Chapter 14
If Delgado didn’t now 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 remembered.
How had he forgotten the aristocratic nose, graceful cheekbones, flawless mouth now pulled down with worry, 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-blonde, 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 flat-out wonderful—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 skin.
She smelled like home. There was no way he should have let her get involved with this.
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, the top of her head only rising 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 electric honeyglaze that was her talent, but he needed both guns out.
He shot a glance down the long corridor of slot machines, into the pit.
Screams, staccato bursts of gunfire—casino security, maybe, battling it out with Sigma. That was enough to bring a hard delighted smile, 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 lumbar and under his arms—the body’s response to combat. With the heat around here, a glistening forehead was no big deal; no need to waste energy controlling 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 trenchcoat, and the rest were moving into the far end of the pit. They had a group of casino security guards pinned behind a makeshift barricade.
In other words, utter chaos, especially with the fire alarms and a tide of screaming tourists to deal with as well.
He’d spared half a moment pushing 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 pit’s corner, 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; Sigs were far better armed and better trained.
Delgado smelled spilled blood, hot lead, gunfire, and the leathery peppermint-pepper of deadly exertion.
“Goddammit,” he whispered, pulling her behind the table. “Keep your head down.”
She was deathly pale, but two spots of hectic color burned on her cheekbones and her eyes gleamed.
He longed to kiss her again. The feeling almost made his hands shake.
That wasn’t what made him curse. The Sig team was sweeping from the entrance, cutting across the vast, grand taupe lobby, their bootheels 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 squeezed off two shots and sent them scrambling for cover, then bolted for the bar. Rowan matched him stride for stride; 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 swinging glass doors and into the dimly lit bar-hell.
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, stumbled.
He had one gun holstered in a breath and grabbed, dragging her along.
Ridiculous, dangerous—he should have kept both guns free.
Glass popped and sparkled, reek of spilled liquor mixing with the fuggy lake of cigarette smoke. Nobody in here now, thank God. And there, behind the bar, the hallway and a fire door.
No time, no time. Instead of staying down and cautious, the Sigs were coming straight for the lounge. A baby grand piano on the stage, spotlit against a blue velvet curtain.
All we need is an Elvis impersonator singing over the fire alarm. Viva Las Vegas. He shoved her up and over the bar, then followed, boots grinding in broken glass. Squeezed off a couple more rounds to keep them back from the door, ducked.
“You okay?” He wasn’t gasping, but he was close.
“Fine.” Rowan was paper-pale, visibly trembling. Her pupils were so wide her eyes looked almost black in the dimness, and she clutched at her leg.
Hope she’s not hit. He had to crouch further as gunfire chattered, broken glass tinkling.
A fine spray of rum drifted down. At the curve of the bar, Sterno cans with low blue flames under the chafing dishes kept the hors d’oeuvres warm.
He shouldered past her, grabbed the nearest two and tossed them, burning, over the bar.
He almost got shot for his pains, too, as more glass shattered and more booze oozed.
Need something more. He found what he wanted—a half-full bottle of Stoli, racked below the bar. He holstered his right-hand gun, pulled down the bottle.
“Give ’em a couple of rounds,” he said, digging in his pocket for spare cloth. He found a thin, torn strip of rag, useful for wiping fingerprints or any number of events, and unscrewed the cap.
Rowan complied, taking a quick glance over the bar and popping two shots with a short, sharp cry that sounded painful. She rubbed her wrist as she fell back to the floor, grimacing.
Of course, her hands are so small she has a hard time with the recoil.
“In ten minutes this will all seem like a bad dream,” he told her, twisting the end of the rag and forcing it into the bottle’s long, thin neck. Have to keep it loose enough or the gas won’t ignite. Do it right, Delgado.
He pulled a stiletto from his sleeve, jammed the rag further in. Then he found a dish of matches. A cigarette lighter would have been better. Fine time to wish I smoked. Say something, keep her focused. “We’ll find ourselves a nice quiet place and get acquainted again, what do you say?”
“Sounds good to me.” Her voice shook. Not a whisper of whatever she was feeling escaped, though. She was holding up under the pressure like a pro.
He jammed the stiletto back into its sheath, grabbed a bottle of rum, and broke its neck with a swift sharp counter-smack. After dousing the dry part of the rag liberally, he hefted the rum bottle up and over the counter.
Shots, again. “Goddammit.” He shook the vodka bottle to get it nice and angry. “Throw a couple more bottles over the counter, sweetheart, while I get this lit.”
“You’re so much fun to hang out with,” she returned, and grabbed a bottle of Jim Beam, lofting it over the counter and following it with another bottle of Stoli.
There was enough fuming booze to make his eyes water.
She managed to get a good eight bottles thrown with one hand—the other clamped onto her leg as if she had a cramp in the quad muscle—as well as two more Sternos worked free of the racks with quick deft yanks.
While he struggled with the matches, they were getting closer, closer, closer. There was one in the door now; Del could hear the crackle of another psion’s thoughts, a well of bloodlust.
The rag caught. He waited until the flame had a good purchase and switched the impromptu cocktail to his left hand. “Cover your eyes,” he said, not wanting her to catch any flying glass. Let’s hope this works. If I believed in God I might be praying now.
She did as he said, and hunched even further as more glass shattered. Del tossed the Molotov as he rose to his knees, right hand bringing up a gun. More glass shattered; the whole world narrowed. He shot twice at the Sigs looming in the shattered door, then dropped.
The explosion was satisfying, to say the least. He hit the floor, taking her with him, as flying glass peppered the bar. The sound was horrendous, alcohol and Sterno fumes igniting, glass whickering. He covered her body with his and caught a stray breath of that clean, lovely scent.
Her hair touched his face, a slippery satin rasp against stubble, and her hip pressed into his belt buckle. She was soft and slim, and he remembered what it was like to bury his face in the softness of her throat and hear her sigh as he—
No time, they had to move. Not bad for thinking on your feet, but don’t congratulate yourself yet, operative. Get her out of here.
He rolled up to a crouch. His forehead burned, blood dripping into his eyes. Yanked her up, fingers slipping in warm wetness. Was she hit? He hoped not. The thought of her wounded did something funny to his chest.
“Back door, angel,” he said, and they went, duck-walking just in case anyone out there still had a gun and the presence of mind to use it. She gasped with each footstep, dragging herself along. The fire alarm was for real now, and sirens had begun outside.