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TWO
“We cannot go back,”Asher said through clenched teeth.
“I have to,” Harry replied. Going back to his apartment was high-risk, but if they were going dark, it made sense.
“They’ll be waiting for you.”
Harry met his gaze, their faces a little too close. “Let them come.”
Asher growled and mumbled something in Romanian. Maybe it was Croatian or a mix of both. Harry thought he heard the wordsuicide, but it was hard to tell when Asher grumbled under his breath.
Asher held up two fingers. “Two minutes and I am gone, with or without you.”
Harry gave a nod.
He was torn about trusting Asher, turning his back to him, giving him any kind of advantage.
If he was here to kill you, you’d be dead by now.
“My apartment is—”
“I know where it is.”
Harry shouldn’t have been surprised, but he was. Asher rolled his eyes and pointed to the door he’d come through, but Harry grabbed his arm. “This way.” He led him to the other side of the stairs and cracked the narrow hidden door.
Silence. Empty.
Harry was about to open the door when he remembered he was no longer on his own. “It’s a utility corridor,” he murmured. “Fully enclosed. One hundred metres. Stairwell on your left.”
Asher shrugged like he couldn’t care less, and Harry slipped through the door. He crouched as he ran, past pipework, boxes, garbage, a clothesline. This city was full of back alleys, some open to the sky, some enclosed, and he’d chosen his apartment because there were three exit options, relatively hidden.
The stairwell was clear, though Harry knew his luck would have to run out soon. He took the stairs two at a time, ignoring the shooting pain in his ankle, and took his pistol in hand. He got to the door at his floor and stopped to listen.
More silence.
He cracked the door open and glanced down the hall.
Shit.
“You know,” Asher mumbled, right behind him. “It would have been quicker if we’d walked up the main fucking street.”
“Shh,” Harry hissed. “My door’s open. Ten metres on the left.”
Asher sighed and stepped around him, slipping into the hall and into Harry’s apartment. Harry had to hurry to keep up, but he’d heard the quiet pops of two shots fired before he’d even got inside.
Fuck.
One man lay dead just inside the door and another near the kitchen. Both wore French military boots, both armed with SIG Pro handguns. Both had headshots, not perfectly neat but effective.
Harry stepped over the second body just as a dark figure came out of the bedroom. Harry saw the pistol first and raised his, only seeing it was Asher a split second before pulling the trigger.
Both he and Asher stood there, guns pointed at each other. Harry’s heart was thundering, his adrenaline pumping. They were seeing each other in the daylight now. Asher was six-foot tall, dark buzzed hair, olive skin, and hazel eyes. He was dressed in black cargo pants, boots, a black shirt under a charcoal grey windbreaker.
He was incredibly good looking, Harry realised, and Asher could have easily been on some Milan runway if he hadn’t found himself in the job of killing people. The fact he was pointing a gun at Harry’s head didn’t help. Harry shouldn’t have found that so hot...
“Apartment is clear,” Asher said, slowly lowering his gun. “Two minutes.” He went and closed the front door before he went to the first dead French guy and began patting down his pockets.
Harry didn’t wait to see what he was looking for, exactly—cash, ID, more weapons—and he went into his room and pushed his bed to the side. He lifted up the makeshift trapdoor and pulled out the backpack within it. He dashed into the bathroom and emptied the contents of the cabinet into his bag, and as he turned to leave, he heard a noise.
