Secret Worlds (533 page)

My hands were shaking violently as I punched in the security code on the keypad, my sweat-slick fingers sliding on the small buttons, all the while chanting the numbers over and over in my head so I wouldn’t screw it up. The sound of the lock releasing was almost deafening in the otherwise silent room, and my shoulders loosened a little as I let out a sighing breath I hadn’t even realized I was holding. Popping the safe open I froze, my eyes wide.

Holy crap, that’s a lot of guns,
I thought staring at the collection of shotguns, rifles, and hand guns.

For a brief moment I wondered what the hell somebody would need that many weapons for, and then I remembered why I was there and reached for the most recognizable gun. Grabbing the revolver I flipped open the cylinder, cursing aloud when I found it empty.

“Ah fuck!”

Looking back to the safe, my heart sank as my eyes fell on the shelf filled with boxes of ammo. My grandfather had tried to teach me how to shoot when I was younger, figuring that if I could fish I should know how to hunt too. While I wasn’t at all squeamish about catching, unhooking, and gutting the fish we caught, my feelings towards the cute and fuzzy critters inhabiting the woods was another matter entirely. It seemed kind of ridiculous now, given the fact that I regularly gorged myself on those very same furry little creatures.

Needless to say, I knew which one was the business end of the gun, but beyond that my knowledge of firearms was pretty damn limited.

Pulling boxes off of the shelf I began opening them, and subsequently tossing them aside, as I searched for cartridges that looked like they would fit. I knew that a revolver took single rounds in the cylinder rather than shells like a shot gun. That helped narrow things down a little, but not by much. The longer my search took, the more my hands trembled until I eventually found a box of cartridges that looked to be the right size for the gun. Wiping the sweat off my palms on the front of my shirt, I started loading the bullets one at a time, the distinct tremor in my hand making it far more difficult than it should’ve been.

A cluster of rapid-fire pops from outside made me yelp in surprise and fumble the gun, which fell to the carpet with a thud, spilling half of the rounds out of the cylinder. Nearly blinded by tears of terror and frustration, I jammed the spilled rounds back into the revolver and snapped the cylinder shut, before closing the closet door. Enveloped in darkness, I scooted backwards across the carpet until I was surrounded by Holbrook’s pants. Reaching out for him in the dark, I pulled Loki tight against my hip and thumbed back the hammer. Drawing up my knees, I gripped the gun in both hands, propping them on my raised knees.

And then I waited.

My heart thundered in my ears, and my breaths sounded impossibly loud, as I strained to listen for any other sounds from outside, but heard nothing besides tree branches creaking in the wind.

This is the part where the zombies storm the house,
I thought, sure that I’d been transported to some low budget horror movie.
Maybe, if I’m lucky, I’ve been cast as the plucky heroine who survives to tell the world the tale of how she escaped certain death.

Time stretched out to infinity, filled only with my frantic breaths, as I waited for some sign of life from outside. A muffled thump somewhere close to the house made me squeak in surprise and shuffle further back into the rack of clothes, pressing my back against the wall.

Nope. I’m toast,
I thought, pushing down the scream that fluttered in the back of my throat like a trapped canary.
I’m the girl who just had sex; I die right after the token minority.

Fear was a burning lump in the center of my chest, the solid and familiar weight of Loki pressed against me the only thing keeping me from curling into a panicked ball and giving in to the tears that tracked down my cheeks in a hot trail. From his position crouched in my lap, he let out a low and rumbling growl, no doubt convinced that he could take on Samson, and emerge victorious. I tell you, the sheer size of that cat’s balls.

“It’s okay, buddy,” I whispered, though whether the words were more for his benefit or mine, I couldn’t be sure. Wishing that I was half as brave as my furry friend, all I could do was wait and pray that the powers that be might take pity on me.

The silence was broken by a single gunshot, an ear splitting howl answering it a second later, making the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. And then there was nothing but silence. As much as the gun fire and Samson’s snarls had set me on edge, the silence was a thousand times worse, my mind filled with visions of Samson laid out with a gaping wound between his eyes, or God forbid, Holbrook gutted and bleeding out in the snow. The thought of him dying alone and afraid was like a knife twisting in my heart, and yet the crushing weight of my fear wouldn’t allow me to move from my hidey hole.

