Текст книги "Love me stalk me"

Автор книги: Laura Bishop

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Текущая страница: 16 (всего у книги 27 страниц)

HE UNZIPPED HIS PANTS. SO I UNHINGED HIS JAW.

CAL

Izzy's been avoiding me all morning.

She thinks I haven't noticed.

But I have.

She's been sidestepping me, moving through the store like she's got blinders on, keeping her head down, avoiding eye contact. She rushes from one department to the next, all business, all focus—except I know her well enough now to see that it's forced.

Gone is our usual rhythm—the playful exchanges, the knowing glances across the floor, the slight curve of her lips when I catch her eye. Instead, there's a deliberate distance, a careful choreography to stay out of my orbit.

And I let her.

I give her space, respecting the invisible boundary she's drawn. I don't ambush her between the aisles or manufacture reasons to be in her presence. Because I understand what she needs right now—time to process, to sort through the tangled mess of emotions after our kiss.

She'll come back to me when she's ready. So I give her space. But that doesn't mean I'm not watching.

By the time the store starts winding down for the day, I'm back in the security suite, leaned back in my chair, eyes locked on one monitor.

Izzy’s sitting in her office. Her phone is clutched in her hand, but she remains still—no scrolling through messages, no typing emails, no productive movement whatsoever. Just staring, her chest rising and falling with shallow breaths.

I know exactly what she's doing.

Working up the courage.

Her fingers flex around her phone, loosening, tightening. A deep breath in, then out.

She calls him.

I watch her closely, tracking every micro-expression, every shift in her features. The moment he answers, I see the relief cross her face.

Then, annoyance.

I already know. Evan's being a dick. She's trying to meet up with him. He's making it difficult. But she's pushing through it. She's doing it anyway. And even from here, I can tell she's holding firm.

Another thirty minutes pass. I'm watching the clock, waiting, ready.

"Callahan."

I press a finger to my earpiece. The plastic is cool against my skin. "Yeah."

"Got a guy asking for Russo." It's Ramirez calling from the front of the store.

I knew this was coming.

Through gritted teeth, I force myself to take a slow breath before I speak. Because this is her moment. She needs to do this on her own. Even though every instinct is clawing to intervene.

"Call her. Let her know. Then take him up."

Ramirez confirms and I go back to watching. The security feed shows Evan strutting through the main entrance, chin lifted with his usual arrogance. Ramirez escorts him through the sales floor. They reach her office door, and he hesitates, giving Izzy a silent, questioning look. She responds with a small nod.

Ramirez lingers, reluctant. Then he leaves them alone. I turn on the audio feed, the soft click of the switch echoing in the quiet room. And I listen.

Izzy tells him it's over. She stands her ground without apology or compromise. She refuses to be manipulated by his tactics.

I'm so fucking proud of her, because he's trying. He's doing what men like him always do—twisting words, turning it around, making himself the victim, grasping at any thread of control he has left. But she's not falling for it.

She sees through his manipulation now. The fog has lifted, and she recognizes the toxic patterns that once ensnared her. The strength she's displaying—this quiet, resolute defiance—is beautiful to witness.

But then the atmosphere transforms. I see it before she does. Before she even realizes what's about to happen. It starts small. His shoulders tighten, his hands flex, his whole body coils, winding up like a spring ready to snap. A dangerous energy radiates from him—his posture rigid, his breathing shallow.

I recognize it instantly, because I've seen it before.

Too many times. I saw it overseas when I was deployed. Saw it in soldiers who felt trapped, their rationality replaced by primal instinct. Combatants who believed violence was their only remaining option. Aggressors whose rage consumed them so completely that it controlled their actions, overriding all reason and restraint.

The warning signs are unmistakable.

I can predict what comes next with terrifying clarity.

I can read the intent in every line of Evan's body before Izzy has any chance to react.

I see it written all over Evan's face– the sheer, unfiltered rage of a man who's about to lose control.

My entire body tenses, my pulse kicking into overdrive.

I need to get to her.

I need to move.

But I already know⁠—

I won't make it in time.

I run. I don't think. I don't hesitate. I bolt out of the security suite, my legs moving before my brain fully catches up, pushing through the hall, dodging employees and customers alike. The store's ambient noise—conversations, music, footsteps—blurs into white noise as my focus narrows to a single point.

I know precisely how long it takes to get to Izzy's office.

