Night Falls

Five

As I sit on the worn leather of the classic, black car, my fingers picking at a loose cuticle on my nail, my hands had yet to stop shaking, and I had been in a constant state of nausea, even after Agent Hoying–Scott– showed up and saved me from a bullet in the head.

I now knew that this wasn't something I could sweep under the rug and turn a cheek to; I had tried to stay out of it, be as quiet and out of the way as I could, wanting to show whoever was making the calls that I wanted nothing to do with this case, but obviously none of that mattered.

My choices, since the moment that gunshot echoed through the parking garage, were no longer mine to make. I had become a pawn in a very dangerous game, with no guarantee that I could win.

I turn my focus on the car–wanting to think about anything but the disastrous spiral my life had become. I have no idea what type of car it is, but I can tell just by looking at it that it's one of those cars that you have to put a lot of effort into keeping up, otherwise it would fall apart into a rusted piece of junk. Not to mention how meticulously clean it was. There wasn't a wrapper or crumpled receipt in sight.

Glancing over at Scott, in a fleece and jeans, no badge or suit, the hum of a song I recognized by Beyoncé softly drifting through the speakers, I could see that stereotypical cool guy persona written all over him: listens to pop music, drives a classic car, probably got into a lot of trouble growing up, and with those looks, most likely always had a girl, or guy, at his side. He was just missing the cigarette behind the ear and the tattoos to complete the checklist.

I don't know that he doesn't have tattoos. I think, and I bite down on my lip, stopping my mind from wandering to where he might be hiding a tattoo.

As I look him over, I had no idea what the hell he was doing as an FBI agent. He seemed like the type to rebel against the man, rather than work for him.

Scott's gaze shifts to me, though his head is still staring straight ahead, and I snap my attention to the scenery passing by, heat flooding my cheeks that I've been caught.

I'm thankful when he doesn't call me out, just returns his attention to the road.

The trip from Findley Market is over forty-five minutes, and the entire car ride is filled with the silence of Beyoncé, Arianna, a small band called The Pentatonics, and uncertainty.

As we pull up to the lifeless, bureaucratic building, a large American flag hanging limp against an imposing chrome flagpole, my stomach drops and tears prick my eyes.

This was going to be my life now. I was, from this point forward, a government asset with no promise of tomorrow. Not that anyone was ever promised another day, but my likelihood of getting extra time here on earth had now dropped significantly.

There was no turning back no matter how much I kicked and screamed. Everything I had known and loved was about to be stolen from me–just because I had been in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Ain't life a bitch.

Scott pulls into a parking spot in the building's garage, and together we make our way to the elevator banks, not missing his glances, but choosing not to acknowledge them.

The last thing I wanted to do right now was show him how unbelievably weak I felt.

The painfully slow trip up to the 8th floor only made things worse, and I felt like I was teetering on the edge of fainting by the time the doors opened.

Scott leads the way out, maneuvering through a maze of desks and cabinets before throwing his keys down onto a desk that must be his, and removing his gun from his waistband and storing it in the top desk drawer.