Page 67 of Atlas

This is the reason I fell in love with him. This is the reason I fallmore in loveevery day. Most people wouldn’t even think about something like that.

By the time we reach the porch, I have my phone in my hand. I guess I’m planning on calling that company to rip them a new one, but I have no idea who should get the ripping. I’ll have to get that information from Agatha.

I’ve never had a grandma. I’m pretty much vibrating, but it’s not just to give out a verbal tongue lashing to some power company. It’s excitement too.

I should have come earlier. Who cares about the drive? I should be making it every few days. I’m pretty much drowning in guilt when the front door opens. Agatha steps out and thankfully it’s just her in a floral dress with a pleated skirt and a belt that’s cinched at her trim waist. Just her as in, she’s not toting out any firearms or bombs. She’s not wearing her usual orthopedic shoes, but a pair of old hiking boots.

“Agatha!” I pick up on a slight tremble that shudders through her when I race across the yard, leap up the steps, andhug her. It’s probably stress from the whole power situation. “I’m so sorry about all this crap. I pat her shoulder. “Just let me know who I need to call, and we’ll call and call andcall, until someone gets their buns out here to fix this for you.”

“Oh, it’s uh…” Her eyes flick to the barn, over to the pole on the far end of the yard, and then to the truck. They linger there, almost longingly. “I can’t remember. Come inside and I’ll get a bill with the company’s name.”

“Okay. We could go for a ride if you want to cool down. I have great AC in there.”

Agatha laughs, but there’s something wrong with the sound. More nerves? Stress? I’ve seen her when she was pretty much trussed and carted off and she wasn’t nervy like that. She was tough and fire breathing throughout it all.

“Maybe in a bit,” she says. I pick up on a sad undertone. Is something else wrong?

I share a quick look with Atlas. He’s standing right behind me on the steps, but he just gives me a one shoulder subtle shrug, as if to say,let’s sit her down and figure this out and she’ll perk right up in no time.

Agatha turns her head and her eyes linger on my face for just a second before she opens the door, but it still sends a weird shiver down my back. I don’t know if Atlas is getting weirded out too, but he strides past me and steps in front of me so fast that I can’t stop him. He’s already through the door before I even have a foot inside.

Even if we’d walked through together, I don’t know that I could have done anything to stop what happens.

A muffled cry from Agatha splits the quiet, as though she’s been roughly shoved aside. Something black wraps around Atlas’ shoulder and he’s twisted around and slammed into the wall, a gun at his temple. I see it all happen as I walk into the house behind him.

My heart slams into my throat and a frigid blast of panic freezes me. The man standing behind Atlas is middle aged, tall and wiry. Physically, he wouldn’t be a match for Atlas in any way, but he had the element of surprise and now he has a loaded weapon pressed to the temple of the man I love.

Unbelievable rage blares into my bloodstream like a horn going off right in my ear. I stand on the spot, panting like a trapped animal, growling low in my throat like one too.

Whoever this prick is, he’s dressed all in black. From what I can see under the ball cap, he’s neatly groomed. Dark hair, dark eyes, average features. He looks so much the same as anyone else. Why the fuck is he doing this?

The money.

That chest.

That’s the only explanation I can think of. What if there was more than one person involved? The club gave the money to who they thought was the rightful owner, but what if that woman just got to the chest first? What if she had partners that she cheated, skipping out on them with the whole fucking thing? What if someone else knew about the money after she left and came back because they thought there was something more to be found? What if none of that is true and this has nothing to do with the chest?

I can’t actually truck with that idea at all. This guy was clearly hiding out in here. He was waiting for us. That means that he must have had this planned and he used Agatha as part of it. To what? Lure us here? Even badass old ladies can be terrified when some asshat creeps into their home with a loaded gun and tells them they had better cooperate or they’ll be a nasty picture with their brains splattered all over the wall for their loved ones to find.

Nausea and dread swirl in a toxic mix in my gut.

“Let’s go,” the guy demands, his voice deep, but scratchy. It doesn’t match his face. He digs the gun harder into Atlas’ temple. I can’t look away from that spot. I can’t move. My whole world is going to crash in and burn.

If this asshole made one wrong move, I know I’d try and wrestle that gun away from him and I wouldn’t be above shooting him somewhere that wouldn’t kill him, but would hurt a lot all the same. I’ve never had a violent fantasy in my life, but I’m fantasizing hard about it now. I want to scratch this fucker’s eyes out for daring to hurt people I care about.

“Now,” he commands. “Living room. Walk there real slow.” He whips his head around to Agatha. Only now can my eyes track to her face. She’s white and trembling. She won’t look up from the floor. “You too,” he tells her. “You go first and then you.”

You. He meansme.

Despite how frightened and ill she looks, Agatha moves quickly. She scrambles past us. I can’t look at that gun for a second longer or I’m going to pass out. That would probably just piss this guy off.

I can’t give him a reason to hurt any one of us. I do what he told me to, though every step is biter and jarring. I’m afraid to look behind me, so I don’t. I just trail Agatha.

She sits down on the old floral couch. I hesitate, which causes the guy to bark orders. “Sit down beside her. Take out your phone slowly and throw it into the middle of the room.”

I basically fall down beside Agatha. She’s trembling. So am I. I don’t know if she’s shaking solely out of fear. I’m certainly not.

I chuck my phone and watch helplessly as the asshole forces Atlas into a wooden chair that’s out of place in here. It’s from the kitchen. He keeps the gun trained on the back of Atlas’ head while he cuffs his hands behind his back and then ties him with thin, tough looking rope.

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