Playing with Fire. Gena Showalter

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СКАЧАТЬ Mr. Pretty, “ I added sweetly.

      “It’s Peaty.” He glanced at his wristwatch. “Fine. Whatever.” His gaze slid back to the walking centerfold, now bending over to pick up the napkin she’d “accidentally” dropped, her shorts riding higher up her butt.

      Shaking my head, I gathered the necessary items needed for a … hmm. What did I want? A mocha latte, I decided in the next flash. Yep. That sounded good. That’s what I’d have. If anyone deserved chocolate, it was me.

      “You’re such a bitch, “ Jenni muttered, suddenly at my side to mix a chai tea.

      “Your jealousy is showing, “ I uttered in a singsong voice. I poured two shots of espresso into my cup, then whole milk. I didn’t do skim. “If you’d stopped sneaking bites of muffins, éclairs and cake slices you might have realized someone was due to go on break.”

      Jenni gasped. “I’ll have you know I have low blood sugar. I have to eat.”

      “Right. I totally believe you and don’t think you’re delusional in the least.”

      “You’re just begging for a piece of me, you know that?” she growled.

      “I don’t know what gave you the idea I’ve lowered my standards, but I assure you, I haven’t. I want no part of you. By the way, you have a piece of dough stuck in your teeth.” Latte completed, I skipped to an empty table. As I sipped the hot, deliciously sweet liquid (perfectly prepared, thank you!) I stared out the large storefront window and grinned. Ah, my little interlude with Jenni had revived my spirits, chasing away the tension brought on by forced charm.

      Across the way loomed a pretty, obviously well maintained brownstone with steel-enforced, tinted windows. The bushes surrounding it were expertly trimmed and hedged. Flowers bloomed prettily in the spring sun, a pink, red and gold rainbow of petals.

      But there were no signs, no advertisements to be seen. Occasionally I’d spotted a car or two in the parking lot, as I did now, so I knew people worked there. But I’d never been able to figure out what kind of business it was, had never seen an employee entering or leaving.

      The place intrigued me. Always had. I’d thought about sneaking over there late one night and peeking inside, but usually fell asleep before working up the strength to leave my apartment. Perhaps it was a—

      I blinked. What the hell? A tall, lanky man in a lab coat suddenly barreled out the front door of the brownstone at top speed, his eyes wide and wild, his white comb-over flapping in the breeze. One minute he wasn’t there, the next he was. My back went ramrod straight, the movement swishing precious latte over the rim of the cup. I blinked again, as if the action could jump-start my brain into figuring out why he was running.

      The man darted across the street, uncaring as vehicles honked and swerved to keep from hitting him. Two of the cars collided. Even from where I sat, I heard the squeal of tires and the grind of smashing metal.

      My eyes rounded as two burly, scowling guys sprinted out of the brownstone, apparently giving chase to the harried, wreck-causing man—who was now racing inside Utopia as if his life depended on it.

      The bell chimed and I shoved myself to my feet, spilling my latte further. I set the cup on the table and stared over at the man. Skin pale, features tense, breath emerging raggedly, he scanned the café wildly. His gaze bypassed me, then quickly snapped back. Across the distance, our eyes locked.

      “Are you okay?” I called, projecting my voice over the inane chatter around us.

      “Please, help me,” he choked out. He sprinted toward me, shoving people out of the way and babbling, “They weren’t supposed to know. They weren’t supposed to chase me.”

      Some gasped. Some snarled, “Watch it.”

      When the man reached me, he gripped my forearms. Sweat trickled from his brow; fear filled his dilated eyes. “You have to help me, “ he said between shallow pants. “They’re going to kill me.”

      Kill? My mouth went dry; my blood mutated into ice, yet hot prickles slithered along my spine. “Stay here, “ I said. “No, hide. No, stay. Oh, hell. Do whatever while I call 911.” His clasp tightened on me, but I tugged free and shouted to the people around me, “Does anyone have a cell phone?” I’d given mine up as an extravagance I could no longer afford. “Anyone?” I leapt around the tables, but everyone purposefully avoided my gaze. “I won’t use up your minutes, I swear. This is an emergency.”

      “I demand to speak with the manager, “ someone said, wanting, I’m sure, to complain about what had just happened and demand free service.

      I rushed into Ron’s office and grabbed the phone. The 911 dispatcher answered after only two rings, and I explained what had happened. “A man was chased into this café, “ I rushed out. “He says someone’s trying to kill him.” As I spoke, a woman screamed in the background. A male groaned.

      “Help is on the way, “ the dispatcher promised.

      Heart hammering, I disregarded her plea to remain on the line, and tossed the receiver aside. I pounded back into the main area and skidded to a stop. I’d only been gone a moment, but the café looked like a natural disaster had struck. Tables were overturned. Chairs were strewn in every direction. Coffee slithered along the floor, a black river, with paper cups and napkins floating in it like dead bodies.

      Shaking and scared, the café's patrons and employees huddled in a single corner. Only Ron seemed unafraid. His arms were wrapped around Jenni, and he was copping a feel.

      The man in the lab coat had vanished. Was he hiding?

      The two guys I’d observed chasing him were now in the process of calming everyone down. A third male, whom I hadn’t seen exit the brownstone, stood at the doorway, preventing anyone from entering or leaving. He was young, probably in his mid-thirties, tall and muscled, with blond hair and a face any male model would have envied. Perfect, chiseled and droolworthy. He watched the proceedings as if mentally cataloging every detail.

      “Everyone take a seat, “ he finally said, his voice firm, no-nonsense. “Get comfortable. We’re going to be here awhile.”

      “What’s going on?” I demanded, since no one else had spoken up. “Who are you?” Maybe I shouldn’t have drawn attention to myself, but there was no way in hell I’d just blithely obey, perhaps walking to my own death.

      “CIA.” He frowned and flashed some sort of badge. “Now sit.”

      CIA? My jaw performed a dance of drop and close, drop and close. I’d seen agents on TV, of course, but never in real life. Still, everything inside me screamed not to trust him. I mean, Lab Coat’s voice kept drifting through my head. They’re going to kill me. They’re going to kill me!

      But … what if Lab Coat was an evil man who needed killing? Or what if Pretty Boy was lying and Lab Coat was really the good guy? What if I confused myself to the point of having an aneurism with all these internal questions?

      Think, Jamison, think. Sit down. No, run. Sit. Yes, that’s what I’d do. No, no. I should run. As I continually changed my mind, my right foot moved back and forth while the left remained in place. Step, retreat. Step, retreat. Damn it! If I made the wrong decision, there was a very good chance tomorrow’s headlines would read: Local Idiot Found Dead. “Victim’s friend СКАЧАТЬ