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“Fisher?” she hisses through gritted teeth.
Given she’s in boots, her quiet approach is commendable. What’s not advisable is killing a man out in the open. And the fuck of it is I don’t have a phone with me since I saw this as a private observational mission. I’ll need to backtrack to the car.
“Did you follow me?” Sophia stops two feet in front of me. There’s no mistaking the venom in those stormy eyes.
“What’s your plan for the body?” I clench my fist and tighten my grip on the binoculars, all the while maintaining a steely gaze. She can have her brat attack another day. Right now, we need to focus.
Lights are off in the house on the right, but that doesn’t mean someone wasn’t in an upstairs window. A blue light in the house on the left says someone is probably watching television downstairs, and all these houses are far enough apart with a high degree of vegetative insulation, so it’s doubtful anyone from the ground level would see.
“What body?” She glances back at the house. “He’s not dead.”
She snatches the binoculars. From this distance, I can’t see features, but an arm flails.
“Should we call an ambulance?”
“He hit his head.” She thrusts the binoculars at me. “He’ll be fine. Why are you here?”
“He hit his head after your boot hit his jaw.” I lift the binoculars back up to check him out. “Is he going to be pressing charges?” Killington’s hand covers his face. “Did you break his jaw?”
“Let’s go.”
She stomps in the direction that leads out of the neighborhood.
“Seriously, Sophia. What kind of issue are we dealing with here?” A guy like Killington could cause serious issues for her. The CIA won’t smile on an assault charge. It could be the end of her career before it starts.
She adjusts her backpack on her shoulders as she walks, eyes trained on the houses to our left.
“Sophia. Stop.” It’s good he’s alive, but he’s still lying on the ground. “Do we need to call an ambulance?”
She stops but keeps her back to me. “He’s not going to be filing charges.”
“How do you know?” Her conclusion is presumptive. Being attacked at his home could work to his advantage with his parole.
“He just admitted he raped me.”
Her words hit like a sucker punch, knocking oxygen clear out of me. That fucking bastard. I should retrace her steps and kill the lowlife.
She charges forward. Based on the bend of her arms, she must be clutching the straps of her backpack. I speed up but am careful to maintain rear position.
We don’t speak the rest of the way through the neighborhood, through a narrow line of woods, and out to a rental car parked on the side of the road. She pops the trunk. Her lips clenched tight. She slings the backpack into the trunk, and it hits with a thud but lands upright.
“You came out here to confront him?” I can understand that. I gathered from bits and pieces of conversation over the years that the gaps in her memory from the time she was abducted haunt her.
“No. I came out here to talk with him.” She slams the trunk down, crosses her arms, and glares at me with a fury that would have a smarter man ducking. “Why the fuck are you here?”
Oh, you want to do this, do you?
Headlights approach, and I pause until the two-door coupe passes. Then I cross my arms and glare right back down on her. “I’m here because my partner lied to me about where she was spending her PTO. I’m here because I had a hunch my partner might need backup.”
“You’re not my fucking bodyguard anymore, Fisher. You had no business tracking me here.”
“Oh, don’t I? Did you miss the part where I said partner? If you fuck this up, then you fuck up our operation. An operation that I got briefed on today, but you didn’t, because theoretically you went home for clothes.”
“I did go home for clothes.” Her chin rises, defiant.
Her defiance sends my blood pressure through the roof. I have the strongest desire to bend her right over my knee.
“Fuck you did.” I grit out. “Don’t you lie to me. Ever.”
