Sheikh's Rescue. Ryshia Kennie
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It was clear they needed to move him and for that they had to find a safe place. That wasn’t her job. Her job was to protect him in whatever safe house was decided.
But when she stepped past the patio doors, the silence was heavy. She took a deep breath, trying to control her over-stressed breathing. The apartment was ominously silent except for the clock measuring off time; the steady beat made her want to yank it from the wall and chuck it over the balcony.
“Stanley!” Her gun was in both hands, aimed—ready. She took one step, moving left, her arms moving with her body, keeping the gun in front, ready. There was nothing to be ready for. The apartment was empty, and all that she could think was that it wasn’t possible. She’d protected him, held off the sniper and made him safe, and now Stanley should be here waiting for her. As she moved through the small apartment she became more tense. It was clear that Stanley was gone, even his luggage was missing.
Outside a car door slammed.
She ran to the balcony, gripping the cold cement as she looked over the railing. The street was dreary, falling snow the only movement. She went to the other side, to the edge of the balcony that hugged the perimeter of the building. There, she could see into the parking lot and also see that the stall that her rental van had occupied was empty.
“Unbelievable,” she said through clenched teeth. “Un-frickin-believable,” she muttered. Nothing like this had ever happened to her. Until now, she could never have imagined it happening. So far she’d had a stellar, if short, career with Nassar—until now.
What had gone wrong?
How had this happened?
She’d handled the attack on the balcony smoothly only to lose the client. This didn’t sit well with her, and it wasn’t going to sit well with the agency. But it wasn’t the agency she was thinking of, but rather the sinfully good-looking Zafir. She gritted her teeth. Instead of impressing him, which would up her chances of success and status with the company, she looked like amateur hour.
“Damn, Stanley,” she gritted. “You’re not making it easy to like you.”
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