Every Last Breath

by Juno Rushdan

  Walking as quickly as possible without drawing attention, he took the long way to Intelligence to pass by the break room. As he darted in, a woman from Parker’s department, Nicole Tully, threw him a high-beam smile.

  He flashed a superficial grin in return.

  Once Nicole left with a cup of coffee, he unhooked the ABC fire extinguisher from the wall and threw it into the rucksack. Duct tape on the counter caught his eye, and he swiped the roll. Fastening the bag loosely, he pressed on to find Willow.

  There wasn’t a minute to spare. The second the shit hit the fan, Willow and Gideon would both be in the crosshairs of his own team.

  Chapter 11

  Gray Box Headquarters, Northern Virginia

  Friday, July 5, 9:25 a.m. EDT

  Willow glimpsed Gideon’s imposing frame stalking up behind her in the reflection of her computer monitor. Her breath hitched in her throat, and her insides squeezed. Hadn’t he humiliated her enough?

  He wanted nothing to do with her, message received. No need to repeat it.

  Sweeping up beside her, he snatched her purse.

  “What are you doing?” She yanked out her earbuds, gawking up at him.

  “Don’t ask questions. You’re in danger. Get up and walk with me.”

  “Wh-what?”

  “Now, Willow.” His low tone had a deadly edge, driving her to spring to her feet.

  She reached for her identification card stuck in the log-in unit connected to her computer.

  “Leave it.” The harshness of the order made her flinch. His body, tone, eyes—all of it was hard and cold as an iceberg about to capsize her world. “Walk with me.”

  Her heart started racing, but her legs were frozen in place.

  “Please, Willow. There’s no time. Walk with me.”

  She nodded. The slight movement fired the rest of her body into action. She slipped on her shoes, spun the binary globe on her desk and hurried alongside him.

  “I’m sure you’re flagged.” His voice sounded so calm, it was eerie. “Someone in ITM is probably monitoring your computer activity. If you log off, they’ll ask security to stop you.”

  “Why would I be flagged?” She scanned the Intel section to see if anyone noticed them.

  “Don’t glance around like you’re scared. Look straight ahead. Trust me, please.”

  Straightening, she trained her gaze on their path. The hallway was clear. Trotting to keep pace with him, she couldn’t process everything, like her brain was short-circuiting.

  They rounded the corner. The elevator was within sight.

  Panic started creeping in. Why did she have to leave the building? Why would the ITM department have security stop her? “What’s going on?”

  “Hit the button for the elevator.” He darted down the hallway without waiting for her to acknowledge him and unhooked a fire extinguisher from the wall.

  She did as he asked, her breath backing up in her lungs.

  Coming up beside her, he stuffed the red cylinder inside a huge tan backpack.

  “What are we doing?” she asked, trying to keep from spiraling into a tizzy.

  The heavy doors opened, and they dashed inside.

  He slapped L for the lobby and tossed her his car keys and her purse. “If security stops us, use me as cover. Stay behind me. Run to the car.”

  Her queasy belly pitched and rolled. She fastened her gaze to the lit numbers on the elevator display. “What are you talking about? Cover from what?”

  Out the corner of her eye, she saw him pull off his shirt and strap on a bulletproof vest. The realization was a slap in the face. A bulletproof vest meant he expected gunfire.

  Did she need a vest? “Who’s going to shoot at us?”

  He threw his shirt back on. “The sniper hidden in the lobby. Possibly.”

  Oh my God. Oh my God. She’d heard rumors about the last resort security measure but hadn’t believed it. Sometimes people said things to mess with her, but this was no joke.

  Her gaze fixed to the illuminated five on the elevator panel. “How possible? What are the odds we’ll get shot at?”

  “Sixty-forty. In our favor.”

  “Forty percent chance of getting shot at by snipers?” Was he serious?

  The unmistakable harsh click of a gun chambering a round echoed inside the elevator and Willow’s chest. The situation was getting worse by the second, and Gideon hadn’t explained anything.

