He hurries to my side. “Is she okay?”
“I’m okay!” Amalie replies, her voice muffled against my suit.
“Good,” Andrei says. “What’s the plan?”
I give it a second of thought. “Get her inside to an interior room and barricade the door.”
Andrei’s eyes flash. “You think they’d go that far?”
“I don’t know. But I’m not taking any chances.” I turn to Amalie. “You hear that? Stay with Andrei.”
“Got it.”
The world I had sworn I’d never let her see again has returned. Nothing to do now but keep her safe.
“What are you going to do?” Andrei asks.
“Find out who the hell is trying to kill us. Now, go.”
I can tell by the look in Andrei’s eyes that he doesn’t want to leave my side. But he was given an order, and he will follow it.
“Come,” he says to Amalie, taking her hand. “Stay close to me.”
“Okay.” She rises reluctantly, glancing over her shoulder at me with worry in her eyes.
“Go,” I say. “I’ll be fine.”
Andrei and Amalie disappear around a corner and are gone.
More glass explodes somewhere behind me. More screams. The place is total chaos.
Garin is gone. I move along the terrace.
The first thing that registers is that the shooters are sloppy. Amateur angles, too much noise. If this is a professional hit, it’s a bad one. The more likely scenario is that it’s a message sent spray-and-pray style.
When I reach the outside stairs, I sprint down them, coming out at the end of the valet lane and find more chaos—cars abandoned, doors open, alarms screaming. But I don’t see any bodies—a good sign.
A single gunshot pops off, hitting the building behind me. It’s a bad, wide shot, but one clearly aimed at me. I turn to see a pair of men dressed in black running from cover, one with a pistol in his hand, the other armed with a rifle.
The pair bolt across the Institute grounds and I give chase. When I get close enough, I can see that one is larger than the other, and slower. I go for him first. My lungs burn, my legs pumping as I chase, realizing they’re running toward a parked car.
He’s not going to reach it.
As I run, I raise my pistol in his general direction. Not likely I’ll hit him while running, but I fire anyway. The round hits the pavement ahead of him. He slows and turns.
Just what I was hoping for.
The distraction slows him down just enough for me to close the distance. He glances back again as I approach—another costly move.
When I’m near enough, I hit him low. Shoulder to ribs. We slam into a stack of plastic barriers, both of us going down hard. His gun skitters across the parking lot, landing underneath a car.
He tries to scramble to his feet, but I don’t give him a chance. My knee pins his chest.
I glance up; the other, faster man has made it to the car. He’s watching me on top of his partner with wide eyes, the rest of his face hidden behind a ski mask. I raise my gun and he hits the gas, driving for his life.
I turn my attention back to the man underneath me. “Who sent you?”
He spits blood, a tooth broken from the slam into the pavement. He laughs, sounding hysterical. “You think we know? You think I would tell you if we did?” He speaks with a heavy Russian accent.