My nerves were wound so tight that I nearly let off a shot just at the distant sound of floorboards creaking in the entryway. Someone was in the house and my nose was too clogged from crying for me to be able to sniff out who it was. Fearful tears continued to stream down my cheeks, blurring my vision as I stared at the closet door, afraid of who might come stalking through it.

Footsteps approached at a slow pace on the other side of the door, ratcheting the tension higher with each loud creak of the floor, until I was barely able to breathe through the fear tightening my chest. When the door finally opened and a figure stood silhouetted in the doorway, made blurry by my tears, a wave of panic flooded through me, constricting every muscle in my body. Overcome by pure terror, I squeezed my eyes shut, clenched my teeth, and pulled the trigger.

The gunshot was deafening in the confined space of the closet, but even the ringing in my ears didn’t block out Holbrook’s startled cry.

“Holy shit! Watch it!” he shouted, his blessedly familiar drawl snapping my eyes open.

Blinking away tears, I saw him crouched in the doorway, red faced, winded, and most importantly, not eviscerated. Springing to my feet I threw myself at him, wrapping my arms around his neck, thumping him in the back of the head with the barrel of the gun in the process.

“Ow!” he cried, lifting a hand to rub the back of his head. “How about you let me take that?” he asked, prying my arms from around his neck to pluck the gun from my grip.

“Sorry!” I said sheepishly. “Probably a good idea.”

Retreating to a safe distance and wrapping my arms around myself, I shifted from one foot to the other while watching him check and secure the gun back in the safe. I wasn’t able to fully relax until he turned and faced me, and with an expression of affectionate frustration said, “First order of business when this is all over? Teaching you some gun safety.”

“Yes, Sir!” I said, lifting my hand in a mock salute. Neither of us commented on the violent tremor in my fingers.

“You okay?” he asked, stepping close to me and resting his hands on my shoulders where his thumbs rubbed twin circles on my collar bones. That small touch was one of the greatest things I had ever experienced.

“I think so. What about you? Is Samson dead?” I asked, barely pausing to draw breath, let alone give him time to answer. My eyes flitted from a graze on his cheek to a slash across his chest, the fabric of his shirt torn to reveal bloody flesh beneath. “Are you hurt? Did he bite you?”

“I’m fine, it’s just a scratch,” he said, his voice pitched low and soft in an effort to soothe me. “Samson got away, but not before I winged him. Wherever he is, he’s hurting.”

“Good,” I growled, letting go of some of the tension that had been pounding in my veins for what felt like an eternity, but in reality had only been a few minutes.

At this rate I’m going to need a truck load of Xanax.

Finally assured that each of us were okay, Holbrook’s eyes fell on the mess of random boxes and rounds spread across the floor in a loose circle, a void in the center indicating where I had been crouched while frantically trying to load the revolver. Arching his brows at me in a silent question, I just shrugged.

“You have a lot of guns.”

I WAS FAST becoming a pro at waiting around while Holbrook made calls to FBI headquarters and the police, and busied myself making a fresh pot of coffee. Law enforcement can wipe out a Starbucks in three minutes flat and I had no doubt that the lukewarm, half empty pot wasn’t going to cut it.

While the coffee was brewing I set about digging through the cabinets in the kitchen, and managed to rustle up a package of Oreos and almost moaned aloud in relief. Holbrook obviously didn’t have a sweet tooth like I did. Cookies were a rarity in my house simply because I couldn’t seem to make them last more than a day or two. My dentist frequently berates me about the need to lay off the sweets, and in turn I occasionally pee on his lawn in the middle of the night. It’s the little things in life that bring us the greatest joy.

Pulling mugs down out of the cabinet, I arranged them on the counter while stuffing an Oreo into my mouth.

“How’s it going, Suzy Home Maker?”

I froze like a kid caught with their hand in the cookie jar, and swallowed the lump of half-chewed cookie. Turning around, I found Tillman striding into the kitchen. I didn’t know him as well as Holbrook, but I liked the lanky agent and was glad he hadn’t been part of the detail.

