Page 5 of A Shot in the Dark (Fated Mates Collection | Triple Threat #1)

“ W hy have we stopped?”

“Some sort of craziness on the road ahead,” my cabbie grumbles over his shoulder as his dashboard radio continues spooling out words in a foreign language I have no chance of possibly understanding.

He occasionally responds to the undulating chatter, giving what I can only presume is his assessment of the current traffic situation.

We inch forward, the meter still running.

“Do you have any idea how much longer it will be?”

His shoulders slump. “Sorry. I have no idea, lady.”

“Okay.” Unlike many in the cars honking all around us, I can be patient.

Sometimes things happen that are well outside of our control and we have to roll with the punches.

Leaning back in my seat, I try to get comfortable.

I close my eyes so it’s easier to avoid wondering what the strange stain on the ceiling is; its outline makes me think of Australia, and suddenly I’m wondering if it would be better to make a big move.

Shift gears dramatically. No. This city is my home.

I open my eyes to discover a man pissing on the street corner. Yes, my home…

Ten minutes pass and we only manage to crawl forward another seven feet, at most. A slight sputtering noise comes from the front of the cab.

The cabbie starts fiddling with the dials on his dash, with each turn of a knob holding one hand up to the air vents as if testing the temperature.

That’s when I begin to notice that the cab is growing cozy—because of course it is.

Its air conditioner is beginning to fail.

City cabs are not generally known for their delightful aroma, and, in that, this vehicle is no different from the norm.

As the temperature begins to increase, so do the myriad of lingering smells resulting from carrying hundreds—perhaps even thousands—of people in one small space every week.

I shift in my seat. There is no longer any way to be comfortable.

Does Australia get this hot? I glance at the stain.

Would I even know if I only read temperatures followed by a capital c?

I briefly toy with the idea of opening a window, but that seems ridiculous. I shouldn’t have to suffer in the increasingly cozy and smelly car. Haven’t I already suffered enough today?

Normally I wouldn’t have a problem with sitting still and biding my time in a cab—isn’t that really what doomscrolling social media is for—but I’ve just been fired, I have a crazy expensive condo and lifestyle to maintain, and the cab’s faltering air conditioning system is making me even itchier to be free of my cramped environment.

I don’t want to see who’s unfriended me or who’s posted announcing their move into a roomy office with a view that used to be mine.

The past is past… When we hit another ten minutes without moving forward, I decide I’ve had enough. Between the blare of horns and the increasingly agitated sound of voices on the radio, I know I need to be on my way.

I settle up with the cabbie and exit the increasingly sweltering yellow cab, determined to walk the last block and a half to my building, carrying the heavy box with me the whole way.

Leaving the traffic jam behind—other than the much more human traffic jamming up the sidewalk as everyone gawks at the madness—I make good progress for the first half block.

For someone with such exacting taste, it’s amazing how many uninspired items are weighing down the box in my arms, and my feet start to ache.

As beautiful as my brightly soled shoes may be, they are not designed for a serious walk.

The moment I catch the first glimpse of my building ahead of me and hope leaps in my heart, it happens.

There’s a sharp pop and the box in my hands shifts as something impacts it, sending a poof of shredded cardboard into the air.

Suddenly everyone’s screaming, crying, someone shouts “He’s got a gun!” and there’s another pop — Before I truly realize what's going on, my to-go bag has exploded as part of the collateral damage of gunfire.

Gunfire aimed at me .

Dropping the box, I race for cover, tugging my cell phone free as I go.

I can't see the person shooting, but this must be the work of my stalker. This time I don’t hesitate to call 911—this is absolutely an emergency.

All around me people drop to the ground or run to find shelter, as more shots slice through the air.

All I know is that I and a handful of strangers huddle behind the dumpster near the last remaining restaurant on my building’s block.

Someone’s sobbing, another person hyperventilates.

Between them a small child asks every question possible that can start with the word “why.” And me?