I can count every stride between here and there.

I can calculate the seconds ticking away as I run, each one bringing her closer to danger.

But I don't have seconds.

She's alone.

With him.

And that is the most dangerous place she could be. I yank my phone out of my pocket as I run, pulling up the security feed, my breath heavy, my pulse thudding in my ears. The screen shows a nightmare unfolding.

Izzy is on the ground.

Pinned beneath him.

Evan is over her, pressing her down, knees bracketing her body, one hand tangled in the torn fabric of her blouse. His other hand is⁠—

I see it.

He's reaching down. He's about to pull her panties down. He's unbuckling his belt. The metallic jingle is barely audible.

And I⁠—

I see red.

Pure fucking red.

I shove through a group of customers, barking orders into my earpiece. "All available security, get to Isabella Russo's office NOW."

I don't care if I'm the one to get there first. That doesn't matter. What matters is that she's safe.

What matters is stopping him before⁠—

I shove a stock cart out of my way, sending it crashing into a display. Glass shatters, perfume bottles explode on impact, their sickeningly sweet scent filling the air. Somewhere in the distance, I hear someone yell.

I don't care.

I don't stop.

I reach her office.

The door is locked.

Not a problem.

I kick it in.

The wood splinters beneath my boot, the handle cracking as the door slams open, crashing against the wall. Fragments of wood scatter across the carpet.

And inside⁠—

Izzy isn't moving. Evan is on top of her.

His zipper is down.

His hand is on her thigh.

His face snaps up in shock.

And that's when I fucking lose it.

I grab him by the collar of his stupid fucking Oxford, wrenching him off her with a force that nearly dislocates his shoulder. He lets out a choked noise, stumbling, hands flailing. The fabric of his designer shirt tears under my grip.

I don't give him time to react. I don't give him time to beg, or run, or fucking breathe.

I swing.

My fist connects with his face, hard and fast, the sickening crunch of cartilage and bone splitting through the air. The impact sends shock waves up my arm.

His head snaps back.

He crashes to the floor, limp. A tooth skitters across the carpet.

Unconscious.

One punch.

That's all it takes. Because I know what I'm doing. Because I could have killed him. The thought crosses my mind like a dark temptation. The world might be better without men like him in it. Izzy would never have to fear him again.

But I know—I know—that if I do, she'll blame herself.

Even if she doesn't say it out loud. Even if she never admits it. Her mind will twist things, warp the truth, find a way to tell herself that she had a part to play in his death. That this was her fault. And then she'll never be free of him. Not really.

So no.

I don't kill him.

I just make sure that when he wakes up, he's going to be missing his two front teeth. The implants will be painful and cost a fortune. Serves him right.

I take a slow breath, my pulse still raging. The taste of adrenaline is metallic on my tongue.

And then I turn to Izzy.

She's still unconscious, her body limp on the floor, hair fanned out beneath her like she just laid down for a nap instead of getting fucking attacked. I'm on my knees before I even realize I moved, my hands hovering over her, searching.

Checking for injuries.

Checking for...worse.

Her blouse is ripped at the front, exposing the smooth curve of her shoulder. Bruises are already starting to form along her collarbone, the side of her throat. The imprint of Evan's fingers lingers there. Purple marks imprinted like violent flowers.

My hands tighten into fists so hard my knuckles crack.

I wrestle my rage back into its cage, forcing myself to stay composed. She needs me clear-headed now—not consumed by vengeful thoughts.

I push the fabric of her skirt down. Her panties—thank God, her panties are still on. Evan hadn't gotten that far.

If I had been even a second later⁠—

I shove the thought down, bury it beneath the cold, methodical logic I need right now.

She's breathing. That's what matters.

She's here.

And Evan didn't get to take that from her. Even still, she should still do a kit, because if he even got near her with his rancid cock, I want him put behind bars for life. I'll pull connections inside so he knows just what it feels like to have someone force themselves on you.

And it won't just be once.

I'll drain my entire bank account to make sure it happens to him day in, day out. For the rest of his miserable life.

The other guys rush in. Ramirez is first. His eyes scan the scene, landing on Evan sprawled out cold on the floor before flicking to me, then Izzy.

"Jesus," he breathes.

"She's okay," I say, my voice sounding more controlled than I actually feel. "Get that piece of shit in cuffs. Call the cops."

