But we had the darkness.
We had the trees.
And we had a head start measured in heartbeats.
It would have to be enough.
18
Thomas
Otto was dead weight against my back as we ran, his blood soaking through my coat, his breath barely a whisper against my ear. I didn’t know how much longer he could hold on.
I didn’t know how much longer I could hold on.
Still, I ran.
Will was ahead of me, the Baroness cradled in his arms, his legs churning through the snow. Bisch brought up the rear, limping badly now, his pistol empty but still clutched in his hand like a talisman.
The trees blurred past. Branches whipped my face and left stinging trails I could barely feel. My lungs burned. My legs screamed.
Behind us, searchlights swept the mountainside.
I could hear engines—vehicles mobilizing, pursuit organizing.
They would find our trail soon. Snow held footprints like a confession.
“There,” Bisch gasped. “The car.”
Otto’s Mercedes, still waiting where he’d left it. It was little more than a dark shape against darker trees, but it was a promise of escape.
Will reached it first, yanked open the back door, and laid the Baroness across the seat with desperate gentleness. I followed, sliding Otto in beside her.
Bisch was already behind the wheel.
The engine roared to life.
“Get in!”
I threw myself into the passenger seat. Will dove in back, pulled the door shut behind him.
Gravel sprayed.
Tires screamed.
The Mercedes lurched forward, fishtailing on the icy road before Bisch brought it under control. Then we were flying, hurtling down the mountain road at speeds that should have killed us.
I twisted to look back.
Through the rear window, I could see lights cresting the ridge. They bobbed and shifted, almost in a panicked pattern.
Headlights.
“They’re coming,” I said.
“I see them.” Bisch’s knuckles were white on the wheel. “Hold on.”
The road twisted, dropped, then doubled back on itself.