I’m vacillating between rage, terror, and serious guilt.

If I hadn’t been walking home from being fired, none of those gunshots would have been fired, no one would have panicked, no one would need serious therapy as a result of having had the misfortune of randomly sharing a sidewalk with me .

The shooting stops as suddenly as it started.

Sirens wail in the distance, growing increasingly closer as the city’s finest show up to deal with the potential tragedy.

The officer who had shown up yesterday to allay my fears has returned and immediately picks me out of the milling crowd waiting to give their statements to the police.

He looks me up and down briefly, but trains his gaze on the rest of the crowd as he talks to me. Officer Newbuck. That’s his name.

“Was that box yours?”

“The one with the bullet holes in it? Yes, that was mine.”

“So it seems pretty obvious that this was the work of whoever left you that note.”

I nod.

“You were the one being targeted and everyone else was in the way. Remind me of your line of work?”

“International business.”

“Impressive.”

“Honestly, they give me all the data, I check it against other data, make a fancy slideshow, write a presentation and… That’s pretty much it.”

“Do you ever give big presentations?”

“Depends on the audience. Some countries like blondes showcasing data, some think women of any sort should sit down and shut up.”

“Hmm. Ever deliver bad news?”

“In this economy? Who hasn’t?” I study his face. “Oh. No... You know what they say: ‘Don’t shoot the messenger.’”

“Isn’t it the messenger usually suggesting that?”

My gaze drops to the ground, to the shattered remnants of some of the box’s contents. “Shit.” I can’t even immediately make out what the broken thing is. Could this all also be because of my work entanglements?” My stomach grumbles uncomfortably in distress. “Was anyone hurt?”

“Nothing more than a few people banged up from falling onto the sidewalk in their hurry. They’ll have some nightmares for sure. As big as our city is, and as much of a bad reputation as it gets, this is not normal.”

“I know.”

He shepherds me into the building, guiding me to one of the couches in the condo’s lobby, saying, “Sit.”

I drop like my spine’s come undone, my bracelets clinking together loudly. I grab the chunkiest one on my left wrist and give it a twist. Then I switch hands and do the same with a gold bracelet on my left wrist, breathing more calmly as I toy with them.

“Did you call Andrei?”

“No. I tried to get some sleep and just now got back from being fired from my job.”

“Shit. Sorry. The hits just keep on coming don’t they?”

I can’t do anything more meaningful than nod mutely.

“I’ll go gather up the contents of your box. You stay right here.” He motions to security; they don’t have to move far—they were drifting nearby anyhow. “Stick with her for a minute. I’ll be right back.”

Again he is absolutely true to his word and returns carrying my broken box and what's left of its contents. “It looks pretty bad,” he concedes. “It could have been worse. He could have actually hit you.”

“True.He?”

“I’m not sure of course, but nine out of ten times it's a guy pulling the trigger. Usually ex-Special Forces or some sort of military background. Sometimes an ex-cop.” He gives a little shrug like becoming an assassin is something he’s considered as a side hustle.

“Yikes.”

“Maybe not ‘yikes,’” he says. “I mean, this guy hasn't managed to actually get his—or her—hands on you. He can’t be that good.”

“I don't think that sounds as reassuring as you think it is.”

His eyes roll up as if he’s reading his most recent words. Lips pressing together, he thinks about it a moment before adding, “Oh, yeah. Sorry. You are kind of an obvious target.”

“I don’t know what to do,” I admit. “I think I don’t have any choice but to go somewhere else, but I don’t really have any place to go right now.”

“No boyfriend?” His brows tug together. “Girlfriend?”

“Neither. And I do prefer the former to the latter,” I offer, realizing that suddenly it seems a little more like a potentially bloody meet-cute than a police officer advising a citizen.

“Not judging one way or the other,” he says with an easy smile. “Look. If I were you, I’d get out of here. Go somewhere safe. Maybe it’s a place you have some history with, maybe it’s not. Throw a dart at a map.”

