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Trevor grinned. “Perfect. Stay there.” He turned the SUV off and got out, turning to survey their surroundings. Then he rounded the front of the vehicle to open her door.
Sam shifted, the stiff vest Aviss had fitted under her high-necked suit jacket rubbing her waist. They both wore business suits, hiding the bullet resistant material from casual sight and preventing Sharlene’s immediate disapproval. Aviss had found them at a local consignment shop.
Sam got out, walking beside Trevor. His hand rested on her lower back, reassuring her while not constraining them the way holding hands would. The gesture also left their relationship undefined.
After Trevor opened the doors, Sam entered the bank, noting the empty desks at the front. Toward the back, two tellers counted cash at their desks, and on the right, Sharlene’s secretary tapped at a keyboard. As planned, Sam stopped in the lobby. Sharlene’s secretary waved them back to join her.
Sam grimaced but crossed the twenty feet of open lobby, noting most of the desks near Sharlene’s office were also empty. The two closest to the secretary contained rather large men, wearing leather jackets rather than business casual. Both stared at them. Probably Bratva thugs.
She stopped three feet in front of the secretary’s desk, crossed her arms, and tapped the toe of her low-heeled ankle boots. “I don’t have time for games today.” She pointed at Sharlene’s office. “She comes out or I’m leaving.”
“Ms. Murphy doesn’t play games or have any patience for rudeness.” The secretary looked down her nose. “And she didn’t invite Mr. Mills.”
“Why did I even try? I’m not at her beck and call.” Sam spun on her toe and spoke over her shoulder. “If she wants something, she can send me a letter.” The two men rose.
Trevor pressed her back. “Let’s go.” They crossed the lobby, almost speed walking when they neared the doors.
“Samantha, wait!” Murphy’s voice was uncharacteristically urgent.
“Slow, but keep moving,” Trevor muttered. He put a hand on the inner door handle, then paused. Sam turned.
Murphy didn’t run, but she moved with unusual speed. She was terribly disheveled. No suit jacket, her blouse half-unbuttoned, and her hair a mess, like she’d been running her hands through it. Perhaps someone else had marred her perfection. Shades of blue showed through her smeared makeup and her lip was swollen—someone had hit her, maybe more than once.
Sam grimaced. Murphy might be a victim rather than a criminal. Or both.
“Now.” Trevor reached out and grabbed Murphy’s arm, yanking her toward Sam. “Aviss, exfil now!”
Sam spun, taking Murphy’s other arm. Together, they dragged her through the doors, ignoring the men bellowing behind them. At the curb, a big, black SUV idled. The back door opened, but the seat was empty. Aviss wasn’t there.
Something had gone terribly wrong.
Chapter twenty-two
Trevor stopped, Murphy yanking against his grip as Sam pulled her forward. Aviss wasn’t inside. Wrong vehicle. “Wave off. Get to our car!” He pulled them to the left, toward the parking lot. He’d worry about Aviss later; he had to get Sam to safety.
With the change of direction, Sam stumbled but recovered, and they towed Murphy between them toward their SUV. Gunfire rang out, car alarms wailing from the stray bullets. Trevor crouched, pulling both women around the corner of the building and between two cars. Their vehicle was too far away; they’d never make it. White noise hissed in his earpiece; probably a comm blocker.
A tall white van pulled into the lot, stopping the next row over. Trevor skidded to a stop, crouching. The back doors flew open. Wiz and Michael Acer jumped out, both in full tactical gear, including AR-15 rifles. “In!” Wiz jerked her head and fired.
Trevor scooted out from between the parked cars and let go of Murphy. “Go, Sam!” He pulled his pistol and turned to fire. He had to protect Sam.
Wiz yelled, “Trevor, help Sam!”
Trevor turned back. Sam ran for the van, staying crouched, towing Murphy by the hand, but she was moving too slow. Trevor sprinted to them, shoving Murphy forward, but she skittered on her high heels. He holstered his pistol and clamped his hands around Murphy’s waist. “Sam, let go!”
He hoisted Murphy over his shoulder and sprinted for the van, right on Sam’s heels. At the back of the van, he put his real foot on the step, tossing Murphy forward. As he gripped a bar just inside the door, his prosthetic foot slipped. Catching his weight on his arms, he scrambled inside. He shoved close to Sam, making space for Acer and Wiz to join them among the racks of tools, wood, and plastic bins.
The van sped off, Wiz and Acer clinging to the handles at the back, rifles pointed out through the open doors. “Hang tight!” a man bellowed from the front. The van squealed around a corner, slamming one of the back doors shut. Acer pulled his rifle up just in time.
Wiz dropped her rifle, and it retracted, slapping against her chest. She reached out, grabbing the other door and closing it. “Sam, Trevor, you okay?”
Trevor scanned Sam’s legs, looking for holes or blood. “I’m fine. Sam?” His injured arm burned, but he didn’t feel any bleeding.
“All good. What about her?” Sam pointed at Murphy, still sprawled on the floor, her clothes dirty and torn.
Wiz dropped to her knees next to Murphy, patting her down, then turned her over. “Toss me the first aid kit, Acer.”
Red bloomed below Murphy’s shoulder. Luckily, her left shoulder. A desert tan bag with a red cross landed next to Wiz, and she dug inside. Trevor glanced around; from the racks, tools, and secured bins, they must be in an Acer Home Improvement vehicle. All the materials and equipment would soak up bullets.
