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Lila pulled back, breathing wildly, wheeling her arms as she caught her balance. “Hold your fire,” she yelled down below.
“Not a chance,” said the purplecoat below. “Someone just climbed the edge of the admin building. We think it might be the shooter.”
Lila and Dixon retreated to their respective corners, careful not to trip and fall and roll. They lay down, peering over the eave, leaning as far as they dared.
Another flurry of shots rang out.
A purplecoat slipped from a second-floor window and prowled across the side, like a spider. He’d stowed his gun away while he descended, and a burst of frigid wind caught his coat. Even from two floors away, Lila could see that his gun didn’t quite match a purplecoat’s standard issue. The grip was far too wide.
Lila whistled, catching Dixon’s attention. As soon as he turned toward her, she gripped one of the beams along the eave and flipped herself down, hanging by the strength in her fingers.
Walking her hands toward the edge of the building, she planted her boots on the outcropping of timbers then let go to catch the first crisscrossed joint. More splinters dug into her skin and scars, pinpricks of pain she refused to give voice too. Skittering down the edge of the building, she quickly descended until she reached the last log.
The purplecoat figure landed in the dirt just below her and sprinted away.
Lila didn’t bother climbing down the stone. She planted her feet, walked her hands down as far as she dared, then hung. A split second later, she let herself go, falling several meters to the ground, crouching as she landed.
Dixon hit the dirt beside her.
She didn’t have to tell him what he already knew. Olivier had fulfilled his mission. He’d stolen a purplecoat’s uniform and slipped inside the admin building, murdering Camille, perhaps shooting others in the process. If Olivier wasn’t captured alive, then Mòr would never learn the extent of what the Italians knew about the oracles. Mercs might come again and steal their children, perhaps successfully this time.
All it would take was one hotheaded militia member to shoot, and they’d get nothing.
“Stay close,” she said before sprinting after Olivier. Dixon labored beside her, both struggling to close the distance.
The faux-purplecoat darted between a row of cabins, the same place they’d lost him days before.
When they turned two seconds later, they found Olivier bent between two hedges, lifting a grate. He might have been Max with darker hair. A forgettable face with forgettable brows and brown eyes the color of tree bark. He’d been gifted a slender body, as well, one he might use to wriggle into the tightest of places.
Seeing them, he dropped the metal door with a loud whack and turned, bringing up his pistol to fire wildly.
The log behind Lila’s head exploded, raining down splinters.
Olivier’s mouth widened. He spun and ran, the gun still wound in his fingers.
Lila didn’t stop or pause in her pursuit. The asshole hadn’t even aimed. Wild shots were bad shots, desperate shots. Hers would be just as bad if she tried to draw during their chase. A tranq couldn’t penetrate a thick purplecoat, and hitting the back of his head was a roll of the die. She’d need to target his face or neck to bring him down.
Olivier had no such limitations. His wild shots might injure a bystander if he panicked and fired again. He might not have cared, but he obviously understood that the purplecoats did. Keeping between the log cabins would keep him safe.
He ran on, purplecoats throughout the area confused by their chase. Some ignored it, thinking it might be a distraction. Others followed, guessing the intruder might have stolen a coat, their pace too slow to keep up. Luckily, none of them fired. Connell must have ordered them to take him alive.
Olivier shot over his shoulder.
Lila ignored him and ran on, a wooden porch railing catching the blast.
Olivier cut right and ran between two cabins, but he didn’t dash around them this time. Instead, he finally made a break toward the compound wall, rushing toward a section that had no guards along the top. Two hundred meters away, several purplecoats leapt off the wall and jumped outside the compound. They screamed into their radios, shouting plans to trap him.
Olivier’s hand disappeared into his purplecoat. An ocean of static burst from Lila’s shoulder, the radio struggling against the audio muck and grit.
Then it fell silent. No more static. No more snarling.
Nothing but dead air.
The purplecoat’s plan, their coordination, would all go unheeded.
Olivier holstered his gun and rushed up the wall, using his momentum to grab the top. He swung his leg and heaved a foot over it, gaining purchase on his third attempt. After a brief struggle for balance, he levered himself over the wall.
Lila followed. She’d trained the move so often that she succeeded on her first try. She dropped down to the other side, crouching in the dirt, drawing her tranq as she searched for the mole’s stolen purplecoat and his dark brown hair. But the few purplecoats rushing toward her position were all blondes or redheads.