“I own no darts and I doubt my phone would appreciate the impact if I did.”

He chuckles, and despite the circumstances I feel a vague sense of relief. “Regardless, I would pack my things now and go.”

“Okay,” I concede, standing.

“Okay?”

“Yes, I’m going to pack and go. I don’t have a reason to stay other than a kick-ass condo. If I’m safer somewhere else and I have no job keeping me here, no relationship keeping me here? Why would I stay?”

He inclines his head. “Good,” he says. “I’ll get you a car that’ll take you at least outside of the city limits.

You may need to transfer vehicles at that point, but at least it gets you on the road and moving.

Use the car ride to figure out where it is you’re going and if there’s anyone there to provide a safety net,” he advises.

“Consider getting a brand new phone and using it for most things. Before you leave the city, grab a wad full of cash. You’re not going to want to use any card for a while if you can help it.

Once you get safely settled, contact me. ”

He slips me his card. It’s the same dimensions as Andrei’s, but made of a cheaper, more mass-produced-feeling material. I tuck it into the slender pocket of my skirt.

“Now get upstairs, pack everything that you think you need as quickly and efficiently as you can, then come straight back down to the lobby. I’ll stay here and make sure you are safely loaded into the car.”

I do exactly as he instructed, and in half an hour I am standing back in the lobby of the building that has acted as my home for the past eight years, my most important and precious items in two suitcases, one rolling bag, a duffel, a backpack, and three purses.

I am the most stylishly dressed pack mule ever.

The car is already waiting for me. It’s a sleek black Town Car, impeccably waxed to a high gloss.

Mac opens the building’s door for me, dipping his head to say, “Miss Jenkins—if there is ever anything else I can do… Do not hesitate to reach out.” He looks up, his expression tight as he shoots a gaze toward the car and grabs my arm, giving me a tender squeeze. “Please be careful.”

Tommy is suddenly beside me, his eyes darting up and down the sidewalk. Anxious—he’s so anxious…

I can’t blame him. I wouldn’t want to walk back outside so close to a recent shooting either.

In the city, life can’t help but move on, so we all do, too.

Tommy takes more than his fair share of the luggage and we stand there, waiting for the signal from Newbuck that finally comes.

I peel off a few bills for each of them—it’s both the least I can do and the best I can do given the circumstances.

A private driver in a sharp black suit, cap, and sunglasses so dark I can’t fathom how he sees out of them sits behind the wheel, head turned our direction, the small amount of his face that I can see is unreadable.

Stoic. “He’s the best driver I know,” Newbuck says as the driver’s door opens and he seems to unroll himself, tall enough he towers over me.

I may be 5’8”—but he makes me feel small.

“Little Sylva Waters” the boys used to tease me years ago—before I changed everything about me: my hair, my clothes, and my name.

Newbuck continues, “I was surprised he was available on such short notice. He’s ex-special forces,” he adds as he opens the back door for me.

The driver takes almost everything from me and pops the trunk. My eyes follow him. He looks sharp, everything crisp and shiny about him, like he was freshly minted just for me.

“We served together back in the day,” Newbuck explains as I slide into my seat and buckle up. “Do whatever he tells you to—he won’t steer you wrong. And respect the rules of the road. He’s particular about his car.” I slide in and buckle up.

The driver returns to his seat and looks Newbuck’s direction, giving him a sharp nod of acknowledgement. “Dossier?”

“Nope. As previously stated.” Newbuck shifts his attention to me, leaning slightly in the open door to see me better.

“Okay, remember exactly what I told you to do. Cash, new phone for the important stuff as soon as you feel safe. Radio silence otherwise. Call when you get settled. I’ll make sure we figure out who’s behind this. We’ll take care of it.”

Then he closes the door, taps the roof twice, steps back onto the sidewalk, and turns away.