Chapter 61
970words
I've been watching the outside of the house for half an hour. In that time, the sun has begun to set. The long shadows it creates have been the only movement. 'Are they really in there?" I whisper to Sergio.
He nods rapidly. His face is swollen from last night. I've given him some water, but nothing else. My kindness only goes so far with my enemies. It's funny, but once upon a time, Sergio and I worked together. I thought of him as a sarcastic, loud joker. But now, he's nothing more than a pathetic, sniveling mess.
Mila inches closer to me, talking in my ear. 'I haven't spotted anybody coming or going. If they're in there, I can't tell."
'The blinds are shut," I note.
'They're keeping a low profile; they wouldn't risk being seen from the street," she says.
I rub my chin anxiously. My calves are cramping from how long I've held my position. The worst pain, however, is my heart, which aches to see Camila again. Knowing she could be just a few yards away is torture.
'You still think it's a trap?" I ask.
Mila sighs, then gives Sergio a hard shove. His hands are bound behind his back; he promptly falls onto his face with a grunt. 'This mudak is a bad liar. I don't think he could fake this."
I nod patiently, but inside, my blood is buzzing. I'm looking for any excuse to go inside. 'I haven't seen a single lookout. Where are the cops?"
Sergio spits out dirt. 'Witness protection is about secrecy. The less people who know, the better."
Mila gives him a hard kick. 'Thanks for the obvious. Your spy could have told anyone about this house; we don't know who's inside. Asher, maybe I should go for a closer look first."
'No. I want to act. Yannick's men could show up and intervene when we're trying to get Camila away." Flexing my fingers on my pistol, I creep from behind the bushes toward the side of the house. I hear Mila mumble something about me being pig-headed, but I see the movement of her gagging Sergio from the corner of my eye before she follows my heels.
The plan is to leave him under the hedges, out of sight. Tied as he is, he can't escape or warn anyone that we're here. If Camila is really inside, I won't harm Sergio. Lock him away where he can't aid in the war? Certainly.
But … if he's lying …
He's a dead man.
I motion with two fingers for Mila to stand on the left side of the door. She does exactly that, slipping one of her knives from her belt, holding it at chest height. Drawing my pistol, I keep it under my jacket. One. Two. Three. A single twist of the knob, a punch forward, and the door swings wide.
Mila rushes in first. I slip behind her into the house. The lights are on; I can see the kitchen from where I stand, as well as the open door of what seems to be a bedroom. The place is tiny.
In a quick movement that would put an Olympic sprinter to shame, Mila enters the bedroom, then another door behind me. I lean over to see inside—it's a bathroom. 'Nobody is here," she says in a tense voice.
'Is there anything in the bedroom? Anything anywhere that indicates Camila was here?"
Mila shrugs, flipping her knife from one hand to the next; her adrenaline is pumping and has nowhere to go. I know the feeling. 'I saw some clothes. It was messy, like someone left in a hurry."
Frowning pensively, I walk toward the kitchen. On a small table is a white plate piled with half-eaten silver dollar pancakes. My eyes roam to one side, spotting the cold pan still on the stove, the mixing bowl crusted with batter.
'Asher," Mila says. She crouches by the fridge, then holds up a metal fork with crumbs clinging to the tines. Her eyes narrow warily.
I take another step into the kitchen. 'What happened—" Glass shatters, interrupting my question. It's the window above the kitchen sink. It's shattered by something puncturing the panes.
'Get down!" Mila shouts at me. She rolls into the corner by the fridge. I'm already throwing myself onto the tile floor.
Shit, someone is shooting at us! Mila was right. This was a trap.
I push up on my elbows—more bullets pierce the window, some coming through the walls. Dust and stucco fragments rain down on me. I peek upward, searching for the source of the attack. As I do, I notice something on the edge of the sink directly above me.
'Asher!" Mila yells over the barrage of gunshots. 'Asher! We need to go now!"
I'm not listening. I can't. My world is swaying; it's all I can do to focus enough to remember not to raise my head. All around me is death, but in front of me is a sign of hope. On bent knee, I inch toward the sink. Mila sees what I'm doing. She starts to shout at me; new pops from the guns drown her out.
Stretching my arm just enough, I grab what I'm after. Bullets pepper the window where I am, showering me with shards of glass. Ignoring the threat of having my skin cut to ribbons, I examine my prize.
My prayer beads are sticky.
A distinct scent of sugary maple hangs around them. It masks her scent, but my memories pull it to the surface with precision. I rub my thumb on the beads' surface to wipe away the smears of dust clinging to the wood, caused by bullet impacts.
Sergio was telling the truth. Camila was here.
But I'm too late.
