ASK ME NO QUESTIONS:CHAPTER 12
As I said several days ago--my that day was a long one between blogs, wasn't it?--my muse has finally opened a new line to a book I have been working on for longer than I want anyone to know. This book is about a woman hiding out in a small Mexican village from both the mob and the FBI. When Rafael MacKenzie comes into her life in the dead of the night, she has no way of knowing whether he is friend or foe. But when he comes to her after being stabbed in a local night club, Callie takes him in.
*****
Scrap. Scrap.
Rafael pulled himself out out of a deep sleep. Some inner radar told him the sound had come from downstairs. He vaguely remembered Callie leaving to do the marketing, something about gauze and tortillas. He couldn't remember if she had been gone a minute or an hour. But his instincts told him something about the noise wasn't right. It was stealthy, not careful. Cautious, not done by a woman attempting not to disturb a sleeping man.
Someone--not Callie--was in the house.
Biting his lip against the urge to grunt at the soreness, Rafael quietly rolled out of the bed onto the floor. Praying to God the floor didn't creak, he slowly crawled over to the chair where Callie had placed his clothes. Observation training kicked in even when gripped by pain. He had seen her place his gun in the holster beneath the piled up garments.
Slowly, silently, Rafael lifted the gun out of the leather holster, then pulled himself up using the chair for balance. He leaned against the wall that would momentarily shield him from view if someone came into the room. His senses stretched to the limit, his heart pounded loudly in his throat, and his body on alert, strained, waiting for action.
Scrap. Shuffle. Scrap.
Close.
Rafael located the sounds. Earlier, drawers of the living room end tables had been pulled out, chairs moved about, lamps picked up. Now whoever--a man from the heavy sound of his movements--was in the kitchen, sliding open drawers, tugging sticking cabinet doors open and muttering to himself. There was only one place he hadn't checked.
Rafael clasped the gun tightly when he heard faint footsteps reach the stairway. At almost the same moment he heard another sound--a key in the front door.
Callie. Dios. She'll walk right into him.
***
It's over 100 degrees here in lovely San Diego County, California and the muse has been hiding out--in the regrigerator probably. She sticks her head out now and then to yell some odd thoughts at me--something about contests to be entered, teaching outlines to be written, and tomatoes to be watered before they go up in flames.
*****
Scrap. Scrap.
Rafael pulled himself out out of a deep sleep. Some inner radar told him the sound had come from downstairs. He vaguely remembered Callie leaving to do the marketing, something about gauze and tortillas. He couldn't remember if she had been gone a minute or an hour. But his instincts told him something about the noise wasn't right. It was stealthy, not careful. Cautious, not done by a woman attempting not to disturb a sleeping man.
Someone--not Callie--was in the house.
Biting his lip against the urge to grunt at the soreness, Rafael quietly rolled out of the bed onto the floor. Praying to God the floor didn't creak, he slowly crawled over to the chair where Callie had placed his clothes. Observation training kicked in even when gripped by pain. He had seen her place his gun in the holster beneath the piled up garments.
Slowly, silently, Rafael lifted the gun out of the leather holster, then pulled himself up using the chair for balance. He leaned against the wall that would momentarily shield him from view if someone came into the room. His senses stretched to the limit, his heart pounded loudly in his throat, and his body on alert, strained, waiting for action.
Scrap. Shuffle. Scrap.
Close.
Rafael located the sounds. Earlier, drawers of the living room end tables had been pulled out, chairs moved about, lamps picked up. Now whoever--a man from the heavy sound of his movements--was in the kitchen, sliding open drawers, tugging sticking cabinet doors open and muttering to himself. There was only one place he hadn't checked.
Rafael clasped the gun tightly when he heard faint footsteps reach the stairway. At almost the same moment he heard another sound--a key in the front door.
Callie. Dios. She'll walk right into him.
***
It's over 100 degrees here in lovely San Diego County, California and the muse has been hiding out--in the regrigerator probably. She sticks her head out now and then to yell some odd thoughts at me--something about contests to be entered, teaching outlines to be written, and tomatoes to be watered before they go up in flames.
posted by Barb | 9:39 PM
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