“Because you’re not cut out for this business, Zeph.” His cold blue eyes bore into me, the silenced pistol steady in his hands. “You made a mistake, and that mistake is going to bring you in. Back to your family. Back where you belong.”
“Family?” I laugh to cover the click as the latch bolt disengages from the strike plate. “François will torture me until he gets what he wants, then put a bullet in my brain. In what fucked-up world is that family?”
“Goddammit, Zephyr. Jessica’s dead because of you.”
“No. Jessica’s dead because she was a compassionate, decent human being and François’s a sadistic asshole,” I fire back.
Oliver’s eyes cloud over for a split second, and I yank the door open. Sprinting as fast as I canupthe stairs—the exits below may be covered, but I always have multiple escape routes—I try not to panic as my brother’s pounding footsteps get closer and closer. He always could beat me in a foot race.
“Shit! She’s going up!” he shouts. I hope to all that’s holy his surprised tone means he and his team didn’t expect me to head this way.
The crisp night air slaps my cheeks as I burst onto the roof, but I don’t stop, my entire focus on the plywood ramp at the far end. The one I placed there a week ago. The one that should give me enough momentum to carry me to the next building over.
You can make it. It’s only two meters. Piece of cake.
Pain rips through my thigh mid-air, and when I land, my left knee buckles, sending me tumbling ass over elbow. I can’t stop. Can’t think about the fire licking its way down my leg or the sticky warmth plastering my pants to my skin.
Wrestling my gun from the holster, I fire a single, blind shot behind me once I’m on my feet and racing for the fire escape.
Without a silencer, the sound reverberates through the stillness of western Rotterdam after midnight.
Grabbing the railing, I vault from one set of stairs to the next. Each jump takes me lower, and the pain warns me my leg won’t last much longer without treatment. My toes make squishing sounds every time I land.
I’m not cold. Don’t feel weak or dizzy yet. If Oliver had hit a major artery, I’d be all of those things. If not dead.
Only sparing a quick glance skyward when I reach the ground, I don’t see him—or anyone—following me.
Run. Don’t look back. Just run.
* * *
In a dark alleya few blocks from Nora’s flat, I strip out of my bloody pants and toss them in the dumpster. “Shit.” The gash is deep, but thank God the bullet didn’t hit anything vital. It’smostlystopped bleeding. A little clotting powder—even though it hurts like a motherfucker—takes care of the rest.
Voices come from the street, and I sink deeper into the darkness to fish a roll of gauze out of my backpack and wrap my leg tightly. Can’t stay here for long. I have to keep moving.
Pants. I need a clean pair of pants first. And shoes. Someone’s going to notice if I stroll down the sidewalk tracking blood with every step. Even at 2:00 a.m.
By the time I’ve put myself together, I’m exhausted. I probably need a blood transfusion but I’ll have to settle for a protein bar instead.
Shit. I’m out.
Of course. I was supposed to leave the Netherlands two days ago, but then I connected with Nora in an online chatroom, and I couldn’t run knowing she was in danger.
A few deep, centering breaths, and I test my weight on my left leg. A little pain, but as long as I concentrate, I can walk without a limp.
The city’s quiet this time of the morning. The traffic cameras still capture everything, though, so I keep my head down until I reach Nora’s back door.
My gloved hand leaves a red smudge on the wood when I knock, and I quickly scrub it off with my elbow and rub my palms on my thighs. What’s a little more blood to clean up once I’m safe?
The two hours I spent weaving through the city, bleeding, constantly looking over my shoulder? Worth it. In a few minutes, Nora will know she and her daughters never have to be afraid again.
“Who is it?” a lightly accented voice asks.
“Nora? It’s your guardian angel.”
“What’s the password?”
Good. She’s being smart. “Kansas.”
