Page 49 of Safari Murder Party
She knew the feeling.
Helplessly, Fletcher straightened the hem of her dress. It did nothing to fix the vile white splotch on her shoulder, but didn’t some people say that getting pooped on by a bird was good luck?
Just when her breathing returned to normal, a voice behind her whispered, “Bull’s-eye.”
Ice ran through Fletcher’s veins, fear jolting down her spine. She pivoted on her heels, swinging her machete up, and her mouth opened to scream.
Waylon’s sharp glare stopped her cold.
The knife fell and so did her heart rate. Three weeks ago, she would have laughed in the face of anyone who tried to tell her she’d feel any semblance of relief to see Waylon Cartwright.
“Good rule of thumb? Don’t sneak up on someone holding a freaking machete,” she hissed.
An extra duffel had been slung around Waylon’s chest, half unzipped with silver, holographic fabric poking out. Glamping supplies, presumably. Their backpacks were gone—he must have stashed them in the garage already.
Slowly, Waylon’s eyebrows cinched tighter. “Why do you have a machete?”
“One day, after tens of thousands of dollars in therapy, I’ll tell you.”
“What happened to lying low?” he asked, an edge to his voice.
“Iamlying low.” Now was seriously not the time for a lecture.
He cocked his head. “Just like how you were supposed to be meeting me in the garage twelve minutes ago?”
“Been a little busy.” As if he couldn’t tell based solely on the frizz fiasco happening beneath her helmet, Molly’s blood caked on her dress, and thetotally relaxedway her shoulders scraped against her earlobes. “I thought you said you were going to leave without me.”
He huffed, a low grumble of a noise. “I still might.”
Footsteps hammered down the hall, and Fletcher braced her hand against Waylon’s stomach, nudging him behind the tree. “Get back. Bertram sent the Brians after me again.”
“I don’t think it’ll take them long to find you.”
Fletcher squinted. “Do you really think I’m so incompetent that I can’t shake offthe Brians?”
“No, I don’t think it’ll take long because you’re leading them right to you.” He tipped his chin downward, and Fletcher’s gaze followed.
Blood trailed down the machete’s silver blade. A pool of maroon had gathered at her heels. A few feet away, several garnet droplets welled on the tiles. And a few more, and a few more, and a few more. All the way to the atrium entrance where two moon-eyed marketers appeared, sniffing like bloodhounds.
“We have to get out of here,” she whispered.
“No shit,” Waylon said. The second Fletcher tried to get moving, he shook his head. “Can’t go that way.”
“The way toward the exit?” The arched doorway hadSafety Right This Way!written all over it.
“Trust me. Deepti’s naked in the solarium, doing god only knows what, and she does not want visitors.” He pointed to his actively blackening eye socket as proof.
Of course. “Sunning.”
“What?”
“That’s what it’s called. When you get naked and flash your—”
Birds frenzied as the atrium doors opened. The Brians were splitting up, each scoping out a side of the room, and the Brian with the tranquilizer gun was coming their way. It would take more than a parlor palm to hide Waylon’s broad shoulders. As soon as Brian turned the corner around a fountain shaped like Egbert Cartwright riding a rhino, he had a clear shot.
“Run!” said Waylon.
Silver bullets zipped by them, each one closer than the last. She cast Waylon a glance that must have said,If I get killed because I listenedto you, you’re dead to mebecause he nodded and took a sharp left behind a trellis of climbing hibiscuses. Fletcher followed, breathing easier now that they were beyond the reach of Brian’s nose scope.
