Page 112 of Vital Signs
The basement. The patients.
Us.
I moved to the basement door, pressing my ear against it. Footsteps echoed overhead as multiple people moved through the house. Equipment rattled and thudded as it was unpacked.
"What about the others?" someone asked.
"No witnesses," came the reply. "Same as always."
Three unconscious patients needed saving, but the basement door was my only exit. And now killers were about to come through it. I needed a hiding spot. Fast.
I ducked behind a metal cabinet, wedging myself between it and the wall. My shoulders pressed against concrete while my knees dug into the floor. I made myself small, like I'd learned in Roche's closet, but the stillness came from older lessons—my father's childhood 'games' of hiding practice. "Stay quiet, stay small, stay alive," he'd whispered.
My heartbeat hammered loud enough to betray me. Each breath became a conscious effort. I breathed shallow enough to stay silent, deeply enough to prevent passing out. I exhaled through my nose, controlled despite the panic clawing at my chest.
My hands shook as I gripped the knife, but not from fear of the killers above. The tremor came from imagining Hunter finding my body, having to bury another person he loved. The thought of leaving him alone again was worse than dying.
Two men descended the stairs. Both wore tactical gear beneath civilian clothes, weapons holstered but visible. One carried a duffel bag that clinked with metal contents. The scent of gun oil and sweat carried across the room.
"Got fifteen minutes to set this up," the taller one said, unzipping the bag to reveal containers of flammable liquid and electrical wiring. "Fry the circuit breaker by the water heater like last time."
"I swear Martinez gets the easy jobs," the second man grumbled, pulling on gloves. "We're down here with the creepy science project while he gets to watch the perimeter."
The taller one moved toward the back wall, footsteps stopping just feet from my hiding place. I could smell his aftershave, hear the soft rattle of his breathing. If he turned, if he looked, if he moved just slightly to his left—
My hand tightened on my knife, thumb stroking the handle. I'd slit his throat before he could call out if I had to.
The men ignored the patients completely, treating them as objects rather than people. One man checked each gurney, confirmed the victims were unconscious, then continued his work. The callousness of it made the blood pound louder in my ears. They didn't even see these people as human.
"Think they'll bump our pay after this one?" the taller one asked. "This is the third rush job this month."
"You know how it works," his partner replied. "Same rate no matter how messy."
There was a crash from upstairs. Both men froze, hands moving to their weapons. My pulse spiked again, each heartbeat hammering against my ribcage.
The radio on one man's belt crackled. "Martinez, Andrews, status report."
"Still setting up downstairs," the man replied, tension making his voice sharper. "What was that noise?"
"Just knocked something over checking the office. All clear up here. Stick to the schedule."
"Copy that." He turned to his partner, relaxing slightly. "Finish up down here. I'll do a sweep of the utility room."
My muscles cramped from holding still, pain shooting up my legs and back. Sweat trickled down my spine despite the basement chill. I didn't dare shift position, even as my body screamed for movement.
The remaining man continued working, his radio crackling every thirty seconds with clockwork precision. "Basement sector three clear." "Moving to sector four." "East wall complete." A constant stream of updates that never stopped.
My hand tightened around my knife. I could take him. Should take him. One quick movement, blade across the throat, the weight of his body dragged silently behind the cabinet with me. The predator in me calculated distance, angle, timing. The force needed to pierce through clothing to reach vital organs. My father's voice echoed in my memory: "Always know your exits, always count the opposition, never strike unless you can finish it."
But the moment he stopped reporting in, they'd know something was wrong.
I shifted my weight, calculating angles, timing, distances. If I struck now, I'd have less than thirty seconds before his teamrealized something was wrong. Not enough time to help the patients, find an exit, and escape.
Hunter would know what to do here.
Focus, Misha. The patients first. Then escape. Then vengeance.
I forced myself to stay hidden, watching for an opportunity that never came. My fingernails dug into my palms, drawing blood that ran hot between my fingers.
