4. The Escape #2
The rounds tear through the air and slam into the cinderblock wall inches from the hitter's head, showering him in concrete dust and debris.
The hitter flinches, his weapon jerking off-target as he throws his arms up to shield his face, stepping back toward the open doorway.
It's all the opening the man protecting me needs.
He pivots, the combat knife flashing in the dim light. He closes the distance and drives the blade deep into the gap in the hitter's tactical vest.
The man collapses.
The stairwell goes still, save for the ragged sound of our breathing.
He turns, his eyes locking onto me. He's covered in blood, his chest heaving. He stares at the handgun still gripped in my extended hands. He realizes what I did. I didn't panic. I didn't freeze. I bought him the seconds he needed.
He doesn't say a word. He doesn't have to. The respect in his gaze is a first deposit in the fragile currency of our trust.
"Drop it." The order is quiet.
I engage the safety and place the weapon on the concrete floor.
He doesn't waste a second. He moves to the fallen hitters, his hands working over their tactical gear. He strips their spare magazines, shoving the ammunition into his rig. He retrieves the handgun I set down, checks the chamber, tucks it into his belt, and scoops up a fallen submachine gun.
"We're moving." He steps over the bodies, pushing the fire door open. "Fourth-floor access corridor. Service elevator shaft takes us down to the sub-basement."
We run.
We navigate the labyrinth of maintenance tunnels, bypassing the police presence in the main lobby. We breach the sub-basement, slipping through a heavy steel grating and out into the sweltering reality of the Bangkok night.
The heat hits me like a physical wall, thick with exhaust fumes, street food, and rotting garbage. The neon lights of the city bleed through the torrential rain, washing the narrow alleyway in psychedelic color.
We're exposed.
Sirens wail in the distance, a chorus of approaching police cruisers. Armored vehicles idle at the mouth of the alley, blocking the main avenue. Armed patrols sweep the perimeter, their tactical flashlights cutting jagged swaths through the rain.
"Patrol." He grabs my arm, pulling me back into the deep shadows of the alley.
Two hitters move down the narrow passage, weapons raised, their flashlights sweeping the garbage dumpsters and dark alcoves. Fifty feet away and closing.
There's nowhere to run. We're boxed in.
He pulls me into a cramped recess between two overflowing dumpsters. The stench of rotting garbage is overpowering, but the shadows are deep.
"I'm going to cover your mouth." His voice is a harsh rasp against my ear. "Don't move. Don't make a sound. We're a couple making out in the dark. Sell it."
Before I can process the command, he presses me against the damp brick wall.
His frame envelopes mine, blocking me from the sightline of the approaching patrol.
His calloused hand clamps over my lower face, pressing my head back against the brick.
He lowers his head, pressing his lips against the back of his hand to simulate the embrace.
The physical proximity is overwhelming.
He's pressed against me, the hard plates of his Kevlar vest digging into my chest. He's enormous, yet he holds himself with restraint, keeping his weight from crushing me.
Through the thin fabric of my leotard, his pulse races against my skin. His chest heaves with every ragged breath. His skin radiates heat against the cold rain soaking my clothes.
He isn't a machine. He isn't an unfeeling monster. He's a man, fighting to keep me alive.
The beam of a tactical flashlight sweeps past the edge of the dumpsters. The footsteps pause, lingering a few feet away.
They're going to see us.
Raw survival instinct surges through me. He wants us to look like a couple making out in an alley. But his posture is too rigid. His hand over my mouth is too tactical. If they look closely, they'll see a hostage situation, not a romantic encounter.
I take control.
I rip his hand away from my mouth. Before he can react, before he can stop me, I grab the soaked fabric of his tactical shirt with both hands and pull him down. I rise onto the tips of my sneakers, bridging the height difference, and press my mouth to his.
There's nothing delicate in it. The kiss is desperate, fueled by terror and a burning curiosity I've suppressed for years.
I may be a virgin, but I'm not ignorant.
I read. A lot.
Virgin doesn't mean I don't want to be pinned against a brick wall by a lethal operator who feels like one of my fictional book boyfriends dragged into reality. I am not going to apologize for taking advantage.
I know exactly how this is supposed to look. I know exactly what I'm doing.
I lean into the illusion he demanded, climbing his frame like a feral cat. I lift my leg and wrap it tight around his waist, anchoring myself flush against his Kevlar. I open my mouth, deepening the kiss, forcing him to engage.
He freezes for a fraction of a second, shocked by my aggression. Then the stoic discipline shatters. He responds with ruinous intensity, his hands dropping to my hips, pulling me flush against him. The taste of rain, blood, and him floods my senses.
The tactical flashlight beam sweeps over us, illuminating the tangled limbs and the desperate embrace.
"Just a couple getting busy." The rough voice is Thai. "Keep moving."
The footsteps recede, fading into the ambient noise of the rain.
He pulls back, breaking the kiss. His chest heaves, his gray eyes wide, searching my face with an intensity that makes my breath hitch. The silence between us is heavy with the shocking reality of what happened.
"Perimeter's clear." His voice is rougher than before.
He turns away, breaking the contact, and steps out of the alcove. I follow him, my lips still burning.
We move through the labyrinth of back alleys, the environment fighting us every step.
He vaults a rusted chain-link fence and lands without a sound in the mud on the other side.
I scramble up after him, my exhausted muscles screaming.
He catches me as I drop, dragging me behind a stack of wooden pallets just as a police cruiser sweeps its high beams through the narrow alley.
We hold our breath in the rain until the cruiser rolls past, the blue and red lights fracturing against the wet brick.
Breaking out onto a secondary street two blocks from the Solarium, we spot a black sedan idling near the curb, the driver asleep at the wheel.
He doesn't hesitate. He rips the driver's door open, hauls the man out onto the wet pavement, and slides behind the wheel. I dive into the passenger seat, slamming the door as he throws the car into gear.
The tires scream against the wet asphalt as we tear away from the curb, disappearing into the blinding traffic of the city.
The shaking starts—hands first, then everywhere.
The cold reality of the night settles over me, suffocating and inescapable. I stare out the passenger window, watching the neon lights blur into meaningless streaks of color.
He saved my life, but he let them take my best friend.
I look over at him. His hands are locked on the steering wheel, knuckles white, his eyes on the road ahead. He's a killer. He's a weapon.
And he's going to help me get her back.
I'm not running. Not hiding. I'm going to force this lethal stranger to hunt them down, and I'll make them pay for taking Andrea.
"Where are we going?" My voice is cold, stripped of the fear that owned me an hour ago.
He glances at me. The shift in my tone earns a longer look.
"Fallback Point Echo." His voice is steady. "We need to get off the grid."
"Fine." I lean back against the headrest, my fingers closing around the silver compass resting against my sternum. "Then we hunt them."