A chill moves down my spine as I play back his words. He’s given me more questions than answers, during his brief reappearance in my life.
What is this mysterious ‘it’ he keeps referring to?
Why does he think I, of all people, have it?
And, while I understand he thinks it’s ‘necessary’ that I run for my life… what the fuck is with the French?
I stand beside Conor on the porch, leaning heavily against the wood railing as the agents lead Paul slowly toward the waiting van. Hearing my deep sigh, he glances over at me, brows raised.
“That was… interesting.”
“I was going to sayunhinged, but sure.” I shrug. “Interesting works.”
“Don’t worry. We’ll get him in an interrogation room, calm him down, and sort out the truth. Sykes can be very…persuasive… when she wants something.”
My brows lift and, before I can shut down the thought, I find myself wondering about Conor’s relationship with the pretty blonde agent.
Has she used her powers of persuasion on him in a non-professional capacity?
I don’t have a chance to wonder for more than a second. The inappropriate notion flies out of my mind entirely when an unfamiliar whizzing sound splits the midnight sky.
Before I’ve managed to so much as turn my head to look, I’m tackled to the porch. The wind is snatched from my lungs as Conor’s body comes down hard on top of mine. He’s crushing my ribs — I can hardly draw a breath — but I don’t care about that in the slightest, because my mind has finally processed what that strange whirring is, peppering the air with increasing frequency.
Shots.
From a silencer.
On a gun.
A freaking gun.
A gun someone is firing at us.
My blood runs cold as I hear the sharp metallic zing of bullets striking the van, lodging in the aluminum door panels. We’re painfully exposed out here on the porch. Even with Conor lying on top of me, sheltering my body with his own, I don’t feel remotely safe. He shifts, reaching down to extract the gun from the holster strapped to his thigh.
“Don’t move,” he barks, rolling off me into a crouch and taking shelter behind a narrow balustrade column. “Stay low.”
I nod, but he’s no longer looking at me. His eyes are scanning the dark street, searching for the source of the gunfire. Through the narrow railings, I squint to make out the black van in the driveway. It looks like a slice of Swiss cheese, it’s so full of holes. Both FBI agents are crouched behind the hood, returning fire. If Paul is with them, I don’t see him anywhere.
Plink!
Plink!
Plink!
More shots, firing faster with each passing moment. I gasp and duck my head when a bullet lodges itself in the gabled porch roof ten feet overhead, sending down a shower of sawdust. Another strikes the ornate lamp fixture mounted beside my front door, shattering it into unrecognizable shards that spill across the stoop.
I fear the next round might hit something far less replaceable.
Namely, one of us.
“We have to move,” Conor says, grabbing me by the hand and dragging me along behind him. I’m on my hands and knees, half-crawling, half-crouching as we make our way along the front section of the porch, then take a sharp left around the side of the house. Momentarily safe, we press our backs tight to the shingled wall and haul in deep gulps of air.
We’re out of direct range.
For now.
I can’t say the same for Paul or the other agents, though. My quiet neighborhood has turned into a war zone. The night sky is still a flurry of flying bullets — and there’s no doubt in my mind about who’s pulling the triggers.