I ripped one pack open and pressed it against her chest.
Foam spread across the surface, hissing faintly as it neutralized what it touched. But I’d heard enough about the Greek Fire to know the chemical had already gone deeper, driven into the skin beneath the suit where I couldn’t reach.
“I need to cut it,” I said, searching my pockets for a knife. Nothing. I looked around frantically.
Martinelli’s men were screaming now. They’d used their bare hands to help him, and now they were feeling the effects.
Guess they needed your briefing, too, Brooke.
More screams. Not just pain—agony. Her back arched, every muscle tensing, and she battled to free her hands again.
“Brooke! Stop!” I needed to neutralize everything, or she’d touch it with her bare hands and wind up like Martinelli’s men.
No knife. No way to cut the suit. I ripped open another pack, neutralizing the outside of her suit so she wouldn’t burnher hands, then applied what was left under her suit. “Oh god, Brooke. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
“Carabinieri! Armi a terra!” Police flooded the rooftop, weapons drawn, shouting commands in Italian.
Through the chaos, I saw Percival and two other Pendragon operatives behind the police.
“Medical!” I shouted. “We need medical now!”
Percival was already on his radio. “We’ve got two medevacs inbound. They’ll have to land on the road?—”
I didn’t wait for him to finish. I gathered Brooke into my arms and ran. She was rigid with pain, her breathing coming in short, desperate gasps.
“Arms around me, sweetheart.” It was the only thing I could think of that would stop her from driving a hand underneath her suit and destroying her hands.
With a sob, she did as I told her to, holding so tight I barely needed to support her weight.
“Move!” I roared at anyone in my path.
The stairs were a nightmare. Too narrow to carry her properly, I had to turn sideways, her legs bumping the walls. Every impact drew another sound from her—not quite screams anymore, more like an animal in a trap.
“I’ve got you,” I kept saying, though I wasn’t sure she could hear me through the pain. “I’ve got you, sweetheart, just hold on.”
The couples on the cannon terrace scattered as I barreled through. Their shocked faces blurred past. Someone was screaming—maybe them, maybe Brooke, maybe me.
More stairs. Her weight shifted with each turn, and fresh agony rolled through her.
“Almost there,” I lied. We weren’t even halfway down.
Her breathing was getting worse—shallow, rapid, heading toward shock. I tried to move faster, but the crowded passages weren’t built for speed.
We reached the second level, where the jazz music still played from the restaurant. The musicians stopped as I ran past.
More stairs. Brooke’s sounds had changed—less screaming, more whimpering. That was worse. The pain hadn’t decreased; she was running out of strength to express it.
Ground floor. Finally. The police had cleared a path, and I spotted the first medical helicopter beyond the castle entrance. Paramedics were already moving toward us with a gurney.
“Chemical exposure!” I shouted. “Arsenic! Gloves!”
They understood enough of my English that the first paramedic doubled up his gloves and donned a face shield. As I laid Brooke on the gurney, he began cutting away the ruined suit material with shears—apparently, they had the tools I’d lacked. Another was preparing an IV.
“Gloves!” I snapped as I stripped my gloves off and tossed them into a garbage bin. I pulled on two fresh pairs before touching her again.
Brooke’s hand found mine, her grip weak but desperate. Her face was gray, eyes unfocused. “Rav!”
“Give her morphine,” I barked out. “She’s in too much pain.”
