Page 129 of Shrapnel

Crime does pay, after all.

It wasn’t the cash he was overly worried about. He had plenty of money in various offshore accounts, buried in several places, and in one safe deposit box up north. He thumbed through the cash, double checking before stuffing it into his pocket.

There were six drawers in his dresser. The bottom most left one could be pulled out to reveal a slim bag shoved underneath. Tugging the bag out, he began sorting through everything there—fake identification, a few guns, some knives, rations, a flashlight, some basic first-aid supplies, and the most important: extra socks.

Elijah didn’t understand when Jamie showed him his stashes. He had go bags too, but he didn’t maintain them with the same zeal Jamie did. He didn’t get why Jamie was so fiercely protective of things that were so innocuous. With the way he described them, he had half expected to see something precious like a family album or beloved toy from childhood.

But Jamie didn’t do nostalgia. He didn’t have anything from his childhood he wanted to remember, and there was nothing more precious to him than the ability to disappear. To be safe.

He sorted through it all, double-checking it was still in place. Finding it was, he finally released the breath he’d been holding. Stuffing the wad of cash into the bag, he collected some clothes for both himself and Elijah, a few other items he thought Elijah would want, and then left the apartment.

Bag on his shoulder, he fumbled with his keys. He was locking the door when someone slammed him into the door. The keys rattled in the hand crushed between him and the wood. Stars exploded behind his eyes and his nose crunched in pain.

Without thinking he swung his leg back. The person smashed him back against the door harder, pressing a knee against one of his legs so he couldn’t kick anymore. A gun pressed to the back of his neck, cold metal stinging. His breath was hot against his face as tears filled his eyes from the pain in his nose.

Jamie grunted, trying to ease his fingers toward his shoulder holster. The gun pressed tighter against his neck.

“Easy,” a soft voice called. “I’m going to need you to keep your hands off that gun of yours.”

A hand reached around his chest. Unable to turn his head, he could smell latex gloves as the man worked the gun from the holster, pulling it free.

“Now, that’s better.” The lyrical voice behind him said. “I’m not a fan of guns. Though I understand you’ve become quite skilled, little fox.”

Ice crept down Jamie’s spine. “Who are you?”

“You don’t recognize my voice?”

Jamie searched his memory. He didn’t. Was this Mateo? He didn’t think so. He would be able to feel the prosthetic.

“Sorry, too many blows to the head. Makes the memory foggy.”

The man laughed, a gentle sound that had absolutely no place in a situation like this. With his eyes taken away, Jamie could only focus on his other senses. There were at least two men—the one talking and the one holding him. Besides the latex gloves he couldn’t get a read on the guy holding him, except that he was big. And he smelled like hand sanitizer? No. Alcohol. Not the good kind, the kind they use to disinfect.

The pressure on his back eased up and Jamie was able to turn. His gaze landed on the Glock 17 leveled at his chest. Standard military issue. It was as dependable as it was readily available.

The man holding it was large. His dark features were cool, hidden behind a bushy unkempt beard. The white latex gloves a distinct contrast to the black gun.

Jamie was more interested in the man speaking. He was standing closer to the stairs, hands at his sides and head cocked ever so slightly. He might have been fair, features delicate, but it was impossible to tell because of a thick set of matte black sunglasses perched on his nose. Above the glasses the skin looked wrecked—mottled and scarred.

With elegant fingers, the man pulled the sunglasses from his face. His eyes were milky and unseeing.

The white eyed demon.

“You’re the homeless man.” Jamie suddenly remembered. “The one who warned me about the demon.”

The man shrugged, dainty lips curving in a self-effacing smile as he dropped the glasses back into place. “Not my finest disguise, but it worked.”

Jamie swallowed. “Why?”

Without being able to see his eyes, it was impossible to read him. To Jamie, it just looked as if he went completely still. His caramel-colored hair was pulled back into a loose ponytail, strands falling in front of the bandages and tickling his chin.

“Because I missed you, little fox. Oh. But they call you Jamie now, don’t they?”

It was like a punch to his diaphragm. Jamie knew that name. He inhaled shakily, hands scrabbling at the door behind him. His keys were still gripped in his fist, and he closed his fingers around them.

“No, no, no,” he mumbled shakily, vision beginning to tunnel. “Ikilledyou.”

Dominic smiled, his lips parting to reveal white straight teeth. He touched the scars around his eyes. “No, my sweet little fox, you tried to kill me.”