"Get in," Gunner says, his voice calm but urgent. His eyes flick past me to Reyes, whose hand tightens on my back.
I don't hesitate. I wrench away from Reyes, whose fingers try to snag my wrist as I lunge toward the Audi.
"Sera, what are you doing?" Reyes's voice rises in alarm. "These people are dangerous—"
"I know," I say, diving into the back seat. Gunner pulls me in as the door slams shut behind me.
The Audi lurches into traffic before I can even buckle my seatbelt, Gunner's arm steadying me as we weave between yellow cabs.
"Four minutes until Markovic's people arrive," he says, eyes on the rearview mirror. "You got what we needed?"
I pat my purse. "Everything. I can’t believe Reyes sold me out like that. Just like you said he would."
Gunner's mouth twitches into something approximating a smile. "Men like him are predictable. Always hedging their bets."
Through the rear window, I spot the first black SUV cutting aggressively through traffic. "We've got company," I say.
"I see them." Our driver—a woman with short gray hair I've never met before—accelerates through a yellow light. "Three vehicles, professional drivers."
Logan's voice crackles in my ear: "Jet's fueled and waiting. Ten minutes to wheels up."
The Audi shudders as we take a corner too fast. More SUVs appear behind us, gaining ground. Gunner pulls a handgun from his jacket, checking the magazine with practiced efficiency.
"You won't need that," the driver says, jerking the wheel. We cut through an alley so narrow I can almost touch the brick walls on either side.
We emerge onto Park Avenue, the driver somehow finding impossible gaps in traffic, sliding between delivery trucks and taxis while our pursuers fall behind, trapped by the vehicles we've threaded through.
"Five minutes out," she announces as we hit the highway toward JFK.
I watch the side mirror as two SUVs appear again, closing the distance. "They're back."
"They won't catch us," Gunner says with quiet certainty. His hand rests on his weapon, but his breathing remains even. "Not before we reach the plane."
The airport comes into view, but instead of heading to the main terminals, we veer toward private aviation. The Audi barely slows as we approach a security gate that opens just in time.
We speed toward a sleek Gulfstream waiting on the tarmac, its engines already whirring to life. The SUVs are closing in, no more than thirty seconds behind us.
"Go, go!" Gunner shouts as the car skids to a halt beside the aircraft stairs.
I don't wait for the car to fully stop before throwing open the door. My heels hit the pavement and I'm running, purse clutched tight against my chest. The wind from the jet engines whips my hair across my face as I take the stairs two at a time.
Behind me, I hear car doors slamming, shouting. A sound that might be gunfire.
I stumble at the top of the stairs, catching myself on the doorframe, and in the opening of the plane door I see Gabriel.
He's already inside — he must have been on the jet the whole time, waiting — and his arm is outstretched toward me, his face doing something complicated and furious and relieved all at once. Three feet between his hand and mine.
I reach for it.
The grip that closes around my upper arm comes from behind.
"Mrs.Reznik." The voice is calm, accented, almost courteous. The arm that yanks me back down the stairs is not.
I don't scream. My heels fight for purchase on the metal steps and lose, and I have one suspended second where I'm looking up at Gabriel — his eyes going from relief to something I have no word for — before the tarmac comes up and there are two men on either side of me and a black car with its engine running and I understand, with absolute clarity, that the SUVs weren't following Gunner.
They were following me.
Gabriel lunges for the door. A third man appears in the gap between the plane and the stairs, not armed, just positioned, large enough to make the physics impossible. Not a threat — a wall. The message isn't we will shoot you. The message is you will watch her go.
