“Stay with me,” he murmured, low enough that it was barely sound.
She nodded once, jaw tight.
The corridor angled left, right, and back on itself in a series of elbows. Marshall scanned—stainless-steel doors, maintenance closets, service entrances. No visible map. No helpful YOU ARE HERE.
Of course not.
Hotels were built to move bodies and money invisibly, not to help anyone escape an execution.
He leaned around the corner, counting under his breath. One. Two. Three?—
Footsteps echoed from the far end. A man’s voice, sharp, clipped Russian. Another answering in English, too calm for Marshall’s liking.
“—dock secured. South exit covered. You see them, you put them down.”
They were already locking the place down.
Backup still hadn’t checked in. Things were up in flames here in DC, and what was happening in Geneva?
He shoved the thought aside before it could distract him.
Focus. Protect Norah.
He felt her pulse hammering through the thin bones of her wrist. It matched the pounding in his own ears.
“We can’t stay here,” she whispered.
“I know.” He scanned the intersections again. “Service corridors will feed to the loading dock. From there, alley access. My car is there.”
He released her hand long enough to shrug out of his tux jacket and jam it under his arm. Too hot. Too constricting. He needed full range of motion.
Norah wobbled on her heels as she shifted weight. The stumble was small, but it lit up every protective tripwire in him.
“Shoes,” he said.
“What?”
“Lose them.” He jerked his chin toward her feet. “You twist an ankle back here and they won’t need to shoot us. We’ll be dead in place.”
Her chin tipped up in automatic defiance—fifteen years hadn’t touched that impulse—but she looked down at her stilettos. Ridiculous weapons on her feet.
She swallowed and bent fast, fingers fumbling with the delicate straps. The shoes came off with soft snaps. Her bare toes curled against the cold concrete, purple polish absurdly bright.
She straightened, heels hooked in one hand, eyes meeting his.
Vulnerable. Furious. Terrified.
“We’re going to have to run,” he warned. “No stopping. No second-guessing. You stay on my six, you do not let go of me unless I put you in someone else’s hands. If that happens?—”
Her throat worked. “You’re already planning to hand me off?”
“If it were up to me, I’d never let you out of my sight again,” he admitted. “But if it comes down to it, you are walking out of here alive, with or without me.”
She stared at him, chest lifting in fast, shallow breaths. For a second, he saw every version of her at once—the college girl with ink on her fingers, the brave analyst determined to uncover the truth, the woman in a gown who had just watched a man die two strides away from her.
“Numbers don’t lie,” she’d told him once.
Tonight, the numbers were brutal.
