by Chris Lowry
“Is he okay?”
Anson and Jodi peered through the windshield at the loft skyline. They watched a silhouette of Rob as it jerked and shimmied along the edge of the roof.
“I think he’s being electrocuted,” said Anson.
Jodi shook her head.
“I think he’s dancing.”
“That? I took dance. That’s not dancing.”
“You took dance?” she shot an incredulous look at her partner.
“What? My mother insisted. I did the whole Arthur Murray catalog.”
“You don’t look like a dancer.”
“I can out foxtrot you any day of the week.”
“You’re on and we’re putting a ten spot on the bet,” Jodi held out her hand for Anson to shake.
“You’ll probably look like him,” Anson smirked at her.
She held the radio to her lips.
“Sit tight,” she keyed the microphone. “We’ll handle this.”
“Come on,” she said to Anson. “Let’s go cut in.”
He shifted his bulk out of the passenger door and followed her across the street.
“I’ve got point,” he said.
He unlocked the strap on the Glock that rested to his belt.
“Next time,” she said and led him through the door to the loft lobby.
“One of these day’s someone’s not gonna let you lead.”
“You’re the dancer, partner. You can lead then. Until that, I go first, I get shot first.”
“That’s what you tell yourself.”
A car whipped around the corner of the street and beared down on the doorway. Jodi spun around, her Glock in hand and tracking the driver. Anson leaned against the wall to clear her line of sight and aimed with the weapon he drew a second slower than her.
They both watched as a flustered soccer mom raced past the loft, screaming at two towheaded boys in the back seat. They couldn’t hear her, just see her mouth moving through the closed window.
Jodi slipped her pistol back into the holster on her waist.
“Scared you?”
“You blinked first,” Anson grinned.
“Let’s go see what this dancer is doing,” she said and led him through the door.
Neither of them noticed a black panel van pull up beside the other Sedan across the street.
The agents in the sedan looked left as the cargo door rolled back. They didn’t have time to react as a silenced handgun slithered from the dark interior and spat twice. Both agents slumped in the car seats.
Four black clad commandos hopped out of the van. The passenger side window rolled down and the driver leaned over to the lead commando.
“It’d be nice if you made it look real.” His voice was oily and sinister delivered over dead eyes that made the hard core commando wince.
“No problem, Sir,” he said and licked his lips. “Move out.”
The four men hustled across the street, dipped in and out of shadows and disappeared through the doorway entry.
Pick up a copy today: http://amzn.to/21QgkmU