HANS: Alliance Series Book Four

Just as the oven timer stops beeping, my phone starts ringing.

I throw down the hot mitts I was putting on and reach for my phone on the counter.

Seeing that it’s my mom, I almost don’t answer. They just left here an hour ago, after spending the entire day with me since picking me up from the airport.

“Hi, Mom.” I don’t hide all my exasperation.

“I know, I know, we were just there.” She repeats the thoughts I just had, and I can hear my dad sighing in the background. “I just wanted to check in, see if maybe you changed your mind.”

“Thank you, but no. I promise I’m okay.”

She spent the day trying to convince me to come spend the night, and tomorrow night and probably the rest of my life, with them in their little apartment.

I obviously refused.

It’s Saturday. I was supposed to fly home from Mexico yesterday, but after the whole bus highjacking on Thursday, the authorities made us stick around an extra day to give statements.

It was weird, and stressful, and long, and… confusing.

“Well, if you decide you want to come over, you are always welcome,” Mom reminds me.

“I know, Mom. But I just want to try and get back to normal.”

“If you’re sure.”

“I am,” I sigh. “It was freaky.” Seeing three men die, and hearing more get shot, should be more than freaky… but that’s a worry for intrusive thoughts later. “But it’s not like I was personally targeted. No one is coming after me. And even if the guys who attacked us wanted to travel all the way to Minnesota to steal me, or whatever the plan was, they’re all dead,” I try to reason.

“Except the man in the mask,” Mom argues back.

I glance through the big picture window in my living room to Hans’s house. “He helped us, Mom.”

When we gave our statements, I lied. I told the police officers the man in the mask had blue eyes and tattoos on the visible part of his neck. And that the tiny bits of hair I could see in the mask eye holes were black.

I gave my parents the same description.

I don’t know why I lied.

No, that’s another lie.

I lied because a part of me believes that the man in the mask is Hans.

I still don’t understand how it’s possible. I only know what I saw and what I felt when I saw him. And if it is him… If there’s even a chance that the man who saved our lives on that stupid, sweaty bus was Hans, then I can’t let him get in trouble for it.

My coworkers were all pretty rattled, so I don’t know if any of them even noticed his long hair or his eye color, but my contradicting eyewitness should confuse matters enough that no one will come looking for my neighbor.

Mom exhales. “I know. I’m just worried about you being alone in that house.”

“I’ll be fine.” I roll my lips, then add, “If I need anything, Hans is just across the street.”

She makes a sound of agreement. “Okay, fine. I’ll let you go.”

“Thanks. I’ll call you tomorrow, okay?”

“Okay. Good night, Cassie. I love you.”

My dad shouts his love through the phone.

“Love you both.”

Ending the call, I set my phone back on the counter.

I often wonder if having siblings would’ve made my parents less involved in my life, but I don’t think it would’ve mattered. They are who they are. And, annoying or not, it’s nice having people who care.

My eyes wander back to the front windows.

Hans doesn’t have that.

There’s obviously a lot I still don’t know about his past, most of it, really, but I know his parents are gone. I know his sister is gone. That she was murdered.

I bite my lip.

If it really was him in Mexico, if Hans really is the man who so swiftly and violently saved us, is that because of his past?

My nose twitches as an unpleasant scent hits it.

“Oh shit!” I spin around and snatch the hot mitts off the counter before yanking open the oven door.

A mixture of steam and smoke billows out, and I use the mitts to fan it away.

“Damn it.” Lifting out the tray, I can see the darkened edges around the too-flat cookies.

“No!” I whine, knowing I’ve burned them.

After shutting the oven door, I turn it off and set the tray on top of the stove.

A few of the chunks of sweet corn that are sticking out of the cookies caught fire. There are no flames now, just smoke trailing from the burnt little chunks.

I look at the Post-it note I already filled out for Hans—the words mocking me. Charred sweet corn cookies indeed. The charring was supposed to only be from when I flash seared the fresh sweet corn. A little note of umami flavor to the sugar sweetness. Not charred to within an inch of its life.

My eyes start to sting, and I realize how hazy it is in the kitchen.

I groan. The last thing I need is my smoke detector going off.

I reach over the sink and open the window behind it to let in some fresh air.

Even though night has fallen, it’s still warm outside. But the little breeze is immediate, and the haze starts to lessen.

I still stand here, waving the oven mitts around, trying to bring in more fresh air.

