*
By the time they reached the Seine the streets were thick with tourists, and Sawyer felt himself start to breathe.
“Keep your eyes peeled for a taxi,” he told her.
“Really?” She looked like he’d just said he’d buy her a pony if she was a very good girl, and Sawyer, a known curmudgeon, bit back a grin.
It was the most exposed they’d been and yet it felt safe for that split second, with the gilded statues standing guard at the edges of the bridge and the Seine rushing beneath them and the tourists all around.
They were almost okay. They were almost safe. They were almost gone. But the alarm bells that lived in the back of Sawyer’s mind—the ones that had kept him alive for the last ten years—were starting to quiver. Then vibrate. Then blare. Because two Range Rovers were turning onto the bridge.
Instantly, he ducked his head and whispered, “Don’t panic. And don’t engage. If we get separated, go to the nearest Metro station. Take the first train east, three stops. Get off. Wait.”
“Why?” Her eyes went wide and terror filled her face because she might have been a civilian, but she wasn’t a fool. “What are you—”
Which was when the shooting started. The sound of gunfire didn’t belong on that snowy street, but it was there, reverberating off the bridge and icy water. Windshields shattered and people screamed. Vehicles started pinging off one another like bumper cars as they tried to escape, stalling the progress of the SUVs. But Kozlov’s goons were already out and heading their way.
“Go!” The Glock was heavy in his hand as Sawyer pushed her toward the far end of the bridge, dodging behind the blocked cars for cover, clinging to some hope that this wasn’t the way he was going to die. He had hoped for something far more noble and much, much later.
But then the motorcycles appeared on the other end of the bridge, blocking the way. They were officially surrounded.
“Uh . . .” She grabbed his arm and backed away. “That’s bad, right?”
“Yup,” he told her as he pulled out a second gun because sometimes quantity beats quality and he was all out of ideas.
As they hunched behind a Mercedes, he studied the woman who hadn’t asked for this, trained for this, chosen this life at all. It wasn’t her fault. But she was going to die there just the same. She was going to die unless he saved her. And, suddenly, he really, really wanted to save her.
“Get low. Stay low. And run like hell.”
Then he rose and started to fire. A moment later, he risked a glance in her direction but she was already gone. He fought against the wave of unexpected disappointment, reminded himself that it was a good thing—the right thing. That maybe she’d get clear. Maybe she’d survive. Maybe . . .
But then he felt a presence at his back and saw a shadow on the snow—rising, blocking more and more of the sun until he found himself turning, staring up at the woman who was standing on the icy railing, looking to all the world like some kind of avenging angel. Or crazy person. Really it was a toss-up.
Kozlov’s goons must have been as surprised as Sawyer felt because, for a second, no one fired—no one moved—as she stood surrounded by the blinding white light of sun on snow.
“Or I could do this,” she said.
Then she threw out her arms. And jumped.
Chapter Twelve
Her
It had seemed like a good idea at the time. Really, it had. After all, if both ends of a bridge are blocked, then the only options left are the sides, right?
But that was before she found herself standing on the icy railing, realizing for the first time she might be afraid of heights. And sharp falls. And water? Oh no. What if I’m afraid of water? What if I don’t remember how to swim? Or, worse, what if my lifelong fear of water meant I never even learned how to swim? What if . . .
But then she noticed the silence. All the Russians had stopped shooting and started staring. It was just a matter of time until they remembered that they were supposed to be shooting at her.
So she threw out her arms and jumped, flying through the air and landing with an incredibly unladylike splat. But not a water splat. Oh no. More like a bug on a windshield splat in which she was most definitely the bug.
Or so it felt as she looked down through the glass-covered roof of a boat full of tourists who were staring up at her. One man even picked up his camera. She forced a smile as he took a picture—click.
Her body hurt. Her head hurt. Her pride hurt. Then her whole body bounced as—splat—someone landed right in front of her, spread-eagled, a gun in each hand.