Kicking off the floor, I knocked the man backward into the wall. I jerked my head back hard, making contact with the man’s nose. His grip remained tight, and the unmistakable sound of the slide of a gun clicking into place resonated from within my apartment. “That will be quite enough, Ms. Parker,” an unfamiliar voice commanded from the direction of my kitchen table. I stopped fighting and was roughly shoved forward, my arms still pinned tightly behind my back. In the dark, I could barely make out the shape of someone sitting at my dining room table. The silver from his handgun reflected the light from my stove clock ever so slightly. “Why don’t you try to act more civilized to your guests?” His voice sounded like a sneer, and I detected a very obvious French accent. “Maybe I would if my guests weren’t of the uninvited variety. Who the hell are you?” I snarled, staring into the darkness and hoping my eyes would adjust further.
