Page 54 of Whisked Away By the Alien

“No one here except warehouse workers, alien. You’re trespassing. Leave,” Wilson orders loud enough that I hear him all the way back here. He sounds pissed off, too.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

The footsteps are so close.

“Golda is here. I’m sure of it.” Stenikov’s voice gives me hope, but he’s in danger and doesn’t even know it. Five against one. If he doesn’t leave, those men will kill him. The weapons they’re dealing are illegal. They won’t risk him discovering their secret.

My stomach lurches at the click of a gun cocking. “Trouble?” a man calls out to Wilson. He’s so close! Just when I think he’s found me, his footsteps grow faint. He’s walking away. Toward Sten!

How do I warn Sten without getting myself killed?

Slowly, as quietly as possible, I remove and open my pocket knife. Raised voices up front echo through the warehouse, but I’m too focused on cutting the layers of shrink wrap without making any noise to absorb what they’re saying. Once I’m through the plastic, I grab a jar of pickles, sneak to the edge of the pallet, and look both ways. A guy with a thick beard pokes his gun between the pallets on the other side of the aisle as he snakes his way toward the front of the warehouse.

As hard as I can, I lob the glass jar at him. I don’t expect to hit him from thirty feet away, but I don’t need to. The bottle lands all of ten feet from me, but when it crashes and explodes, the man spins around and shoots at it.

Gunfire erupts in the distance. “Get that fucking alien!” Wilson screams.

As I arm myself with another jar of pickles, the massive guy hauls me into the aisle by my coat. “I have the female,” my six-foot two captor shouts.

“Sten!” I yell.

“Kill her!” Ridge orders.

When I hear a gun cock behind me, I spin and slam the pickle jar against the man’s head.

Blood runs down his temple. Dazed, he raises his gun hand to touch the wound. He looks stunned. I am too, but I don’t freeze up. Not this time. I break free of his hold and run as fast as I can.

Since I’m in charge of inventory, I know every twist and turn of this convoluted layout, but these killers can be around the very next corner. That guy almost killed me.

Stenikov! Oh my god, what if he’s injured or worse? I have to find him!

I force myself to slow down as I near the end of the next aisle, but I can’t stand here as my attacker regains his wits. My heart leaps into my throat as I listen for the slightest sound… and turn past the end-cap. No one’s there. I keep going, passing one, two aisles before ducking down the next one.

An eerie silence blanketing the warehouse prompts me to find another hiding spot. No one’s moving. Does that mean Sten is dead?Please, let him be okay!

Crawling into another space where I could be trapped scares the hell out of me, so I settle for crouching beside a pallet of road salt that’s sitting partway in the aisle.

“Show yourself, Birnbaum,” Wilson calls out from three or four aisles over. “You can’t escape. I have men at every exit and the alien is dead.”

No!

Wilson’s words leave me gutted. My hands shake and I want to throw up. Sten can’t be dead. He can’t be. I love him.

“I tell you what, Birnbaum. We’ll pay you to keep your mouth shut. Even better, we can work out a deal going forward. With you fudging the records, we’ll be able to expand our operation. You’ll get a steady cut. A win-win for everyone.”

My fingers dig into the pallet. I can’t be a sniveling coward, not until I know for sure what’s happened to Sten. I can’t trust anything Wilson says. Sten could still be alive. Maybe injured. I have to find him.

When I edge out of my hiding spot, a man grabs my arm and pulls me to my feet. “I have her!”

If Sten is dead, it’s because of this asshole. My fists clench and I swing at him with all my might. And miss! But I’m mad, beyond mad. Sten could be bleeding out and this guy’s keeping me from finding him.

I keep swinging and kicking, determined to hurt this low-life because right now I want to hurt the entire universe for whatever’s happened to Sten. The arms dealer sweeps my legs and sends me crashing to the ground.

My head and back strike the concrete, knocking the air from my lungs. For what feels like an eternity, I can’t breathe. Then suddenly air rushes in and I open my eyes expecting to see a gun pointed at me.

Instead, my attacker lies on the ground two feet away, blood pooling beneath him, his throat sliced open like a ripe watermelon.

I seal my eyes shut, figuring I’m next. Someone scoops me off the ground and presses me against a solid chest. Confusion disorients me until I breathe in a scent I know better than my name.

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