The Enigma (Unlawful Men)

I hear a thud and dart my eyes to the door. I wouldn’t be surprised if that was James’s big body hitting the floor after passing out from stress. I laugh nervously. And stop in a heartbeat when I realize that could be a very real possibility.

I rush to the door and unlock it, swinging it open. He’s not there.

Another thud.

“James?” I take small, tentative steps to the top of the stairs, and when I make it there, it’s me who nearly passes out. “Jesus,” I gasp, grabbing at the rail to hold myself up.

James looks up at me, his eyes filled with a wildness I’ve never seen before. Not in any man. Not in any criminal or crazy bastard I’ve dealt with while in uniform. His naked body is covered in blood, the knife in his hand glistening, the towel that was covering him nearby on the floor.

“Stay exactly where you are,” he says quietly, going to his phone and staring at the screen for an eternity. I lower to the top step, not challenging him, not daring. There are times when you simply trust in the skill of your partner. And, strangely, I know to completely trust James now. My gaze drops to the body at his feet. To the gun in the man’s limp, dead hand. I’ve lost the power of speech. I can’t ask who it is or what the hell is happening. I’m numb. Shocked.

James’s phone rings and he’s quick to answer, splitting his attention between the open elevator doors and me. “One in the stairwell. One dead on my apartment floor.” He paces to the elevator and steps inside, smacking a few buttons and looking up before stepping out. The doors close. “The elevator’s coming down.” He goes back to the man, crouching down by his body and patting at his pockets. He pulls out a cell and hits a few buttons before setting it aside and rising to his full height. He casts his eyes my way. The wildness has subsided. But it doesn’t ease me, because in its place is worry.

“What’s going on?” It feels like a crazy thing to ask. I know what’s going on. An ambush. A murder. But why? And who?

James says nothing, just raises his finger to his lips in a silent sign to quieten me. Then he mouths, “It’s okay.”

Okay? Am I not staring at a dead body at his feet? Am I imagining the blood covering him?

I startle when the elevator dings, jumping out of my skin, and James flies around, his naked body poised and ready as the doors slide open. Goldie appears, and he relaxes. I don’t know why. She looks fucking murderous, and above her eyebrow, a nasty gash. “Otto took care of the stairwell,” she grates, reaching up and wiping the blood with the cuff of her suit jacket. “The building is clear.”

At those words, James drops the knife and collects the towel, covering himself before pulling up one corner and wiping his hands. “Find out who it is,” he orders shortly, looking at the corpse like he wants to kill him all over again. Goldie approaches and pulls out her phone, taking a picture of the man’s face and tapping out a message.

Within a few seconds, she looks at James and shakes her head, and he curses, turning and stalking toward the stairs. I slowly rise as he climbs the steps, his eyes drilling into me. “Do you have a passport?” he asks, and while I’m scared, concerned, and many other emotions that I’m trying to contain, I know it wouldn’t be wise right now to question him.

“Yes.”

“Where?”

“In my nightstand at home,” I answer as he takes my hand and pulls me toward the bathroom.

He closes the door behind us and goes to the shower, flipping it on. And I just stand like an idiot, my mind twisting painfully. He doesn’t look like he’s in the mood for questions or talking. So I’m expected to see what I saw, hear what I heard, and say nothing? He pulls his towel from his waist and tosses it in the tub before going to the sink and washing his hands thoroughly. Then he braces them on the edge of the vanity unit, leaning in, staring into his own eyes in the mirror. I don’t wonder what he’s thinking. Vengeance is thick in the air. His naked body looks lethal, every muscle pulsing, like he’s preparing for another attack.

This now, the man before me, the man with murder etched on every inch of his skin.

He’s The Enigma.

“Was it positive?” His eyes turn to me, and I frown, momentarily lost. Then it hits me like a sledgehammer square in the face, and my gaze falls onto the test still on the back of the toilet. My blood turns to ice. My heart starts racing. “Why are you panicking?” James asks, turning at the sink to face me.