Page 38 of Out for Blood
Cassidy stares at him, assessing, and then her lips curve.
“See?” She applauds. “You can listen.”
He exhales like he’s just been granted a reprieve.
“Is she alone?” I inquire.
He rapidly bobs his head.
The blade presses in again, deeper. A warning.
“Don’t do that,” Cassidy sneers. “You’re not good at it.”
Cassidy studies him until he starts shaking, then she moves the blade back a bit.
“Ghost.”
I drag him upright by the arm. He cries out, pitching forward, and hops awkwardly doing his best to protect his wounded foot.
Cassidy falls into step beside me. By the second stride, she’s behind him again, the blade setting at his throat like it was made for that spot.
“Walk,” she instructs. He doesn’t need to be told twice and obeys immediately.
The sudden compliance sets every alarm ringing in my mind. Men like him don’t just cooperate. Something isn’t right.
I glance at Cassidy. She reads the concern on my face.
We don’t say a word. What the hell is inside that guest house?
We march him to the back of the house, his limp worsening asfresh blood leaks from his foot, marking his path with bloody footprints.
From over his shoulder, Cassidy cautions him, not needing to raise her voice. “Try anything, and I’ll make you regret surviving this part.”
He believes her. I can see the apprehension etched on his face as we head for the guest house. Whatever secret he’s protecting is something he desperately doesn't want us to find.
As we push through the back door, the night air greets us and the man trips on the step, I yank him upright before he falls on the ground.
“Keep moving,” Cassidy warns, the blade resting beneath his jaw. “Don’t make me repeat myself.”
The yard stretches wide, tall hedges are all along the property line, providing more privacy. The guest house is at the rear of the property about sixty yards away, the lights are on, and the windows have one-way mirror glass.
What the hell?
We reach the door in seconds. Tremors rack his entire body, I can feel it through my grip on his arm. The keypad beside the door frame emits a pale glow. Cassidy stops him, slicing through the zip tie binding his wrists, and lets the severed plastic drop to the floor.
“Punch in the code.” A muscle ticks in her cheek.
His hands shake as he lifts them.
“Slow,” she adds.
He complies and punches in the code with exaggerated care, each beep sounding unnaturally loud in the night.
The lock clicks open, but we hold our position.
“Open it,” Cassidy orders.
He falters. The blade bites into his skin again, and he jerks at the sting. He fumbles for the handle, turns it, and the heavy metal door swings inward.
