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He’s heavily armed and wearing full assault kit.
Chapter Thirteen
My scalp tenses.
The shock of seeing the agent in assault gear cracks my attention open. In the hairline of a second between fear, panic, and self preservation, a blade of light sweeps over my mind. Somehow, even through his black combat gear, I see something inside him.
I duck behind the bar, but I’m too slow. He’s seen me.
From his thick, heavy-soled boots to the dull black helmet and his shining black visor, all I can see of the DEA agent is armor and weapons. He has a pistol, a long knife and grenades on his belt. And an automatic assault rifle in his hands. He lifts his weapon and aims the automatic rifle at me.
But in the center of him, I feel a glow. A watery silver shine, pulsing steadily.
I feel the center of it, soft, warm. Alive, like a beating heart. Part solid, part air. As I see and feel it, I hold it in my mind. Cupping it firmly, squeezing, I can make the pulse slow.
The agent’s knees sag. His grip, aiming the rifle, droops. I feel heat in his glow. He’s struggling. I close my grip around his light more, holding onto the pulsing essence. Calming it. Slowing it.
He drops to the floor. Kneels. Sits back. Then slumps forward.
I dash across the room. First, I reach for the rifle. His hands stick to the barrel and the grip like putty. But I pull. He lets go. He rolls forward and down onto his side. I sling the rifle’s strap over my shoulder.
Quickly, I take his pistol and the long knife. His neck is impossible to find between his helmet and the thick, rolled collar. I try for his wrist, above the gauntlet and under his sleeve. The pulse is faint, but it’s distinct.
I didn’t realize I’d been holding my breath. I can’t understand what’s happened, what I’ve done. But I know I need to get away.
As I fling open the nearest door, I’m looking into the faceless visors of half a dozen more armed and armored agents. Their heads tilt to sight along the gun barrels.
I slam the door shut and duck down, fast. The top part of the door splinters as a loud drum roll of gunfire rips it apart. I jump for a keg on its side. Roll it in front of the door and haul it upright.
It will delay them for a couple of seconds at most.
I sprint for the stairway behind the bar and hurl myself down the steps two at a time.
At the bottom of the steps, my knee bangs against the iron safe. I’m only grateful it’s so solid and heavy that it doesn’t make a sound. My feet slip as I scramble for the ramp. My knee feels like a volcano erupted underneath it.
I’m halfway up the ramp before I hear boots on the steps. Turning to look back, my foot twists and I slip.
Sitting, twisted, I see the armored agent on the steps. I pull the handgun out of my waistband and aim it, one-handed. The agent stops. My other hand is in the dirt on the ramp. I push up, but I slip. The agent goes to move. I straighten my gun arm. He stays still.
I scramble to my feet. And I run.
At the airport, the car rental agent wants to note, count, and photograph every speck of dirt on the seats. And he wants to take his time about it.
Blake has booked me on a flight to Missouri and I know I’m going to be wetting myself, looking out for the DEA, until I’m off the ground. I want to get out of there so bad. I’m panicking so hard, and I’m expecting the rental agent to brush out the dirt out, and collect every fragment so he can weigh it.
I want to tell him to just bill me for the whole car, but I’m afraid it would only take longer, and then end with him telling me I can’t leave it parked here.
When I’m finally airborne, I reacquaint myself with my new best friends, Mr. Fever Tree and Ms. Bombay Sapphire.
Before the final approach, I find a new text message on the burner phone.
text message
Sorry I couldn’t wait.
Did you find it?
Chapter Fourteen
