Hans (Alliance #4)

“Where is he now?” His thumbs brush across my cheeks.

“My backyard,” I whisper. “I think he’s dead.”

“Did you call anyone yet?”

I shake my head. “I… I didn’t even think about that. I just ran over here.”

“Good girl.” Hans leans in and presses his lips against my forehead. Then he pulls back. “Do you trust me?”

I nod. Because I do.

He presses another kiss to my forehead. “Good. Come with me.”

Hans lets go of my cheeks to grab one of my hands, then pulls me with him to the door that leads to the basement.

He yanks it open, and we descend.

My bare feet are a little sore from running over here, catching a few pebbles when I crossed the street, but when we reach the bottom of the stairs, the cool concrete floor soothes my soles.

Hans lets go of my hand so he can resecure his towel, but he doesn’t stop walking, so I follow him across the unfinished basement to… a wall.

My lips purse, starting to form the wordwhat, but then he presses his hand to the wall, and a door-sized panel swings outward.

Behind the secret door is a hidden door made of metal that looks sturdy enough to survive a bomb.

Hans lifts his right hand and sets it on a black rectangular screen embedded in the wall next to the door.

My jaw drops.

Is that a freaking palm reader?

There’s a heavy-sounding clunk, then the thick metal door opens inward.

Wow.

Hans guides me toward the pitch-black room, and as soon as I step foot inside, lights automatically turn on above me, filling the large room with an even glow.

Extra wow.

My mouth opens even wider.

The room is big. Like bigger than it should be, based on the size of the house upstairs.

I can’t tell whether the walls are made of concrete or metal. But one entire wall is covered with a sort of rack system with hooks. And hanging from those hooks are guns. A whole-ass wall of guns. And are those… grenades?

The door shuts behind Hans, and I hear the quiet whirl of fans turning on.

“The life support systems automatically come on when a body is in the room.” I look up at the ceiling, then over to Hans. He tips his head to the side as he walks past me, like he’s thinking about what he said. “Well, an alive body.”

“Um, has there been an unalive body in here?”

I probably shouldn’t ask that. If this were a movie, I’d be yelling at the girl to turn around and run out of the scary bunker.

But this isn’t a movie. This is my life. And this is my neighbor who calls me Butterfly and drives me to the airport. And who I’m now ninety-nine percent sure was the man on the bus in Mexico.

“Not in this house.”

Not in… Oh, right. Dead bodies.