Page 25 of Wraith: Lethal Impact

A thud echoes from the hallway outside our door.

We both freeze.

The charge between us vanishes, replaced by cold operational awareness.

He pulls my hand from his chest, fingers locking around my wrist. He raises the 9mm, his eyes snapping to the door.

Another thud. Heavier this time. Then the muffled sound of raised voices speaking rapid, aggressive Thai.

Loud, brutal, chaotic—nothing like the silent precision of a trained hit squad.

"They're sweeping the rooms." He pulls me away from the center of the room, toward the small attached bathroom. "Consortium street muscle. Local gang affiliated with the traffickers. They're doing the heavy lifting for the main sweep."

A boot kicks a door open somewhere down the hall. A woman screams. The scream cuts off with a slap.

The terror returns, a wave that swallows the confidence I had thirty seconds ago. Cold sweat slicks my palms.

He shoves me into the cramped mirrored bathroom. The space is tiny. Walls, ceiling, the back of the door—everything is covered in cheap, smudged mirrors, reflecting the blood-red light from the main room in a dizzying kaleidoscope.

A small ventilation window sits high on the wall facing the hallway, its frosted glass a blurred view of the corridor.

"The vent." He points the barrel of the handgun at the window. "If they look through the glass, they'll see the reflection in the main mirror."

The footsteps grow louder, moving down the hall, kicking open doors, dragging occupants out into the corridor.

"Get in the shower." He pushes me backward into the glass-enclosed stall at the back of the bathroom.

I stumble, my back hitting the cold, damp tiles.

He steps into the stall with me and pulls the glass door shut.

The stall is cramped. No room to maneuver.

He turns, pressing my back flat against the glass. He steps into my space, his scarred torso covering mine. He braces his right hand against the tile above my head, his body a shield between me and the sightline of the hallway vent.

The proximity is agonizing.

Every inch of my body is pressed flush against his. The heat radiating from his skin engulfs me, cutting through the cold damp of the stall. With the height difference, the hard ridges of his scarred chest align with my face. His heart beats against my cheek, racing.

The door to the room next to ours crashes open. Boots hit the floorboards. Furniture shatters.

I squeeze my eyes shut and bury my face in the center of his chest, muffling my ragged breathing against his skin.

His left hand drops, calloused fingers wrapping around the back of my head. He presses my cheek tighter against his chest. A silent command: be still.

The scent of him—rain, sweat, gun smoke—floods my senses, overwhelming the stench of the cheap motel.

"Check the next one." A rough, accented voice in the hallway.

The footsteps stop outside our door.

The doorknob rattles.

My breath catches. Every muscle locks. He tightens his grip on the back of my neck, his thumb resting against my racing pulse.

The mirrors multiply the intimacy a hundred times over. Everywhere I look, the glass reflects the impossible geometry of our bodies crushed together in the tiny space.

I open my eyes, seeking an anchor in the kaleidoscope. I look past his shoulder, into the main mirror mounted on the bathroom wall.