Free Safe Passage by Loreth Anne White Page B

chuckle.
    Dr. Van Rijn was slouched on a sofa, her long legs propped up on a coffee table, one ankle crossed over the other. Her feet were still shod in heavy black biker boots. In her right hand she held a wrist-braced slingshot. Yellow light quivered from a candle on the mantel over the fireplace.
    Fascinated, Scott watched as she took a metal bead the size of a large marble from a leather pouch resting at her side. She fitted it against the powerband of the slingshot, drew it slowly, steadily, back with her left hand.
    She aimed, right arm extended fully. And released.
    Before he could blink, the silvery-white wedding balloons hanging in the far corner of the living room exploded into tattered rags.
    Scott’s hand shot down to muzzle Honey.
    Skye reached for another bead. Scott watched, intrigued as she repeated the process. But this time she aligned her weapon directly with the wedding cake on the table in the dining room.
    He held his breath.
    She pulled.
    Released.
    The silver bullet whizzed, slamming the tiny groom dead in the heart. It shattered, flew back with a crack against the wall.
    Scott swallowed.
    The woman was an astounding marksman. And what she held in her hand was a deadly serious weapon. Stupefied, he stood motionless as she positioned another bead, stretched the yellow surgical tubing back taut.
    She raised it slowly, aimed at the heart of the little white bride standing lonely on the cake.
    But Honey could stay quiet no longer. She whimpered.
    Skye spun.
    Before Scott could breathe, the lethal bead was trained on him, aimed straight at the center of his forehead.
    He froze.
    Skye didn’t move. Her face was totally expressionless. That above all spoke volumes. He’d seen that kind of control before. He had little doubt she could kill.
    He cleared his throat. “You could hurt someone with that, Doctor.”
    Still she didn’t move. “That’s the idea, Mr. Futurist. ” Her voice was steady, smoky.
    “Who do you plan to hurt?”
    “I can think of a couple of people off the top of my head.”
    “I’m one of them?”
    “Should you be?”
    “Perhaps.”
    She slowly relaxed tension on the slingshot, lowered her weapon, her expression still deathly serious. “What, exactly, is that supposed to mean, Mr. McIntyre?”
    “Damned if I know. It sounded right. You scared the spit out of me. I don’t think straight when I’m scared,” he lied.
    She laughed, mirthlessly. “Sorry. Come in. I thought you were someone else.”
    “Oh, really. Who?”
    Her eyes flicked to the window and back. “No one. Doesn’t matter. Come in.”
    Scott felt as if he’d been invited into a lair. Wary, he stepped over the bags at the door. He nodded toward them. “You planning on going somewhere?”
    She stood as he entered the living room, stared him directly in the eye, her back straight as a rod. “What’s it to you?”
    He raised both hands. “Hey, I’m sorry if I’ve come at a bad time. I can come back later.”
    She studied him carefully. Her eyes cut briefly back to the window. Then she spoke. “No. My apologies. I’ve had a bad day. I could do with some company. Take a seat. Help yourself to food.” She gestured to the table. “Sorry the champagne’s warm.”
    By the way her eyes kept flicking to the window, Scott figured she’d noticed the tail parked across the street.
    And he figured she was worried. She didn’t want to socialize with him, she wanted him around for protection from whomever she thought was following her.
    And that suited him. Because he wanted information.
    He moved over to the table laden with wilted wedding hors d’oeuvres. A sad sight. He looked up from the table, at the jilted bride. Something snagged in his heart.
    He quickly glossed it over. Resting his cane against the table, he reached for two glasses, pulled a bottle of champagne from the silver tub of melted ice.
    Without speaking, he limped over to the coffee table, set the two glasses down, popped the cork with a