Page 45 of Savage Beauty

Her mouth opens and she yells. I step closer, unsure what she yelled.

“Get. In…” The word gets muffled. She’s out of breath. “Get. In. Side.”

What the hell?

My hand automatically goes to my waist. I’m not carrying. That’s something I will fix the moment we get inside.

I’m running to greet her. The two-lane road is empty. Far off in the distance, I see a van that looks like one of the resort shuttle vans. I scan the skies for a drone.

The bike hits the ground, and she charges into the house, the whole time chanting, “Get inside. Get inside. Get inside.”

One wheel spins slowly, the bike flat on the ground on the path to the front door.

If someone’s looking for that bike, it’s a crumb trail right to our door.

She screeches from the doorway, “Get inside!”

“Close the door.” It’s a stern command.

I’m not leaving a calling sign to whoever spooked her.

Out of my peripheral vision, I see the front door close and lift the bike.

I could hide it below the deck. There’s a gap on the sides, as the entire villa is raised off the ground in case of flooding. But it wouldn’t take much investigation to find a bike stashed below the deck.

In six strides, I’m pushing through the door, the bike held in one hand, a trail of sand grains scattering behind me.

“Who’d you see?” She’s standing in the hallway, eyes wide. She’s fucking terrified. “What happened?”

I lean the rusted beach cruiser against the wall. It’s not a suitable permanent location, as someone looking in through windows might see it. But it’ll work for now.

My guns are upstairs.

“He’s here.”

“Who?”

“Anton Solonov. He’s here. I saw him. I don’t think he saw me. But he’s here. He’s here!”

“Okay. I need you to take some deep breaths.”

“He’s here!”

I move to the door and glance down the street again. There’s nothing. No movement at all. Nothing in the sky except a commercial jet plane flying in the upper atmosphere.

“All right. Head upstairs.” I flick the deadbolt on the door.

I’ll get my guns and come back down, double-check all the locks. We got careless. Things felt too safe. Too easy.

She pauses on the stairs, looking down at me. “You’re bringing the bike?”

“Yeah. If anyone’s searching for this bike, I don’t want it where a passerby might see.”

It’s a pretty standard beach bike, but it’s bright pink with identifiable stickers and a brown wicker basket on the front.

“Go.”

She resumes climbing the stairs. My facial muscles tense as I run through action items.

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