Page 5 of Eyes in the Shadows

I balk. “Uh… What is that, exactly?”

Her eyes widen with excitement to explain it to me. “It’s like my pet. It’s wild yeast that I use to make bread. Never mind, that paper said any food in the fridgewould be okay,” she brushes it off, heads into the kitchen, grabs a jar off the counter and shoves it into the back of the refrigerator.

Then, she throws on her coat over her pajamas, shoves her feet into some ugly rubber clogs, and grabs the duffel. Realization hits me, a second too late. I shift to the side as she approaches to block her exit. “Now, hold on, Eleanor. I can’t let you leave like that. That’s not what you wear to the restaurant, is it?” And I’ll be damned if any of those lowlifes out there get an eyeful of those legs.

I know she hears the heated interest in my voice, because that blush starts creeping down her cheeks towards her ears. Her head drops, and she bites her lip and wraps the coat around herself tighter.

“How about if I start in,” I pretend to check my watch, when really, I’m just picturing taking ahold of that lip in my own teeth, “10 minutes. Get dressed before you go.”

“You’re sure?”

“Positive. I should go start on my paperwork, anyway. It was nice meeting you, Eleanor.”

“Ellie,” she says, somewhat shakily. “People call me Ellie.”

“It’s a beautiful name, people should spend the extra time to say the whole thing,” I flirt.

She bites her lip. “Thanks. It was nice to meet you too, Mac,” she says, smiling and glancing again at the name tag.

It’s a nickname, and the tag was Wes’s idea of a joke, but now I can’t stop thinking about her saying my name over and over—screaming it, whimpering it, gagging on it.

Fuck. I’ve got a job to do.

At least now I know where I’m setting up. And it’s not just because her view is perfect—all these top units on this side have a sightline to both the bar across the street and the warehouse on the outskirts of town—but it has the added benefit of being hers. And probably not smelling like mothballs.

I shake it off as I move to another door. The rest of the top floor is empty, so I make my way back down the stairwell at the end of the hall and stop to check on the few other stragglers. When I’m done, I stride out to the Harry’s Bugs-B-Gonvan parked on the street in front of the dilapidated brick building. The B is in the shape of an ant. It’s little touches like that that give us credibility.

The inside of the van is another world entirely, full of monitors built into an impressive display, control panels connected with zip-tied wires, black cases of weapons, cameras, and a pop-out tabletop with a man hunched over his laptop. Wesley barely turns his head when I slide in through the front, still in setup mode. That picture never gets old, all six-ish feet of him hunched over the tiny screen, balancing on the small, round stool seat.

“Found your vantage point, then?” he asks in his deep baritone. His British accent curls around his r’s and lifts his vowels. We’re way past me ribbing him for it, and I’m just glad he has one of those posh accents and not the ones where it sounds like they’re trying to talk around a mouthful of mud. At least I can understand him.

“Yup.”

He nods and types something into his laptop. I reach around him for my duffel and the case next to it. I freeze as I see the familiar, stupid ant silhouette on the side of my nondescript black case. “Did you… did you put a fucking sticker on my rifle?”

The edges of Wes’s lips curl up and he doesn’t look away from his screen. “It sells the story. Anyone who sees that will assume it’s just full of bug bombs.”

I glare at him and try to lift the corner of it with my thumbnail. Fortunately for Wes, it comes up easily and in one piece. “They would have assumed that from the uniform, clipboard and van. Don’t touch my guns,” I growl.

He just grins. The smarmy fuck.

“You don’t want to start this shit with me, Short Round. I know where you keep your physical backups.”

Calling Wesley “Short Round” is almost laughably inaccurate—he’s more like a tattooed Indiana Jones on steroids—but I do like to take every opportunity to remind him that I’ve got a couple inches on him.

“You don’t know the combination to the safe,” he replies, unfazed.

“I’ll scratch Dimitri’s throwing knives and tell him it was you.”

I have him, then. His eyes flick to me and he swallows. He opens his mouth, presumably to stick his foot back in it, but I cut him off. “Don’t. Touch. My. Guns.”

He holds up his hands in a conciliatory gesture and turns it into a stretch, leaning back over the chair. “Think we’ll get what we need tonight?” he asks as I unzip the case and check the pieces inside for signs of tampering.

“Probably, if they’re as eager for the sale as it sounds. Dimitri’s setting up the perimeter at the warehouse?”

“He’s on his way,” Wes nods, reaching across the counter into a bag of jerky. I recognize the label instantly and reach forward to swipe it out of his hands.

“I’m never leaving my stuff in the van with you again,” I grumble.

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