Justin? She sent out the “call,” hoping, praying. It was him. She would know that touch anywhere.
There was a flood of urgency in return, tinted red with concentration. Something was dreadfully wrong, and he was close. So close she restrained the urge to look back over her shoulder.
Cath slanted her another nervous glance, and Rowan moved. Not physically—her body did not so much as flicker an eyelash. But she suddenly strained, stretching in two directions—toward the man with the bag full of cash, and toward the aching call tugging at her mind.
The heavyset man with the diamond earring stopped dead as Rowan's mental push unbalanced him. She tied off the strands deftly. The man suddenly stood behind his desk, eyes half-lidded, a virtual zombie until Rowan released him or the push faded. “He'll remember counting it for us,” she said hoarsely. “We've got to move, Cath. Something's wrong.” Justin? Talk to me, dammit! Justin?
I'm here, angel. A flood of reassurance. He sounded like himself again, instantly recognizable, and this time she did stagger. The relief of feeling him in her head again was too intense. She grabbed the back of Cath's chair, steadying herself. He was here. He was here. She'd been right.
Cath bounced out of the plush cushioned chair and to her feet in one elastic motion. “I'm shorting the cameras,” she said, the Rhode Island accent gone as soon as it had arrived. “Goddammit, what is it now?"
What's happening? She sent a wordless flood of relief and hoped she wasn't distracting him. Justin? Talk to me?
There are four full Sig teams down here on the bottom floor. They're working through the pit. Get out. Get out of here as fast as you can. She felt his concentration, and a sudden burning swept through her, making her flinch.
She'd felt that before. Oh, God. Please, no. This thought she kept to herself. To Cath, she said, “Four Sig teams, down on the ground floor. Cath, Justin's here."
"I don't want to hear that shit,” Cath hissed. “Keep your mind on business and get us the hell out of here!"
Two guards outside. The men were waiting to escort the big winners to their courtesy suite. Rowan would have to deal with them. Cath would have her hands full stretching her moderate telekinetic ability to keep them from electronic eyes.
Justin had closed himself off from her, fiercely and definitely. She caught a sense of movement—he was moving, doing something, but what? A plan. He had some sort of plan, one he wasn't letting her see.
Then, to add insult to injury, a wild braying split the air. Cath flinched, and Rowan let out a sharp yelp of surprise and grabbed her arm. “Fire alarm!” she yelled over the noise. “Come on!” Thank you, bless you, thank you—
He didn't reply. He probably had his hands full.
No time for subtlety, Rowan pushed as she hit the door. The two beefy men, dressed in ostentatious casino security uniforms, dropped in the hall, and Rowan's head began to pound in earnest. She hated knocking people out. It felt ... well, rude. The old Rowan wouldn't have done something so drastic without a good bit of guilt and dithering. She stepped over one of them, having to stretch. He was so tubby he'd probably look rectangular from the back. She felt a wild hideous laugh welling up inside her at the thought of this lardass protecting anyone.
Then again, if someone went after his potato salad I bet there'd be a battle to end all battles, she thought, just missing the other man's hand with a skipping movement that almost tipped her into the wall. Not very graceful, but it got the job done.
Cath was right behind her. The hall was long, lit with fluorescent lights, and seemingly endless. But at the end, under a flashing Exit sign, was a door that probably gave onto the stairwell. We're on the fifth floor, she “told” Justin, heading for the fire escapes. Where are you? What can we do to help you?
Just get the hell out of here, angel. The words were hard and clipped, and there was another drumroll of pain against his nerves. They haven't ID'd me yet, but if I hook up with you down here—oh, shit. Get out, Rowan. Get out as fast as you can and run. Don't wait for me.
Rowan set her jaw, her hand finding Cath's arm. “Get out of here,” she yelled. “Split up, I'll draw them off!"
"No way!” Cath yelled back over the assault of the fire alarm. It was eerie, the way no other door in this hallway opened, even under the sonic wail. Little lights in the walls were flashing, and Rowan glanced nervously up at the ceiling. If the sprinklers went off this could turn into a right royal mess. “We're supposed to stay together!"
