They were outgunned. Outnumbered. Out of time.
She grimaced. “No,” she argued. “I won’t let you sacrifice yourself. You don’t get to decide the ending for me. Not after everything you’ve already decided on your own.”
His throat tightened. “I’m trying to save your life.”
“And I’m trying to save yours,” she whispered fiercely.
He pressed a kiss to her forehead, unwilling to argue right now. When it came down to it, he knew what he would do. He inhaled, testing his ribs where one of Hale’s guards had landed a lucky shot. The muscles barked with protest but nothing felt broken. Pain he could manage. Exhaustion he could override.
Later, his body could send its invoices. Tonight, he’d pay the interest.
Marshall eased them down the corridor, counting cameras, doors, and calculating angles. The smell shifted from hotel detergent and chafing-dish stainless to chemical cleaner and old grease. Somewhere nearby, someone had been prepping banquet food hours ago.
He took the next corner low and fast.
“Contact,” a voice barked behind them, too close.
A round cracked off the wall just above his shoulder, throwing chips of concrete into his hair.
Norah flinched, ducking instinctively. “Marshall?—”
“Move.”
He shoved her ahead of him, putting his body between her and the gunfire. Another shot, then another. The echo turned the hallway into a drum. Shouts as someone called for flanking positions.
They ran.
Norah’s bare feet slapped the concrete, her heels clattering uselessly in her hand. The corridor narrowed, then opened into a T.
“Left,” she gasped.
“Right,” he countered, trusting his internal map of the hotel, feeling the faint draft of outside air. He grabbed her elbow and hauled them right.
Behind them, boots pounded closer.
“Stop them!”
New voices, different cadence. Not Russian. American. Corporate security, probably hired by the hotel and seconded to Morris for the night.
Working together. Perfect.
If the Syndicate ever put the same effort into humanitarian aid that they put into coordinated murder, the world might actually improve.
Another shot cracked, close enough that he felt the air kiss the side of his face.
Marshall hit the next corner hard, shoulder screaming as he caromed off the cinderblock and kept going. Norah stumbled and nearly went down. His hand snapped out, yanking her upright.
“Sorry,” she gasped.
“Just run.”
The hallway ahead kinked sideways, then again. Whoever had designed this floor had never met a straight line they liked.
A shadow detached itself from a doorway ahead.
Marshall’s hand was already going for the weapon at his back, mind cataloging threat vectors.
Then the shadow smiled.
