“Hold tight!” I shout, my hand laying on the horn.
We launch through the doors, blasting into the party like the world’s least welcome fireworks display. People scream and scatter as we bounce down a wide staircase. We obliterate a buffet table, sending towers of fruit, pyramids of pastries, and floral arrangements exploding across the lawn. Waiters dive behind hedges that don’t stand a chance.
Finally, we hit street level and I straighten the wheel, checking my mirrors for shadows. It’s all clear. For now.
Then I glance back at Skippy sprawled in the floorboard like a dropped mannequin.
I look at Alejandro.
He has an entire sampling platter in his lap—quiche squares, melon balls, a profiterole, half a crab puff—and he calmly plucks up a mini quiche, pops it into his mouth, and chews like this is Sunday brunch.
I stare at him. “I can’t believe you.”
He shrugs, brushing pastry off his shirt.
“What? I didn’t get to finish my taco.”
We ditch the mangled, glass-filled, fruit-splattered stolen car outside the train station. The moment the doors slam shut, Alejandro goes straight for Skippy—grabbing the corpse’s swollen arm and tuggingit toward him like he’s about to start a field autopsy right there on the sidewalk.
Then he reaches for my knife.
I smack his hand before he can touch the hilt. “Absolutely not.”
“We need the chip,” he argues, already nudging Skippy’s arm again. “It’s right here. The swelling means it’s close to the surface. One slice?—”
“You have yourownknife,” I remind him.
He shrugs. “Yeah, but yours is sharper.”
“And you’re not slicing open the body in the middle of a train station,” I snap. “One wrong move and you toast the chip. We didn’t survive a car launch through a museum ceiling to fry the only lead we have.”
He grits his teeth. “So what? We carry him forever? He smells.”
“No. We find somewhere with an X-ray before we cut him open.”
Alejandro stops, looks around. The train station is bustling—announcements echoing, luggage wheels rattling, commuters speed-walking like they’re being chased by their own bad decisions.
Then he gets a look in his eyes.
An idea.
A stupid one. I can already tell.
“Oh no,” I mutter. “Whatever’s happening in your brain right now? Stop it.”
He grins and goddamn him, those dark brown eyes have a fucking twinkle in them. “I know where we can go. And we can ditch Skippy there too. No questions asked.”
I rollmy eyes. “Inspiring confidence, truly.”
For a moment, I let the idea spin in my head—not because I trust him, but because time is hunting us and options are bleeding out fast. If he actually has a contact who won’t blink at the sight of a corpse with a mystery implant, I can’t afford to dismiss it. My Guild resources will be stripped, even neutral vendors have to step back during the manhunt.
Or, womanhunt, I suppose.
I stare at him, doubtful as hell but the idea is slowly growing on me, and he knows it. He goes around to the trunk and retrieves his broken down sniper riffle, slipping the strap over his head and fixing it between his shoulder blades. “Owenisfrom Chicago.”
Alejandro makes a face. “Who the fuck is Owen?”
I blink. “Owen Liang. Our dead accountant.”
