Total pages in book: 115
Estimated words: 107079 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 535(@200wpm)___ 428(@250wpm)___ 357(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 107079 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 535(@200wpm)___ 428(@250wpm)___ 357(@300wpm)
I ran back to Edgar, called him a ride, and waited with him until it arrived. When I checked over my shoulder, Gennadiy was gone.
Once Edgar was safe, I headed home alone. I took a shower to try to unwind, but it was no good: my mind kept running over everything. What would have happened if I’d kissed him?
I crawled into bed, but I could only manage a fitful, broken sleep. Maybe that’s why I came awake so easily when I heard the noise. I knew instantly what it was: the soft tinkle of the wind chimes in the living room, blowing in the breeze.
Someone had just opened the door from my balcony.
Every muscle in my body tensed. But I took a shuddering breath and forced myself to move slowly: I didn’t want the intruder to know I was awake. I reached into the nightstand and grabbed my gun, then clicked off the safety. Feeling better, I slid out of bed and crept across the room in just panties and a nightshirt.
At the bedroom door, I held my breath and listened. Nothing.
I waited, willing my hammering heart to slow. Still nothing. I began to relax. Maybe it was a random draft or—
A creak from the hallway. Fuck. I got my gun up and hauled open the door. I was braced to see somebody there, but it still made my stomach lurch when I saw the silhouette of a man standing ten feet from me. “FBI! Hands where I can see them!” I yelled. I aimed right at his chest. The figure threw its hands in the air.
And then realization hit. We’d nearly kissed at the restaurant. Now he’d come here to finish what we’d started.
Relief sluiced through me...and in its wake, I could feel traitorous, silvery excitement unfurling in my chest. I quickly lowered the gun and tried to sound mad. “Jesus Christ, Gennadiy! I almost shot you!”
Both of us stepped forward. The light coming through the window fell across him.
It wasn’t Gennadiy.
21
ALISON
The guy was all in black, wearing a ski mask. I tried to get my gun back up, but we were too close, and he was too quick. He grabbed the gun in one meaty hand and slammed it against the wall. My knuckles banged into the hard plaster, and the gun went flying out of my hand.
Fuck. I took two running steps backwards, trying to open up some space and give myself some thinking time. Everything was happening too fast, and it didn’t help that my mind was awash with a hot wave of humiliation. You let him get close because you were weak-kneed at the thought that Gennadiy was here to fuck you. You fucking idiot, Alison.
And then it got worse: the guy reached behind him and pulled a gun out of his belt. Now he was armed, and I wasn’t. My stomach dropped, and I pushed the shame aside. I could beat myself up later. I had to focus, or I was going to die here.
I jumped forward before he could aim and kicked him hard in the shin, then followed up with a vicious punch to his kidney. He grunted, but he didn’t stop. The barrel of the gun moved towards my face, and I grabbed it and pushed it up–
The gun went off, and plaster fell from the ceiling. Then again, and this time the barrel was so close to me that I smelled my hair singe. He wrenched left and right, trying to break my grip on the gun so he could aim right at me…
I suddenly stepped back, pulling him off balance. As he stumbled forward, I snapped out a front kick that hit him right in the face.
He fell to the floor, and I dodged past him, then sprinted to my front door and grabbed the handle. The gun boomed again, and the bullet missed me by inches, digging into the wall. I threw open the door and sprinted down the hallway and out of the building, barefoot–
And then the universe must have decided to give me a break because a Chicago PD cruiser was driving down the street, no more than fifty feet away. “Hey!” I yelled, waving my arms. “Hey!”
A half hour later, I was standing outside my building, now dressed and nursing a takeout coffee. Caroline had arrived first, screeching to a stop in her blue minivan with toys littering the backseat. She’d hugged me for about a minute straight, refusing to let go. Then Halifax, Hadderwell, and Fitch had shown up. My apartment was now a crime scene, being crawled over by lab techs. There was no sign of the intruder. The cops I’d flagged down had raced inside with guns drawn, but the guy had already fled.
Halifax was pacing around, furious that someone would dare to attack one of his agents in her own home. “I’m getting a warrant for the son-of-a-bitch’s arrest,” he told me. And he pulled out his phone and started talking.