Chapter 8 - The Target on My Back
I burst out of the building into the crowded city streets, gasping for fresh air.
“I have the photos,” I said into my earpiece.
“Excellent work,” Marcus replied.
“I’m in the black van on the corner of 5th. Walk toward me normally.”
I started down the block, blending into the lunchtime crowd.
But as I glanced at my reflection in a shop window, I saw him.
A broad-shouldered man in a gray trench coat was following me.
He wasn't trying to hide it.
“Marcus, I’ve got a tail,” I whispered.
“I see him,” Marcus said, his voice instantly dropping its professional tone.
“That’s Victor. Vanessa’s private fixer. He must have been running facial recognition on new hires.”
“What do I do?”
“Keep walking. Turn right into the alley before the coffee shop. I’ll meet you on the other side.”
I picked up my pace, my heels clicking sharply against the pavement.
I ducked into the narrow, shadowed alleyway.
Halfway down, a hand grabbed my shoulder and spun me around.
It was Victor.
He shoved me against the brick wall, a heavy hand pressing against my throat.
“Clara Hughes, right?” he sneered.
“Or should I say, Cara Fields. You thought changing your hair would save you?”
I struggled, but he was too strong.
He reached into his coat, pulling out a suppressed pistol.
“Vanessa sends her regards.”
Suddenly, the roar of an engine echoed through the alley.
The black van smashed through the chain-link fence at the end of the alley, skidding to a halt.
The side door flew open, and Marcus leaped out, tackling Victor to the ground.
The gun went off with a muffled pfft, and a searing pain ripped across my upper arm.
I screamed, falling to my knees.
May you like
Marcus knocked Victor out cold with the butt of his own gun, then scooped me up off the ground.
“Get in!” he yelled, throwing me into the back of the van before peeling out into traffic.
