Wind and rain howled through the break, the blast of fresh air cooling her skin. She breathed it in, aware her vision hadn’t changed, everything still a wash of gray.
The blood loss, she reckoned. What was likely behind the chill slowly shaking through her. The tingling sensation in her hands.
Nick snapped his fingers in front of her face, jolting her back. “Damn it, you need a hospital. Now.”
She smiled. “Or maybe, I just need you.”
He snorted. “And there’s the delirium talking. C’mon. I’ve got us an alternate rescue.”
She staggered with him to the window, legs so heavy they barely moved, that thick feeling in her head slowly fading down her torso. She looked out, inhaled. A lone metal rail had been bolted onto the side of the building, a high-tech window washing platform resting on it just left of the window. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
He grabbed her vest, tugged her in close. “Just like Prague.”
“It’s nothing like Prague. Does it even have power?”
“Nope, but there’s a manual crank that raises the platform to the roof. From there, we can make our way across to the LZ.”
She eyed the narrow strip — the gaping expanse of darkness beyond. “Nick, I’m not sure?—”
“You’re making it. Period. Understand?”
He didn’t wait for her to reply, just hauled her onto the rail, his grip like steel. A clear message that he wasn’t letting her gounless they jumped, together. He balanced her against the wall, then slowly inched toward the rig.
The wind lashed the ropes, the surface slippery from the unrelenting rain. He reached the edge, scooted around her and onto the platform before lifting her in beside him. He locked her against his chest, as if he feared she’d simply slip out through the open slats, then started turning the handle.
The rig shook, creaking and groaning as it slowly rose, rocking back and forth with the gusting wind. Nick muscled the crank, every rotation buying them an inch of height as the gears screamed in protest.
Sloane slumped against the railing, her Sig loose in one hand, the other clamped over the bandages — a weak attempt at adding more pressure. Her internal timer neared the end, the Reaper’s plan only minutes away from initiating.
The edge of the building loomed closer, a black streak amidst the stormy sky. Clouds rolled overhead, a hint of moonlight flashing between the towering columns. The wind kicked up as they gained more elevation, whipping rain in her eyes as she stared at the yawning darkness below them, the ground so far down her vision blurred, graying out before it hit the surface.
The rig ground to a halt, slapping against the roofline like a battered screen door. Nick adjusted his hold, one hand still fisted around the vest’s handle as he climbed over the edge. He braced his feet, then dragged her out. She fell against his chest, all that talk about soldiering on fading into the chill seeping beneath her skin, the heaviness weighing her down.
Nick hiked her into his arms, his face a mask of fear and unwavering determination. He got his bearings, then turned right, when a high-velocity round sparked off the metal rail, whizzed past Nick’s head close enough he flinched.
Nick curled over her, blocked any viable sightline as he returned half a dozen trigger pulls — bought them enough time to shift behind a massive HVAC stack.
Sloane blinked against the streaks sliding across her vision, tracking a shadowed silhouette through the steam rising from the vents scattered along the gravel roof. The guy didn’t bolt — he moved with a predatory efficiency that screamed special forces. And Sloane knew they’d run out of time.
