Rory held her breath. Was the unusual activity in response to Damon’s diversion? She tried to remember what weapons had been in the nearby rooms that might jangle like what she was hearing, but couldn’t.
Dismissing the question as irrelevant, she switched her cell phone on to count the departures. When the noise stopped, she gingerly descended from her perch, still stifling an urge to sneeze.
Hopefully, no one remained behind. But still Rory waited, just in case, putting the time to good use by finishing her preparations. Now, more than ever, she might need a distraction to make her escape.
Of course, if she’d left when she was supposed to, she wouldn’t be in this mess in the first place. Now she was damned late.
When no sounds penetrated the shelter of the vault by the time Rory connected a relay to the last detonator, she figured it was safe enough to egress.
Darkness met her searching eyes when she pushed the false wall open. More darkness in the corridor. Everything looked the same as when she’d entered, despite the earlier tumult.
She walked slowly, taking extra care not to bang the bulky suitcase against anything. The rattle of a doorknob barely gave her time to slip into one of the rooms.
“Hurry, you idiot. The team is about to leave. If you miss the fighting, cousin or not, Alexei will have your head.” Light splashed through the doorway; then the corridor resounded with heavy, bounding strides.
Rory swore inwardly, her gut tensing at the delay. Looks like she wasn’t the only one running late.
“So I will not miss the fighting, yes?” The huffing response swept past her hiding place without pause, large shadows drawn on the bright floor. “I do not understand why we are being sent. Osum—”
“Osum intends to replace Alexei, it is said. Your cousin does not trust him.”
The news brought an involuntary smile to Rory’s lips. They’d succeeded in making trouble for that gang lord, after all.
“Pshaw! Him? He does not have the brains.”
The laggards hurried out soon after.
To give them a few seconds’ head start, Rory pulled out the harness she’d prepared for the nuke and attached it; she’d need both hands free to negotiate the reverse of her original route. She shouldered the suitcase on top of her pack, making sure both were secure. A hard edge dug into her butt. Her pack, slight and with its contents much reduced, didn’t provide much padding. In fact, the remaining equipment added pokes and prods that couldn’t be accommodated in her tool belt.
A quick check on her cell phone showed that the corridor outside was clear, the tardy goons out of sight. She triggered the loop to cover her route; it was risky, but she couldn’t trust to speed to avoid detection, especially since Damon’s diversion had kicked up a hornet’s nest of activity.
Easing the armory door shut and locked behind her, Rory adjusted the makeshift shoulder straps. Then, extending her arms and legs out, she scaled the walls by the nearest unlit lamp. Hopefully, the shadows there would hide any scuff marks.
The maneuver left her stretched out between the two walls, wedged in like the keystone of an arch just below the dark ceiling. Perforce, her progress was slower, limited as she was to sidling.
Static crackled, loud and angry, when a door opened. A cacophony of orders suddenly spilled out behind a rangy man, then was just as abruptly cut off when he slammed the door behind him and jogged away.
Ignoring the noise, Rory pushed on crabwise, her muscles starting to protest the unusual position her passage required.
Don’t look up. Nothing to see here. Move along.
The nuke shifted on her back, forcing her to stop and, while straining to hold herself up with one hand and two legs, snug down the straps.
Her mental countdown said the loop was still active for this zone. She still had a bit of time.
Activity picked up below her. Another group of guards entered the armory. Some to-ing and fro-ing between rooms. Surely someone monitoring the cameras would notice the discrepancy?
She put it out of her mind.
Face it if and when it happens.
The draft from a cooling duct chilled the sweat across her cheeks, exposed by her ski mask. It brought with it the smell of dust, which she must have picked up in the vault. Her gut clenched at the slipup—not that she could have done much about it. Hiding had been the right thing to do at the time.
Finally, Rory reached the door to the stairs. But she had to stop there, muscles quivering, until the coast was clear. A strange time to wish Damon were with her, but she found herself doing exactly that and more—fantasizing about a full-body, carnal massage courtesy of her Adonis—while waiting for her chance to get down unobserved.
