Page 297 of Mario
Every bit of warmth, every professional softness, is gone.
My pulse slams hard against my ribs.
I take one step back.
Then another.
I need to leave.
I need my car. My phone. People. Noise. Distance.
I turn too quickly and collide with a man standing directly behind me.
The apology is on the tip of my tongue when his hand closes around my upper arm, catching me mid-stumble.
For half a second, I think it is an accident.
Then I feel the hard press of cold metal against my side, hidden between our bodies, angled beneath his jacket where no one passing by can see.
My breath catches.
“Easy,” he says.
His voice is quiet and calm.
I go rigid.
The man’s grip tightens just enough to hurt.
I turn my head toward Cindy.
She has risen from the bench.
The folder is gone.
In its place, her hand is inside her open tote, and the black mouth of a gun points at me from the shadowed leather.
No.
No, no, no.
My mind blanks, then comes back all at once with such violent clarity I almost sway.
This was never a meeting.
This was not Cindy Sullivan helping me.
It was a setup.
I walked into a trap.
“Do not make a sound,” Cindy says.
The man’s hand shifts on my arm, hard enough to make me wince.
“Go quietly,” he says near my ear. “Or the first bullet goes right into your baby.”
I cannot breathe.
