Page 40 of Unmade

Steady.

I inhaled deeply through my nose and crouched between the two kitchen stools. Any second now, he’d appear.

I raised my gun and eased a finger over the trigger.

The guy stopped talking a fraction of a second before I saw him walk straight for the bed. My eyes widened. He lifted a gun, and it was as if I could predict the following scene to the point where nothing shocked me. His vision hadn’t adjusted to the darkness; he was mistaking dark-colored covers for a person, and he?—

I flinched as the sound of gunfire exploded in the tiny apartment. Two shots blasted through the air, and I automatically rose to my feet and aimed. I squeezed the trigger twice, one shot in each shoulder, and he went down with a scream.

A breath gusted out of me, and I ran forward and picked up his gun. Then I stared, wide-eyed, out into the bright hallway outside the front door. No one there. I blinked repeatedly and dropped my stare to the screamer.

I’d heard some of those swear words in Germany. I’d also heard that accent before. He was part Middle Eastern.

What the fuck do I do now?

I swallowed dryly and suddenly felt how hard my heart was pounding, faster than ever before, and I heard a rushing sound in my ears competing with the sharp ringing noise.

I left his gun on the kitchen bar, then flicked on the lights, and he tried to shield himself from me. Blood was splattered across the white floor, and the guy was drowning in his hoodie. It was way too big for his scrawny form.

“Who are you?” I heard myself croak. I had to clear my throat.

“You shot me, you f-fucking— You’re not Beckett!”

Good observation.

He could barely move his arms, so I deemed it safe to search his pockets. He protested in German and some other language, and when I slammed my foot down on his thigh to keep him from squirming away, he let out a pain-laden sob that made the strangest impact on me. I took a deep breath, feeling every bit of my lungs filling with air, and it was like breathing for the first time. Like walking into an AC-controlled room in the middle of a humid summer of triple-digit temps. Like one of those deeply satisfied yawns. Like that big breath you take once your heart’s slowed down after forty minutes on the treadmill.

I dug out a wallet and a phone and tossed both on the couch for now, followed by a lighter, an extra mag, and a passport.

“Put the gun down!” someone yelled outside the apartment.

I froze.

“That’s it. Slow and steady. Put the gun on the table. I think he’s one of the recruits.” That was a second voice. He sounded calmer. “State your name, recruit.”

I swallowed and let out a breath. “Leighton Watts, sir.” I slowly bent down to leave my gun on the coffee table, and then I straightened just as slowly. To show I was cooperating, I kept my hands visible for them. “I was assigned to stay here by my instructors.”

“And they are?”

Um. I flicked a glance at the bleeding fucker on the floor. “Should I say their names in front of this one?”

He didn’t answer. Not me, anyway. Instead, he spoke to the other man—possibly one more. I couldn’t be sure. There were a lot of voices, and I couldn’t capture everything that was said. But the police were on their way, medics were on standby— Okay, now we definitely had more people joining the party. Something about the garage being searched. Someone took the shooter’s belongings, and I only caught sight of a flash of him in my periphery.

“Leighton, stand down. He’s with me. Get the fuck outta my way, Billings.” Oh, thank fuck, it was Beckett.

“What makes you think you can just come in here and take over?” someone demanded.

“Because it’s my apartment and my fucking recruit,” Beckett snapped.

I shivered and lowered my arms, then cautiously glanced over my shoulder.

He came over to me, such an immense presence among the others—even more immense than the relief I felt.

Aside from a quick glance at the crying shooter, Beckett focused solely on me, and he cupped my face in his hands and leveled me with a serious look.

“You okay?”

I nodded dumbly. “Yessir.”

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