Despite the increased activity, she attained her entry point without further interruptions.
Raindrops rang on the windowpanes, quick, uninviting pings that sang of strong winds. And Damon was out in it, waiting for her—and if she wasn’t mistaken, antsy after her no-show.
Time to get out of here.
Again, she triggered the video loop for the external cameras, hoping to buy time to egress. The nuke on her back made getting out the window an awkward operation, but she managed to squeeze through.
Cold rain pelted her, strong enough to sting. But since that was the only attention she received, Rory was grateful. There were no guards in sight.
A spate of distant gunfire broke through the drumming splatter on the brick tiles, echoing such that she couldn’t pinpoint its source. Apparently, Damon’s diversion was still ongoing.
She’d crossed to the next building when it happened.
A shout came from above, just as she traversed the peak of the roof. The storm stole the words, carrying nonsense to her ears. Throwing caution to the winds, she burst into a sprint, intent on putting distance between Karadzic’s guards and herself.
Big mistake.
As she swerved around a chimney, the nuke on her back smacked against the flue, knocking her off balance. Her foot slipped on a wet tile, leaving her flailing for a handhold. The edge of the roof tilted toward her. Holding her breath, she kicked off with her other foot, throwing herself to safety.
Rory sprawled on all fours, swearing inwardly at the near disaster. Damn it, she was letting the pressure get to her!
But speed was still of the essence. She had to widen her lead. It would give them less time to respond and make it harder to intercept her.
And if Karadzic’s goons opened fire, they’d have a harder time hitting her.
Breaking into a more moderate run, she launched the grapnel at the roof of the next building and ignored the soft thud it made, less interested in stealth now. Once over it, she’d be out of direct line of sight of the guards on the rooftop. Tugging on the line to confirm it was set, she started up the climbing rope, using it to scale one measly story of brick wall.
The bomb was an awkward mass that kept shifting, digging into her butt and driving the odds and ends in her pack into sore muscles, the straps of its harness biting into her shoulders. Its weight pulled her backward, threatening to tip her over onto her head.
On the bright side, if they shot at her, they were more likely to hit the nuke. She had body armor, of a sort. Kind of like a mutant tortoise.
A series of pops went off behind her.
Rory squeezed her eyes shut reflexively. Shards of brick tiles rained down, some bouncing on her unwieldy load. Her heart skipped a beat.
Holy shit, they’re shooting at me.
Forget the bright side. Next time, she’d stick with the shadows and stay way out of sight.
Where the fuck is Rory?
Standing in a shadowy alley, buffeted by occasional gusts of cold air and spatters of colder rain, Damon forced himself to maintain his posture of bored menace. He’d packed up their equipment, in preparation for a quick getaway, and gotten to the rendezvous with only minutes to spare. But the agreed-upon time had passed with no thief in sight. Had something happened?
Had she been caught?
He eyed his surroundings, watching the other predators on the street. Most of the windows were closed as people hunkered down to weather the coming storm, both physical and metaphorical. With the sure instincts of battle-weary survivors, the townsfolk knew there was trouble brewing.
It was a risk arranging to meet Rory here on the east side of the river, but he’d refused to wait in the relative safety of the hostel. Leaving her to run that bottleneck of a bridge alone, much less the gauntlet of Karadzic’s territory, was too much to ask.
As it was, he was on edge at her tardiness.
Please, let it be nothing more than that.
But it was unlike his master thief to be so late.
More minutes passed with no feminine figure emerging from the darkness.
Worry finally got the better of him.
Damon stretched out mental fingers, searching for Rory’s distinctive aura. He found her immediately: moving quickly, flashes of agitation and alarm telling him all wasn’t well with her.
Sharp bursts of gunfire reached his ears, unmistakable even through rain and distance: AK-47s on auto.
Were they aimed at Rory or just more of the rioting he’d incited?
