Spying Under the Mistletoe (Love Undercover #2) - Stina Lindenblatt Page 0,25

the seniors’ residence. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“I’m almost finished in here. Wait for me, and I’ll walk you to your car.”

I brush him off with a wave of my hand. “You don’t need to do that. It’s not like the school’s in a bad neighborhood.”

He opens his mouth, as if he’s going to say something, but whatever that was is interrupted by the ringing of his phone. He glances at the screen, gives me the universal sign for “wait a second,” and answers it.

He turns around, talking to whoever’s on the other line, and strides back into his classroom.

Not wanting to stick around and feel like I’m eavesdropping, I grab my purse and coat, and leave.

The weather isn’t any better since this morning. The air is chilled and damp from the earlier dump of rain, and large puddles dot the near-empty parking lot.

At my car, I glance at my front tire, and a silent curse rushes through me like a gush of wind.

Fuckadoodle.

My tire is flatter than a stepped-on chunk of Play-Doh.

I let out a hard breath and crouch to examine the wheel.

Footsteps approach from behind. Before I have a chance to turn around to see who they belong to, a gloved hand covers my mouth and nose. My heart rate screeches to a halt, and a surprised scream jostles loose from me, the sound muffled by the hand.

I’m roughly yanked to my feet, and a thick arm pins me to a large, hard body.

Even without seeing who it belongs to, I know the man holding me isn’t Landon.

I struggle and squirm and kick at him. He tightens his grip, squeezing the air out of me like the coils of a giant serpent.

A giant serpent with feet.

My attempts to escape are getting me nowhere, so I lift my foot and stomp it. Hard.

My shoe makes contact with the instep of his foot.

“Fucking bitch,” he hisses in my ear.

But alas, the attack on his foot isn’t enough for him to release me.

It is enough, though, to surprise him, and his grip loosens slightly. So I do it again.

“Fucking stop that,” he growls.

“Go to hell.”

That’s what I say. All he hears is a muffled noise that sounds unrecognizable at best. For all he knows, I’ve just asked him to color in a picture of a friendly dinosaur.

I keep squirming…

Until I feel the cold press of metal against the side of my head.

I freeze.

“That’s fucking better.” His palm on my mouth shifts, allowing me to breathe a little easier.

Literally, not metaphorically.

“I’m going to remove my hand from your mouth, and then we’re going to take a little walk to my van. You’re not going to struggle or call out for help. If you do, you’re a dead little lady. Am I perfectly clear?”

I can barely hear him, my pulse pounding loudly in my ears, but I nod my head, understanding a lot more than he realizes.

As promised, his hand disappears from my mouth—and my lungs plead for me to take a long drawing breath of the soothing cool air. To ease my throat, which is sore from screaming.

Dampness rolls down my face, but I can’t tell if it’s from tears or random raindrops that are beginning to fall.

The gun moves from my head, and he pushes me forward. I can no longer see it or feel it, but it’s there all the same.

I’m not a religious person—but that doesn’t stop me from praying to God or any other deity who can help me. Praying that I’ll get through this.

That I won’t become another statistic.

There are so many things I have left to do on this planet, like the Christmas show.

If I don’t survive this, there won’t be a Christmas show. Not unless the teachers go through with it to honor my final wishes.

Maybe God will let me return to earth to watch it.

Or I could be an angel and help with spreading good deeds.

I could live with that (no pun intended).

The man tells me where to go—which isn’t the same place where I’d like to tell him to go.

When faced with death, people go through many phases before acceptance kicks in. They bargain with God. They promise they’ll be a better person if he lets them live.

They’ll give up smoking or drinking too much coffee or whatever their vice is.

I’m too busy for that.

I’m planning all the things I can return to earth to do as an angel—like Clarence in It’s a Wonderful Life.

I’ll probably have to start small. Rookie stuff. The bigger