I’m almost done with the first draft of Game of Shadows, and I am having so much fun writing it, I may say screw my to-do list and move directly on to drafting book two.
But that’s neither here nor there.
For this month’s First Monday snippet, I’m pulling another scene from Shadows. Cass and Nick have just come from visiting the man who trained her to be an assassin – also known as her father, Caleb Turner. Nick’s already made it clear he’s got issues with Cass’s choice of part time employment, and the visit’s about to go from bad to worse.
Nick walks over and settles himself on the other corner of the trunk, arms crossed over his chest. “I don’t know who’s more fucked up, you or him.”
The comment blows fresh air over the embers of my anger. “Hypocrite much? I bet your hands are bloodier than mine.” I straighten and thump a hand onto the trunk. “If you could open the trunk for me, I’ll get my bag.” There’s a bus stop not too far from here. I’ll find a no-tell somewhere and hide out for a few days. I should have brought my textbooks. Then I wouldn’t fall behind.
He stands so fast the back end of the car whines as it springs up. “Get in the car.”
“I’m not going to help you.”
“Cass, get in the car.”
Something in his voice sparks my attention, and I scramble into the car, gripping the door handle as he shoves the car into gear. Tires squeal as we roar out of the parking lot. “What’s going on?”
Metal shrieks before he can answer. “We’ve been found,” he says grimly.
A bullet bounces off the rear window with a thud, and I sink down in my seat, hand still closed tight around the handle. “Bullet-proof glass?” Please let it be bullet-proof glass.
He whips the car around a corner, tearing through an alley. Another thud, followed by two more, and we zip around another corner, drawing horns and shouts. My stomach is somewhere in the vicinity of my mouth, with my heart not far behind. Sweat slicks the handle, and I tighten my hold, my fingers aching with it.
“Know how to shoot a gun?” He wrenches the wheel to the left, and velocity throws me against the side of the car.
“I am not sticking my head out the window. I’m not sticking any body part out the window.” Yes, I know how to shoot a gun. Hello? Trained killer?
He leans over, eyes still on the road, and pops open the glove compartment. Two .38s slide out and land on the floor between my legs. Next up are couple of spare magazines. I reach down and pick one up, testing the weight of it. “Loaded?”
We bounce over a speedbump, and I look up. We’re in a covered parking lot, tires screaming over the polished concrete. He pulls the car in one eighty spin and races up the ramp to the next level, screeching to a halt in the far corner. “Get out and get behind the car.” He grabs the other gun and a spare magazine, and climbs out of the car.
I barely have enough time to crawl out and flick the safety off before the next bullet pierces the side of the car. Nick’s crouched next to the front tire, and he jumps up and fires a couple rounds at the next pause in the shooting.
“Two of them,” he says. “Behind their car.”