Page 58 of No Lies No Promises

My partner stiffens as two more Chevy Suburbans glide to box us in. If either of us is forced into one of those vehicles, we’re dead.

“Left my purse in the restroom. Be right back.” I sprint for the sliding glass doors, praying Sean will have a better chance if he’s not trying to protect me.

At the door, I stop to glance over my shoulder.

Huge mistake.

A man in a black face mask levels a handgun at me. “Stop!”

Not a chance.

Adrenaline coursing through my veins, I burst into the terminal and snatch a sweatshirt from the top of an unattended luggage cart. Still running, I yank it over my head, pull up the hood, then blend into a bunch of tall, blond tourists. Seconds later, I hop onto the long-term parking shuttle. As it pulls away, police lights race toward the building, sirens wailing behind them.

Compromised, I crush my comm unit along with the mic under my heel.

We’re on our own.

Please, God… let Sean be okay.

Chapter 30

Sean

“I left my purse in the restroom. I’ll be right back.” As I’m about to grab her arm, Lillian bolts toward the terminal.

My sitrep?

Empty holster. Sidearm in suitcase. Three SUVs. Tinted windows. Number of shooters unknown.

Yanking open the lead SUV’s passenger door, I pop the glove compartment and… bingo. A Glock. Magazine seated. Round chambered.

Pivoting on my heel, I fire at the bastard aiming at my woman.

He slumps. People scream. Families scatter in every direction. In the chaos, no one notices me drag the bloody man into the backseat. Instead, they focus on the two masked gunmen sprinting toward the terminal.

Too many civilians. No clean shot.

Seconds pass as the two Chevys bully their way into traffic. Freed, I slide behind the wheel to follow. In this case, the tinted windows work to my advantage. The others will assume I’m their dead buddy.

Sirens wailing in the distance, our lane slows. Airport security races into the street, focused on the gunfire inside instead of three SUVs slipping past them. We all inch forward until a bus stops in front of the lead Suburban.

“Yo, move it!” The driver leans on the horn.

Moments later, his bus door folds open. As his frightened passengers rush up the steps, a flash of Lillian’s dark pants and favorite sneakers gives me pause. She made it.

There’s no sign of the two mercenaries who chased her into the building, but they must’ve radioed her position because my new friends pull behind the shuttle as it lumbers from one terminal to the next. Belching diesel fumes, it unloads and loads before rejoining the endless line of vehicles.

Ditching my comms and my phone out the window, I trail them all the way to the long-term lot. There, Lillian departs. Pretending to be absorbed in a phone conversation, she falls into step beside a young couple with two kids.

Well-armed mercenaries, I count four, wait for the bus to disappear. As they exit the SUVs, I stretch over the backseat, snatch the dead man’s cap and balaclava, then pull them on. By the time my feet hit the tarred surface, Lillian’s vanished.

The tallest and broadest of the soldiers faces me, sweeping an arm toward the hundreds of parked cars. “Don’t just stand there. Find her.”

After a quick nod at him, I jog to where I last saw her. My stitches only complain a little as I lower myself to my knees, and I shine my phone’s flashlight beneath each vehicle.

“Babe? You there?”

“Sean?” At the faint rustle to my right, my heart skips a beat.