Page 17 of Lash

Am I attracted to him? Or is it merely the feeling that I am safe with him?

I steal looks at him as we walk. He is not a tall man, perhaps five-eight or five-nine at the most, but he is impossibly muscular—massively broad, hard, round shoulders, immense arms, and a thick chest. His long, glossy black hair falls down his back, tangled and in need of brushing. His beard is long and neatly trimmed and clean. His skin is dark olive, naturally dark from his ethnicity and tanned darker yet from a lifetime in the sun.

He notices me looking and arches an eyebrow. "Why do you look at me this way?"

I shrug. "Trying to figure you out."

He snorts. "Good luck with that."

"Why do you say that?"

A shrug. "I am not an easy man to know."

“So I am discovering. You won't tell me anything about yourself."

"No." It is his only response.

I wait until it's obvious nothing more is forthcoming. "Well? Why not?"

"I do not wish to be known."

"Why not?"

A sigh. “There is nothing but pain in my past, Lovely One. I have experienced enough pain to last many lifetimes."

I consider this answer for a long time. "To be alive is to experience pain, Lash. You cannot escape it through isolation. Is that not its own kind of pain?"

He nods. "It is. But I prefer that pain to…." a harsh breath, a shake of his head. "To the pain of loss."

"Who did you lose?"

He doesn't answer, but I see his jaw flexing. He halts, ducking into a doorway. "Wait here."

"Lash—" I start.

He chops his hand downward, silencing me. "This I must do alone. Wait here. Keep a sharp lookout for men you do not recognize. If men you do not recognize approach you, shoot them." He cups his large, rough, powerful hands around mine. "Shoot to kill. If you feel you must shoot, do not hesitate. Hesitation is death.”

"O-okay," I say. "Please be careful, Lash."

His smile is gentle. "I will be fine." He gestures at my father's compound. "This is child's play. Your father thinks his fancy electronics keep him safe."

I wonder at that pair of statements, but before I can put together a response Lash is striding away from me, continuing down the sidewalk parallel to the compound. He crosses the street toward the compound and is gone from my sight.

My heart pounds as I shrink back into the doorway, trying to will myself invisible.

It is funny how naked and vulnerable I feel without Lash.

infil, exfil

LASH

The compound—three apartment buildings in a U-shape with a heavy gate across the opening—backs up to an alley. Cameras watch the entrances at each end; it is early evening and the shadows are long. This is the riskiest part of the infiltration, when I stand the highest chance of being spotted. I creep through the deepest shadows along the wall, moving slowly and irregularly. A forgotten second-story window is the biggest security flaw in the system. It is possible that it isn't forgotten, but they merely feel that because it is high above the ground with no easy way to access it, there's no point in alarming it.

They didn't account for one simple thing: this building is quite old, and the bricks are not flush—they protrude quite a bit, and between the abuse of the elements and the wear and tear of the centuries, much of the mortar has worn away, creating an easy path up for someone with rock-climbing experience. I spend a few moments examining the wall, picking out a likely path; I kneel and remove my boots and socks, knotting my boot laces together through the belt loop of my jeans at my back, stuffing the socks into the boots.

And then up. Fingerhold by fingerhold, sometimes supporting my weight by fingertips and a toe—it's slow going, but I'm patient.

Once I reach the windowsill, I use the butt of my pistol to gently crack the glass—small, quiet taps that spread spiderweb cracks across the pane; tap-tap-tap at the top, the bottom, corners, the sides, until the glass is a fragile agglomeration of cracked pieces. Balanced by a precarious toehold, I cannot afford to rush and cause the noise of crashing glass; if I remember correctly, the floor on the other side is tile or marble. I cautiously tap a small piece loose near the bottom edge of the window, pry it free with my fingernails, and set it on the sill. My toe and fingerholds shaking, I grit my teeth, ignore the exhaustion. Free another piece, stack it with the first. Piece by piece, I create a hole large enough that I can snake my arm in and reach the lock, after which it's a simple matter of lifting the sash and climbing in.