Losing patience, Rowan shoved the girl. Cath stumbled, her other arm weighed down with the duffel bag of cash. “Go!" Then, to show she was serious, her right hand reached for her gun.
Cath ran. Her short black hair bobbed as she bolted for the stairwell. Rowan didn't waste time, just turned on her heel and lunged for the second hall branching off from this one. Hang on, Justin. I'm coming.
No! Sheer refusal. Get out. Get your backup out. Go now!
How had they found her? Well, where else could the Society replenish their coffers in short order? Go where the money is, that was a standard law. Maybe they'd just been waiting around for someone to make a run, or maybe her codestringing with Yoshi this morning had tripped an alarm.
I'm coming, she told him, stubbornly. I haven't gone through the past three months to lose you now.
Another stairwell, as she'd predicted. Know your exits. She could still hear Justin's voice in the long, dim, faraway region of time that had been her training. Knowing your exits will get you out of any number of tight spots.
Now he sounded angry. Get the hell out, woman! There's nothing you can do here.
"Like hell there isn't,” she muttered, and hit the door at full speed, spilling out into a concrete stairwell. In here there was no carpeting or smooth pale paint or little Egyptian knickknacks, only the stairs and confused people. The mood of the entire casino tipped and spun, scraping against Rowan's sensitive brain. She didn't care how she looked now, barely keeping her feet under her as she bolted down the stairs.
It took less time than she'd thought to reach the bottom. The alarms hadn't been on long enough for the crowd to really start massing at the doors. She broke out onto the first floor and found herself at the end of another long hall, restrooms on one side and the glow and tingle of slot machines at the other end. Justin! She “reached” for him frantically, almost reeling under the wave of burning agony that slammed through him. What was it? Had he been injured? It felt familiar, somehow, if she could just think—
No time for thinking, because two women in tan trench coats moved across the end of the hall and paused, seeing her. Rowan's head gave another agonized flare of pain and her stomach flamed with hurt, the veggie omelet she'd eaten that morning rising in rebellion.
Revolting food, she thought, wondering why she always had the urge to laugh at the most inappropriate of times. Revolutionary hash browns, anyone? Resistance pancakes?
One of the women reached under her coat. Rowan sped for them, her eyes locking with the shorter woman's eyes, hazel and wide and full of the sparkle that told her this was a psion. The nausea twisted inside her belly again. She had a split second to reach for her own gun, clear leather and decide if she was going to take a life here in this gawdawfully decorated place.
The first woman dropped, her legs folding under her. The second paused, her hand closing around her gun—then she buckled too, her eyes rolling up, and her military-short blond hair ruffling as she hit the ground with a thump audible even through the fire alarms. And there, behind them, slipping something back into his pocket, was Justin.
He looked like hell. He was gaunt, his cheekbones standing out, and his hazel eyes were just as dead and flat as ever. Tall man, much taller than her, stubborn dark hair cut military-short like her father's. Why did he trim his hair? He'd just been growing it out the last time she'd seen him. He had a nice face, even cheekbones and a firm mouth drawn tight and haggard with pain now. Same clothes as usual—dark hip-length leather coat, jeans, and a pair of
engineer boots. Easy to move in, if a bit too overdressed for the Vegas heat.
But there was the shadow of a bruise on his face, dark circles under his eyes, and the way he moved would have told her he was in pain even if she couldn't feel it against her own nerves.
Rowan flung herself down the hall. When she was less than four feet from him, the crackling jolt of his nearness ran along her skin.
She ran to him. He didn't move aside, just opened his arms slightly. When she hit, his arms closed and he whirled, using the momentum to help her down to the ground as she heard a popping, shattering noise.
Gunfire. The slot machine nearest them exploded in a shower of glass and shredded plastic, change zinging out from its ruined bottom and sparks flying. The noise was incredible. Rowan gasped and swallowed a shriek.
"Justin! Justin!" She was yelling his name, over and over again.