Ramirez and another guy move to restrain Evan's unconscious body, pulling out zip ties for now, securing his wrists behind his back.

"Does anyone have smelling salts?" My voice doesn’t betray the rage I feel underneath.

One of the guys pulls a small vial from his vest pocket, tossing it to me. I catch it easily, sliding it into mine.

Then I stand, lifting Izzy into my arms. She barely stirs, her body slack against my chest. Her weight is substantial but comforting—a reminder that she's here, she's real, she's safe now. "She doesn't need to see any of this," I mutter. "I'm taking her to Amanda's office. Handle the rest."

They nod as I walk out, holding Izzy close.

Amanda's door swings open before I even knock, and she's already talking.

"Well, well, if it isn't⁠—"

Her eyes drop to Izzy in my arms, and concern floods her features.

"What the fuck happened?" she demands, stepping forward, almost clawing at me. "The fuck did you do to my best friend?"

"Cut it out, Amanda," I snap, dodging her hands. "I didn't hurt her."

Her eyes flare with anger, her mouth already opening to argue. And then I say it. "I would never hurt a woman—let alone MY woman."

It slips out before I even register I said it.

Amanda freezes.

Her mouth snaps shut.

I ignore my own words and keep my focus on what actually fucking matters.

"It was Evan," I tell her, voice tight with restraint. "She broke up with him and he attacked her. He's being arrested down the hall. I didn't want her to wake up and see that."

Amanda stares at me for a long second, then exhales, pressing her lips together.

"She should see a doctor," she says, voice quieter now.

"Yes," I say. "But, in the meantime, I'm a licensed paramedic."

Amanda hesitates, but after a second, she nods.

"Fine," she mutters. "I'll leave you alone, but if anything seems off⁠—"

"I'll call you," I finish for her.

She nods again, reluctant but trusting. And then she steps out of the room, closing the door behind her.

I walk Izzy over to the couch, lowering her down carefully, as if she's made of glass. I pull out the smelling salts, crack them open, and gently hold them beneath her nose. The ammonia scent fills the air.

"Come back to me, pretty girl," I murmur.

Her eyelids flutter.

I’M NOT AFRAID WHEN HE’S HERE

IZZY

I'm back in my apartment.

It's been four days since the attack—four days since Evan tried to rape me in my own office, since Callahan broke down my door and saved me. Four days since my entire world shattered and began to reform into something unrecognizable.

I sit on my couch wrapped in a blanket, watching the shadows shift across the wall as the afternoon sun filters through the blinds. Outside my Hoboken apartment, traffic rolls by, horns blare, footsteps echo on the sidewalk. Life keeps moving. People keep living.

But I don’t move. I just sit there, numb and heavy, like I’ve sunk into the cushions and can’t find the will to get up. Everything feels far away. Like I’m watching it all from behind thick glass, unable to reach it. Or maybe unwilling.

I took personal time off from work. Not because I wanted to. Amanda and Cal forced me. If it were up to me, I would've gone back the next day and pretended like everything was fine, like nothing happened. But it did happen. And no amount of pretending is going to erase that.

Both of them also dragged me to the emergency room. The antiseptic smell still lingers in my memory, along with the scratchy paper covering the examination table. They made me do a sexual assault examination. I didn't want to at first. I told them it wasn't necessary. Cal was there. He saw the whole thing. He told me he got there before Evan could do his worst. But then he hesitated.

What if the angle was wrong? That's what he said. What if there was something he didn't see while he was running to get me?

That alone was enough to convince me to go.

The tests showed no evidence of penetration or sexual contact. Much to my relief. Because I don't know if I could have handled the alternative. I know he hit me hard enough that I blacked out. Maybe that was for the best. Maybe it spared me from worse. But the whole thing was still beyond terrifying. My body still carries the evidence—aches and bruises that make me wince with every movement.

Evan was arrested, of course.

I got a call from the District Attorney's office a few days later. They want to bring charges against him. Attempted sexual assault.

But there's a catch.

They need me to testify.

Without my testimony, they probably won't bring this to trial. I told them I needed to think about it. Because the truth is, I don't know if I can do it. The idea of sitting in open court, reliving that day, detailing what he did—what he tried to do—makes me feel like I can't breathe. My chest tightens just thinking about it, my lungs refusing to expand.

And what if it follows me forever?

