Chapter 111: HANS: Chapter 112

With my socks in my pocket, I step out of the bathroom barefoot and back into the empty office. I won’t let slippery feet slow me down again.

After digging through every cabinet, I found a small thing of unopened mouthwash and used it three times. Then, because I’m a nervous pee-er, I used the toilet as quickly as possible. It freaked me out thinking someone with a key could walk right in. But I didn’t really want to add peeing myself to the list of terrible things that happened today.

I also pulled my ponytail free and pressed my damp hands against my scalp to try and calm some of the lingering pain before loosely putting my hair back up.

I’m standing on the threshold of the room, wondering what I can use to smash the mirror in the bathroom, when I hear the click of the main door unlocking.

Before I have time to decide whether I should hide in the bathroom or rush the door, it swings open.

Evil Andre steps in first, followed by an older guy.

The new guy gives off a super creepy vibe, and based on his three-piece suit, which is over the top for anything less than a wedding, I’d bet he’s the owner of this awful house.

Andre shuts the door after them and then stands against it as a human blockade.

The suit, who looks like someone’s sleazy uncle, stops a few feet away from me.

Too far for me to kick him.

“I’m Gabriel Marcoux.”

But he is close enough for me to spit on.

So I do.

Andre steps away from the door like he’s going to punish me for spitting on his boss, but Gabriel lifts a hand to stop him.

Andre obeys.

Gabriel pulls the fancy satin square out of his suit pocket and wipes at his chest. He’s trying to look unaffected. But he’s not good at it.

Sadly, none of my spit got on his face, but the message was received.

“You’re the neighbor, aren’t you?” He tosses the soiled kerchief to the floor. “And yet you’re dressed like a member of that whore’s little army.”

“Pretty sure her profession is killing bastards like you, not whoring. But if you want to be a total fucking hypocrite and talk down about sex workers, go ahead.”

He lifts a brow. “Hypocrite?”

“I have to explain it…” I shake my head.

I know I shouldn’t goad him. But he’s freaking me out. So it’s sass or hiding in the corner, and something tells me I should be buying time.

I squeeze my hands into fists to stop myself from reaching up and touching my tracker.

“If you know me so well, Cassandra Lynn Cantrell.” He spreads his arms in a do tell gesture.

I ignore him using my full name. “I know your interior designer sucks. And I know Hans is going to kill you.”

Gabriel narrows his eyes. “My mother furnished this house.”

“Sorry, but I’m pretty sure your mother hates you.”

His jaw flexes. “You’re acting like a child.”

I cross my arms instead of responding.

“And the idea of Hans rescuing you with the help of his little harem is just as juvenile.” He scoffs. “It’s a suicide mission I’ll welcome with open arms.”

I don’t miss the way he’s always belittling women. This man hates females. Which tracks with him being the worst. And it means he’ll never be afraid of Karmine’s army. Even if he should be.

But a man like this, one who preys on those weaker than him, I bet I know what he is afraid of.

I bet he’s afraid of Hans.

Afraid of ever finding himself one-on-one with the killer.

And right now Gabriel feels safe in this marbled prison.

He feels comfortable.

And I just can’t allow that to continue.

My lips pull into a smirk. “Hans isn’t with the women.”

I suspect he’s called Karmine for help by now, but that’s not important for this conversation.

“So he’s coming alone?” Gabriel mocks. “Even better.”

I shake my head. “Not alone.”

He starts to sneer, but I don’t flinch. And I can see the moment he realizes I might be telling the truth.

Hans has always been alone.

Since the man in front of me ruined his life twenty years ago, Hans has been alone.

He’s fought alone.

He’s killed alone.

He’s eaten his meals alone.

Spent his holidays alone.

My heart squeezes so hard for him.

For what he lost.

For what I can give him.

“What is she talking about?” Gabriel turns to Andre, whose face has gone pale.

“There, uh—There were men. With him in Dallas,” Andre stammers. “I thought you knew.”

Gabriel slowly shakes his head. “And how would I know that if you didn’t tell me?”

“On the plane—You were on the phone with Kris—” Andre slices a glare at me, like it’s my fault he didn’t do his job.

I wink at him.

“Who?” Gabriel snaps.

Andre visibly swallows. “Um, I think the guy next to him might’ve been Dominic Gonzalez.”

Gabriel’s head rears back. “The head of the Chicago mafia? What the fuck would he be doing with Hans?”

“Maybe it wasn’t him,” Andre backpedals. “I don’t know. I just saw the tattoos and hair…”

Both men turn toward me.

I don’t have to fake my smile this time. “Oh, didn’t you know? Hans is a part of The Alliance now.”

“You’re lying,” Gabriel hisses at me.

I lift a shoulder. “Am I?”

I might be lying; I don’t actually know the details. But the idea of it seems to be rattling this asshole’s confidence, so I’m sticking with it.

Gabriel steps closer into my space. “I was going to let you sit up here, nice and comfortable, until we lured Hans out of whatever hole he lives in and killed him. Then I would have killed you with a bullet to the head. Made it quick. But I think I’ll keep you instead. Put you to work.” He steps back. “Radio Henrik. Tell him we have product for him to transport to the cells. And let him know he can be as rough as he wants.” Gabriel’s voice is filled with a terrible-sounding glee that fills my stomach with dread.

I stand still while they leave, but as soon as the lock clicks behind them, I rush back into the bathroom.

I cannot just stand here and wait for Henrik.

I pull open the top drawer of the vanity.

Nothing new has appeared, and still nothing hard enough to break a mirror.

Then I pause.

Fucking duh.

I yank the drawer all the way out and shimmy it loose.

I tip the contents into the sink and find the best way to hold it two handed, like a square baseball bat.

Then I look down at my bare feet.

If I put my socks back on and the bad guy comes to get me, I won’t be able to run. I’ll just have to be careful and accept the risk of cutting my feet.

Squeezing my eyes shut and turning my head away, I swing the drawer.

The mirror shatters on impact, but I keep my eyes clenched shut for another second before opening them.

Shards are all over the counter, but there’s a perfectly pointy triangle of glass still sitting in the corner of the frame.

Using a washcloth I found earlier, I pry it out, then wrap the bottom half of the mirror chunk in the little towel so I can hold it without slicing my palm open.

I have a weapon. Now I need a plan.

I look around the small bathroom.

I could lock myself in here, but I have no doubt the man they’re sending up would be able to break the door down in moments. And then I’d be stuck in the narrow bathroom with no way out.

But is standing in the main room, facing off, glass chunk to gun, really a better idea?