Was he thinking straight? Had he been alone for too long? He craved her, that was undeniable. But could she accept who he was when she deserved so much more? Since Phantom had brought them on the same path, something had changed; she made him want more.
Dressed, Sam knew he had to act, one way or another. He’d told her she shouldn’t expect anything from him. Maybe he could show himself and see. She’d remember his face, and then, maybe foolishly, he’d hope for the best.
ChapterTwenty
Where the hell was he?Not only had Freckles made her wait in the middle of the night at the back of a bar, but with the sub-zero temperature, it had started snowing. If it didn’t smell like piss and wet cat, the setting would almost seem romantic.
Half-hiding behind a dumpster, Orla dreamed about a hot soak and a hamburger. The only reason she was still waiting was that he had called and had to see her. Despite her plea to him to disappear for a while, he’d ignored her, and had even wormed his way into the mess, as he tried to get information for her from his sources.
She couldn’t do anything more to protect him, and she wasn’t in a position to turn down any tip that came her way. A quick look told her it was past three a.m., and ten minutes past the meeting time. Freckles wasn’t known for his punctuality, and that was the only reason she was still freezing her butt off waiting for him.
Most of the party crowd was long gone, and with a last shiver, Orla decided she’d had enough. With one last look at her phone, she confirmed Freckles hadn’t left her a message before walking up to the boulevard.
She was debating if she should go to West Englewood and put her boot up the dealer’s ass when a shadowy figure entered the alley like something out of a bad thriller. With the distance and the low light, it was impossible for her to know if the person was a threat, and she decided to backtrack.
“Where are you going, little lady?”
When two men walked out of the club’s back door, Orla began to think she was jinxed. On the bright side, the two dumbasses didn’t look like White’s men. And if they were as wasted as they appeared, she’d be able to get away.
The shortest of the two men licked his lips. “Blond and ready to go.”
The second man was a bit bigger, but more inebriated when he half stumbled over her while grabbing her shoulders. Orla barely had time to sidestep before the man fell like a log. The other man didn’t have time to move before she kneed him hard. The sound he made as he crumbled and started puking over his buddy was almost enough to have her follow suit.
Adrenaline spiking, she swerved to see where the shadowy figure was, but the alley was clear.
With one man puking his guts out and the other heaving as he realized what was going on, it was Orla’s cue to disappear.
* * *
By the timeshe made her way home, Orla was not only soaked but also ready to spit glass. She hated wasting her time. Freckles had told her he’d met a vendor who’d seen the Phantom lab. It was probably a dead end, but she wasn’t turning down any bit of information nowadays. Maybe she wouldn’t have been so pissed if it wasn’t for those two drunks and that lurking shadow. As if on cue, her cell phone buzzed with Freckles giving her some empty excuse for not meeting her on time. And even worse, it seemed that his urgent information was a dud. That was the trouble with Freckles; sometimes he dug out a gem, but much too often, he slid through your fingers or offered garbage. She shouldn’t be surprised, but couldn’t turn down any source of information, as inconsistent as it may be. Maybe next time he would give her the key to stopping this madness.
When she locked the door behind her, Orla was glad her nervous system was mostly stable. She made sure she consistently took her medication, which had prevented sudden spikes of panic and unmanageable anxiety. She’d learned her lesson after the party.
Discarding her wet coat, she flung her bag to the sofa. After making herself some soup and a coffee, she’d go through her notes and her messages. Since the Phantom outbreak, she’d tagged every possible informer she had in the city, and that meant sifting through various leads that went nowhere.
Shivering, she went through her dark kitchen and opened the fridge door. The trouble with being someone who was always on the job, her fridge was always empty. A sudden movement to her right when she closed the door reminded her of another cliché she wished didn’t exist—someone breaking into the helpless female reporter’s apartment.
She reached for the counter, hoping to grab anything that might help to defend herself when the shadow slammed her into the kitchen window.
The noise of shattering glass and a wet gust of wind registered before anything else. Even with the light coming in from outside, Orla saw a masked man wearing the same outfit from the party, and realized she was going to die.
The man jerked her back inside, and Orla’s hip felt like it had caught on fire. From the corner of her eye, she noticed blood on the shards of the windowpane and knew pieces of it were embedded in her skin. However, adrenaline took over and instead of resisting, she threw her entire body weight at him, for once glad she had curves to spare. The man tumbled back, and as they crashed to the floor, his gun dug into her ribs so hard it stole her breath away before he lost his grip from the impact and it skidded under the table.
Survival mode running high, she rolled away, but her attacker wasn’t about to let her out of his grasp. He slapped her, and before she could move, he’d picked up a kitchen knife and held it to her throat.
“Enough!” And to make a point, he applied pressure on her wound and Orla immediately howled, feeling the blood dampening her pants. “We know you still have the data. We know you’re smart enough to have cracked it, and Mr.White wants it. You’re going to die; only you get to decide if it will be quick and painless or if you’re going to scream the whole time.”
Orla fought to keep her wits and not fall into the black hole lurking on the edge of her mind.
There was a movement from above. “Hurry, man. We’re on the clock here.”
“Yeah, right.” His hand moved over her side. “What do we have here?”
And before she could react, the man closed his fingers over her injured hip again. This time, the level of pain that exploded inside her body almost made her faint. He spoke, but she couldn’t hear anything.
The only clear thought was that she had to fight. Even if she didn’t know how, she had to channel the vigilante, and do whatever it took to get free.
Arms and legs flying, and about to vomit from the pain, Orla summoned everything she had to regain a clear head and survive.
