HANS: Alliance Series Book Four(72)

Guess we’re going to stay and watch.

My pulse jumps up a beat. “Do you have any cameras in my house?” I ask, hoping he does so I can see what the men are doing over there.

The hand on my shoulder squeezes. “No, sorry.”

I sigh, fully aware that should be a good thing. Then another thought occurs to me. “Do you have cameras in your garage?”

“No, sorry.” Another squeeze as Hans repeats the same apology. Both of us bummed we don’t have a recording of the first time we had sex.

Focus, Cassie.

We watch on the monitors as the men inside Hans’s house do a quick walk-through, checking every room.

When I see Second Man, the one who circled the house, head to the basement, I tense.

But Hans doesn’t change his stance. He doesn’t reach for a gun or turn out the lights.

Of course Hans was correct to not panic. The man peeks into the corners of the empty basement before turning and jogging back up the stairs.

“Not so much as a box down there,” Second Man shouts across the house as he stands in the living room. “This can’t be his full-time house.”

That comment makes me feel a little sad because this is Hans’s full-time house. Or has been for a while, at least.

From what Hans told me, up until very recently, he had both the good guys and the bad guys after him. Everyone either fearing him or hating him. So it’s no wonder he hasn’t felt comfortable enough to settle down and make a house a home.

I lean toward his warmth.

And now, as we watch them pull out drawers and dig through every inch of his place, it’s clear this won’t be his house anymore. Even if he kills the main bad dude, this location has been revealed. Hans said it himself; he has lots of enemies. He’ll never just be able to live in a cozy neighborhood like this and not always be looking over his shoulder.

Second Man snickers as he reaches for the sword mounted on the wall above Hans’s couch. “Don’t mind if I do.”

It takes him a second to get it down, but as soon as he does, he starts swinging it around like an idiot.

On another screen, First Man is digging through Hans’s bedroom. When he moves toward the nightstand, Hans straightens beside me.

The man pulls open the drawer and bends over it, digging around the contents.

Second Man’s voice sounds from a different part of the house. “I’m gonna check the garage.”

“Okay,” First Man calls back. Then he mutters, “What the fuck is this?”

He straightens, and a stack of yellow Post-it notes is in his hand.

The hand Hans has on the worktop balls into a fist. “That’s it,” he growls.

“What’s—”

Before I can finish asking, Hans strides across the room. Opens the door. And storms out into the basement.

I open my mouth to shout after him. To ask him what the hell he’s doing. To tell him to grab a gun or a knife or something. But I don’t want to yell and be heard by the intruders.

The door swings shut, locking between us.

“Charred sweet corn cookies,” a male voice says, confused. “Is this supposed to be a code?”

Slowly, I turn back to the monitors.

Those are my Post-it notes. The ones I handwrote for each baked good. The ones I gave to Hans.

And First Man is touching them.

My eyes dart around to find Hans on the screen.

He’s already climbing the stairs.

Second Man is still in the garage, looking around. But he could step back into the house at any moment, and then it will be two on one, and Hans is unarmed.

“Please be careful.”

But Hans doesn’t slow down. He doesn’t move cautiously.

He takes the steps three at a time and flings the door open at the top. Leaving it open, he strides across the living room. Hands opening and closing into fists at his sides.

The man in the garage doesn’t come out. He doesn’t see Hans or sound the alarm.

Meaning First Man has no idea what’s coming for him.





CHAPTER 87





Hans





My boots are silent on the carpet as I step into my bedroom.

“Those are mine.”

At the sound of my voice, First Man spins around.

And then I see them. My pristine squares of paper have been pulled apart, crumpled into two uneven stacks. And… Is that one torn?

The red that usually spots the edge of my sight flares bright across my vision.

He freezes, just for a second, but I use that second to grab the notes out of his hands.

First Man recovers quickly, reaching for the pistol he holstered.

Accepting they’re already damaged and needing to keep them close, I shove the Post-its into my mouth and bite down, holding them there as they protrude from my lips like a mouthful of hay.

The man’s gun has cleared leather.

He’s big. We’re nearly eye to eye.

I don’t have a weapon on me. But that doesn’t matter.

I am the weapon.

And I’m angry.

Before he can lift his gun, I jump forward, throwing my weight into my fist as I slam it into the man’s sternum.

His diaphragm contracts, stopping his ability to breathe and preventing him from calling out for help.