Using his mental sense, they managed to avoid the search party and various patrols. He kept their pace slower than he preferred, to give Rory a breather. They were inside the net, which gave them some maneuvering room since pursuit would likely be looking ahead, not behind. But there was still that bottleneck to negotiate. “Hopefully, they haven’t figured out which way you were going or we might find a welcoming committee on the bridge.”
A flare of emotion that felt strangely like guilt radiated from his master thief. It nearly distracted him from a mental spark of hunter red up ahead.
Damon waved her to a halt. Muscles tensing in anticipation, he inched to the corner of a dark, low building, looked over his shoulder to make sure Rory was still behind him, then checked the wide street paralleling the river.
The bridge was swarming with armed thugs, floodlights illuminating the streets leading up to its span. With the circuitous route they’d taken to elude capture, the enemy had had time to put up a roadblock.
Damon turned back to deliver the bad news. “No go. There’s a crowd over there.”
Rory nibbled on a gloved knuckle, breathing more easily at this point. “If we could just get over the embankment.”
“Why?”
“There’s a rope under the bridge.”
He grinned. She must have placed it for just this sort of contingency. With the brightness cast by the floodlights, the night vision of the force manning the roadblock would be ruined and the shadows made darker. They had a chance.
Despite the situation, satisfaction welled up in his heart at Rory’s foresight. Since he had to have a partner, he didn’t think he could have had a better one than her. “Any suggestions on where to go over?”
Crouching at the side of the building, she pointed to where the river and the esplanade that paralleled it curved. Beyond the curb of raised stone blocks edging the embankment, some shrubs stuck out where they would screen someone going over the side from watchers on the bridge.
“Good enough.” He scanned their surroundings thoughtfully. “Now, we need a distraction.”
Strangely, Rory snorted in amusement. “Don’t worry about it. I’ve got that covered.” Though Damon shot her a questioning look, she refused to clarify her statement. More of her preplanning? He could understand the rope under the bridge, since she preferred minimal visibility whenever possible, but she’d also expected to need a distraction?
They changed locations, moving to a low wall that was closer to the spot to reduce the distance they had to cross in the open. Out from the protection of the buildings, the wind blew stronger, funneled by the raised riverbanks.
On the bridge, the thugs detailed to the roadblock paced restlessly, too alert for comfort.
Rory reached into her tool belt.
A few seconds later, Damon felt a rumble under his feet. “What was that?”
She muttered something that sounded like “a blow to the pocketbook,” then flashed him an abashed look. “Nothing. Just a distraction I put together.”
Damon reached out with his mental antennae, searching for a lapse in attention from the bridge. The minutes stretched out while he picked up impatience and unease from the bridge; his master thief, on the other hand, was the soul of coolness, not shifting her weight even once, despite the wait.
There.
Amidst flashes of surprise, concern, and disconcertment, the roadblock detail spun around toward a man holding up a radio. Whatever she had done seemed to have worked.
He waved her forward. “Come on.”
Rory hotfooted it across the street and narrow esplanade, more a windblown wraith than woman with her cape swirling around her. He ran beside her, scanning for spikes of emotion that meant detection.
Nothing.
They took cover behind the bushes, pausing to take stock of their situation. The thugs on the bridge were in an uproar.
“What exactly did you do?” Again, there was that flash of guilt. The fact that she kept looking everywhere except at him suggested to Damon there was more to the tale than a simple distraction. “Rory?”
“I left a surprise for our neighborhood arms dealer.”
“What?”
“That”—she gestured with her chin at the suitcase weighing him down—“was in a vault with some funds. You might say Karadzic suffered a major loss.”
Damon thought back to the rumble he’d felt. “That blast just now was from that little bit of C-4 you had?” The quake had been rather stronger than what he’d have expected—even if she’d used it all.
Rory sneaked a peek at him, then just as quickly looked away, ostensibly scanning the buildings beyond the river—compounds with closed gates, their tenants minding their own business. “There might have been some other explosives in the vault, too.”
