Page 117 of The Truths that Deceive

“Perfect,” I announce to the screen.

I snap the computer shut, go back to the safe, and pull out a Glock. There’s also a round with the pile of stuff. I load the gun and tuck it beneath my hoodie. And then I dig around in my old backpack. I have a stun gun buried down at the bottom. I pull it out and make sure it still has juice.

It crackles in the air and I grin.

The mini stun gun is purple and looks like a sex toy. I tuck that away, too.

Next, I load the phone he gave me with a card I have for emergencies. I head out into the predawn air. It’s cloudy, and using the slight chill as an excuse, I pull the hood over my head and follow maps to the nearest subway.

When the train finally arrives, I’m still early enough that it’s only moderately crowded. It’s about five a.m., so there aren’t a lot of people waiting on the platform. Iride the F train to Second Avenue and at Chrystie Street, I book an Uber. It’s there in minutes. Black.

For a moment, my heart beats hard. But I’m being stupid. Because there are lots of black cars. I start to cross over to it so I can check out the license plate when something big hits me from behind. I crumple to the pavement right as the car explodes.

My ears ring and vision blurs like the world’s dissolving around me. I’m dragged up and half carried away, then thrown into another car.

I kick the man and go for my gun, but he fights me, pinning me down against the seat. I manage to knee him in the balls, and he starts to swear.

“For fuck’s sake. Do a buddy a favor and blow up a fucking car, not to mention save the spitfire he’s got a hard-on for, and she tries to take out your fucking junk. Sit the fuck down,” he growls.

I stare, sitting up, breathing hard. “Reaper.”

“Yeah, you’re just lucky your idiot boyfriend wants you alive. You were supposed to stay in the damn safe house. I tracked you. And if I can, anyone can.”

“Let me go. I’ve an asshole to stop.”

The man rolls his flat, hard, dark eyes. “Gotta be more specific. What kind of asshole?”

“Eric T. Brown.”

He grins. “Good thing I stopped you from blowing up. I’ll take you right to him.”

Reaper turns to say something to the driver.

That’s when I move fast. I grab my stun gun and hit him right in the nuts.

The man howls and I double over and throw open the door, then hit the pavement at a run.

I dodge through the people on the street, round a corner, then dart over Houston Street to a slew of horns and tire squeals. A bus narrowly misses me. But I make it to the other side and race down the street to Forsythe, then turn onto Stanton.

Luck comes my way with a cab, and I wave it down. Leaning forward, I give the address.

“You on the run?”

Shit, I’m breathing hard. “Jogging.”

The cab driver just turns on his radio and Madonna sings about being frozen, but I barely listen to the old song. Everything burns but I can relate, because I feel like ice inside.

I just sent a bolt of electricity into a man’s balls.

A man who’s not just a friend of Smith’s, but one I’m pretty sure is a stone-cold killer. The car—I can’t think about that explosion. The driver’s talking again but I offer monosyllabic answers, and I catch something about a ‘car bomb’ and this ‘damn fuckin’ city.’

Smith… If Reaper knew where I was, so will Smith. And now I’ve got the CIA and Reaper out for my blood. And Smith?

I don’t know.

That’s the God’s honest truth.

In a different world, without my fate prewritten, nailed in the wall above my head, I’d want to get to know him more. I’m not sure we’d be enemies. Not by personality clash, and not by virtue of what’s going on.

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