She’d read it later, she told herself. When she had time and tea and maybe a nice cookie. Yeah, I could go for a cookie, Zoe thought as she headed for the door.
*
It was later, darker, and so much colder when Zoe exited the bank, but she didn’t even feel the chill. She had a thumb drive in her boobs and an envelope in her pants, so she was obviously doing an excellent job of undercovering.
Sawyer was going to be so proud. The CIA was going to want to recruit her. She’d be parachuting into North Korea before she knew it. Clearly it was time for her to join the family business, she thought as she waited for a lull in the traffic and crossed the busy street.
She was wrapped in a warm coat of satisfaction, giddy on the rush of being someone else and getting away with it as she jumped the icy curb, expecting Sawyer to be there, waiting. But she had to stop and scan the little park, searching the darkness until she saw him on the other side of the square.
She didn’t even try to hold back her smile. She was the least covert person in the world as she raised her hand and waved.
“Oh my gosh! You’re never going to believe . . .” But she trailed off as she realized . . .
He wasn’t smiling. He wasn’t laughing. He wasn’t racing to pick her up and swing her around and, really, it was a very pick someone up and swing them around kind of moment! Instead, he stood too still, and he looked too serious.
When the first little red dot appeared on his black sweater, Zoe thought it was a mistake, a piece of thread or lint. But then there was another. And another. And Sawyer shouted, “Run!”
Chapter Fifty-Two
Her
Zoe heard the first squeal of the tires just as she saw the first swarm of men. And suddenly she was back in Paris, standing on a bridge, listening to Sawyer tell her to put her head down and keep moving. She was on the deck of the Shimmering Sea, promising that she would shoot to kill and not give it a second thought. She was standing on a snowy square in Zurich, knowing Sawyer could save himself—get out alive—but only if he didn’t have to save her, too.
Only if she saved herself.
So Zoe didn’t think, didn’t plan. She didn’t have time to worry. She just took off, running as fast as she could in high heels and leather pants. She didn’t care about the snow. She wasn’t thinking about the ice. And when the bus came barreling down the street, she darted out in front of it—heard the blaring of the horn and the screech of the tires—but Zoe didn’t even think about looking back. She just kept running, arms pumping, skidding around corners and down sidewalks.
She had to find cover.
She had to keep moving.
She had to be smart.
She couldn’t stop to think.
His voice wasn’t in her ear anymore, but Sawyer would be okay. Sawyer would find her—she’d find him. They’d find each other. A part of her had to think—had to believe—that they would always find each other. Everything would be okay—it had to be. But only if she got away.
Sirens were blaring in the distance but coming closer. Faster. Two cars were on her heels and bearing down. One jumped onto the sidewalk, sending pedestrians screaming and diving out of the way, so Zoe darted into a narrow alley. She heard the cars slam on the brakes when they couldn’t follow, but she kept running. Zoe had to keep running . . .
To the end of the alley and onto the next street. But when she glanced over her shoulder and saw she was alone she slowed to a walk. She jerked off the red wig and tossed it in a garbage can—fanned out her blonde hair and tried to blend into the tide of pedestrians walking home from work.
She could do this. She could disappear. And then she’d find Sawyer. And then everything would be okay again.
Except nothing was ever going to be okay again—she knew it as soon as she saw the line of SUVs slamming to a stop in front of her. Doors flying open. People shouting, “Freeze!”
She spun and tried to run in the opposite direction, but more police cars and SUVs filled the street behind her. She was officially surrounded. But still Zoe turned, looking, trying to find a way of getting back to Sawyer. And the cabin. And the life she’d had—for a little while. Because, at the moment, her life was nothing more than sore feet and chaffed thighs and too-bright headlights slicing through the night. She actually had to raise her hands to block the glare.
“Put your hands up, Alex. It’s over.”
My hands are up, she wanted to yell because . . . hello . . . glare blocking! Why wasn’t this dude paying attention?
But the man kept walking toward her slowly, like she was a lethal weapon, like any sane person would be scared but he was approaching her anyway because he was scarier.