“Darius isn’t responding,” Lucia says, her voice tight. “He was at the front gate.”
Fuck. They took him out first.
We go out through the side door, into the teeth of the storm. The rain hits like needles, wind tearing at my clothes. Visibility is shit—maybe twenty feet before everything dissolves into black and gray.
The yard slopes toward the cliff’s edge. Landscaped terraces, the long lap pool with its infinity edge, water churning from the rain and spilling over into nothing. In flashes of lightning, the whole thing looks apocalyptic.
Movement on the roofline of the main house. Two figures grappling, struggling for position. One of them is tall and broad shouldered, dark-haired.
Another flash of lightning and I catch a glimpse of his face. Rafael. Rafael Marcano, who came out of nowhere and is on the brink of falling off the roof.
“That’s one of them,” I say. “Where’s the other?”
A shape drops from the roof on the far side of the house. Lands in a controlled roll, comes up running. I train my gun on them then drop it back to my side. It’s a woman.
Tatiana.
She spots us, changes direction, closes the distance in seconds.
“Second shooter!” She has to shout over the wind. “East side, heading for the bluff. He’s the one who fired.”
“I’ve got him.” Wyatt’s already moving.
“Go,” I tell Tatiana. “Back him up. I’ll help Rafael.”
She nods once and disappears into the storm after Wyatt.
I turn back to the roof just in time to see Rafael and his opponent tumble over the edge.
They hit the terrace hard, rolling down the slope toward the pool. Rafael tries to get his feet under him but the assassin’s faster—a brutal kick to the ribs sends Rafael splashing into the water.
The assassin pulls a pistol, aims at Rafael’s head just as he surfaces. I’m sprinting across the lawn—thirty yards of wet grass between me and a bullet I can’t stop.
I fire.
My round catches him in the shoulder, spinning him halfway around. It buys Rafael a second. He swims away, puts distance between them, but the assassin’s already recovering, tracking Rafael with his weapon despite the blood spreading across his dark jacket.
Tatiana comes out of the darkness at a dead run, doesn’t slow down, doesn’t hesitate. Two shots to the center of the back, one to the head. The assassin staggers forward, hits the pool’s edge, and topples in.
He floats face-down and utterly still.
Rafael drags himself onto the deck, on his hands and knees. Tatiana crosses to him, checks his injuries with brisk efficiency.
“You good?” she asks.
“Define good.” He coughs up water. “You just saved my life.”
“You tracked them here. Couldn’t have found the second one without your work.”
Lightning splits the sky, close enough that the thunder comes instantly. The rain’s coming sideways now, the storm reaching its peak.
“The other shooter?” I ask.
“Booth has him. East side of the house.” Tatiana swipes wet hair out of her eyes, unbothered by the chaos around her. “Alive. Wounded, but talking.”
Rafael’s sitting up now, shivering. His eyes find Tatiana’s and stay there, then drift down—taking in the way her soaked jeans and sweater cling to her, the leather jacket doing nothing to hide the curves underneath. When his gaze makes its way back to her face, she’s watching him with something that might be amusement.
Christ. She’s going to destroy him.
