She rises slowly like some fucked up mermaid, her skin so pale she glows against the water. Her hand grips the edge of the dock first, fingers grappling for purchase. A heartbeat after, she surfaces with a gasp.
I lunge, grabbing her wrist, but I sense that my strength is the primary force lifting her from the water. She lands on her side, coughing up greenish liquid in between her pants. I marvel at the sight of her, measuring the distance from the yacht.
Did she really swim all that way?
“Run,” she croaks, her chest heaving, dress glued to her body. “Now!”
She doesn’t need to tell me twice. A glance along the marina reveals that the guards are suddenly alert, patrolling the docks.
Crouching, I lift her in my arms and head for the rental, shoving her into the back seat. It quickly becomes apparent that I won’t be receiving my deposit upon return.
“Damn.” I thought she found another dress at first, longer than the one I bought. The extra scarlet is just blood, coating her legs. Too much. I inspect her for the wound, zeroing in on her left thigh. It’s deep.
“What the hell happened?”
“No time to play hero now,” she scolds, her voice so tight I barely hear her. “We need to move.”
I don’t have to look over my shoulder to know she’s right.
“Fuck.” I lunge into the driver’s seat and take off, merging into the thick of traffic. It’s already slowed to a crawl, jammed in every direction. We’re sitting fucking ducks.
But so is anyone who happens to follow us.
That good news, however, is quickly tempered by the glaring reminder darkening the horizon on my left. Though her initial phrasing was rather ineloquent, it sums it up.
The bastard blew up the city.
“What happened?” I look back in the rearview mirror, and I can take a guess. “He hurt you?”
She laughs weakly, gesturing to her leg. She managed to tie a length of fabric around the wound, but it’s already soaked, dripping fresh blood. “This scratch? It was inflicted during my daring escape. I’ll be fine.”
She won’t be. There’s too much blood, leeching the color from her skin at an alarming rate. She’ll die without treatment, and soon.
Rather than say as much, I focus on weaving through the traffic and manage to advance at least a block. Now the only question is where to go.
“I’m assuming you learned something?” I ask her, glancing back to make sure she’s still conscious. “What is he planning?”
“The hospital,” she croaks, her head lolling every time I hit the brake. “But we won’t have much time. I managed to find out that little tidbit, at least. Though I don’t know his aim. The boy, I’m guessing.”
“The hospital? Eli.” In the chaos of the explosion, the police will be stretched thin, and Mischa’s men will be cut off from the rest. Judging from how long it’s taking me to go a block, it will be hours before they can reach the hospital in time.
“He’ll want him alive,” she adds. “For now. His plan, however… It’s complicated. He could attack tonight. Or tomorrow. It could be a coincidence. Or strategic. I know he has a mole in the Stepanov ranks—”
Exactly what I feared. But who?
“Did you get a name?” I prod, hissing as a car cuts me off before the next intersection. “Fuck! Did you get anything?”
“He’s… He’s difficult to predict.” She’s breathing heavily, every word a struggle. “This all could be a diversion. I don’t think he bought my act for too long, either.” She croaks a watery laugh.
A diversion. Only a madman would go through these lengths for no good damn reason. There has to be a reason.
“What else is he planning? Another explosion?”
She shrugs. “I don’t know. He had me watched like a hawk and gave me little direction. I had to get creative with my methods. When things got too hot… Let’s just say I ‘jumped’ out of the frying pan.”
Meaning that she jumped off a forty-foot yacht into the bay with no life vest? I choose not to question her now.
“Damn it.”
There’s no way I can get to the hospital in time. Still, I grab my cell phone and try calling one of the men. The connection won’t go through at all.
“Service must be out,” I assume, hissing. Though my device claims to have full bars of connection. Could there be some kind of jam through the Stepanov network? “I wonder if he planned that.”
I slam on the brake as traffic stalls again, and an ominous thud comes from the back seat.
“Briar?” I look over my shoulder to find her lying on the floor, her breathing heavier. A low groan betrays she’s still alive.
“Your…driving skills…leave much to be desired, soldier.”
“We’re not going to get there in time with this mess,” I hiss, scanning the road for a spot to pull over. “I have to move on foot—”
“If I can make a suggestion,” the woman says tiredly. “I know someone who might be able to get there in time. Two someones, in fact. How much use they’ll be, remains to be seen…”
My eyes cut to slits as I weigh the dangers of trusting her again. The short answer? I don’t have a fucking choice. “Who? If the phone lines are jammed, I probably can’t reach another cell phone—”
She smiles, her eyes glazed. “Call the Norfolk hotel. I’m sure their landlines are still working.”
The same hotel she requested I book.
“What can they do?”
“Connect you,” she rasps. “Ask for Donatello Vanici.”
21
Don
The water I’m splashing on my face is ice-fucking cold, but nowhere near cold enough. I’d need actual ice to counter her. Still, I cup handfuls of the liquid until I’m dripping wet, my shirt almost soaked through.
Fuck. Like a coward, I contemplate waiting in here until the roads clear. I should let Fabio deal with her.
