I should’ve known better.
Whilehopehad failed her many times,paranoiaseldom did.
She rushed across the entry hall. The tower had no back door—at least not on this level. She slipped under a velvet rope that closed offthe stairs leading up. She was careful not to touch it, to leave it swinging, lest some soldier should notice it.
She escaped up the steps, climbing to the tower’s third level.
Voices echoed up from below, along with the tramp of many boots.
She fled from them, over to one of the open windows that circled this tier. They were old arrow slits used to target attackers. She squeezed sideways through one, then got stuck. Struggling only wedged her tighter.
She closed her eyes, ignoring the voices drawing closer, coming up the steps.
Calm down.
A large part of her anxiety had nothing to do with the approaching soldiers. Fear for Gray and the others kept her tense, stiffening her honed flexibility.
She forced herself to stop struggling, to exhale slowly, to narrow her chest. As she did, her body slid through the opening. She let herself fall. Twisting in midair, she landed in a crouch atop the roof of the Lavra’s towering wall. She balanced herself on the thin ridge in the middle, then took off.
The damp tiles underfoot were treacherous and slippery.
Fearing a fall, she kicked off the drab sandals that completed her disguise as a nun and ran barefooted. She gained speed. Still, she waited for a shout to rise behind her, for gunfire to pursue her. She could only imagine what a bystander below might make of her flight. She must look like a huge black crow sweeping atop the wall.
As she ran, she let the winds blow the apostolnik from her shoulders. It fluttered away, like a scrap of shadow. Her hair fanned wide. Despite the danger, she felt far freer, able to cast aside her fears for Gray.
She reached the next tower and easily scaled through another arrow slit, vanishing away from sight. Once inside, she sent a plea to Gray—willing to give hope one last chance.
Come back to me.
30
May 12, 11:39A.M. MSK
Trinity Lavra of St. Sergius, Russian Federation
Gray forged through the rising flood. The water level was waist-high and climbing fast. Dozens of crashing torrents echoed from the chambers on all sides. A hazardous flotsam of broken chairs and slabs of tabletops confounded the group’s passage, swirling and forming dams.
Jason called, yelling to be heard above the crashing waters. “Help!”
Gray turned at his frantic shout. The young man struggled with Anna. Her long dress—already clinging and weighing her body down—had snagged onto one of the logjams of debris.
Gray pushed Yelagin toward Bailey. “Take him. Keep going.”
Gray and the priest had been hauling the bishop between them.
Bailey nodded. “I got him.”
Gray set off, kicking and paddling over to Jason and Anna. Once he reached them, he drew a knife from his belt. The woman’s eyes were wide with panic. The shifting blockage was dragging her under.
He felt along the fabric to where it was snagged. The cloth had twisted into a hard rope.
He let it go, knowing it would take too long to saw through it. He shifted behind Anna, lifted his blade, and slit her dress from neckline to waist. She understood and wiggled free with Jason’s help, shedding her garment, swimming away in her bra and underwear.
“That’s better,” she gasped out.
Jason headed after Anna.
Even this brief stop had cost them valuable time.
