“On my count.”
She nodded, lips pressed tight. I squeezed her hand and gently pressed my lips against her forehead. I felt something for this woman, and that scared me more than the men hunting us.
“Get ready to run,” I whispered to her.
She looked up at the frosted glass above the shower. “That’s eight feet down to the porch.”
“Better than staying here.”
She nodded, checked the window, and braced herself against the ledge.
I took a last look at the door. The knob was moving again, this time with more force. I heard the shuffle of someone lining up a battering ram, or maybe just a boot.
“Now,” I said, and shoved the Sig into my waistband. I hoisted Catherine up and into the window well, her body sliding with practiced ease. She kicked at the glass, once, twice, then it gave with a brittle pop. I boosted her up and through, catching a brief glimpse of bare leg and muscle before she vanished onto the porch roof.
I followed, moving fast. The first canister came through the bathroom door just as I cleared the window. The hiss of tear gas filled the room, acrid and hot, but I was already outside, theearly air sharp and clean. Catherine was waiting, crouched on the shingled roof, one hand extended.
I took it, and together we edged along the side of the house, keeping low, using the eaves for cover. Below us, the voices were frantic now, realizing their quarry had slipped the noose.
We reached the edge, and I scanned the yard. One man, pacing near the back fence, gun drawn, attention on the kitchen window. I motioned to Catherine, then dropped the eight feet to the ground, landing hard but upright. She followed, rolling her ankle but making no noise. I grabbed her hand and pulled her behind the cinderblock wall.
The man in the yard turned, spotted us, but too late. I had the Sig up before he could level his own weapon. “Don’t,” I said, voice low and steady. He hesitated, and that was all I needed. I closed the distance, drove the heel of my hand into his chin, and felt the satisfying crunch of cartilage. He dropped and went nighty night.
Catherine picked it up, checked the chamber, and handed it to me without a word. I tucked it into my waistband, then looked back at the house. Two men were still inside, one of them wounded.
“Where now?” she whispered.
I scanned the street. “We need the neighbors to call the cops. It’ll buy us time.”
She nodded, already moving toward the side gate. She moved like someone who’d escaped worse before.
We slipped into the alley, the sound of sirens already rising in the distance. I slowed, adrenaline peaking, and then looked at her. I didn’t say anything. There was nothing left to say. But a question hung between us. Where was all this leading?
The first cop car screamed around the corner as we reached the far end of the block. I watched the house, saw the flash ofmovement in the upstairs window, saw the men inside realize they’d failed.
By the time we hit the next block, my body was running on pure adrenaline. We started down the next alley and came to a halt. At the end of the alley, a car sat idling, windows dark.
The window rolled down. "Wallace, you ugly son of a bitch. Get in."
It was Nitro. He looked at Catherine, then at me. "You gonna just stand there, or you wanna live?"
I motioned for her, and we dove into the back seat. Nitro peeled out, smoke and gunfire spraying in our wake.
For the first time in two days, I let myself breathe.
Nitro grinned at me in the mirror. "Shitstorm follows you everywhere, huh?"
"Only on weekends," I said, voice rough. “What the fuck were you doing there?”
“Damron sent me to keep an eye on you.” He looked at Catherine. “You must be the judge.”
Catherine was bleeding from her side, but she kept pressure on it, eyes on the rear window. "We lose them?"
Nitro laughed. "This is our territory."
I slumped against the seat, gun in my lap, and felt the adrenaline finally start to drain. The second hit had failed, but I knew it wasn't over. Not for us. Not for anyone who made a living pissing off the world.
“Where are we going?” Catherine asked.
