Page 17 of Eyes in the Shadows

That is a fine, cautious approach, but I know a few likely scenarios. “He will either go into hiding, if he does not care about seeming brave, or they will believe that I was acting alone. Either way, they will move their operation.”

“I’ll create a flag for your picture in all the usual places, in case they put out a hit.”

I nod, approving of this plan. “James will watch for the new location. It is the least he can do to clean up his mess. Will you be telling the General?” I ask as an afterthought.

The man who brought us together, each of us with our own specific set of skills that work together so nicely. The man who sends the details for the jobs, and takes a cut off the top for his service. The man who communicates almost exclusively with Wesley. I know so little of this man.

“This isn’t Charlie’s fucking Angels, mate. The General doesn’t give a good goddamn about screw ups, as long as we get it right in the end.”

I nod. This is as I would expect, but I cannot have one setback making my team look bad. “I will be downstairs. If I am not back in two hours, call for an IV delivery.”

I grab two water bottles out of the fridge and make my way down to the gym in the basement. There is a sauna, which will be good for the cold shock setting in.

The heat of the sauna helps with the shivering, but does little to help my anger.

A month of work down the drain. I will have to take some time to recover from this injury, and even after I heal, we will have to rework our strategy. Too many of Rossi’s men have seen my face.

Nothing makes me angrier than not being able to do my job because of stupidity. Whatever happened, I hope James confronts his errors. There is no doubt in my mind that this fuckup was someone’s error, and I know it was not mine. I will not work with people who do not learn from their mistakes.

6

Eleanor

I'm not upset about the right stuff.

I wake in a panic from a bad dream that slips away as soon as I try to grab onto it. It takes me a second to register that I’m lying on my side on the couch, and my right hand has gone numb from the pressure of sleeping on my shoulder. I look down, see the rope, and it all comes flooding back in.

Mac. The gun. Being tied up and terrified. Him saying he’s going to keep me. His hand inching up my leg…

Stop, Eleanor. Don’t think about that.

I sit up with some difficulty. I can tell from the light quality in the room that morning has come, and I know Mac is gone without even needing to check. I can… feel it. I do still look around, though, and everything looks just how I left it. The tripod and his bag are gone.

There are a few tells, proving that it wasn’t all just a nightmare. The takeout containers that had my leftovers in them are sitting face down on a towel next to the sink and the knife is still deeply embedded into the pine table. Grumbling, I reach forward with both hands and grip the handle, having to give it a surprisingly significant jerk to get it out. The motion jostles a piece of paper on the table, which then falls to the floor, but I ignore it for now. Instead, I examine the tip of the knife, which had better not be bent…

It’s only duller now, mercifully. And since that means I have to resharpen it anyway, I decide to use it to saw through the rope. One look at that complicated knot and I know my teeth won’t do the trick.

I have to awkwardly angle the blade back and be extra careful not to cut myself, but even so, cutting through all the fibers takes way longer than I expect.Eventually I free myself and let the ropes fall away as I rub the skin gently, massaging the blood back into the area.

I bend forward and grab the paper off the floor. At first, I think it’s just my electric bill, but when I turn it over my stomach drops at the cramped, half-cursive handwriting that I’ve never seen before.

Keep the curtains closed. Stay inside until Friday. I’m watching.

My heart pounds heavy and loud, making my blood roar in my ears and bringing a flush to my face. He can see me, somehow. Or, he’s watching the building. Either way, it’s like adding ato be continuedto the end of this story.

And it’s a horror story. So why does a small part of me thrill in the fact that it’s not over?

Okay, not going there… he broke in. Held me hostage. Made me think he was going to kill me.

I suddenly feel unprotected, unsafe in my apartment. I’m all alone in this building, apparently confined to my room and I’m pretty sure that he took my phone. No one knows where I am except him and he has the key to my place. How else could he have gotten in?

I leap up and grab the bottom corner of the couch. It’s the heaviest thing in my apartment that I can move, and the door swings inward. I pull it over and then shove it flush against the wall. It’s not the best solution, especially for later when I’ll wish I had somewhere to sleep, but it does make me feel a little better. First thing Friday morning when we’re “allowed back in,” I’m going to Ed to get my locks changed.

It occurs to me that I don’t know for sure he took my phone, so I start looking around. I even rifle through my drawers when it’s obvious that it’s not sitting out anywhere. But there are only so many places in a studio to put things, so I run out of places to look pretty quickly. I almost cry in frustration. I’d just finished paying that thing off. A two-year payment plan for a cell phone was bad enough.

Great. Now I’m stranded in my apartment until tomorrow with no phone, no one to talk to, and no way to mindlessly entertain myself. God, you never realize how critical that small rectangle of metal and glass has become in your life until you’re forced to try to live without it. I don’t even feel like I’m on my phone allthe time—my screen-time usually sits somewhere around 1-2 hours per day—but evidently, it’s still a crutch.

I spend an hour honing and resharpening my knife, mostly as something mindless to do with my hands, but also because it feels like a bloodthirsty thing to do, and that settles some of my fear, minting it into cold, metallic anger.

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