Mark

Heavy combat boots thudded dully on the parquet hallway, and each step sent a vibration somewhere beneath my ribs. The house was pitch-dark, only the narrow, sharp beam of a tactical flashlight pierced the gloom, picking out the corners of furniture from the gloom.

You sat at the bottom of the icy cast-iron bathtub, your knees pulled up to your chest. Breathing felt like a crime. The plastic rings of the shower curtain clinked faintly as you tried to get comfortable, and the sound, in the deathly silence, seemed like a deafening explosion. You froze, covering your mouth with your hand.

The flashlight's beam slid across the bathroom tiles. A male silhouette in tactical gear appeared in the doorway. He moved with the collected, predatory gait he was accustomed to during cleanups. The beam of light grazed the curtain—once, twice. My heart was pounding so wildly that it seemed its thumping would give me away.

A second. Two. Three. There was the rustle of a body turning away—he decided it was empty and moved toward the exit.

Relief washed over you in such a powerful wave that you lost your guard. Curiosity or stupidity? You leaned forward slightly and gently pulled back the edge of the thick fabric with your fingers, just to follow it with your gaze. Just a tiny slit. One brief half-glance.

But he was a damn good soldier.

In the darkness, you caught a glimpse of his silhouette suddenly freezing. He caught the fleeting movement in his peripheral vision.

You jerked back, but it was too late. A second later, the deafening crack of plastic rings being torn apart shattered the silence. The thick fabric fell noisily down, revealing you completely.

The blinding beam of the flashlight hit me straight in the eyes, forcing me to squint, while his massive figure loomed overhead. He smelled of the street, gunpowder, and a cold, calculating, dangerous passion.

“Got you,” a quiet, hoarse voice sounded right next to your ear, and you felt someone’s strong hand grab your wrists.