What if people search court records someday, and that's all they see about me? Even with victim protection laws, details have a way of leaking out.

What if it never really goes away?

I haven't told anyone about the call yet. Not Amanda. Not Cal. Not my family. Especially not my family. Amanda, bless her loud, chaotic, occasionally psychotic heart, has been uncharacteristically quiet about the trauma. She's respected my boundaries, hasn't pushed me to talk, hasn't forced me into reliving any of it.

And, most importantly, she hasn't told my family.

I begged her not to. Amanda knows my family. She's been to more than a few Sunday dinners. She promised me she wouldn't say a word. She said it wasn't her place. Which thank God, because if my brothers and dad found out? They'd be on trial for murder.

If my mother and Nonna found out? It might actually kill them.

Still, I know she's keeping a close eye on me.

But no one has kept a closer eye on me than Cal.

He's the one who saved me. The first person I saw when I woke up, the one who carried me to the hospital, held my hand through the whole ordeal. The one who brought me home.

He's the one who cooked for me, made sure I showered, and got me into bed. He slept on my couch outside my bedroom door. And I mean, physically outside my bedroom door. He moved the couch in front of it so that any potential intruder would literally have to go through him first. The sound of his steady breathing was oddly comforting through the thin wood.

I told him he should go home. That it wasn't fair to him.

But he just shook his head and said he wasn't leaving me alone.

And the worst part?

It didn't even weird me out.

It should have.

I should be freaked out by how protective he is.

By the fact that, when he finally left for work the next morning, he installed a security camera outside my door.

By the fact that he put up an alarm.

By the fact that he said, "If anyone so much as approaches, I'll know about it."

That should make me feel smothered.

It doesn't.

It makes me feel safe.

He’s come over every night this week.

After work, he shows up at my apartment, makes me dinner, cooks extra so I have food for the next day. He tucks me into bed, tells me I’m safe. Then he sits outside my room until I fall asleep.

He’s remained patient and respectful throughout.

Never once has he pressure me to discuss what happened.

Not once has he done anything but offer quiet, steady support when I need it most.

And I don't know what to do with that.

Because all I want is him.

But I don't know if that's because I'm vulnerable or if it's because this is real.

I’ve tried to figure it out, but can’t, and the week has passed in a blur.

Most days, I sleep until noon, wake up only long enough to eat, then doze off again.

When I’m awake, I barely touch my phone.

Because the last time I did, Evan called.

It happened the day after he was released on bond.

I didn't listen to the voicemail he left.

I couldn't bring myself to hear his voice, to let him invade this space even electronically. The sight of his name alone had sent a wave of nausea crashing over me, my hands shaking so badly I could barely hold my phone.

After that, I left the device untouched for days.

It sat on my nightstand, powered off, ignored. I let the world move on without me. It took me days to even think about talking to Caleb again. When I finally did, I only responded to his good morning messages. Nothing more.

Not until today.

Because today, I feel a little bit more like myself.

The sunlight feels warmer on my skin. The aroma of fresh coffee brewing in my kitchen smells appealing for the first time in days. The weight of the blanket around my shoulders feels comforting rather than suffocating.

And maybe it's time to figure out what comes next. What life will be like for me without Evan weighing me down.

IF IT TAKES CAMERAS IN EVERY CORNER, SO BE IT.

CAL

If it were up to me, I would've taken the entire week off to be with Izzy.

I would've stayed at her apartment, cooked every meal, made sure she drank water, made sure she wasn't alone with her thoughts for too long. I sat outside her bedroom every single night, listening for signs of bad dreams, for the restless shifting of sheets, for the soft whimpers that might tell me she needed me. And even if she had told me she didn't want me there anymore, if she had tried to push me away, I wouldn't have left.

I would've slept outside her front door.

But every morning, I had to leave. Closing the door behind me felt brutal in a way I couldn’t shake. But with the security issues at the store getting worse, I didn’t have the luxury of staying.

The organized crime ring that I was hired to deal with? They'd been dormant for months. And now, suddenly, this week of all weeks, they'd decided to start making moves. So I had to be at the store.

But that didn't mean I wasn't watching her.

While Izzy slept in, exhausted, healing, I had installed cameras in every single corner of her apartment.