Frustration gnawed at his control with jagged teeth. He needed to move, do something, but he couldn’t leave to intercept her. This was where she expected him to be. Leaving risked her getting past him and not meeting up.
He scanned the neighborhood with narrowed eyes. There had to be something he could do.
Rory slid around the corner, trying to silence her gasps for breath. Someone had been on her heels ever since her egress. She had cut it too close, and now the deadweight of the nuke was slowing her down, its awkward size making some of her usual routes impossible.
She didn’t think Karadzic’s goons knew what she’d gotten away with—not yet—but she couldn’t count on their remaining ignorant. A woman running around with a suitcase on her back was unusual enough, but one coming from Karadzic’s fortress when the nuke went missing? Though she’d kept to the shadows as much as possible, luck only went so far, and she’d pushed hers beyond the limit.
Wishing now that she’d agreed to meet her Fed sooner, she forced herself to keep moving. Unfortunately, his diversion had been a bit too successful. She’d had to detour several times already to avoid pockets of violence, which whittled down her lead on her pursuers.
Rounding another corner, Rory was relieved to spot the bulbous tower that was her landmark for the alley where Damon should be waiting. Just a little farther and she could hand off the unwieldy nuke.
Barking rose a short distance away. Something stirring up the neighborhood dogs. Maybe her pursuers.
She forced herself to run on, her legs feeling like they were tied down with concrete blocks.
Just a little farther.
She repeated it silently, a mantra of hope to give herself strength.
Damon’s waiting.
But the alley was deserted when she got there.
Her heart skipped, shock chilling her body at the impossible scene.
No.
Had something happened to him during the diversion? Was he hurt? Dead? Dying? She pegged everything on his being here, waiting for her. Hadn’t even imagined it could be otherwise.
A hand shot out of the dark, clamped down over her mouth. Another one caught her elbow and pulled.
Horror froze Rory’s muscles solid, held her motionless for a heartbeat, then—
“Shhh.”
The male scent and the hard body pressed against her side registered.
Damon.
Relief made her weak, a strange reaction since she’d always preferred to work alone. She touched the hand over her mouth, then nodded to let him know she understood.
“This way.” The toneless instruction was nearly inaudible. He released her and quickly led the way to a narrow side alley hidden behind a pile of debris. From the smell of half-burnt wood and brick dust, it stood testament to the recent violence.
Rory followed willingly, her ears pricked for sounds of pursuit. They weren’t long in coming: a clatter of boot heels on stone approached at a run.
Damon pushed her to her knees into a small niche behind the debris. He hunkered down beside her, his bulk blocking her view of everything except broken bricks—protecting her.
She crouched down, making herself even smaller, under no illusions as to her bulletproof capacity. Still, her heart raced, so loudly the men on her trail should have heard its pounding song of jubilation.
He’s here. He’s alright.
The footfalls thudded past their hiding place, then faded into the distance.
“Is that it?” The question was barely audible. He kept to a murmur, not whispering, so the words didn’t carry.
“Yeah.” Clawing off the straps, Rory surrendered the nuke to him, more than ready to be relieved of its deadweight. She’d thought she was in good shape, but after lugging the suitcase up and down rooftops, her back and butt were sore from the unyielding plastic.
Damon passed her an armful of heavy material in return. “Put that on. It’ll change your outline.” He stood up and gestured for her to follow him.
The thick, woolen fabric felt like an outsize shawl. Rory complied with his murmured instructions, slinging the garment across her shoulders and around her body in the manner she’d seen it worn in the markets. The shawl hampered her stride, clinging as it did to her legs. She dismissed the hindrance from her mind.
Stealth, not speed, was the priority this time. Their efforts would be all for nothing if they were caught.
At the first opportunity, Damon slung the nuke across his back, over the bags on his shoulders, using the straps attached for the purpose. With Rory obviously spent by her exertions, he wasn’t about to add to her load by passing her a bag. It threw his balance off, but doing so left his hands free, in case he needed to fight or shoot.