Legacy of Lies (Empire of Lies #3) - Whitney G. Page 0,9

the bathroom.

Loud laughter erupts from the bedroom, and then there’s a sudden silence.

“What the—” One of the men says. “Who the fuck are you? Where did you come from?”

His sentence is answered by a series of gunshots. The sound of shattered glass and pained screaming follow.

Oh, my fucking God…

I hear what sounds like a wall collapsing, like its falling right over me.

I hold back screams as bullets begin to fly through the utility closet, right into the drywall next to me.

Crouching onto the floor, I bite down hard on my lip, struggling to stay quiet.

The next several seconds sound like utter war.

The gunfire is nonstop; the bullets rain down like a storm, and every now and then the sound of destruction—shattering glass, moving furniture, falling walls, gives way.

I hear moans.

A few more shots.

Then silence.

Sucking in a deep breath, I can feel fresh tears streaming down my face. My heart is aching inside my chest, unsure of who’s still standing on the other side of that door. Before I can think about it, the door swings open, revealing a completely stoic Michael.

Without saying a word, he helps me to my feet. As if he knows I’m distraught as hell, he lifts me up and tosses me over his shoulder.

He carries me past the carnage in the bedroom, and I damn near pass out as I look over what he’s done.

There are four men, not three, and none of them will ever leave this room alive.

A knife is embedded in the skull of one man; blood oozes down what’s left of his face. Bullets are riddled through the chest of two others. The fourth guy is slumped against a metal chair near the door—struggling to breathe, as his legs lay mangled beneath him.

Michael opens the door and fires a shot, putting him out of his misery.

I open my mouth and scream as the blood splatters against the wall, but no sound leaves my throat.

Within seconds, Michael is opening a car door and placing me in familiar territory: the floor of his backseat.

“Stay down, Meredith.” He commands, before steering the car down a rocky road.

Seconds later, amidst a chorus of police sirens in the distance, he brings the car to an abrupt stop.

“I need to have a conversation with the front desk,” he says, stepping outside. “Keep your head down.” He slams the door shut.

He returns seconds later flexing his fingers before speeding onto the road again.

I remain on the floor as more tears stream down my face, as my breaths come in haggardly.

Somehow witnessing him at work has made his profession far clearer than any of the words he said to me weeks ago, any of the thoughts he’s attempted to convey. And for whatever reason, despite the fact that this makes him far more dangerous than I thought he was, I don’t attempt to get out of the car at any of the stoplights. I don’t take my chances at getting away when he stops at gas stations and offers me the chance to sit up front with him.

It’s not until we reach a long, vacant strip of highway that he pulls over and makes me move to the front seat.

Reality slowly settles in, and I’m no longer sure if that’s a good thing.

“You shouldn’t be crying over any of those people.” He leans over and wipes a few of my tears away with his glove. “They would’ve killed you, if I didn’t kill them first.”

I don’t say anything. I’ve been fine—actually more than fine with the thought of him getting back at people if they’d hurt him somehow, and I’ve tried to justify that whenever I touched myself and envisioned his face. But the idea that he is capable of killing whoever, whenever is a hard pill to swallow.

“You should, however,” he says, still talking, “take this as a forever lesson to follow my fucking instructions, if you enjoy living. It’s either that, or Option B.” He starts the car again, and all of a sudden, those last six words from his lips trigger a haunting memory from our honeymoon. And now, I finally have the urge to jump out of the goddamn car.

He suddenly locks the door and picks up his speed, as if he can read my mind.

“How did you find me in the woods the first time I got away from you?” I ask as images of our honeymoon starting to play in my mind.

“That’s a very odd choice of question for this moment,” he says. “I