The Innocent: A Vanessa Michael Munroe Novel by Taylor Stevens Page A
Authors: Taylor Stevens
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simplicity of having a chauffeur was amplified by the boon of having a driver who knew the streets and the landmarks and understood, in place of addresses and clear directions, the general idea of where the children of The Chosen wanted to go.
Across the city, one district to the next, far past dusk and into early evening, they drove, up and down, gauging distances from familiar landmarks and comparing notes, locating first a supermarket, then a bakery, and finally, a midsize grocery store. With the vehicle idling and the cabdriver waiting, Gideon ran off the little he knew about the grocer, and then, having finished, he reached for the door handle, as if to get out of the car.
Munroe stopped him. “I’d prefer that we don’t make contact,” she said.
“I remember the owner,” Gideon replied. “I don’t know if he would remember me, but he would know if they still come around, and even if he’s not there, the employees will know.”
“I’m sure they would,” Munroe said. “But let this one go.”
He looked at her, doubt written across his face, and she said, “You hired me to do this job and you need to let me do it.”
Gideon’s reply was a barely perceptible nod. He removed his hand from the door, and for this Munroe was grateful. If another confrontation had been necessary to establish the order of things, she’d have done it, but at this juncture a face-off would be a waste of time and energy.
She had what she wanted.
Chapter 10
T he docks were deserted, and Munroe crept through the night, moving past security checkpoints and into the shadows that preceded the shelter that was currently home
.
Heavy machinery and conveyor equipment stretched out from the wharf like giant manacles onto the three ships that lay at port. Powerful lights illuminated the waterfront, creating lengthening darkness between the two- and three-story buildings that stood opposite
.
The knife attack came without warning, out of the shadows, as if the man who wielded it had been waiting a long, patient time, knowing she would eventually pass
.
He was strong. From behind he jerked her head back and forced her to the ground. Light crossed his face, and she recognized him from the dockyard. His skin was rough, scarred, making him look old, though she knew he wasn’t. His body was taut and muscular from the daily physical labor
.
He tightened his grip on her neck, kept the knife to her throat, and in microsecond gaps she calculated. Her vision shifted to gray. Adrenaline flowed, and the edges of desire crept toward her soul
.
She dropped a knife into a palm from a pocket in her sleeve; smiled; relaxed. In an unconscious response the man loosened his grip, and in that second of error she slashed his wrist. He screamed an obscenity, let go, stepped back out of her way, and blended into the darkness
.
Munroe closed her eyes. Other senses would guide her where sight failed
.
A scrape. A movement of air. He lunged
.
She sidestepped, and his blade missed widely
.
She pulled a second knife from the small of her back. Flipped it open
.
His breathing was heavy, and she followed the sound of it, knives in both hands, circling cautiously. The lust for blood was there, she could feel it welling up inside, a pounding in her head, in her chest, an overwhelming desire to kill
.
And she fought it
.
She was not to be a killer, an animal, a predator. She had fled to get away from this, to leave it behind
.
“There’s no need for this,” she said to the night. “Put away your weapon, I’ll put away mine, and we can walk away.”
The attacker taunted her with obscenities, and she understood then that he wanted her body and meant to take it by death if necessary. With his mocking, darkness flooded in. She smelled the rankness of his sweat, heard the rasp of scorn in his voice, knew the fear of the knife. Her heart raced, muscles contracted, and instinct washed over her
.
Survive.
Kill.
Light reflected off a blade
.
She
Across the city, one district to the next, far past dusk and into early evening, they drove, up and down, gauging distances from familiar landmarks and comparing notes, locating first a supermarket, then a bakery, and finally, a midsize grocery store. With the vehicle idling and the cabdriver waiting, Gideon ran off the little he knew about the grocer, and then, having finished, he reached for the door handle, as if to get out of the car.
Munroe stopped him. “I’d prefer that we don’t make contact,” she said.
“I remember the owner,” Gideon replied. “I don’t know if he would remember me, but he would know if they still come around, and even if he’s not there, the employees will know.”
“I’m sure they would,” Munroe said. “But let this one go.”
He looked at her, doubt written across his face, and she said, “You hired me to do this job and you need to let me do it.”
Gideon’s reply was a barely perceptible nod. He removed his hand from the door, and for this Munroe was grateful. If another confrontation had been necessary to establish the order of things, she’d have done it, but at this juncture a face-off would be a waste of time and energy.
She had what she wanted.
Chapter 10
T he docks were deserted, and Munroe crept through the night, moving past security checkpoints and into the shadows that preceded the shelter that was currently home
.
Heavy machinery and conveyor equipment stretched out from the wharf like giant manacles onto the three ships that lay at port. Powerful lights illuminated the waterfront, creating lengthening darkness between the two- and three-story buildings that stood opposite
.
The knife attack came without warning, out of the shadows, as if the man who wielded it had been waiting a long, patient time, knowing she would eventually pass
.
He was strong. From behind he jerked her head back and forced her to the ground. Light crossed his face, and she recognized him from the dockyard. His skin was rough, scarred, making him look old, though she knew he wasn’t. His body was taut and muscular from the daily physical labor
.
He tightened his grip on her neck, kept the knife to her throat, and in microsecond gaps she calculated. Her vision shifted to gray. Adrenaline flowed, and the edges of desire crept toward her soul
.
She dropped a knife into a palm from a pocket in her sleeve; smiled; relaxed. In an unconscious response the man loosened his grip, and in that second of error she slashed his wrist. He screamed an obscenity, let go, stepped back out of her way, and blended into the darkness
.
Munroe closed her eyes. Other senses would guide her where sight failed
.
A scrape. A movement of air. He lunged
.
She sidestepped, and his blade missed widely
.
She pulled a second knife from the small of her back. Flipped it open
.
His breathing was heavy, and she followed the sound of it, knives in both hands, circling cautiously. The lust for blood was there, she could feel it welling up inside, a pounding in her head, in her chest, an overwhelming desire to kill
.
And she fought it
.
She was not to be a killer, an animal, a predator. She had fled to get away from this, to leave it behind
.
“There’s no need for this,” she said to the night. “Put away your weapon, I’ll put away mine, and we can walk away.”
The attacker taunted her with obscenities, and she understood then that he wanted her body and meant to take it by death if necessary. With his mocking, darkness flooded in. She smelled the rankness of his sweat, heard the rasp of scorn in his voice, knew the fear of the knife. Her heart raced, muscles contracted, and instinct washed over her
.
Survive.
Kill.
Light reflected off a blade
.
She
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