Blush(92)
Don’t even think about coming outside, hear me? he’d yelled.
Was a numb nod a promise?
She had run upstairs, naked and shivering. And she had the Beretta. Loaded, safety off. But she wasn’t damn well hiding in any frigging closet. One, because she’d be trapped in there if some bad guy came hunting for her, and two, this situation was her problem, not Cruz’s. She was damned if she let him put himself in danger to protect her. No matter how sweetly chivalrous the gesture.
She paused just long enough to pull on black jeans and a long-sleeved black T-shirt and dark boat shoes and grab up her purse. She wasn’t likely to hurt anyone with a pen, but the laser pointer might come in handy.
Mia’s fingers tightened on the butt of the gun as she took the stairs two at a time at breakneck speed in the dark. Easing open the back door, she listened for any unnatural sounds. Just bugs, crickets, and the occasional splash of water. For now.
She sprinted across the rickety wood deck and took the three broad stairs in a running leap before the next barrage of gunshots sounded. Where were they?
Somewhere amidst the overgrown garden? No. The last shot had sounded farther away.
On the street? From behind the high stone wall of the graveyard? The shot sounded incredibly loud in the thick, muggy moonlit darkness. There were three other dilapidated mansions on the street. All empty. Spooky dark now. Overgrown landscaping just as her house had been. Cruz and the gunman could be damn well anywhere.
Her entire being was her elevated heartbeat as Mia ran, hugging the deep shadows of the high bushes on the left side of the long driveway. Gravel flew up to sting her ankles, sockless in her shoes. Tree branches grabbed at her arms and snagged in her hair as she moved through the dappled darkness.
The next loud report made her body jerk in reaction. That was followed immediately by another. A shout of pain, the pounding, uneven beat of running footsteps on something hard. Cement?
Years of jogging stood Mia in good stead as she ate up the distance, but her adrenaline and fear had her heartbeat pounding faster than it ever had in her life. Even advanced exercise classes at the gym or her tyrant personal trainer pushing her body to the point of collapse could not have prepared her for this full-out, panting sprint with her own and Cruz’s lives at stake. With strength and power beyond her human capacity, she raced to the end of the too-long driveway where the giant oak spread its branches to lay down a black shadow-blanket on the ground.
Into the moonlight once again. Every blade of grass, every rock and stone thrown by her foot strikes in stark, high-relief black-and-white. She was a flesh-and-blood and breathing ghost in a world of shadows and moonlight. It was surreal. It was unimaginable fear.
Her labored breathing sounded loud in her ears as she veered left, her feet pounding down the hard-packed dirt that ran parallel to the high, crumbling stone wall surrounding the cemetery.
The lacy wrought-iron gate stood ajar. Frozen that way for decades. Surely not enough room for a man to squeeze through, even if he was determined. She was smaller, and a lot more single-minded. She slipped through the hard lace, eyes searching, ears pricked, manic heartbeat uneven, and loud. God, it was loud. Her fingers tightened painfully around the grip of the 9mm semiautomatic as she slowly scanned the surrounding area.
City of the Dead. Great. As if this whole thing wasn’t scary enough. Gravel roads and walkways intersected between the crypts. She tried to walk on the grassy weeds.
Where were they? Mia stopped, flattening her spine against a brick mausoleum as she listened. Muted voices. Male. Cruz having a conversation with the shooter? The voices gave her a direction. She darted across to a mossy angel on a pedestal. Paused to catch her breath. Dear God, she needed to breathe—her abused lungs struggled to take in more air. She covered her mouth with her hand and inhaled through her nose, trying to regulate her breathing, then crept out of that shadow and made for the next. Underfoot, gravel, weeds, dead flowers, broken bottles.
Another barrage of shots came from the right, indicating the end of the conversation. She headed that way, keeping low now, slinking between monoliths of cement and marble.
Old death and new death.
Eyes dry and constantly scanning the area for danger, she prayed. Please God, let Cruz be okay.
Pleasepleaseplease.
• • •
Four hit men sent for Mia, for fucksake? Whoever had hired him had hedged his bet. Talk about overkill. Cruz knew where they were; he’d seen four muzzle flares in the last five minutes.
The tomb city had street-like rows of high marble and cement edifices, allowing anyone to hide behind the structures standing fully upright. Knee-high weeds grew in thick patches on the narrow paths of crushed shell between the eight- and ten-foot-high tombs. It crunched underfoot, no matter how lightly one stepped. Some of the doors stood ajar, perfect hiding places.