Inside Out

68

Richmond, Virginia

Sean couldn't remember ever having slept in her clothes as an adult, but she was wearing them when she stretched out on the bed in her room at the Hotel Grand. Her backpack was propped against the wall, waiting for her to grab it and slip down the fire escape to the alley. She had wedged a chair under the doorknob. It wouldn't hold up long under a determined assault, but it should give her time to get the gun in her hand.

Her father had done her a service by teaching her how to shoot guns. This Smith amp; Wesson fit in her hand like it had been designed for her grip. The hammer's click sounded like a promise that would be kept. It seemed to be charged with energy; anxious to roll its cylinder and strut its stuff.

She wasn't well versed enough in handguns to know if the standard. 38 rounds in the chambers would penetrate the heavy wood of the hotel room door, but she was certain it would pass through clothing, skin, muscles, and vital organs. The thought of firing the weapon at someone made her shiver. On Rook Island, she had witnessed firsthand the extreme damage a bullet could do to tissue and bone. History was filled with examples of how a single bullet had the power to change the world.

Winter had killed only to preserve life. Dylan had killed for greed. On the other hand, Sam Manelli's killing was merely maintenance required to keep his world functioning as he designed it. The rules, which he strictly adhered to, were like oil, critical to keeping his machine performing smoothly.

Running away was a temporary solution because as long as Sam wanted her, flight just prolonged the inevitable. The four men coming onto the island and chasing her down were testimony to how badly he wanted her dead, what extremes he would go to in order to achieve that end.

Sean hated feeling trapped and helpless waiting to see what someone else was going to do. She didn't like the idea of waiting to see if the killers could find a stationary target. She wondered if she was better off as a target in motion, constantly changing her skin to confuse her pursuers. The urge to run appealed to her on a gut level because it was action that she could control. Reason told her that the safest move was no move, allowing her trail to go cold. When she did move, Sean wanted to have a long-range plan worked out.

She lay in the dark, like a rabbit in tall grass, listening for the elevator, a step on the fire escape. She tilted her head and studied the light strip at the base of the door, knowing that any breaking shadows could be a fox's feet.