No wonder the minx was feeling ill at ease. She’d gone beyond the scope of the mission, and—he realized belatedly— must have risked detection, hell, perhaps even her neck, in doing so. “How much did he lose?”
“I don’t know.” She shrugged, still not facing him. “Maybe a few million euros.”
He stared at her in horrified respect. He was also tempted to tan her ass for taking such a risk, but that would get them nowhere fast. “Fuck. He’ll want our heads on a platter after that.” He urged her forward, a presentiment of danger making the back of his neck itch. They had to get to the other side of the river before Karadzic put two and two together.
Rory disappeared over the side, so quickly she might not have been there at all. Dropping down to the curb, Damon turned his back to the water to follow. The nuke made him top-heavy, tilting him backward. He cursed silently, unused to feeling ungainly. Hanging by his fingers, he scrambled against the rough stones of the esplanade wall for footing, then dropped down.
There was a grassy bank near where Rory had indicated, loose gravel that had built up at the river bend from countless spring floods. The height of the stone walls cast its base in shadows, which were made darker by the slash of floodlight above their heads.
With rushing water less than a foot away, loud splashing filled his ears. It wasn’t the raging river of al-Hazzezi’s nightmare, but that didn’t make it more inviting—not when it sprung from snowmelt off the mountains ringing the town.
They picked their way over the rounded stones worn treacherously smooth with time. The slightest misstep could spell failure and the nuke falling into terrorist hands. Damon was determined to detonate the bomb rather than risk that.
Garbled snatches of tense conversation, rendered unintelligible by the soughing of the wind, teased their ears as they approached the bridge; however, unhappiness at the duty came through loud and clear to his mental sense.
The space under the span seemed almost pitch-black after the floodlights, and empty. Even after Rory guided his hand to the rope, Damon still couldn’t see it. He pulled on it tentatively, following the smooth, braided nylon to where it was attached to the stone footing. Some kind of housing stopped his fingers, probably one of those devices that maintained a set tension level. To his relief, his sight gradually adjusted to the greater darkness.
An arm extended to take the nuke, Rory waved her hand in a
Pass it here
signal, the other holding a cord ready.
Recognizing the wisdom of her suggestion, he divested himself of the nuke. He’d have an easier time crossing over without its bulk throwing off his balance.
Rory looped the short line over the rope and clipped both ends to the handle of the suitcase.
Damon gestured at her to go first. He had to trust that the rope could support them all, but didn’t intend to risk stranding her if it gave way under him.
She adjusted her cape, securing it around her shoulders. Taking another, longer line from her rucksack, she clipped it to the nuke, attaching the rest of the coil to her belt. Then, dangling scant feet above the water, she swung from hand to hand along the rope, a darker shadow against the gray stones. As soon as she left the shelter of the footing, her body canted to the right, dragged by the wind.
Damon gritted his teeth, fighting down the tension knotting his shoulders. The gusts were growing stronger with the storm’s approach.
Despite his concern, Rory got to the other side without any problem. As soon as she had her feet under her, she began hauling the nuke over.
He started after the swaying suitcase, hoping he didn’t have a cold bath in his immediate future. After an initial dip, the rope bore up under his weight. The wind posed less of a difficulty for the same reason, despite the bags swinging from his shoulders. He managed to join Rory with only spray-dampened shoes to show for the unconventional crossing.
But the hardest part was yet to come. They had to get back to street level and within view of the enemy on the bridge.
Behind them, fear and outrage flared.
The stronger emissions helped Damon pinpoint the locations of the thugs maintaining the roadblock. He pointed Rory to the left, away from potential detection. With a bit of luck, the enemy wouldn’t be looking in their direction when they emerged from under the bridge. Not that they had much of a choice on where to leave the river; because of the current, there was no convenient gravel bar on this side to aid their escape.
