“Shh,” he whispered, his bright eyes wide, in the dark. “Hush,” he murmured, reaching forward one hand, two fingers touching my lips, silencing me.
I tried to part them again, but those so-blue eyes glittered, and the hand against my lips trembled. When I breathed in, I could taste the sweat, the blood, the fire on his fingertips. I swallowed hard, wincing as my throat clicked, so dry.
“Weren’t the right knock,” he muttered, looking back over my shoulder at the door. His other hand was leveled over my shoulder, aimed at chest-height; I kept my arms around him, felt the feverheat of him through his suit, felt the way he burned from the inside out, and said nothing as he began to fire. The pieces of the door exploded into shrapnel, smoking splinters catching in the carpet, in my hair. He leaned in, and laid his cheek to mine; I could feel the stubble scrape against my skin.
I closed my eyes.
“Clear the door,” he murmured, his voice low and rough.
I nodded, and behind me, the door flew back, out of the apartment, into the hallway, crushing the two agents against the opposite wall, the smoking ruins of its panels driven into the bellies and skulls of the two men sent to pick us up. They were already dead; he never asked me to kill.
That was his job.