My incels? “They are not big fans of you either,” I point out.
She huffs a laugh. “No, they are not.”
We wait a few more heartbeats, the sirens growing louder. I turn to Petra and gesture with my head that we should check out the stairs. She nods.
Slowly I back off the couch. My knees ache from holding my position. Blue rises and moves to my side, falling into step with me. We round the couch. Petra and I meet and she signals that she will go first. I shake my head, glancing at Blue.
She nods. Blue leads, his head low, nose to the ground. He will be able to scent if they are still here. He stops at the blood spilled on the floor and sniffs it for a few seconds before crossing to the threshold.
The narrow stairs curve down so that the men could be hiding just out of sight. Blue stops. He looks over his shoulder at me. A silent communication. They are still here.
I back up, and Petra moves with me. Blue follows. We retreat to the couch again. My throat cries out for my tea. “They can’t wait for the police to arrive,” I say.
“Unless they can,” Petra says, cryptically.
“As in maybe they are in cahoots?”
Petra rolls her eyes at me. “Cahoots,” she mutters. “Something like that.”
“Don’t you have a connection with the police?”
“Yes,” she says simply, her tone indicating that is the end of the conversation.
I pick up my tea and take a long sip, keeping my gaze on the stairwell. Blue growls and a figure appears in the doorway. A shotgun blast explodes into the room, slamming into the wall behind us. Petra fires. The man stumbles back, knocking into the wall and falling out of sight down the stairs.
His body thumps and the gun clatters for a few moments before coming to a stop. All we can see is the empty doorway. I take another sip of tea. It’s lukewarm but still soothing.
“One left,” I say. “Think he will stick around?”
Petra shrugs. “Depends on how stupid he is. And how much he wants to die today.”
I do like Petra.
Thumping footsteps start and then fade. Petra and I look at each other. Let’s check again. We follow the same pattern except this time Blue does not stop. There are two corpses splayed on the steps, blood dripping—the sound silent to my ringing ears.
We retreat back into the apartment. “He could be waiting downstairs,” I say.
Petra nods. “We must go now though,” she says. “I need my bag.”
She disappears into the bedroom. I collect my own small duffel, slinging the strap across my body and cinching it tight. All it has in it is my phone, cash, toothbrush, Blue’s collapsible bowl, and a few passports…everything a woman on the run would ever need. Pulling on my boots, I lace them quickly, trusting Blue to keep watch while my attention is distracted.
Petra reappears carrying a leather Louis Vuitton backpack, I assume packed with the same staples as mine. She hands me a fresh magazine. I release my almost empty one.
“You know,” Petra says to me, her lips twisting into a smile, lifting her already high cheekbones. “We often find ourselves in danger together.”
I huff a laugh. “That does not make this relationship unique for me,” I say, driving the fresh magazine home.
“Yes,” she nods, her eyes casting across the room to the seat built into the dormer window. “So maybe you are the one bringing all the trouble.”
Petra crosses to the window. She scoops up a figurine there and stashes it in her bag, then looks up at me, her emerald eyes sparkling. “Maybe even,” she says as she moves back toward the door, “you go looking for it.”
“Yes,” I admit as I follow her down the stairs. “People have mentioned that before. But I don’t see it.”
Silence falls between us as we move past the dead bodies, our weapons up, the scent of blood ripening the air. Ringing dominates my hearing, shrouding the other sounds with its high-pitched whine. Blue’s nose brushes my knee as he stalks next to me, his head low, angled to look down the stairs.
We reach the bottom of the first set of stairs and pause. The ceilings are higher on the lower floors, the space more open, and the air fresher. We pad across the carpeting, passing two closed apartment doors, and round onto the next set of stairs. Our footsteps are quieted by the thick carpeting.
Sirens breach the humming in my head and Petra begins to leap down the steps, taking them two at a time, her free hand gliding along the banister to help steady her speed. I follow, my feet flying over the steps, my mind as calm and steady as it can be, my body moving with the lithe grace I’ve cultivated.
This is what I’m meant for…
CHAPTER FOUR
We reach the street level, my boots echoing in the high-ceilinged lobby with its glossy hardwood floors. A mirror set into one wall reflects the three of us as we move carefully toward the glass front doors. Petra in the lead, the fancy pink sweatsuit baggy on her small frame, hair pulled back into a low ponytail. She moves with elegance and purpose, each fall of a sneaker-clad foot quick and carefully placed.
My black sweatsuit fits tighter, with the pants tucked into my laced boots, and my blonde hair loosened from the bun I pulled it into before the shootout. Blue, his coat glossy in the low light, stays close to my side, his head at my hip, body trailing behind mine, big tail low, ears perked forward. Everything about him is sharp focus.
Petra pushes out into the night. Our remaining attacker must have fled—the street is empty, its quiet disrupted by the shriek of approaching sirens. The rain has slowed—it’s just misting now; the streetlights wear halos and the cars are covered in diamonds.
Petra turns left, as if she has a plan, a place for us to go. I follow, trusting her instincts, knowing they are as honed as my own…probably even finer since this is her city.
“Sorry about your apartment,” I say as we round the corner. The siren-bearing police cars screech onto the street we just abandoned. Petra and I slip our guns out of sight. I stash mine in the front pocket of my duffel at my chest, close at hand yet invisible to any officers who may canvass the area.
“It will be fine,” she says, pulling out her phone.
She swipes it open and chooses one of her favorites. A man’s voice answers and Petra speaks in French to him. She laughs and coos before her voice drops a few octaves, diving into the tones of a threat. The conversation ends soon after that and Petra returns her phone to her bag.
