Chapter Twenty-Eight
Hot air slams into me. I step onto the gravel roof, swinging around, sweeping my surroundings and putting my back to the nearest wall.
An orange setting sun lowers between two tall buildings, winking at me as I edge around what appears to be a small storage shed.
Thick with humidity, the warm wind lazes over the building, in contrast to my rapidly beating heart. I wipe my brow, steady my breathing.
I attempt to focus on what’s right in front of me instead of what might wait around the corner.
I may kill people for a living, but I don’t usually do stuff like this.
I am no James Bond, no Villanelle; I am not trained to clear a room like a soldier, I’ve never had official training other than common sense, tips from Ian, and what I’ve taught myself.
And I’ve never been up against someone else with a gun in their hand.
Though it is dinnertime. Even killers have to eat.
Maybe whoever this is has removed his finger from the trigger, is munching happily on a turkey sandwich he packed himself.
I imagine a baggie of carrot sticks, perhaps some Pringles, or pretzels if he’s avoiding saturated fat like my husband.
I add a chocolate chip cookie to this imaginary meal.
My phone vibrates against my hip where I’ve silenced it—probably fifteen minutes have passed by now. Shit, Brian is going to be pissed. He’s likely staring at our dinner, wondering where the hell I am, or maybe knocking gently on the door to the ladies’ room calling, “Nadia? Darling?”
Looking around every corner of a raised concrete section, I search for the reason I came up here: the actual shooter. The person whose scope I saw flash in the sun. I see nothing, no one, and I hesitate.
A lot of things can reflect light, can look like a scope glinting against the sunshine. Why am I so sure it’s another hitter, come for me or my husband? I lick my lips, wish I’d brought lip balm because even in this oven of a place, I need it.
I can’t believe I just disrupted my tenth-anniversary dinner for a compact mirror in an apartment bathroom, a particularly shiny window, a—
A bang deafens me. My skin stings where concrete explodes from the wall where I crouch, showering me in debris.
I duck down and away, circling the closest wall, clutching my gun to my chest like it’s a rosary, and I’m ready to pray to whichever god is listening to save me.
Guess I wasn’t imagining it.
I creep around the other side of the rooftop structure, legs bent to stay low, gun extended and finger over the trigger.
Whoever this is has two things: One, a handgun.
Which means they’ve likely abandoned their post and are on the move.
And two, a suppressor—or, as people call them in movies (incorrectly, might I add), a silencer. He’s no doubt a professional.
One, two, three minutes creep by. There are no noises, save for distant sounds from the street below. My phone vibrates again and again, and I ignore it, all of my focus on my opponent.
I know I should be patient, that in theory, I should wait out whoever this is.
But I can’t—Brian is waiting for me at the restaurant.
And I won’t let them kill him before I do.
I back out of my hiding place, but before I can scurry into another position—hopefully one that gives me an advantage—there’s a scuffle of footsteps behind me.
I whip around.
My gun raises, trigger finger ready.
I start to pull it, to end the life of the human right in front of me.
Their gun is aimed back at me, right at my head, an odd choice for someone who knows what they’re doing—the rule is to always, always, aim for the chest. It’s a bigger target, a likelier success.
But I do know one person who is cocky enough to aim for a smaller target.
He doesn’t shoot. Neither do I.
I blink in shock at the man standing across from me. Then I lower my gun, take a halting breath, watch as he lets his fall too.
A growl comes from my throat. “What the fuck are you doing up here?”