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A none-too-scrupulous security company, as Hope’s boyfriend unhelpfully added. “Scumbags” is the way Luke Reynolds put it.
Pierce had skills but so presumably did the Sommers Group people. And they were gunning for her, personally. Armed men, unscrupulous men, men who’d killed her boss like a bug—just swatted him away—those men were after her.
She was smart and resourceful in her profession but in terms of self-defense, of evading trained killers, she had no skills whatsoever.
So Hope and Emma and Felicity’s friend was speeding his way to her, but he wasn’t here yet. Hope kept her informed on his ETA. Once she reached the ground floor, she had to stay out of sight because he was ten minutes out.
Then five.
Then two.
One.
“Go,” Hope whispered, and Riley opened the side entrance and slipped out.
An intake of breath in her earbuds and Emma yelled, “Go Riley! The Sommers guys are on the ground floor!Gogogo!”
She shot from the building like a bat out of hell because that was one skill she did have. She was a runner. She ran marathons. She could run a four-minute mile.
She’d seen the men up on the fourth floor. They looked terrifying. Strongly built, heavily armed, with body armor. But those builds, and that kind of equipment, slowed you down.
She could outrun them all.
She couldn’t outrun a bullet, though.
Riley was halfway across the open square in front of the NSO’s main building when she heard male voices, shouting.
They were immediately drowned out by the sound of a supercharged engine, growling. Coming fast. She looked to the right where a car was coming at the speed of light. Certainly faster than it looked capable of doing. She chanced a look over her shoulder and her knees nearly buckled.
The men had fanned out and were running after her. They also had guns up and out. They’d probably rather catch her than shoot her, particularly since they were out in the open, but they’d shoot if they had to.
Pierce Jordan, the man sent by her friends, was coming from the wrong side. He’d be at her position in a second or two, but she’d have to run around the car to get to the passenger side. Quite enough time to be gunned down.
Then there was a squeal of brakes added to the growling engine and the car neatly turned, tires smoking, 180°, until she was facing the passenger side. It was beautifully timed and like magic, the passenger side door opened.
“Get in!” the driver urged, and she didn’t need to be told twice. She dove into the footwell and he reached across to pull the door closed, not before getting off a few shots over her head.
The car hadn’t come to a complete stop.
She scrambled into the seat and cried out when she heard a ping. Looking back, she could see one of the Sommers men slightly crouched, both hands holding a mean-looking big black gun. He took another shot and it pinged off the door.
The car, which didn’t look like much, was armored. And thank God, because…
“Seat belt,” the driver said, voice cold and remote.
“What?” Her head whipped around to him.
“Seat belt,” he repeated. “Now.”
They had armed men, former soldiers, gunning for them, and he was worried abouttraffic rules?
But he’d saved her life and was still was saving her life. So, she sat in the passenger seat and reached over for the belt.
As soon as she heard the snick of the seat belt, something—some gigantic force—punched her in the chest and the landscape outside the windows was replaced by a blur.
The vehicle was more like a rocket than a car as it shot down the street.
Riley couldn’t catch her breath enough to scream as they took a corner almost on two wheels and shot past other cars. It was a miracle she wasn’t hearing sirens as police cars raced after them. But very few police cars could keep up.
