8 CONNOR
“I think the girl’s going to kill me,” I said when her eyes shot daggers at me through the glass.
The faint menthol-and-antiseptic smell of the place felt strangely familiar. As if, for a few moments, I was back in my comfort zone.
I flipped on the main light to see better, and the white walls and bluish glow flooded my vision, making me dizzy. I leaned against a cold surface to keep from falling. Whatever they’d slipped in my drink last night had been strong—the kind of stuff that costs a fortune at any upscale L.A. club.
Eyes closed, trying to stop my head from spinning, I felt something touch my hand. That’s when I realized I was leaning on the medical examiner’s cold table—and apparently he’d been working on someone recently.
I lifted the cloth, hoping it was Bob, but it was an elderly man.
“Maybe that’s why the receptionist bought Samantha’s ridiculous story.”
I took a breath and went to the wall of drawers. Almost all were empty, except for two. The first held the body of a woman who’d already been examined.
As I pulled the second drawer out a bit, holding my breath, I heard sounds from the hallway. My fingers went to my gun instinctively, even though I knew I wasn’t in immediate danger.
The drawer’s rollers slid further, and I recognized part of a tattoo on the completely mangled flesh of Bob’s torso.
I shuddered—not from the brutality of the blows Bob had taken, though that made my blood boil.
With each passing second I felt more furious and frustrated...
each day less rational about what I’d do when I got the chance to strike back.
The sounds from the hallway left no room for grief. I needed to stay focused if I wanted that chance.
I turned my attention to the filing cabinet in the corner of the room. Bob’s folder was right on top.
“The medical examiner hasn’t touched him yet,” I muttered.
All I had was the preliminary report from the crime scene. I pulled Samantha’s phone from my pocket and photographed the key details.
I took one last look at Bob before leaving the room behind.
“I’ll get them back, buddy... even if I have to share a drink with you in hell to do it.” I paid my last respects to the man who’d saved my life a dozen times in the field. The man I’d shared the darkest missions and most bitter victories with.
Before leaving the room, I grabbed the lab coat hanging near the door and a surgical mask in a futile attempt to look less American.
Luckily, the medical examiner’s room opens from the inside, and I managed to slip out before the real examiner returned—though I still needed to figure out how I’d get through the other locked doors without an access card.
A skinny young guy in scrubs passed through my first obstacle, and I managed to catch the door before it closed completely.
Unfortunately—or fortunately—I wasn’t so lucky with the next one. I approached the panel, looking for a way in, but there wasn’t any. It was a dual system.
Suddenly a deep voice spoke up behind me, and I didn’t understand a single word. The weight of the gun at my waist offered a noisy solution while my eyes scanned the space for a plan B.
I couldn’t help but crack a half smile when I spotted the souvenir Samantha had left behind. I waved, buying time until my finger reached the access card and pressed it to the reader. The door opened and I slipped out as fast as I could, followed by the guard barking orders in his native language.
“Sorry. Shukran.”
The young woman at reception jumped when I ran past her toward the street. My feet were spending less and less time on the ground, the wind rushing past me. I noticed the guard reach for his holster as I burst outside, and I reached for my waist.
But before I could pull the gun from my waistband, I heard a whistle from across the street. Samantha was waving at me, drawing the attention of the guard, who was now aiming at both of us.
“RUN!” I shouted at her from under the mask.
“I—”
I ripped the mask off my face and shouted again.
“I SAID: RUUUN!” I blew past her, grabbing her arm to see if a good yank would get her moving.
“I can’t believe you left me behind,” she fumed breathlessly as we ran through the alleys in the upper part of the city.
“You want to discuss this now?” I glanced back—the guard was running with everything he had.
We tore through the alleys and past small shops still going full steam. The man followed close behind.
“I wanted to help you and you threw me to the lions.” Samantha slowed down. She was flagging.
“Okay. You want to discuss.” I doubled back a few steps and stared at her, irritated, seeing she’d just stopped cold. “But I don’t have time for this.”
Without thinking, I grabbed her by the waist and threw her over my shoulder.
“LET ME GO! Are you crazy?!” she screamed as I carried her through an alley. I didn’t respond. I ran until the guard lost our trail.
When we were at a safe distance, I set her down.
“Never. Touch. Me. Again,” she hissed through her teeth. “What the hell was going through your head?”
“Semper Fi.”
“Is that French for ‘I’m a huge asshole’?” she snapped, adjusting her clothes—which only now I noticed were showing more than they should, revealing toned, tanned thighs. I shook my head, turning my attention back to the street, pushing those images from my mind.
“Semper fidelis,” I repeated, pushing her further into the corner so we'd be hidden from view at the end of the street. “It's Latin... a Marine motto. Always faithful.”
I stared at her. The anger in her eyes was like fuel, making the amber color burn even more intensely.
“Marines don't leave anyone behind... Even those who don't seem to know how to express gratitude for it.” The warmth of her breath on my face made me realize I'd gotten too close.
Our bodies occupied the space of one, our breaths mingling.
“You're welcome,” I said before pulling away and taking off the lab coat I was still wearing.
Samantha started walking, stomping her feet like a bratty child, and I followed. Navigating this place without a guide was a test of memory. The alleys would be practically identical if not for the delicate, diverse ceramic mosaics decorating the walls and floors everywhere.
We didn't exchange a word along the way, and every now and then, when the street fell quiet enough, I could hear her heavy breathing.
“We can slow down now, if you need to rest,” I said amicably—or at least that's what I intended when the words left my mouth.
What I certainly didn't intend was for my innocent words to sound offensive enough to earn me a cold, deadly look.
“You can go slower if you want. At your age, I wouldn't risk it.”
“You talk like I'm seventy years old.”
“Sorry, detective.” She stared at me mockingly. “Actually, you look like you're eighty. But I didn't want to sound rude.”
She went back to stomping her feet until we got home. There, the marching footsteps gave way to doors opening and slamming wildly.
I lay down on the bed and closed my eyes. My head felt like it was bleeding from the countless times she opened and slammed the kitchen cabinet door and dragged the chair around—clearly just to irritate me.
“Okay. You win.” I suddenly got up from the bed and went to the kitchen as she slammed the cabinet door one last time, causing it to come off in her hand. “I shouldn't have left you outside.”
Samantha was holding the cabinet door like Captain America holds his shield.
I took a deep breath, controlling my own irritation. I'd known the girl for less than seventy-two hours, and since then my head had been killing me.
“I didn't mean any harm,” I admitted. “You may not believe it, but it was for your own good.”
She huffed.
“I didn't want you to see Bob like that.” My words seemed to soften her posture a little. “I didn't want you throwing up on my shoes.”
She growled and threw the cabinet door at me, then crossed the narrow apartment toward the bathroom.
“Sorry.” I set the door on the counter and followed her, catching up at the bathroom door. “I was a jerk.”
“Again.”
“This time.”
Samantha tried to put distance between us, but I stopped her.
“I'm sorry,” I repeated, this time more calmly.
Samantha kept her eyes on mine. Flashes burned through my mind, and I found myself staring at her lips, which she moistened slowly—intentionally or not.
I released her arm, afraid of squeezing it too hard... or worse...
“Did you at least get what you wanted?” she asked, staring at me. I nodded.
She didn't say another word and went into the bathroom. I stood there wrestling with my thoughts, wondering if the kiss had been as vivid for her as it was for me.
And that thought didn't leave my sleepless mind all night as she slept beside me once again, as if we were old friends who did this every day—not two people who'd known each other for just a few short days.