Going up was harder than getting down, but they managed to gain the pavement without drawing notice. It helped that the enemy still expected to intercept them and, thus, were facing the wrong way.
Keeping close to the walls, they headed for a side street, walking normally, fast but not at a run. Nothing furtive that might draw attention. They were almost clear when a sudden gust caught the nuke.
Damon staggered, the hard plastic banging into a gate. Dogs started barking. Over their clamor, he heard a shout go up from across the bridge. “Fuck.” Of all things to give them away.
He shot a glance over his shoulder. The roadblock detail were pointing at them, a few elements already giving chase. “Move. They’ve seen us.”
Not bothering to check his statement, Rory ran for the side street with Damon at her heels.
A roaring of large engines drowned out the dogs. From another street, trucks drove up bearing members of the gang that held the south end of the bridge. Sporting Uzis, AK-47s, and aggression, they intercepted the thugs crossing the bridge.
Finally, something was going their way. Too bad they couldn’t borrow a vehicle. But Damon wasn’t about to quibble with Dame Fortune.
They turned the corner and kept moving, heading for the edge of town. The roads were deserted. Despite his best efforts, Damon couldn’t find a single car to hot-wire. The bombing must have scared the drivers into parking elsewhere, but in the interest of speed, they couldn’t backtrack to search.
With wind howling through the trees at the edge of the woods, Rory and Damon escaped into the countryside.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Rory leaned against the low wall that bordered yet another overgrown pasture, glad to get out of the rising squall for even a second. If she never saw another wildflower in her life, it would be too soon. She panted, spent from their mad rush through the night.
Thunder boomed overhead, echoing off the mountains like an overture to hell. The rumble rolled on and on, fading only to be renewed by a fresh lightning strike.
That was another thing. They had to find shelter, and fast. The cold north wind was blowing with a fury, bringing stinging bits of ice that threatened to form hail. She didn’t want to be out in it when it reached its height.
The bulky suitcase Damon had set down between them felt like a lightning rod for bad luck. It would be tempting the Fates to expose the nuke to the increasingly volatile elements.
When Damon indicated he’d seen something he wanted to investigate, Rory couldn’t even muster enough curiosity to ask him what it was. She only nodded and pulled the suitcase against her side, where she was sure it wouldn’t be overlooked when they continued on their mad flight.
Panting, she was struck by a pang of nostalgia. That was one advantage of most of her jobs: she didn’t have to run for her life afterward. None of this dodging-bullets-and-hairy-goons business; just pack up the booty and ship it to Felix. She’d never had to drag the goods along for miles on end while making her escape. True, Damon had done most of the lugging, but she’d had to get it to him first! Now, her calves were killing her and muscles she never knew she had were making themselves known with a vengeance.
Of course, this job had its compensations—and one delicious one, in particular, that she wouldn’t exchange for a trillion dollars.
The wind’s bite weakened suddenly. She opened her eyes to see Damon crouched beside her, his big body providing a barrier against the elements. The wind had gotten to his ponytail hours earlier, leaving his hair straggled around his shoulders—a far cry from the suave businessman she’d traveled with weeks before; he looked like an ogre out of the fairy tales, what with the mound of stuff he had slung across his back. “I found a place where we can get out of the storm.”
“Alleluia.” Rory grabbed Damon’s shirt to drag him closer. “Tell me it’s not across another few pastures?”
He grinned briefly, a flash of white amidst dark beard. “It’s just on the other side of these trees.” He tilted his head to indicate a thick stand of the aforementioned vegetation, which in the strobe of lightning flashes she could see was swaying wildly before the rising wind.
The trees lined a dirt track that skirted a small field but finally led to a low building with rough stone walls and what looked like the usual tiled roof. Rory forgave Damon his slight understatement about the distance since the cottage seemed deserted— which would be a godsend with the rampaging storm.
“It’s empty.” Keeping possession of the suitcase, which was on his back once more, Damon nodded at her to take the lead; evidently, he hadn’t sensed anyone in the area.