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“There are contingencies in place. You know this. They know this.”
“Right, contingencies. Which one of these idiots did you entrust the business fortune to, in the event of your untimely demise? Was it Man Bun over there? Or?”
Rich grits his teeth. I can hear the molars crack from here. “This is suicide, Xander. You know you’ll never make it out the front doors. And if the FBI is parked outside, they’ll nab you on murder the second you do.”
I shrug. “Probably. Be worth it, though.”
God, I enjoy the way his pupils dilate when I say that. His breath catches in his throat, his eyes widen, and he’s really, honestly preparing himself to meet his maker.
Too bad. I’m not letting him off that easy.
One last glance at the door shows me Ian and Skye are through it. I slam the pistol into Rich’s temple, one quick sharp blow, and as his body crumples to the floor, unconscious, I’m already sprinting for the exit.
“Move!” I shout at Ian and Skye’s backs as I charge out of the room. They’re already walking fast, but now we run, all three of us, feet pounding, Skye’s gait awkward as she tries to keep her balance, hands still tied.
She takes the lead, barreling toward a door I wouldn’t have even noticed, a hidden panel in the side wall. I’ve got to thank god for a moment that I picked not only the hottest, sexiest woman on the planet to fall into this insane trap with, but that she’s also smart as hell.
We wrench the door closed behind us, and only now do I catch the faint sounds of pursuit, pounding feet on carpet. As predicted, it took the Man Bun Squad a few moments to collect themselves and figure out what the hell was going on.
They’re nothing if not predictable.
We fly down the stairs two at a time until we hit the bottom, and Ian skids to a halt for just long enough to grab a nearby pipe from the assortment of basement odds and ends down here in this dead end. He jams it into the chain of the cuffs, once, twice, three strikes and the chain shatters, and Skye has her arms back and she’s tearing away the gag over her mouth.
We hit the emergency exit at full speed, just as we hear feet clatter onto the top story of the staircase. An alarm sounds as we crash through the door, but at this point, who cares, the whole casino is on high alert.
&n
bsp; “Where are the feds?” Skye gasps between breaths, as we sprint out of the back of the casino into an empty field, our feet sticking and sliding in the mud between the few scarce patches of grass.
“Not coming,” Ian manages to reply, grabbing her hand and tugging her around the side of the casino, toward the parking lot that wraps around the east wing.
“What?” she shouts, but to her credit, she doesn’t stop running. I trail after them, half an eye over my shoulder on the exit door. Any second now, we’re going to have company.
“How are we getting out of here?” she spits out, just as we round the corner into the parking lot, which only has about three cars in it.
One of which is Ian’s car.
I grab her elbow and shove her inside just as shots explode in the air behind us. They’re too late, though because I’ve already got the car cranked, the tires screeching as we peel out of the parking lot.
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Skye
I barely have enough time to scramble for the seat belt, jam it into its socket, and brace myself against the driver’s seat in front of me before Stone turns another corner and we squeal around it, leaving tire tracks branded into the road behind us.
He turns down a smaller side road, then whips through neighborhoods, off the grid of Atlantic City proper into the suburbs.
“Where the hell are we going?” I ask, heart in my throat, after several minutes have passed, and it seems like maybe—just maybe—they’re not following us.
“One pit stop to make,” Stone says, catching my eye in the rearview mirror.
“Where did you learn to drive like this?” Ian wheezes from the front seat, looking like he’s about to vomit. Stone flashes him a grin and takes the next corner a little gentler. This time, I only skid a few inches across the seat, rather than nearly falling out of it entirely.
“Here and there,” he says. Then he goes quiet, his brow knitted as he slows the car to just five above the speed limit. A long time passes and then we finally come to a standstill for the first time since he slid behind the wheel.
“We’re here,” he says.