She only knew about the exterior ones, because those were the ones I told her about. But, every other corner of that apartment was visible to me, too, and that was a security measure I didn't explicitly tell her about. Mainly because I wasn't going to watch that feed unless there was an intruder alert. I wasn't going to violate her privacy to that extent, which, I guess isn't saying much considering. But, if a spider so much as sneezed in that apartment, I would know about it.

And I wouldn't change that for all the privacy lawsuits in the world.

Because what mattered to me more than her potential anger was her safety. Because I knew that Evan wasn't done with her yet. At least, that's what he thought. Because, he was very, very much done, and lucky to be alive in my book.

The first action I took—besides securing Izzy's safety—was to run a full background check on the douchebag.

In my position, I had access to databases that most people didn't. Criminal records, financial histories, even credit scores. And if information wasn't available in those systems, I had plenty of contacts who were more than willing to do a favor or two.

What I found?

Was disconcerting.

Somewhere during the first year he and Izzy were together, Evan had been fired from his finance job.

And never got a new one.

His employment history was a blank space after that. No applications, no records of new income. But he was still making money.

A lot of money.

It was being deposited into his accounts through an offshore LLC.

Where was it coming from?

What was he doing to earn it?

And that wasn't even the worst of it.

Since being fired, he'd upgraded his life. A brand-new BMW sedan, an extremely overpriced Manhattan apartment. Living well beyond what he should be able to afford with zero job history.

And then there were the women.

A constant rotation of them.

Different faces coming in and out of his building, security footage showing them entering late at night, leaving early in the morning.

Even when Izzy called him to break up, there was already another woman in his apartment.

Which meant he wasn't faithful.

So why the fuck had he been so possessive?

Why drag Izzy through the mud for years if he had been sleeping around? Why snap when she tried to leave?

None of his behaviors added up. His entire life story was a fabrication.

Which meant I had more work to do.

Because this wasn't just about Izzy anymore. Evan was involved in something illegal. And I was going to find out what.

I had, of course, been monitoring Izzy's calls since the attack.

Was it an invasion of privacy?

Yeah.

Did I give a fuck?

No.

She was too vulnerable, too raw, too easy to manipulate in this state.

So if Evan was going to try to crawl back into her life, I was going to make sure it didn't happen.

And of course, he tried.

He called her the day he got out on bond and left a voicemail. That was my mistake. I should have been more proactive in blocking his number. With the restraining order in place, it didn't dawn on me that he'd violate it so quickly. I know she saw the call come through, saw the voicemail, but hadn't listened to it. But I had.

"Izzy, you're being dramatic. You know you overreacted. We just had a fight, that's all. You're probably feeling really emotional right now, but I forgive you for what happened. You should call me back so we can talk this through. Don't throw away what we have over some misunderstanding. You and I both know I didn't mean any of it. You'll regret this. Just call me."

Gaslighting.

Manipulation.

It made my blood boil.

I blocked his number immediately, which didn't stop him from trying again. Three times a day, like clockwork, he would continue to attempt to call. He persisted in leaving voicemails. He kept trying to get inside her head.

Thankfully, she was unaware of any of it.

And I was going to keep it that way.

Because the only reality more infuriating than what he had already done was the fact that he was continuously trying to worm his way back in.

The other call she hadn't answered was from the District Attorney's office. They needed her to testify. They said without her testimony, they probably wouldn't take the case to trial.

She hadn't called them back.

I already knew why.

Her confidence wasn't where it should be. Testifying in open court about an attempted rape wasn't an experience just anyone could endure. Even the strongest people in the world would struggle with it.

And Izzy—as strong as she was, as far as she had come—was still healing. It was a conversation I would have to have with her eventually. A process I'd have to help her work through. Because there was no way in hell I was letting Evan get away with what he did. But, at the end of the day, whether or not she wanted to testify would ultimately be her decision.

A voice crackled through my earpiece.

"Callahan, you there? We've got a situation downstairs."

I exhaled, pushing away from my desk, already heading toward the exit.

"On my way."

Because once I handled whatever this was?

I was going back to Izzy.

I take the stairs two at a time, my mind already shifting gears. The sound of my boots echoes in the concrete stairwell. The store is only three levels when you include our admin spaces, and I've never really liked elevators. Far too confining for my preferences.

When I reach the security office, Ramirez and two other guys are stationed outside the locked room, arms crossed, eyes on the monitors showing the two suspects inside. They look exactly like what I expected—nervous, trying to play it cool, failing miserably.

