She sucked in a breath. Sweat beaded her lip and fear cut through the passion clouding her eyes. “But we agreed—”
“You’ll get everything we agreed to.” And more. He slapped her behind again. The skin darkened to a deep red. “But I control the timetable, not you.”
Releasing her breast, he leaned forward, grabbed a fistful of hair and gently angled her head so he could look her fully in the face. He didn’t want to spook her, panic her, make her scream before he was ready.
“This is my fantasy, too. Remember?” It just wouldn’t play out exactly as their texts, emails and calls recorded.
She sighed. “What do you want me to do?”
Digging his fingers into her hair, he pressed his mouth against hers. His tongue breeched her lips and invaded—tasting and taking. The second she responded, he broke off the kiss and released her.
She sagged against the wall, gasping for breath.
“Go make dinner.” He retreated back to his sports car.
Nodding, she straightened and took a wobbly step toward the door. Moisture glistened on the insides of her thighs and her skirt rolled up, exposed the rest of her ass. “Are you coming?”
Not yet, but soon they’d both be.
“Gotta get the wine first.” Opening the Jag’s door, Trent glanced at the gym bag on the seat. Adrenaline kicked him in the gut. His heart galloped against his ribs and warmth flooded his muscles. Ignoring the duffle, he reached for the paper bag holding a dubious Chianti from the liquor store up the street.
Tugging it out, he switched it with a similar bottle he’d brought from home.
Wrapping his fingers around the neck, he set his thumb on the puncture in the seal. Not that she’d ever see the mark left by his syringe. He’d open the bottle and drive the corkscrew into the exact spot where he’d added the drugs, leaving not even a trace for the cops to find.
Easing out of the car, he closed the door with his hip.
Later.
Much later.
He’d come back for his murder kit.
Chapter Five
Emmanuel Saldana stole through the alley. On his left, rats darted in-and-out of the mounds of garbage and raced through the chain link fence. Shadows streaked black tendrils across the spilled refuse while overhead the reds, pinks and oranges deepen to purple. Manny stuck his empty hands in his pockets and slouched into his over-sized hoodie. A cold breeze whistled past his ears and scored the skin exposed by the holes in his worn jeans. He spat the taste of rot and smoke from his mouth before wiping his lips on his sleeve.
Why hadn’t the bastards come?
Did they think everyone was dead? Did they hope they’d turned on each other and finished the job started by the Redaction? The Aspero had certainly tried. The gang’s serpent tagged nearly every fence and home in the neighborhood. A can rattled behind him and the hair on the back of his neck prickled. For a moment, fear turned his heart to coal and burned ashes inside him. Shit! Manny glanced over his shoulder. Eyes strained to decipher movement in the twilight.
He saw nothing. But what did that mean?
He knew better than to ask who’s there.
There were some questions best left unanswered.
Quickening his pace, he stomped on the garbage bags. Nails glistened in the board he’d planted in the clear patch. His first booby-trap. First, but not his last. His fingers bumped over the rusted switchblade in his pocket. Not much help in a gunfight, but it was better than nothing. Yellow caution tape flapped against the boarded-up windows of Mrs. Hernandez’s house. She’d made the best tamales. Orange biohazard tape streamed through the brown remains of Old Man Andersen’s prize garden.
Green paint flaked on the unhinged doors of the next four houses—burned out husks of blackened and crumbling block. The occupants had died after the city had run out of fancy tape to mark the houses of the dead. The Aspero had looted the house shortly after the bloated bodies had been stuffed into garbage bags and carted away.
Too bad he hadn’t gotten there first.
He could have used that food.
Hitching his jeans up, he glanced north toward downtown Phoenix. During daylight, smoke formed a gray sludge and the rolling blackouts destroyed the golden haze that used to cloak the heart of the city. The light was not a friend now. His wasn’t the only occupied home that remained dark after the power kicked on. If only he’d convinced his neighbors to move closer. They might have stood a chance against the Aspero, might have been able to protect their food.
Pausing, Manny checked the padlock on the gate. No sign of tampering. He glanced over his shoulder. Still nobody. Yet, the hair on the back of his neck remained standing. Someone was there. Should he walk past, pretend he didn’t live here?
His feet turned his body, aiming it further down the alley. His ribcage shrunk, squeezing his ribs. He couldn’t leave. Ignoring the gate, he climbed up the slats of a pallet and set his hands on the top of the block fence. His mouth dried as he eyed the swollen water bottle containing pool acid next to his hand. A few bubbles clung to the nails and tacks at the bottom of the yellow liquid. Holding his breath, he swung his leg over. Please, God, don’t let it explode on me.
His shadow deserved to have the shrapnel cut into his flesh. Manny landed with a soft thud and waited. One second. Two. The make-shift bomb remained intact. Taking a deep breath, he sprinted through the weeds and ducked between the slats in the wooden fence dividing the yards.
Steering clear of the rusted bear-trap under the weeds next to the gate, he crept closer to the single-story ranch house. Plywood covered the windows and faded red plastic tape snaked across the ground. Sand scratched under his sneakers as he slunk across the patio, avoiding the fishing line holding his mom’s old wind chimes. A battered wooden door was propped at an angle against the house. Ignoring it, Manny tugged on the lower half of the plywood nailed across the back door and slipped inside the building.
Waiting a heartbeat, he slipped the chain through the rungs he’d screwed to the plywood. The links rattled across the Saltillo tile while he threaded them around an exposed kitchen wall stud. He hooked the lock through the ends and secured it. Shrugging out of his empty backpack, Manny set it on the floor. His stomach rumbled; the sound echoed around the empty space.
Why hadn’t the Guard shown? Should he go back tomorrow? And if they didn’t show again?
“Manny?” The soft whisper sliced through his thoughts.
He shook himself. The little ones couldn’t see his fear. He had to be strong for them. There’d be time enough to come to a decision tonight, while they slept. “Yeah. It’s me.”
There was a click then light flooded the battered kitchen and cut into his eyes. Raising a hand, he shielded his vision. “Lucia, shine it at the floor or ceiling.”
“Sorry.” The spotlight dropped to his feet.
Manny blinked, and slowly he focused on his eight-year old sister.
Lucia leaned against the kitchen doorway. Pink tipped her brown toes and fingers. Dirt muted the sparkle of rhinestones on her pink tee shirt and stained the rolled cuffs of her matching sweat-pants. “I’m hungry.”
“I know.” Bending, Manny swung her up before settling her on his hip.
“Did the soldiers have chocolate?” She smiled and dimples appeared in her sunken cheeks. A thin layer of flesh moved over her bones. She hadn’t been plump before the Redaction made her sick, but now… Her shirt slipped off her shoulder, exposing the sharp edges of her collarbone.
He had to get food.
The Redaction had whittled them down to skeletons, but if he didn’t do something soon starvation would kill them.