God got her out of this mess, she promised to start going back to church the way she’d been raised. She would turn over a new leaf.
Still gripping the can in one hand, she used the other to press the power button and turn on the phone. As the phone powered on, the door sprang open and her head snapped up. She hoisted the can in the air, ready for battle and whatever her fate might be.
Vicente’s gaze flicked to the can she held. His shirt was torn open to reveal a fitted white T-shirt underneath, and one sleeve of the dress shirt had been torn and hung loosely halfway to his biceps. Blood spatter was on his hand, shirt, and pants.
“So much blood,” she whispered.
“It’s not mine.” Vicente extended a hand. “We don’t have much time. Let’s go.”
10
Shanice didn’t know if Vicente followed her upstairs to keep an eye on her or protect her in case another intruder burst through the door. Whatever the reason, she was glad for him shadowing her because there were five dead men in the house. Somehow he’d managed to kill them all—the last two at the same time, apparently—and remained unscathed, with only a torn shirt and blood stains that weren’t his. To think, she’d been concerned about putting his life in danger!
She yanked the suitcase to the floor and grabbed her backpack on the top shelf of the closet. When she stepped out, Vicente stood to the side of the window, the blinds inched open so he could look out onto the street below.
Shanice rushed into the bathroom and tossed toiletries into her bag. She was still shaking, but not as badly as before, and her mind was going a million miles per minute.
First of all, she didn’t know this man. The way he fought those intruders, he’d done that many times before. Who was he? Who were those men that he killed? Could she trust him? What if he killed her, too?
Back in the bedroom, Vicente turned around to face her. “Time to go.” He ripped off the shirt and tossed it to the floor.
Shanice gulped at the size of his biceps. He was huge. “Go where?” she asked, voice trembling way more than she’d anticipated. She lifted the backpack onto her shoulder.
“I’ll explain later.”
He left the room, and she had no choice but to follow. He took the stairs slowly, cautiously, the gun now in his outstretched right hand. She followed close behind him and covered her mouth, the contents of her stomach almost coming up at the smell of discharged bullets and the stench of blood and death in the air. They crept down the stairs, her shaky knees practically useless but holding up. Thank goodness for the wall beside her. She leaned into it for support.
Vicente reached for the door but stopped. “Where’s your phone?” he asked.
“In my backpack.”
“Give it to me.” He held out his hand.
She hesitated.
“Give it to me!” The firmness in his voice didn’t allow for arguing.
She took out the phone and handed it over. Vicente removed the SIM card and tossed the phone against the far wall, like it was trash.
“My phone!”
He then crushed the SIM card with the heel of his shoe.
“What are you doing?”
He ignored her protests and opened the door, scanning the area before motioning for her to follow. As they moved down the walkway, Shanice’s eyes darted around the neighborhood. A neighbor across the street was peeping around the curtains.
Vicente stopped suddenly, and she bumped into him from behind. The man was pure muscle—hard and coiled muscle. He was staring at the house across the street—the one where the tech guy lived. The front door was wide open and all the windows dark. It looked eerily empty.
“Hurry,” he said.
Shanice scrambled into the car and Vicente rushed around to the driver side. This wasn’t the gray Nissan he’d brought her home in. This was a black, older model Ford Mustang and better fit this man who had fought off a series of assailants.
He slotted the gun into a black metal holster mounted below the steering column, and the magnetic pull snapped the weapon into place. With the barrel pointed at the floor, it would be easy for him to yank out the gun and start firing if necessary.
“Hang on.”
Shanice gripped the roof handle as he pressed the accelerator to the floor. He swung a hard left into the street, tires squealing as the tread skidded on the road’s surface to gain