Page 167 of Chameleon Killer

Nineteen

MALLORY

The first person through the stairwell door pointed a gun at me.

Not entirely unexpected, but I raised both hands. The last thing I wanted was to be shot by friends, foes, or the FBI.

“Mallory McBryan?”

“That depends on whether you’re planning to shoot me.”

“Hands where I can see them.”

“They are where you can see them.”

His expression suggested my clarification wasn’t appreciated.

More agents crowded the landing behind him. Tactical gear. Weapons. Body armor. The kind of response that suggested someone had either found a bomb or believed one was about to go off.

Considering the evening I’d had, either seemed plausible.

“Turn around.”

I did.

“Hands against the wall.”

That seemed excessive, but considering they were armed, I did that too.

Boots pounded up the stairs behind them. A lot of boots.

“What exactly are you expecting to find?” Probably not the best time to question them, but I did want to know.

“Ma’am, don’t move.”

Ma’am. The address chafed.

Starting at my wrists, they patted me down, checked the waistband of my jeans, then moved to my ankles. Another agent swept past me through the open doorway.

“Clear left.”

“Moving.”

“Clear.”

More voices joined them.

I kept my hands on the wall. The whole thing might have been amusing if the adrenaline hadn’t started leaking out of me in ugly little increments.

Simon was gone. Though, I suspected he’d not actually been here at all. He’d staged it perfectly whether he’d been present or not. I still hadn’t decided what I believed about that.

A hand closed around my shoulder. I jerked away before I could stop myself.

“Mal.”

Flint.

I turned. The expression on his face pushed all of the air out of me as though a fist had struck me in the solar plexus. Worse than the imagined hit was the absolute fury burning in his eyes.