Rising Hope by Edie James

10

A bagof overpriced groceries in each arm, Sarah headed through the garage of her rented mansion. Some way to spend a Friday night; just her and a handful of zombie-eyed parents wandering the aisles of the local gourmet market, her expensive outfit and the perfect makeup versus their rumpled sweats and full lives.

Years of practice helped her tune out her sad inner dialog. Anyone watching would see an energetic, well-dressed woman living the high life. Her cart was filled with gourmet foods and bottles of champagne she’d never touch.

While she waited the required number of days until she could reasonably need to replenish her supply of B3yond, Peaches Duvall made herself known around town, lunching with ladies at the golf club, flirting with the moneyed-set, and generally looking like she had cash to burn.

If Ulrich or any of his hired help tailed her, they’d see exactly what they expected to see: a chic socialite living way above her means. If they broke into the house, they’d find a large safe well-stocked with drugs.

She set down one of the bags for a moment, punched her code into the security system, and slipped upstairs as quickly as possible. The hair on the back of her neck prickled, and she had that awful tingling between her shoulder blades, as if she were anticipating a knife thrust.

Ever since Wednesday night, when she failed to find a trail leading to Wenmark, she’d been twitchy.

She winced, thinking about her new pilot, MacKenzie. The guy obviously had no taste for undercover work, but he flew like an angel, and he had the heart of a warrior. Strong and true. She couldn’t stand the thought of him disappearing, too.

She headed down the soaring hallway toward the kitchen, ears perked for any signs of life in the place.

Silence rang out. But it wasn’t comforting.

Something felt different. An unidentifiable whisper of warning that she couldn’t ignore, despite the fact that the security system hadn’t been breached.

Neck prickling and stomach aching, she set down the groceries and extracted her Glock from her purse. Living alone did have a few perks. No one would know if she was overreacting.

Weapon at her side, she slid behind the breakfast bar and stilled, listening hard.

Nothing but empty air.

Still, something didn’t feel right.

If life in a dysfunctional, criminal family had taught her anything, it was to trust her gut. Probably the only life lesson she got that had any value.

She eyed the security camera in the upper corner of the kitchen. The green light glowed cheerfully. See? Nothing to worry about.

She re-armed the safety on her weapon and set the piece down on the counter. Today might be a false alarm, but danger would come. It would be all too easy for rival dealers to attack. Putting out the word that she could procure any amount of B3yond made her a target. Other sellers would want her gone. And they’d want her stash. Leaving her dead would be an added bonus.

Moving quietly, she flipped open her laptop. A few keystrokes and she had access to the house’s security feed. No one had come anywhere near the house since she left.

She rolled her head back and forth, trying to ease the tension in her neck then snagged an apple from the picture-perfect bowl. Her teeth sank into the hard flesh with a satisfying crunch. When she started seeing threats in every shadow it was time to get out. Another not-so-subtle hint that she was burned to a crisp and ready for a new life.

She gnawed the apple down to the core and tossed it in the polished steel trash can. A couple more buys and they’d be able to wrap this up. All she had to do was keep it together—and keep herself safe—another week or two.

A shadow scudded across the polished marble of the entry hall. The last bite of apple hardened into a lump in her throat. Someone was at the door.

She flipped her laptop back open, tapping her fingers as she urged the live security feed to load. “Come on. Come on.”

Finally. A man stood at the door, his form illuminated by the porch light. Male. Caucasian. Good-sized. He wore a dark baseball cap and carried a large white meal delivery bag.

He pressed the doorbell and held the bag up toward the camera. “Order from Back Street Café. I gotta get a signature on this. Sorry.”

Her stomachache came back with a vengeance. She hadn’t ordered anything. A sub-compact sat at the curb behind him, engine running and lights on.

She reached for her weapon but made no move toward the door. The guy would quickly realize he’d gotten the wrong address. All she had to do was wait.

The seconds ticked by.

He pounded on the door. “Hello? Meal delivery.”

Then he muttered something she couldn’t hear and tugged at the bill of his cap, looking from the bag to the hand-carved door and back. He made an impatient sound and dropped the bag at the base of the door before turning away. “Whatever.” He muttered and jogged back down to his vehicle.

She watched the feed until the car disappeared. The bag could stay, she decided.

But then she thought of all the night creatures that roamed the exclusive enclave. Especially the raccoons. They’d set off every exterior alarm on the place.

Nope. She needed her sleep.

Gun in hand, she eyed the camera one last time before heading to the door. The cool sea air whipped her hair around her face as she reached for the bag.

The scrape of a shoe against the slate walk hit her at the same instant a shadow crossed her vision. She jerked back, but she reacted too slowly.

Fingers dug into the back of her neck. She raised her arm, but a blow caught her wrist, sending her weapon flying before her attacker dragged her upright.

Her assailant was smaller than the delivery guy. Mid-forties at least, with a hard, craggy face and multiple tattoos covering his neck and arms.

He pulled her close to his face. “You scream. You die.”