They hit hard, her cheekbone bouncing against his shoulder, and fireworks spilled across Rowan's vision. She let out a short cry of pain, and Justin rolled, untangling himself from her. He had a gun, too, somehow coming up into a low crouch and returning fire.
"I told you to get the hell out!” he yelled over the sudden screams and shattering glass. It sounded as if he'd hit something. Her head rang, both with pain and his nearness, and her stomach twisted against itself again. “Move, woman!"
Nice to see you too. But he was all business, clear and cold, with the peculiar fierce concentration he used while under fire. A machine. Sigma had trained him to be a machine, and he'd trained so many Society operatives to move coolly and think clearly under fire that his reputation had turned him into something of a legend. Her own gun slid into her hand as she scrambled along the row of slot machines. Justin followed her. Here. He's here. Childlike, the way her chest suddenly eased. Everything's going to be all right. He's here. He's alive. He's all right. He's here.
His hand closed around her upper arm, hard, and she stopped dead. He pushed her aside and scanned the end of the row of slot machines. They were in a back corner. It would be almost impossible to shoot their way out through the large open place where the roulette and blackjack tables were. The short, cheap carpet ground under her boots as she half-turned, looking over her shoulder to make sure their six was still clear. She smelled cordite and felt air-conditioning chill the sweat on her skin. Fear rose sour in her throat, her heart pounding. No one was braving this aisle of slot machines yet.
"Who did you come with?” he barked. “Who's your backup?"
She swallowed, her throat suddenly dry. “Cath. She's getting out. I told her I'd draw fire."
He swore, his fingers moving automatically as he slid another clip into the 9mm. The movement was habitual. He didn't even look at his hands, pointing to a fire door with his chin. “Go that way, out the fire escape. I'll clean up in here and find you."
She set her jaw and shook her head. “I'm coming with you."
"Goddammit, do what I tell you!” Frustration made the words sharp, and he glanced over her shoulder, scanning the blackjack tables again. “I've found you once. I can do it again. Get out."
Her eyes flicked past him. She lunged forward, intending to run for the aisle and the blackjack tables. If she went, he'd have to follow, and there would be no more of this get out of here and leave me behind nonsense.
He grabbed her, yanked her back and pushed her toward the door with its blinking green Exit sign overhead. She felt a sudden sharp flare of bloodlust and threw herself instinctively down, her feet tangling. He also fell, just as more bullets whizzed overhead. Well, wasn't that lucky. Instinct saves the day again.
Rowan's knee hit hard and he dragged her back behind the shelter at the end of the aisle. He had his left arm around her, and his right hand with the gun pointed carefully away. His heartbeat thudded against her ear, and she felt absurdly comforted.
Options were rapidly closing down on them, and she could feel his mind clicking through alternatives, working percentages, calculating how to get her out of here alive.
Justin, please, goddammit, I'm not leaving you! Desperation, flavored acrid yellow.
"Come on,” he said in her ear. His arm tightened around her, electricity tingling on her skin from his nearness. “Keep up, move with me, and for God's sake do what I tell you."
She nodded. Her own gun, useless for the moment, was clasped in her hand. The adrenaline freeze began, details standing out sharp and clear—he hadn't shaved that morning. She could see the roughness of charcoal stubble on his cheeks, a crack in the shoulder of his leather coat, and a fading bruise spreading over his left eye. Someone had hit him awhile ago. Sigma? Why?
Then, wonder of wonders, he pressed a rough kiss onto her damp temple. Stray strands of her hair had come loose, and his lips pressed one against her sweating forehead. Rowan's speeding heart seemed to crack in half. More gunfire chattered and popped. Why are they shooting? She didn't mean for him to hear the thought, but he did.
"Drive us out, make us break cover.” He got his legs under him and pulled her up into a crouch. “We're going to have to move fast, angel. You ready?"
She nodded, biting her lower lip. She gained a shaky equilibrium, staying as low as she could.
"They're going to shoot to kill. They can't afford to let me get away.” His flat, dark eyes searched her face. “You understand?"
He's saying that if they're shooting at him, they may hit me. He thinks I care about that?
"I understand,” she managed. “Let's get the hell out of here."
