You could have told me it was you, Vik.”

We take off sprinting toward the house. He knows, too. Marianna is there alone.

Chapter Forty-Four

Waiting is hell.

Very little of the torture has to do with the fact that I’m soaking wet, and shaking as I huddle on the floor, pressing my face to my knees.“Please be safe. Please, Evan, come back.”

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