Chapter Five — Running the Gauntlet
1062 Words
The second shot didn’t come.
That was worse.
Darcy crouched low by the wall, pistol ready, ears straining against the silence that followed the sniper’s first attempt. Whoever was out there wasn’t panicking. They were patient. Watching. Waiting for someone to make the wrong move.
“We can’t stay here,” Quinn said, slipping to the door. “They’ll send ground units to box us in.”
Michael’s gaze cut to him. “And if the ground units are already here?”
“Then we’re already dead,” Quinn replied, yanking the door open.
Darcy was moving before either could argue. The safehouse’s narrow staircase funneled them into the dusty textile shop below. Shadows from the streetlamps flickered across the bolts of fabric, making the stacks seem to shift and breathe.
Michael went first, sweeping the street through the cracked front door. “Two men across the road. Tactical stance. Not locals.”
Quinn peered over his shoulder. We took the alley to the right. It’ll loop us toward the tram lines.
“Unless it’s blocked,” Michael said.
Darcy cut in. “We don’t have time to debate routes. Move.”
They burst out into the rain-slick street, heading for the alley. The air smelled of wet stone and cordite, a metallic tang that made Darcy’s skin prickle. Somewhere behind them, a voice barked an order in German.
The first shot came a heartbeat later, slamming into the wall beside her. She ducked left, firing back without slowing down. The shooter dropped behind cover.
Quinn took points, weaving them through the narrow cut between buildings. Michael went up the rear, his weapon barking in short, controlled bursts.
A figure stepped out from a side passage ahead, rifle up. Darcy didn’t think she was driving forward, slamming her shoulder into his chest and sending him sprawling. Quinn was already moving past her, pulling her along.
The alley spat them into a wider service road lit by the sickly orange glow of old sodium lamps. Somewhere to the west, a tram’s brakes screamed against steel rails.
“That way,” Quinn said, pointing.
Michael’s eyes swept the rooftops. “Sniper’s repositioning.”
Darcy felt the pressure of time closing in each second. Here was another chance for their hunters to close the net. They sprinted for the tram lines, the pounding of their boots drowned by the rising wail of sirens.
The tram station came into view, but so did the two black-clad operatives moving toward it from the opposite side.
Michael fired first. One man fell, the other diving for cover. Quinn shoved Darcy toward the stairwell leading down to the platform.
“We can’t take the tram,” she said. “They’ll have both ends covered.”
“Who said anything about staying on it?” Quinn replied.
They hit the platform at a run. The tram’s doors slid open, and they shoved inside, scattering startled passengers. Quinn led them through to the rear door just as the tram lurched forward.
Rain-smeared lights flicked past the windows. Quinn counted under his breath. “Three… two… now.”
He yanked the rear emergency release. The door clanged open, cold night air rushing in. The city blurred beneath them.
“You’re insane,” Michael growled.
“Complaints later,” Quinn said. “Jump.”
Darcy didn’t think. She leaped, hitting the gravel beside the tracks hard enough to rattle her teeth. Quinn landed beside her, Michael a heartbeat later. They rolled into the shadows under a low bridge as the tram clattered away.
The sudden silence under the bridge was almost disorienting. Darcy’s breath came in short, sharp bursts.
“Anyone hurt?” she asked.
Michael shook his head. Quinn gave a wry grin. “Only my pride.”
“Which part of that was supposed to help us?” Michael demanded.
“It bought us five minutes,” Quinn said. “That’s five more than we had.”
Darcy scanned their surroundings. The bridge was old, its stone walls slick with moss. Beyond it, a narrow pedestrian tunnel led toward the glow of a streetlamp.
She turned to Quinn. “You’ve pulled this kind of stunt before.”
His eyes met hers, unreadable. “A few times.”
Michael stepped closer. “And every time, you leave people behind. Didn’t you?”
The accusation landed heavily. Quinn didn’t deny it.
Darcy’s stomach knotted. The jump from the tram had been reckless, but it had worked. Still… Michael’s tone carried the weight of something personal, something she didn’t know yet.
“What aren’t you telling me?” she asked them both.
Neither spoke right away.
Finally, Michael said, “Quinn’s not just on the list. He’s the reason the list exists.”
Quinn’s laugh was humorless. “That’s rich, coming from a man who faked his death to sell out half his team.”
Darcy’s gaze snapped between them. “Stop. Both of you. Until I know which one of you is lying, you’re both suspects.”
Michael’s jaw tightened. Quinn’s expression didn’t change.
The light at the far end of the pedestrian tunnel flickered, then was blocked by the shadow of someone moving toward them.
Darcy raised her pistol. “Move.”
They slipped into the tunnel, the damp air smelling faintly of rust and wet concrete. Their footsteps echoed off the curved ceiling. Behind them, the shadow followed.
Halfway through, a voice called out from the dark.
“Darcy Marlowe. You’re late.”
She froze. The voice was female, low, smooth, and entirely too calm for the situation.
Quinn’s face darkened. “Lark.”
The woman stepped into the pale light from a single overhead bulb. She was dressed in black from boots to collar, a messenger bag slung across her chest. Her eyes locked on Darcy, then flicked to Quinn, then Michael.
“You brought company,” she said. “That’s going to cost extra.”
“Information first,” Darcy said, keeping her pistol up. “Who’s pulling the strings?”
Lark’s smile was thin. “You don’t want to know.”
“Oh, I do,” Darcy said.
The smile widened, and for the first time, Darcy felt a chill that had nothing to do with the rain.
“Darcy,” Lark said softly, “you’re the one pulling the strings.” You just don’t remember why.”
- Writer