"What do we got?" I ask, stopping beside Ramirez.

"Two idiots," he says, voice dry. "But, to be fair, they made it all the way to the stockroom before they got caught."

I exhale through my nose. That's obviously a weak point we will need to tighten up before the holiday rush starts to pick up.

Ramirez hands me a folder. "Pulled security footage. They were casing the place earlier, pretending to shop. Stuck around longer than normal, then made their way into the back when no one was looking. We found them near the employee lockers."

I flip through the photos, the glossy pages sliding between my fingers. I already know this isn't some petty theft ring. This has organized crime written all over it. I nod, closing the file, and push open the door.

The two guys look up as I step inside, their faces carefully blank.

They don't see me yet.

That's fine.

They will.

I take my time, grabbing a chair from the corner of the room, turning it backward, and lowering myself into it. The metal legs scrape against the floor. I plant my boots firmly on the floor, rest my arms over the back of the chair, and just stare at them.

Silence is a powerful weapon.

People underestimate it. They think power comes from words, from threats, from raising your voice and throwing your weight around. They don't realize that the real power? The real control?

It's in the silence.

People hate it.

They'll do anything to fill it.

They'll talk just to hear the sound of their own voice. They'll blurt out excuses, lies, half-truths—any story to make the tension less unbearable.

But I don't break the silence.

I let it stretch.

I get comfortable in my position, staring them both down without blinking.

The air gets heavier.

I can see them starting to sweat.

Shuffling their feet, shifting in their seats, exchanging nervous glances.

And then, right on cue⁠—

They crack.

After ten seconds.

"Look, man," the one on the left finally says. "This is all just a misunderstanding. We were just trying to make a little cash on the side. You know, grab some merch, flip it for⁠—"

I hold up a hand, and he immediately stops talking.

I tilt my head. "You think I'm stupid?"

The guy swallows. "No, man, I⁠—"

"You think I don't know what you're doing?" I lean forward, letting my tone go low. "You're not here to grab a couple bags to resell online. This is organized. You don't move unless someone tells you to move. You don't steal unless someone orders you to steal. And you don't scope out a store unless someone tells you exactly what to look for."

The guy shifts, his confidence starting to crack. The cheap leather of his jacket creaks as he moves. His friend, the one on the right, clears his throat. "We don't know anything. We're just, you know, low-level⁠—"

I snort. "Bullshit."

I let my expression go hard.

I let my presence settle over them.

"You two are fucked," I say simply. "You know that, right?"

They go still.

I lean back slightly, letting the words sink in.

"I've got contacts in the precinct," I continue. "I can make a call, right now, and give them exactly what they need to charge you with grand-scale larceny."

One of them laughs, but it's weak. "Come on, man. We didn't steal anything."

I smirk.

They just walked into my favorite trap.

I tilt my head. "You ever open a law book?"

Silence.

I chuckle, shaking my head. "Attempt and the actual crime have the same fucking consequences. The law doesn't care if you're bad at your job."

The guy on the right shifts uncomfortably. "We're not⁠—"

"Save it." I snap, cutting him off. "We both know you're working for someone. And we both know you're not dumb enough to try pulling this shit without orders. So here's how this goes. You start talking, or you take your chances with the DA's office."

They glance at each other.

I see the hesitation.

Then, finally⁠—

"We don't know much," the first one admits. "We just...we get orders. We go to stores, collect information. That's it."

"From who?"

He shakes his head. "It's always anonymous. We get a time, a place, a location. Occasionally we're ordered to steal merchandise, other times we're just told to get a feel for security."

I file that away. An invisible mastermind is testing our weaknesses. Someone's planning a significant heist. And they're getting closer. Because these guys made it into an off-limits area, and that's on me and my team.

I push to my feet. "Call the precinct."

One of my guys nods and presses a button on his headset.

The two thieves' heads snap up.

"Wait—what?"

The guy on the left looks panicked. "But you said⁠—"

"I didn't promise you anything."

Their faces fall.

"I only said that if you didn't talk, it'd be bad." I shrug, adjusting my sleeves. "I never said that if you did, it'd be good."

I push out of the holding cell, rolling my shoulders back, shaking off the last bit of adrenaline coursing through my veins. I can hear the two guys inside, muttering curses under their breath, probably continuing to convince themselves they aren't fucked.