  “What’s happening?” she asked, watching the numbers on the display change from four to three. Bile burned up her throat.

  He pulled two fire extinguishers from his pack and shoved both into her arms. “They think you’re the mole.”

  She gasped, recoiling from the ludicrous idea. Ludicrous and horrifying.

  “They found an offshore account with a million bucks. Had your name on it.”

  It was like the floor dropped from under her. She shook her head, fingers tightening around the steel canisters. Impossible. There had to be a mistake.

  Two lit up on the panel. Her saliva dried up completely and she couldn’t swallow.

  Wrapping duct tape around both red cylinders, binding them together, he said, “I know you’re innocent. No time to discuss it. We need to get out of the building. When those doors open, go to the car. Do. Not. Stop.”

  They passed the first sublevel. He stuffed the extinguishers into the deep bag, leaving the flap on top open, then took the strap of her purse and slipped it over her head across her body.

  L illuminated and the elevator pinged. The steel doors slid open. Nausea rippled through her, and she swore she’d puke.

  He ushered her into the lobby, his bag on his shoulder. “If we get separated, don’t go home. Stay away from family, anything familiar.”

  Separated. Where was she supposed to go? Familiarity and family were the glue holding together her carefully orchestrated life.

  She floated through the lobby, unable to process how her legs were moving. Nothing seemed real. Not Gideon at her side, not his locked and loaded weapon, not the allegation she was the mole. And certainly not a sniper hidden in the lobby. The ballooning lump in her throat threatened to choke her.

  Her heart drummed, her whole body growing weaker with each step. Gripping the car keys in a fist, metal digging into her palms, the fingers of her other hand tapped wildly on her purse as she strained to focus on breathing and walking.

  The phone at the security desk rang. One of the guards picked up the receiver. “Topside.”

  “Hurry,” Gideon whispered. “Our odds just dropped. Thirty-seventy. Against us.”

  She quickened her step. Her heels clicked in a machine-gun staccato matching her pulse. They closed in on the turnstile as the guard’s gaze flickered up to them, and she realized she didn’t have her badge to swipe through.

  “Officer Stone, Officer Harper,” the guard said. “I need you two to stop.”

  “Run through the metal detectors.” Gideon stopped, hands raised, providing cover for her with his body.

  She bolted through the steel frame of the sensor. The clacking of her heels flattened in her ears. Sprinting, she ran so fast, her feet barely touched the concrete floor.

  The outer front steps loomed. A few more feet. Not far, but the space stretched in her mind, escape receding from her grasp. Her heart pounded under the rush of adrenaline. She reached for the door, and the security alarm blared.

  The deafening noise pierced her eardrums, and dizzying bursts of white light flashed in the lobby. Willow covered her ears, her senses shredded, and dropped to her knees.

  Chapter 12

  Gray Box Headquarters, Northern Virginia

  Friday, July 5, 9:32 a.m. EDT

  The harsh wail of the security alarm blared in the lobby. Gideon stared down at the red laser dot painted center mass on his chest.
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br />   He knew every guy in security, made it his personal mission to make sure they also knew him. Whenever he spotted one at Rocky’s Bar, he always bought them a round of drinks. It was a lot harder to put down a buddy than a nameless target. Although he didn’t know which topside guard in the sniper’s nest had Gideon in the crosshairs, it was someone he’d interacted with.

  That rapport might buy him a few precious seconds of hesitation on the sniper’s part.

  Glancing over his shoulder, he spotted Willow on her knees, holding her ears, rocking. She’d been so close. So damn close to making it. At least she was positioned directly in front of the door, preventing the guards from engaging a full lockdown.

  If they did, a mechanized, reinforced steel gate would slam down and block the door. Similar shutters would seal the windows, all from the inside. It prevented forced entry and stopped unwanted egress. But if they lowered it now, the steel gate would crush her body.

