Chapter 19
Logan
Ipunch the button for the penthouse with more force than necessary. The metal doors slide shut, sealing us in, but the tension in my gut doesn’t loosen. I watch the numbers climb, my body angled to shield her from a threat that isn’t there anymore.
“Who was looking at your chest?”
I’m going to fucking kill them. Annihilate them. Gouge their fucking eyeballs out of their head and make them swallow them before I pull them out of their arsehole.
“No one,” she mutters, but I know she’s lying.
The elevator doors slide open. I don’t wait. I grip her arm and march her down the hall, my stride eating up the distance to the door. The keycard beeps. I shove the door open and pull her inside, slamming it shut and throwing the deadbolt with enough force to rattle the frame.
I corner her against the entryway table. She clutches the pharmacy bag to her chest like armor.
“Don’t lie to me,” I growl, looming over her. “Who looked at you? Was it someone on the street?”
“No.” She shakes her head, her face pale as she removes the sunglasses and cap. “It wasn’t today. It was the bar.”
“The bar?” My hands itch to hit something. “Who?”
“The man with the fifty euro note.” Her breath hitches. “I thought... I thought he was just being a creep. Checking me out.”
“And?”
“He wasn’t looking at my tits, Logan.” Her voice drops to a horrified whisper. “He was reading my nametag.”
My jealousy evaporates, replaced by a lethal calm. “Your nametag?”
She nods. “And then he told me to keep the change, and he winked.”
“You think this is relevant?” I ease up, giving her space. She is processing, and we need as much information as we can get. O’Rourke—our only source—has gone to ground, according to my sources, confirmed by a phone call while Nuala was eating.
“I don’t know. Maybe. It’s been niggling at me.
I keep seeing the note, tapping on the bar.
But it’s not that. It’s the fact that he was looking at my nametag.
I wasn’t supposed to be working. Lisa was.
Was he confirming I was or wasn’t Lisa? Or did he just want to know the new girl’s name? I don’t know!”
“So he looked at your nametag, and then what?”
“He told me to keep the change, and he winked at me. Then Stacey called me to clear table six. He lingered for a second, looking… at the door…”
“And this was right before you went to the bathroom?”
“Well, after I cleared table six.”
“How many minutes between this exchange and you going to the bathroom?”
“Five minutes, maybe less. Is it significant?”
“Everything is significant.” I stare at her, watching the realization sink in. “If he watched the door, he timed the hit. He marked the exit.”
“Okay, but what does that have to do with him looking at my nametag?” She starts panicking, still clutching the bag. It swings back and forth as I try to figure this out.
“Can you describe him?”
“Tall, thick neck, gray suit, smug.”
“That’s it?”
“I didn’t think I had to take notes!”
“No, it’s okay,” I say calmly as she nears hysteria. This is getting all too real for her. “I think we need to find out what happened to this Lisa. What is her last name? Do you know?”
She shakes her head. “No idea. I never met her.”
The sound of the windows imploding tears through the silence.
Glass sprays across the carpet.
I launch myself at her. We hit the floor. Hard.
My weight slams into her, knocking the air from her lungs. I cover her body with mine, shielding her head with my hands as a bullet slams into the wall where she just stood.
Plaster dust rains down on us.
“Stay down!”
I drag her behind the heavy leather sofa. Nuala shakes beneath me. Her hands grip my shirt. I glance at the shattered expanse of the floor-to-ceiling windows. The wind whips through the room, dropping the temperature rapidly.
“Logan?” she gasps.
“Sniper,” I grit out. I rip the Glock from the waistband of my jeans.
I peek over the top of the sofa. A red laser dot tracks across the white wall.
Fuck.
“Crawl to the hallway,” I order. I push her toward the corridor. “Keep your head down. Go!”
She scrambles on her hands and knees. The pharmacy bag lies abandoned amidst the shards. I fire two rounds toward the open window to suppress the shooter. I scramble after her.
We spill into the hallway, and I reach up to unlock the front door. Yanking it open, gun ready, we spill out of the apartment to total silence.
I pull my phone out, pushing Nuala behind me as I press her into the wall. “One shooter, sniper, opposite building.”
“They’re trying to kill me,” Nuala pants.
“Now do you see why I’m so worried?” I snap, dialing Connor’s number.
He answers it before the first ring has completed. “You’re compromised. Get out.”
“Yeah, thanks for that late notice. We are already in the hallway. My apartment windows are ruined.”
“Should’ve come to me, boy, when I said.”
“Well, bit late for hindsight.”
“Car will be there in ten. Can you stay alive that long?”
“We’ll have to,” I say and hang up.
“The notebook!” Nuala says, banging on my back.
“Shit,” I growl. “I’m going back in.” I shove the gun into her hands. “The safety’s off. Do not shoot unless you have to.”
“How will I know?” she stammers, holding it up.
“You’ll know,” I say and duck back into the apartment.
I keep my back pressed to the wall as I inch along it, trying to be quick so Nuala isn’t left on her own. I’m fairly certain the sniper is alone; they wouldn’t risk a full-blown attack after the sniper shot the windows out.
He has probably cleared off by now, but I’m not taking any chances and crouch low as I reach the hall table where the notebook lies.
I open the drawer and yank it out, shoving it into the back of my pants, yet again.
Cursing myself, as I spot Nuala’s bag, I grab that as well and also the pharmacy bag, knowing she will fret, even if it’s just to take her mind off this situation, and dive back out of the front door, slamming it shut behind me.
Nuala jumps and swivels, training the gun on me.
“Just me,” I say, hands where she can see them.
“Did you get it?”
I nod and place my hand over the barrel, lowering it before I take it from her. “Car should be here soon. We take the stairs.” I hand her the two bags, and she gives me a surprised but grateful smile. “Thanks,” she whispers.
“I’m starting to figure out what’s important to you,” I whisper back and take her by her elbow and steer her towards the stairs. She shoves the plastic bag into the canvas bag.
I shove the heavy fire door open and scan the concrete landing. Clear.
“Move,” I order.
Nuala grips the metal railing. Her knuckles turn white. We descend fast. The echo of our footsteps bounces off the concrete walls, amplifying the frantic rhythm of our escape. I keep one hand on her spine, urging her downward, while the other grips the Glock.
Flight after flight passes in a blur of gray concrete and flickering strip lights. Nuala stumbles on the third landing. I catch her arm before she hits the floor, hauling her upright without breaking stride.
“Don’t stop,” I breathe.
“I’m not,” she gasps. Her chest heaves. Sweat beads on her forehead despite the cold draft rushing up from the basement.
We hit the ground floor, but I steer her past the lobby door toward the service exit. The main entrance is a kill zone. If a sniper has eyes on the penthouse, he has eyes on the front door.
My phone vibrates against my hip. I ignore it. We need cover, not conversation.
I kick the exit bar. The door swings out. The alleyway is dark, shadowed by the looming structures of the business district. Rain slicks the pavement, reflecting the streetlamps in distorted puddles.
“Stay behind me,” I murmur, pushing her into the narrow gap between a dumpster and the brick wall.
I scan the rooftops. Nothing moves against the night sky except the wind whipping the rain.
Headlights sweep across the wet asphalt at the end of the alley. A black SUV idles, brake lights painting the wet ground red. The lights flash twice and then twice again, followed by a pause and a long flash.
“That’s us,” I say. “Run.”