Something thudded in the closet.
I stopped, gripping my gun. Great, more random crap. I wasn’t going in there. Not in that bloody house.
“Secret Service. Open up or I’ll open fire. You have five seconds,” I called.
I swapped my tranq gun for my silenced pistol. I didn’t care if the bloody Pope was behind the door, it was getting shot up.
I reached for the door and threw it open.
A naked woman fell into the hall. She was quite obviously dead. I kicked her over. She was middle aged, slender, and riddled with my bullets.
Jesus, I’d just shot the PMs wife.
Her face was strange. It was contorted, euphoric. I knelt and touched her skin. It was still warm, very warm. Warm, pink and slick with sweat.
Someone was behind me.
I exploded, twisting round and chopping with my hand like a striking rattlesnake.
A slender hand caught my own. Facing me was a woman robed in white. Her hood covered her eyes, but her thin lips and silver hair enchanted me. I could stare at her heart shaped face forever. She was the most lovely woman I had ever seen.
She raised her finger and pressed it to her mouth, the pale digit contrasting with the deep red of her lips. I stared. I would be quiet, I would be anything for this woman.
She smiled. Joy frothed in my chest, bubbling and dancing away. It had been so long since I was truly happy. I was a secret, and secrets don’t feel.
The woman reached into her cloak and pulled out a slender blue rose. She lay it gently between the dead woman’s breasts. Then she lowered her head, stroking the woman’s hair, and kissed her lips with such sweet tenderness. I wanted her to kiss me like that. I needed her to.
The white woman released my hand and it went cold, so cold. I looked at her, begging for her to take it back, but she just smiled. A single tear slid down her cheek.
Then she vanished.