The first shears off the side mirror and blinds the driver. The second and third spiderweb the windshield in a tight cluster right in front of his face.
Physics takes over. The driver panics. Self-preservation overrides the mission. He stamps the gas instead of the brake. The sedan careens backward, fishtailing, crumpling into aconcrete pillar with a sickening crunch of metal. The headlight bursts.
They’re compromised. The element of surprise is spent. They won’t stick around for a firefight in a public garage with a hard target returning fire.
“Go. Go.”
The shout erupts from inside the sedan.
The car peels out, tires smoking, smearing a streak of scorched rubber as it races for the exit ramp.
I don’t chase. My mission is the asset. Chasing gets you flanked.
I holster the weapon and turn back to Iris.
She lies curled on the ground, fetal, glass glittering in her dark hair like jewels. She stares at me, eyes wide and dark, pupils blown, chest heaving.
She looks at the gun. She looks at me.
Her breath comes in ragged, shallow gasps.
“Who are you?”
I don’t answer. No time for introductions. No time to be gentle. Gentleness gets people killed.
I grab her arm, a grip that will leave a bruise. I hate it. I hate being the monster she fears. But the monster is what she needs right now. The monster is the only thing standing between her and a body bag.
I haul her to her feet. She stumbles, dazed, legs rubbery.
“You’re dead if you stay.”
My voice is the only truth in her collapsing world. The voice of command.
“You might live if you come with me. Choose.”
Her gaze tracks the wrecked car. The empty stretch of road where the sedan vanished. Then it locks on me, unwavering, assessing.
Fear flickers at the edges of her eyes, then ebbs. Calculation usurps it. This is familiar ground. Life balanced on a blade’s edge. She’s a doctor. She understands triage. She understands the leg comes off to save the body.
Her jaw sets. The tremor in her hands stills.
I shove her toward my truck.
“Move.”
3
No Good Option
IRIS
The door slams shut,sealing me inside a cage of leather and gun oil.
Before I can reach for the seatbelt, the truck lurches. Acceleration slams me back against the seat as the engine roars, a guttural, angry sound vibrating through the floorboards and up my spine.
A rough voice cuts through the chaos.
“Hold on.”
