Page 23 of Wraith: Lethal Impact

Proximity is going to be what kills me.

6

The Innocent

LILY

The scent of cheap incense and stale smoke drags me out of the dark.

My eyes snap open. The disorientation is violent, a collision between the last twenty-four hours of terror and the bizarre reality of my surroundings.

I'm lying on a circular bed. The sheets beneath me are cold, slick black satin. An ornate wrought-iron cage surrounds the mattress, thick bars rising toward the ceiling.

The air is hot and close. The only light is a blood-red glow bleeding through the velvet curtains drawn across the window.

The memories crash in.

The dressing room. The concussive blasts of the rifles. Andrea's screams echoing down the service corridor. The heat of the alleyway. The rain. The blood. The kiss. The stolen sedan tearing through the neon underbelly of Bangkok.

I bolt upright, my heart hammering against my ribs.

My hand shoots to my chest, fingers closing around the silver casing of my father's compass. Still there, cold and solid against my sternum. The anchor.

I force my breathing to slow, drawing the stale, incense-heavy air into my lungs.

I'm in a motel room. A gothic dungeon designed for illicit, anonymous encounters. And I'm not alone.

My gaze sweeps the shadowed room and lands on the corner.

He's in the velvet chair. He hasn't moved. A still silhouette against the red glow, his Kevlar lying discarded near the bathroom door. Shirtless. The harsh light throws shadows across the jagged scars covering his chest and abdomen.

He's wide awake. His gray eyes are locked on the soundproofed door, the scavenged 9mm resting in his right hand.

He's a killer. A weapon.

And he's the only reason I'm still breathing.

Heat flushes through my veins, independent of the terror. The memory of the alleyway surges forward, pushing past the trauma. The rough, calloused texture of his hand against my face. The crushing weight of his body pressed against mine. The raw hunger of the kiss I initiated.

I force the memory down, shoving heat and terror both into a tight box in the back of my mind.

I can't afford the luxury of attraction.

Andrea is gone. Taken by armed men who shot their way through a crowded theater. She's terrified. She's alone. And every second we sit in this red-lit dungeon is a second she slips further away.

I swing my legs over the edge of the bed, my running shoes hitting the gaudy crimson carpet.

"We need a plan." My voice is steady, a tempered whisper cutting through the silence.

He doesn't look at me. His gaze stays fixed on the door.

"We have a plan." His voice is gravel, stripped of emotion. "We stay off the grid. We maintain radio silence for forty-eight hours until Command establishes the blind drop."

"Forty-eight hours?" The timeline hits like a slap. I stand, closing the distance between the bed and his chair. "We don't have forty-eight hours. They took Andrea. We don't know where she is."

"And we're not going to find out from this room." He finally turns his head, gray eyes locking onto mine. "The objective has changed. Task Force 9 is compromised. The safehouse coordinates were leaked. We're the primary targets of a Consortium sweep now. Our only priority is survival."

"What is the Consortium?" The word feels heavy, coated in blood. "Why are they hunting me? Why did they take Andrea?"