Thursday August 27th,
9:15 A.M. Yonkers, New York
Home of Kelli Storm
Kelli allowed herself the
luxury of sleeping late. She never stayed in bed past six, but today was
different. The house was different, too, and she wondered if the little creaks
and groans of the house had always been there.
Of course she had no
plans of going anywhere, other than tracking down more information on Anthony
Santoro and this cartel.
She filled her coffee cup
for the third time and wandered out of the kitchen, taking the stairs one at a
time. At the top, she paused, listening to the silence. A shiver ran down her
spine.
The hair on the back of
her neck stood up and goose bumps ran up and down her arms. Something was
wrong, but she couldn’t put a finger on it. She turned her head to the left and
right, checking both ends of the hallway.
She walked to her
mother’s bedroom and pushed the door open. Could it be just my
imagination running wild, or is it guilt for putting her mother in that place?
She reached to pull the door closed and stopped short.
The sound of glass
breaking downstairs caught her attention. She reached for her Glock before
realizing she’d left it on the nightstand in her room. She turned and darted
back down the hall.
She sat her coffee down,
grabbed the gun and walked back into the hallway. Footsteps came from the rear
of the house downstairs. She eased over to the railing, both hands on the
weapon, finger beside the trigger.
From below, she heard
loud whispers. At least two voices. She peeked over the railing. The
first man stood at least six feet, with dark hair and light brown skin. Probably
Hispanic. The second appeared to be just as tall with lighter
skin and dark hair.
Both men brandished
handguns. From her position, she couldn’t tell what caliber. They continued
moving forward, scanning their surroundings. The second man turned as he
reached the foot of the stairs. Kelli recognized him. It’s the man from the
club the other day, Anthony Santoro. What’s he doing here?
She backed away from the
railing as the men neared the front door. From her vantage point, she could see
the top of their heads. The second man entered the living room, while Santoro
started to climb the stairs. She needed to think fast. They had probably cut
the house lines already, but she had her cell phone. She glanced down the hall
at the door to her room.
She passed the stairs to
get to the railing overlooking the downstairs hall. Santoro was coming up,
blocking her from her only means of communication. Her mother’s room had a
phone, but if the lines were cut it would be useless.
Santoro edged closer and
she backed down the hallway, her Glock aimed at the top of the stairs. She
glanced behind her. The door was only a few feet away now and Santoro hadn’t
made it to the top. She darted for her mother’s room.
She ducked inside just as
he topped the landing. She closed it as quietly as possible and held her
breath. She pressed her ear against the door, listening for footsteps.
The footsteps grew faint,
moving away, toward the other end of the hall. She backed away from the door,
turned toward the bed, and crept to the other side, careful not to make any
noise. Crouching down, she used the bed for cover.
If it came down to it, she could climb out the
window to the roof. Heavy footfalls drew her attention away from the window.
They were closer now and this time she heard two distinct sets.
By instinct, she brought
the Glock up and aimed it at the door, finger on the trigger. Her heart beat
faster and a drop of sweat ran down the side of her face. Her eyes were glued
to the doorknob as she waited for the slightest movement.
It rotated a half turn
and stopped. A hushed voice came from the other side and then the footsteps
retreated. She kept her Glock aimed at the door, not sure if it was a ploy to
get her out of the room. The men headed back down the stairs and did nothing to
conceal their presence during their exit.