“That’s me. I’m sure to make someone a happy house-wolf someday,” I replied, brushing cookie crumbs off my shirt.

“I can picture it now. You in a frilly little apron with a bunch of cute furry kids scampering about.”

“Are you telling Riley about your twisted fantasies again, Tillman?” Holbrook asked as he came into the kitchen.

“Sick, man. So sick,” I admonished with a smirk as I shook my head at the young man who had turned an interesting shade of red.

“He’s got a crush on you,” Holbrook whispered in my ear when he leaned in close, reaching around me to grab one of the empty mugs.

“Does not,” I hissed in reply even as my cheeks warmed.

Instead of answering, Holbrook flashed me a knowing look as he filled his mug. Scowling at him, I mouthed the words “Hillbilly ass” and turned back to face the pink cheeked young agent.

“Can I get you some coffee, Agent Tillman?”

“No, thanks. I’m going to go check the perimeter,” he replied, though I noticed that he wouldn’t meet my gaze and his cheeks had begun to darken again. “Sir,” he said, nodding as he rushed past Holbrook.

“You scared him off, you big oaf!” I accused as soon as Tillman was out of earshot, snatching up a nearby rag and smacking Holbrook in the shoulder with it.

“Yup, I’m just a big ’ole brute.”

Rolling my eyes, I turned my back on him, only to let out a hum of pleasure when he settled a hand on my shoulder to rub his thumb in small circles against my tight muscles. His touch was absolute bliss, and for a second I could almost forget about everything else that was going on. Almost.

“How are you holding up?” he asked, breaking my carefully constructed façade of calm.

“I’m fine,” I lied, wishing that I could stay there wrapped up in my fantasies forever.

“Liar,” he whispered, the tenderness in his voice making me smile despite my misery.

How long could I continue to pretend that I was okay when people were dying because of me?

Turning to face him, I looped my arms around his shoulders to trail my fingers through the baby fine hair at the nape of his neck. Rising up on my tiptoes, I ignored the pull in my stitches and pressed my lips to his. He responded immediately, moving his hands down to grasp my hips and returned my kiss with a slow brush of his lips.

When I pulled back he didn’t pursue me, but instead rested his forehead against mine and asked, “What was that for?”

“Just saying thanks.”

“For what?”

“Just being you, I guess,” I replied with a shrug.

Our tender moment was broken by Santos’s arrival, his mere presence sending a wave of austerity through the assembled agents. The men milling around in Holbrook’s entryway fell silent and parted like the Red Sea as soon as Santos stepped into the house, pausing for a brief moment until his eyes landed on me. Striding towards us with a dour expression on his face he didn’t say a word until he crossed the threshold of the kitchen.

“Would anyone care to explain what the hell happened here?” he asked without taking his eyes off me, the deadly calm of voice making me shudder.

“Sir, we…” Holbrook began, his hands remaining on my shoulders.

“I’ll tell you what happened, I lost six good agents,” he said, cutting Holbrook off. “Six families lost their fathers, husbands, brothers, and sons today.”

The unspoken accusation in his words cut into me like a knife, digging deep into my heart where it twisted and gouged at the tender parts of me. I wanted to protest that it wasn’t my fault, but Santos was right; my stubbornness
had
caused those men to die. I may as well have killed them myself. Still, that didn’t mean that he had to rub it in my face.

“You’re going back to the hotel, where you will remain until Reed is caught and put away.”

“But…” I said, the rest of my words withering on the tip of my tongue under Santos’s baleful glare.

“No arguments, Ms. Cray. I have been exceedingly patient with you and understanding of your situation, but today your selfishness has cost the lives of a lot of good men. Now, I want you to gather your things and get your ass in the car out front, do you understand?”

Pressing my lips together in a thin line I nodded and stalked into Holbrook’s bedroom to collect my bags, the weight of a dozen eyes tracking my movements making my shoulders vibrate with tension. Resisting the urge to slam the door shut behind me in a childish display of anger, I pushed it closed with sharp and precise click, and took several slow breaths.

It only took a few minutes to stuff my belongings into my duffel bag and backpack. Looking at them leaned up against the foot of the bed, I wondered if I’d ever get to return home, or if I’d spend the rest of my short life living out of a suitcase.