  As long as they appeared to cooperate, the guards wouldn’t initiate a lockdown.

  “Officer Stone.” Stewart, one of the guards at the desk, kept it formal, using a title and last name.

  Not good. Even worse, both Stewart and the other guard, Peter, held Glocks pointed at Gideon.

  “We’re going to need you to drop the bag and disarm,” Stewart continued.

  Gideon scanned the top landing, assessing the location of the sniper.

  Slowly, he removed his weapon from behind his back, finger on the trigger but barrel pointed skyward. He raised the rucksack with his other hand in the same manner of non-aggressive compliance.

  He gripped the back of the rucksack with the open flap toward the security desk and pitched it with a jerk, momentum propelling the duct-taped extinguishers out of the bag. The cylinders struck the marble floor in front of the security desk with a strident metallic ring that clamored over the alarm, drawing the gazes of the guards.

  Gideon fired, hitting one of the extinguishers. The canister exploded in a loud pop, a white billowy cloud flared, and at the same time, the sniper shot off two rounds.

  The bullets slammed into Gideon’s chest with the jarring impact of a sledgehammer, knocking him to the floor.

  He’d been hit hard, right over his heart, but his grip on the Maxim 9 hadn’t faltered, as if the pistol was an extension of his hand. Gasping for air, down on his side, he aimed for the second extinguisher and squeezed the trigger.

  Another cloud of dry chemical powder mushroomed, providing cover.

  Training and ruthless survival instincts kicked in. He ignored the aftershocks of pain rippling through his body, his brain focused entirely on doing whatever was necessary to get out of there alive with Willow. He rolled toward the door, away from the incoming volley he expected. Automatic fire peppered the ground where he had just been.

  A buzzing, bell-like sound blasted in rapid succession. Red lights began flashing in concert with the bright white bursts. Lockdown protocol initiated.

  The reinforced steel gate started to roll down. Ten seconds before it slammed closed.

  Gideon shuffled to his feet. Raw agony exploded in his chest, bringing him to his knees.

  Gears rattled overhead, drawing the thick sheet of steel toward the floor. In seconds, the armored security gate would crush Willow.

  His mind unplugged from the pain, and adrenaline took over. He leapt into a crouched position, grabbed her, and steamrolled through the front doors.

  A heavy clunk boomed behind them as the solid gate sealed shut. They hit the rough concrete outside.

  Gideon winced from taking the full force of the impact and Willow’s weight on his torso. Clutching her against his body, his primal awareness surged, distracting him for a heartbeat.

  In five minutes, the guards would reset the system, lifting the gate, and a quick response force would be on their asses.

  God, his chest hurt, but they had to keep moving. He lumbered to his feet, hauling in an agonizing breath, and kept a solid grip on Willow. The steel shutter door dampened the alarm, but the noise still must’ve been too loud outside, since she kept her hands plastered over her ears and her eyes closed.

  They staggered down the front steps, him doing his best to help her along. His vision wavered. He slipped, nearly dropping to a knee. Shit. Those bullets hurt like a son of a bitch, making Willow’s small frame against him feel heavier than it should. He gritted his teeth, refusing to let the tidal wave of pain swamp him.

  As they drew toward the car, she came back to herself, opening her eyes. She hooked an arm around his torso, slipping under his shoulder, propping him upright.

  She hit the key fob, unlocking the doors.

  He hustled to the driver’s side, started the car, and helped her up into the seat. Before she’d shut the door, he jerked the car in gear and peeled out of the parking lot. The tires screamed against the hot asphalt. He wheeled around the corner toward the road leading to the front gate and slammed on the brakes.

  Security lockdown triggered the bollards to pop up—a series of stainless-steel pillars, four feet long, six inches in diameter. No vehicle could get through those. Not even a Mack truck. And even if they found a way, the gate at the entrance would be sealed tight.

