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25
Fiona
Icouldn’t believe what I was hearing. It was like a bad spy movie.
“The NSA?!”
“Let’s discuss this later.”
“I thought they only spied on terrorism plots!”
“This falls under the rubric of domestic terrorism.”
I looked at him like he’d lost his damn mind. “No it doesn’t!”
“To get any funding these days, yeah, it does. Quiet.”
He turned off the light, and we stood there in the darkness, listening.
No sound from outside, although my heart was loud enough in my ears that I was surprised Eddie couldn’t hear it.
“Is there a back way out of this place?” he whispered.
“It’s a hot sheet motel. There’s not exactly a back door to the suite.”
“If it’s a hot-sheet motel, then there’s absolutely a back door.”
He brushed past me into the bathroom, where there was a shitty, glass-slat window – the kind with overlapping plates you could hand-crank down – that barely kept the moths out.
“This’ll do,” he said, and started yanking the plates out of their casings and piling them on the floor.
“Are you crazy?” I hissed.
“Like a fox. Here.”
He handed over my gun.
“Oh, so you trust me now?” I whispered sarcastically.
“Gotta start sometime. Get on the other side of the bed. Don’t open fire unless he does.”
“Open fi – wait, aren’t I coming with you?!”
“No. I’m circling back around on him.”
“I don’t want to stay here!”
“Too bad. I need you as bait.”
“I thought you weren’t going to endanger me!”
“I don’t have much choice, do I?”
With that, he stepped up on the toilet, knocked out the rickety wire screen, and pulled himself through the window.
“I want to come!”
“Get on the other side of the bed. At least you’ll have cover if he starts shooting.”
