Sydney swallowed her frustration as he went back to the door and opened it. He exchanged some muffled words with those in the hall. As he did, she gingerly twisted her bound hands. Duct tape. She looked around before her eyes settled back on Tems’s figure at the door, his hands in his pockets.
Nothing she could use.
The others filed back inside, their eyes flickering suspiciously to her. They didn’t sit back down. Instead, they stayed standing by the table as one of them walked over to her. It was the one who had been unhappy with Tems for wanting a private chat.
“You talked sense into her?” he asked Tems.
Tems looked at Sydney. “Ask her yourself,” he replied.
The man turned to her. She met his gaze without flinching. Secretly, she gauged her distance from Tems.
“Let’s get that statement, then,” he told her, pulling out his phone.
Tems had told her to nod along. To go on record vouching for them.
But she had already noted the shaky trust holding Tems and this rogue cell together. Time to take advantage of it.
So Sydney took a deep breath, put her life on the gambling table, and said, “I’ll make sure all of you are court marshaled,” she said, a snarl rumbling behind her words. “You’ll be in jail within a week.”
Tems looked sharply at her. The man blinked at her words, then shook his head with a dry laugh.
“Apologies, Mr. Bourton,” the man said, taking a step toward her. He pulled a gun out of his jacket pocket.
Panic, rage, and desperation flickered across Tems’s face. It was there and gone in the blink of an eye—she had gotten to him, had surprised him. He looked back at the man approaching with the gun, then back at her, then at the man again. His body tensed like a spring.
Sydney gritted her teeth as the man pointed the gun right at her head. She had been in situations like this too many times, but each time, scenes still flashed through her mind—her as a child, joining Panacea, her mother, her home. And this time, Winter.
Come on, Tems, she thought frantically.Take the bait.All she needed was to create some chaos, crack the shaky alliance within this group.
“Wait,” Tems called out. He lunged toward the man, his hand knocking the man’s wrist down before he could fire.
The man gave him a look of indignant surprise. “What the hell?” he grunted.
“A traitor,” another snarled.
For once, Tems hesitated. In that space of a second, Sydney heard everything that he was—that in spite of everything, in spite of being a traitor and a killer and a liar… he still couldn’t bear to watch her die.
The radio spared him from replying. Because in that instant, the static that blared to life on their radios made everyone startle.
“What?” one of the agents said as he picked up the phone.
The answer came in Malay. Through the voice and the static, Sydney could hear a commotion in the background.
“—to get to Jalan Cheras and Ninety-Three, there’s a massive crowd—”
“What’s going on?”
“—need backup! It’s that singer, Winter Young—his car broke down here—”
Winter Young, causing the distraction of a lifetime. Sydney had never been so happy to hear his name in her life.
It was a span of seconds—all the agents’ attention turned momentarily away from her and toward the radio. Of Tems looking away.
Seconds was all Sydney needed.
With a single lunge, she kicked against the floor and threw herself straight at the gunman.
32A Flight to Catch