It’s dark out, and with the lights on inside, I can’t see through the window into the backyard, but I’m thankful my house backs up to the woods. The number of times I’ve had to wave smoke out of my house is a little embarrassing, and I’m glad no one can see me.

The clock on the back of the stove shows that two minutes have passed since I pulled the cookies out of the oven, but the recipe says to let them sit for five before transferring to the cooling racks.

At this point, it doesn’t really matter what I do with them, but I’m still going to stick with the recipe.

I let my eyes close as I breathe through my frustration.

Along with needing to hone my baking skills, I need to figure out what to do next month.

My company is giving everyone who was on that bus the next two weeks off, fully paid, but it doesn’t take a lawyer to recognize the huge pile of shit that will no doubt hit the fan.

Our names were supposed to be kept confidential, but with social media and those job networking sites, it hasn’t taken the news outlets long to narrow down the people involved.

I have no desire to talk to the media about what happened, but I can think of at least four people right off the top of my head who will jump at the chance.

Even if the company can survive the scandal, I don’t know that I want to deal with it.

My cheeks puff out with my exhale, and I accept that I should start looking for a new job on Monday.

I’ve got a little money saved, but not enough to survive being jobless for more than a month or two. And I’m all too familiar with how long the hiring process can take.

A crack sounds from outside, and my eyes snap open.

I stand totally still, listening, but I don’t hear anything else.

Unnerved, I slowly step away from the open window.

It’s nothing.

It certainly isn’t the Mexican cartel coming to get you.

Just stay calm.

I take another step across the kitchen, toward the door that leads outside.

I don’t go out onto my little back patio much, since I’m more of an indoor girl, but I do have a small slab of concrete behind the kitchen, big enough for a grill I never use.

My gaze flicks back to the window.

“It’s nothing.” I stamp my foot as I say it.

A branch fell out of a tree because it was dead, or a bunny, maybe a coyote, stepped on a stick. The noise was literally nothing.

But if I don’t check, I know I won’t be able to sleep.

Huffing out a breath, I move to the storage bench sitting next to the door and yank it open.

I may not go outside much, but I keep all my things right here. A pile of knitted winter hats—my last failed hobby. A rain jacket that’s too tight on my arms. Two and a half pairs of flip-flops. Oversized grill tongs. And… I pick up the beginner crossbow sitting on top of it all. Then I wince over the fact that I left it sitting in there loaded, arrow already notched into place.

It’s not heavy duty, only meant for target practice, not for hunting. But it does have a high-powered flashlight attached to it. And holding it will make me feel better about opening the back door.

It’s shaped like a short shotgun, with a pistol-type grip and trigger in the middle of the length. So I put the butt to my shoulder and hold it in place with my right hand, my pointer finger resting next to the trigger, then I use my left hand to swing the door open.

Darkness.

I forgot to turn on the flashlight feature before I opened the door.

There’s a small pool of light on the grass from the open kitchen window, but there seems to be no moon at all tonight.

My left hand fumbles for the little button on the side of the bow, then I find it.

And I flip it on.

Brightness flares in my vision, and I blink it away to see a man sprinting across the lawn toward me.

A stranger.

I stumble backward.

And I pull the trigger.

I don’t even mean to.

I didn’t even aim.

I just reacted.

But before I can shove the scream out of my lungs, I watch the arrow land. Right in the center of his throat. Sinking through the soft skin.

He falls on his next step and smashes down onto his knees.

Shock and fear fight for space inside me as I slam the door shut and lock it.

That did not just happen.

I drop the empty crossbow and rush to the window, sliding that shut too.

I try to look through the window, then remember it’s too dark.

I hustle back to the door and flip on the switch for the exterior light I completely forgot about two minutes ago, then go back to the window over the sink.

Maybe nothing really happened.

Light floods the yard, illuminating the man.

“Um.” I press my hands together.

In the middle of my yard, maybe twenty feet from my back door, is the stranger, clawing at the arrow protruding from his neck.

“Umm!” I say it a little louder.

Then he pitches forward.

“Umm!” My voice jumps an octave.

I flip off the light.

Ohmygod, ohmygod, ohmygod…

I spin away from the view and run across my house to the front door.

I’m in a pair of short sleep shorts and a thin tank top, and I have to press a hand over my boobs to keep them from bouncing all over the place, but I don’t stop running for anything.

Not my shoes. Not my keys. Not anything. I just rip open my front door and run straight across my front lawn toward Hans’s house.