  He punched the Jeep in reverse and railed the wheel, whipping the car in a tight one-eighty J-turn. Then he shifted to forward gear and stamped the gas. He took the road toward the back side of the compound.

  Cutting a hard right, he narrowly avoided plowing into a bollard and shot up onto the grass berm. The car bumped and rocked from the change in terrain. Willow shot him an anxious glance, her hands flinging out to brace against the dash and door.

  Barreling over the grassy median, he headed behind the main building to the warehouse, where they stored mission vehicles and the AVX high-speed helicopter. Sanborn had persuaded the head of the Senate Select Intelligence Committee to let the Gray Box have a military prototype rather than shipping the sleek, low-drag aircraft to a museum to sit idle.

  He wove past a huge oak and swerved to avoid plowing into a sycamore. By passing the small patch of concrete for parking, he sped to the door. “Let’s go.” He jerked the car into park.

  Without waiting for Willow, Gideon jumped out and ran to the warehouse door, hissing through the agony in his body. He stabbed the code on the digital lock. Seven digits. He was one of four to receive the weekly changes in the updated codes, since he could pilot the chopper.

  A red light blinked and the lock beeped. Crap.

  The door didn’t open. Security lockdown wasn’t linked to the warehouse door. It should’ve opened.

  He cleared his mind, concentrated on the last set of numbers and tried again.

  Green light. The lock clinked. He yanked the door open as Willow ran up behind him.

  “See those hangar doors.” He pointed to the massive steel door, wide enough to get a semi through. “There’s a big, black button on the side wall that opens them. Hit it and meet me in the helicopter. I’ll get it started.”

  Her face was pale, hazel eyes glassy, and her body trembled. He wanted to haul her into his arms, reassure her they’d get through this if they kept moving. Hesitation could get them killed.

  Something fired through her. Resolve. Purpose. Maybe good ole grit. She straightened before he said anything else, expression hardening, and took off running toward the hangar door.

  Gideon raced past a black fleet of bulletproof SUVS to the AVX. Hopping inside, he settled into the leather seat with the long cyclic control stick between his legs. He’d learned to fly at a CIA black site in Tangier before Sanborn recruited him. Flight startup procedures came to him like muscle memory. He switched on the master fuel and flipped the hydraulics up. Scanning the console overhead, he ensured all fuses were in and toggled the battery on.

  The hangar doors clattered open. He checked his watch. Lockdown would end any second,
and then topside security and his team would be bearing down on them, guns hot.

  Time was an enemy. He adjusted the throttle, gauges zeroed.

  His gaze locked on Willow as she cut in front of the helicopter and climbed into the seat. “Can you handle the sound of the chopper?”

  “I don’t know. I think so.”

  “Check your side for a headset. It’ll reduce the noise.”

  She snatched a headset and put it on. He grabbed the lever of the collective control mounted on the left side of his seat and pressed the red start button. The engine wound up with a keening sound.

  While they waited for the throttle to reach one hundred percent rpm, he helped her with the multiple buckles of the seatbelt and strapped himself in. He threw on a headset in case she needed to talk to him.

  One hundred percent rpm. Finally.

  He pulled up on the collective to lift off. The wheels cleared, and he pushed the cyclic stick between his thighs, cruising out of the hangar. He steered the chopper up, climbing altitude.

  Five figures sprinted from the main building below. Sharp pings echoed from the bullets ricocheting off the helicopter. The tail of the helo swung violently from side to side.

  Lucky a bullet didn’t hit the fuel tank or a rotor.

  He tightened his grip on the control handles to steady the copter and pitched to clear the compound. Good to know how far his friends might go, but getting shot down by one of his own wasn’t part of his half-baked plan.

  Using the tail rotor pedals, Gideon rolled the helicopter in a hard left over the freeway.

  “They can disable the chopper while we’re in the air,” Willow said.

  Stunned, he threw her a wary glance. “I had no idea that could be done.”

  “Most don’t. You have to hack into the AVX system and input override control codes.”