"Then I won't look," she promised. "Sin, I need a bank machine, and the city map says there's one around the corner."
"Yeah. We're on 149th St."
She nodded. "I'll be back. Please stay alive until I am?"
He merely leaned back and smiled. Too cultured to do well in a run and hide scenario, his ass. Nope, his angel was proving to be a bit of a badass.
Chapter Eighteen
Rissa walked away from him proudly. Glided was a better word for the way she moved. Watching her, Sin wondered if it was all an act or if she simply didn't realize how disgusting the things soaking through her slippers really were. Either way, she didn't hesitate to leave him behind.
Pulling away the glove, he finally dropped his eyes to check his hand. The bullet had passed through the soft skin between his thumb and first finger, tearing it, but missing the bones and ligaments completely. He cursed softly. That was his good hand too. It would heal, but gripping a gun wouldn't be comfortable for the next few days.
Then again, how long would it take to have his legs healed? He groaned, tapping his head against the wall. He needed a better implant for his damned broken back. The external spine was too fragile. He was supposed to be the one taking care of that girl, and here he was, waiting for someone to pick his useless body up.
Speaking of that, he tapped at the communication implant by his ear. Once it was active, he composed a message to the one man he knew could help, Trent.
Broke my wings, 149th. 15 minutes. Have angel.
As soon as he sent it, he turned his eyes to the sky. "God? This is a pretty bad joke, ok? Kinda hard to protect the weak like this." He tapped his head on the brick again, the pain reminding him he wasn't done yet. "Just fucking keep an eye on her right now? She's like a lamb among the wolves, and I can't fucking help."
Trent replied by the time he'd finished praying. The message was short, sweet, and to the point:OMW.
He tried to look up the street, but could see nothing around the dumpster except his gun laying there just out of reach. With a litany of profanity, he grabbed the one beside his hip and holstered it. He had to stay ready. He couldn't walk, and he felt like he'd been run over by a damned train, but he could still shoot well enough to pick someone off her ass.
His mind drifted back to Rissa. He had no idea how many Ingénue had been killed now. At the last count, it was fourteen, but the number kept growing. Here he was, on the bad side of town with a girl in a kill-me-now blue robe.
His Legate armor was distinctive enough, but those robes? It made her stand out like a target for anyone who'd want to follow them back. He'd have to get her something else, and then they'd take the long way back. Theverylong one that would allow him to bring in the Fallen for a little backup.
Eventually, the scuff of feet echoed in the alley. Sin immediately grabbed his gun. His legs might be useless, but he had one good arm left. Aiming head-high, he waited for the people—it sounded like two—to come around the dumpster, listening to their feet moving closer.
"Sin?" Rissa asked just before she entered his sights. "I have help."
With a sigh, he lowered the weapon. "What did you do, Princess?" he asked. Then he saw her.
She'd changed clothes. The blue robe was long gone, replaced with a pair of loose black pants, some oversized shirt, and a dark jacket with a hood. But when his eyes reached her face, he wanted to groan. Just like the first punk to attack, she wore a lower face mask. Hers was the kind meant to filter out pollution, but the grinning skull painted on it actually worked for her.
Beside her, however, was a man. A big one. The guy was large, tawny-skinned, and the way he looked at Rissa made it clear he meant her no harm. A split-second later, he finally saw Sin.
"Legate," he said, rushing over to check on him. "Rissa said you were wounded?"
Sin glanced at her quickly, surprised to hear she'd used her name.
She smiled, the mask curling as her cheeks lifted. "Jaime has offered to help me get you someplace safe," she said.
The man held out his hand, and Sin took it, allowing Jaime to pull him up. The problem was he couldn't stand. Not at all. Sin tried to cling to Jaime's shoulder, hoping to lessen the weight of his useless limbs, but it was all he could manage.
"What do you need?" the man asked.
"We need a place to hole up long enough for a pickup," Sin admitted.
"My shop's around the corner," Jaime assured him. "But there's a group that's been hanging out all day, looking for an Ingénue and her protector," he warned.
"Then I'm hoping you won't tell them about me," Sin said.
Jaime carried him, toes dragging on the asphalt, up the alley and around the corner. Small shops lined the street, and without fanfare, the man entered one, a tiny women's clothing boutique. Rissa trailed behind them, not making a sound until they were all the way inside.
"He needs to be out of sight," she said.
