Page 10 of Eyes in the Shadows

My instant reaction is a knee jerk apology. “Oh, I’m sorry, I’m just…” I trail off as my brain fully catches up. I’m no expert, but that’s some kind of long-barreled gun standing on a tripod, pointed out my window. That popping sound must have been… Oh God. “You’re not an exterminator.”

“You’re not supposed to be here.”

It’s like the sound of his voice is what breaks me from the spell my fear casts on me. Everything happens at once. Mac curses and launches himself away from the window. I turn on my heel and reach for the doorway, but I only get two steps past the threshold before something huge and heavy hits me from behind and we go crashing into the opposite wall. But my head doesn’t smack the plaster, because Mac’s beefy palm is wrapping around my mouth, cutting off my scream, and then I’m being dragged backwards.

The light is off again, so when the door closes, we’re in complete darkness.

I fight, pumping my legs and jerking my torso against the iron grip wrapped around me. I scream again hoarsely, the sound muffled by his hand.

“Shh! Shh—shut up!”

It happens so fast that I can’t keep up. One second, I’m flailing around like a madwoman and the next, I’m on the ground. A heavy weight comes down on top of me, and my arms are pulled behind my back. I hear the sharp, plasticzzzzzipof a zip-tie, and suddenly I can’t get my wrists apart. Once more, and my legs are immobile.

“Don’t make me shoot you,” Mac growls.

I clamp my lips together, though a pathetic whimpering noise still escapes my throat. He stands fluidly and crosses back over to the window. “I’m here,” I hear him say, like he’s reentering a room.

Uh, yeah, I know that… we’re the only ones in here…

“No, it’s—fuck. Fuck! Okay, on it.”

I officially know he’s not talking to me.

There’s a loud pop that makes me jump, then fear freezes my throat back up and the noises I’m making stop. Another pop, and the tears start falling silently from my cheeks to puddle on the laminate as I let my forehead rest on the floor. I’m going to die. He really is going to shoot me, right after he’s done shooting those poor other people.

“One in the stairwell,” he says. “I’ve got the guy on the roof. Come on, fucker… Just stick your head out, come on…” a few seconds later there’s another pop and Mac releases a heavy breath. Then another curse. “The car turned around. Get out of there. I know. I know! I’ll stay here and keep an eye. I know. Over and out.”

For a few seconds, the only sound in the room is my wet, musical, shaky breaths. I don’t dare lift my head or move in any way—I don’t want to remind him I’m here. Not that he’d forget… But maybe if I don’t put up a fight, if I don’t do anything stupid, he won’t shoot me next.

I hear the floorboards creak as he gets up, then I feel Mac standing over me and I shrink into myself. It’s maybe not as much bravado as I’d like to believe I’d have, facing death, but at least I don’t pee myself? It doesn’t feel like much of a win when I’m just going to end up dead anyway.

But the bullet doesn’t come. Instead, I feel his arm work its way between me and the ground and I’m jerked back. I grunt as the pressure on my stomach forces the air out of my lungs, then shriek as I’m airborne.

He lifts me from the waist, tucking me against his side, and carries me over to the couch with a grunt of his own. I have enough deeply-held body stigma that, instead of just being afraid, I also distantly wonder how strong he must be to lift my dead weight off the floor… He drops me on the couch and I bounce on the cushion before falling back against my zip-tied hands.

“Sit. Stay,” he orders.

What’s next? Roll over? Speak? This motherfucker.

I keep my chin tucked, and after a few more shaky breaths that actually manage to level out my heart rate, I start stealing glances at him. There’s not much I can do, all trussed up like a damn turkey, but cooperating does seem like my best bet for survival. And if I do live, I want to make sure I remember enough to give an accurate description to the police.

He’s too much—he’s too big, his voice is too deep, his presence is too immense for my poor little apartment. This tiny room feels immeasurably smaller, like his head almost touches the ceiling and he could span the room if he stretched out both arms.

His utter masculinity feels completely out of place in such a jarring way, it’s uncomfortable. Not that I’ve never had a man here, though it has been a while…

I give up on subtlety and turn and face him fully, craning my head back to get another good look at his features. There’s a glow coming from whatever screen he’s got, so I can see in spite of the darkness. My eyes must have adjusted.

God, why did a man so fine have to end up being a killer?

He’s got stubble covering his jaw, but it’s obvious that the line of it is strong and prominent. Full lips with a deep Cupid’s bow are stretched tight in an anxious frown. His cheeks are hollow, carving up to the curve of cheekbones set under warm, chocolate brown eyes. I couldn’t see his hair earlier under the hat, but I can see it now, cut in one of those short-in-the-back-longer-on-top styles men get and a warm, light brown color.

He knows I’m looking at him, but he doesn’t look up from the scope to say, “You know, in some ways, I’m kind of like an exterminator.”

I look back down at my lap and squeeze my eyes shut.

Fuck. This is so bad.

4

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