Shoot.
Trapped within the confines of her truck, Leya gazed out the windshield at the two males.
Despite the distance, she felt the tension, cold as ice, press on her skin like a blunt steel blade. Her heart did something wicked in her chest, momentarily forcing a smatter of bile to rise her throat and she tasted the bitterness with absolute clarity.
Holland stood stiffly before Kairo. The breadth of his shoulders was drawn taut like an overstrung bowstring, stretching the material of his shirt. One hand rested on his waist where the Glock’s glimmering handle protrudes.
Leya knew that stance.
She had witnessed it once when they had left a diner particularly late at night and branched into an alley in the name of shortcuts. Two harrowing figures appeared on the opposite end, teeterin