Chapter Fourteen
If Delgado didn't remember training her, he would have now doubted that he had. It was a stupid move, letting herself be caught in the trap with him. He'd given her a clear shot at escape. Why hadn't she taken it?
She was even more beautiful than he'd remembered. How had he forgotten her clear, pale skin, her aristocratic nose, graceful cheekbones, flawless mouth that was even now pulled down with worry, and her pearly teeth sinking into her lower lip? Dark circles under her eyes only served to underscore how green they were, again. She looked like she hadn't been sleeping well. Her hair was still the same pale, fine ash blond pulled back and braided. He couldn't wait to get it free of the braid and wrap his fingers in its dense silkiness. Not only that, but she smelled beautiful—shampoo and soap and the clean scent of female under a thin veneer of sweat from healthy effort. Her forehead was damp, a few random strands of hair sticking to the skin.
She smelled like home. There was no way he should have let her get involved with this.
Delgado closed his eyes for a moment, thinking. It wouldn't do to get all hurried and blow their chances of escape with something stupid. How was he going to get both of them out of this?
He knew, of course. There was only one way. One thing they wouldn't expect.
"All right.” He gained his feet, and she rose with him. “Come on. Stay close."
She nodded. A slender woman, she only came up to his collarbone. She wore a man's linen suit jacket over a T-shirt, jeans, and her rig. He wanted to keep his hand around her arm, feel that crackling glaze of electricity that was her talent brushing over him, but he needed both guns out. He shot a glance out into the pit and down a long corridor of slot machines. He could hear screams, staccato bursts of gunfire—casino security, maybe, battling it out with Sigma. That was enough to bring a hard delighted smile to his face, the grin of a fox hearing the hunter tangle with his own dogs. He simply ignored the noise from the fire alarm he'd pulled, one more thing that didn't matter.
He moved down the long corridor, his back roughing with gooseflesh. Sweat collected along his lower back and under his arms—his body's response to combat. With the heat around here, a sweating man was no big deal. No need to waste energy trying to control an autonomic function.
When they reached the end of the corridor, a single sweeping glance told him everything he needed to know. Three Sigs were down in heaps of tan trench coat, and the rest were moving into the far end of the pit. They ha
d a group of casino security guards pinned behind a makeshift barricade. It was utter chaos, especially with the fire alarms and a tide of screaming tourists to deal with as well.
He'd spared himself half a moment to push one of the security guards to open fire on the Sigs, saving a whole lot of time and trouble even if it was putting a civilian in the line of fire. He'd feel bad about that later. Much later, when he had Rowan out of here and safe.
He led her across the corner of the pit, moving from cover to cover. There was even an overturned blackjack table. How the hell did that happen? Bullets chattered. The security guards wouldn't hold out much longer. The Sigs were better armed and better trained. Delgado smelled spilled blood, hot lead, cordite, and the leather-peppermint-pepper smell of deadly exertion.
"Goddammit,” he whispered, pulling her down behind the table. “Keep your head down."
She nodded. She was deathly pale, but two spots of hectic color burned on her cheekbones and her eyes gleamed.
He wanted to kiss her again. The feeling almost made his hands shake. But that wasn't what made him curse. The Sig team was sweeping in from the entrance, cutting across the grand taupe-colored lobby, their boot heels clicking on the faux stone floor. They were cutting off one route—the easiest route—of escape, and they would zero in on Del and the woman—his woman—in less than ten heartbeats.
Delgado moved. He squeezed off two shots and sent them scrambling for cover, then he bolted for the bar. Rowan matched him stride for stride, and he heard her breathing as if it was his own. Keep up, angel. For God's sake keep up ... there. Move, move, move.
They burst through the swinging glass doors and into the dimly-lit hell of the bar. Cigarette smoke hung in the air, fouling every surface, and the door shattered as a hail of bullets caught it. She let out a short breathless cry and stumbled. He had one hand free and reached over, dragging her along. Ridiculous, dangerous—he should have kept both guns out.
Hunter, Healer [Sequel to The Society] Page 8