Shouts ring out somewhere in the house or behind us; I don't know from where—there are a lot of voices shouting. I don't look back, I don't check to see if Rush is with me. I'm under no misapprehensions that I could ever outrun him. I just run parallel to the wall, feet digging into the grass, sprinting for all I’m worth. Which, apparently, is a million euros. Or, actually, three times less than that, since he tripled the cost at the last second. Quick math, which is not my strong suit…three hundred thousand?
That's a little depressing. It's not exactly chump change, I'm aware of that. But my perspective is a little skewed. I grew up on a private island with private jets taking me wherever I wanted to go. My father has freaking fighter jets, for shit's sake. Three hundred grand is peanuts, where I come from.
Rush accelerates past me as the far edge of the property comes into view—the wall. Sunshine streams through the canopy of trees lining the road, glittering off the glass shards embedded in the rim of the wall. With one of the Steyr-Augs slung across his back, leather jacket off and in one hand, he skids to a stop at the wall, leaps and tosses his jacket over the rim, and then lands in a crouch, back braced against the wall, fingers interlaced to create a basket. I need no instructions for this—it's a standard part of training. I don't slow my pace—I sprint harder. My lungs burn, my legs ache. But there's no time for weakness.
I take a leaping step, plant my foot in Rush's interlocked hands; I feel him lift as I leap, boosting me upward. I go airborne, Rush's immense power launching me so hard I clear the wall entirely. I windmill my arms, desperately flailing in an attempt to keep my body oriented. The ground hurtles up to meet me, and I fight panic in the stretched-out instant before I land. My feet hit the sidewalk and training kicks in—the hundreds and hundreds of reps of pratfalls, shoulder rolls, and drops from walls that Mom and Dad forced me and Killy to take part in show their value. It's instinct to throw my weight and tuck my shoulder to absorb the momentum in a roll. Shocked voices squawk at me in surprised, indignant French as I bowl through a forest of legs. I make my feet just in time to see Rush plant his hands on his jacket and vault over the wall in a neat body roll, dropping the eight feet to land in a crouch like it's nothing.
"What are you, fucking Spiderman?" I mumble, annoyed at his physical prowess.
He just stares at me, expression blank and unreadable. He has the Steyr-Aug in his hands, which causes the formerly indignant passersby to scatter in fright. Well, that and the fact that a jacked, six-foot-four man carrying an assault rifle just vaulted over an eight-foot wall.
"Let's go," he growls. "They're tracking you."
"Tracking me?" I ask. "How?"
"GPS chip. Probably planted it in you when you were unconscious."
"So take it out?"
"Oh yeah, just like that? You know where it is? No? Me neither. And how, even if I did? Just cut it out with my fucking knife?"
Anger explodes in me, and I yank the knife out of my pocket, flip the blade out, and slam it against his chest. "Yes, asshole. That's exactly what I fucking want. Better yet, just fucking cut my throat and be done with it." I take the knife back and put the edge to my throat. "C'mon, Rush. Do it. You sold me to Roberto fucking Pugli. You lied to me. Tricked me. You fucking sold me for three hundred grand!"
He moves so freakishly fast my eyes can't track his hand's movement—the knife is just gone and my wrist is stinging. "Don't fuckin' tempt me, slag." His eyes blaze.
"Oh, there we go. Here's the real you." I shove him as hard as I can. "Slag. Cunt. Bitch. Got any more names? Hit me with ’em, Rush. I've heard them all from better men than you."
Agony blazes across his face. "And well I fuckin' know it!”
"I can't help who I was born to!" I shout.
"Neither can I!" he shouts back, and then abruptly goes silent, head cocked. "C'mon, princess. This ain't the place for a row." He pronounces row to rhyme with cow. “Unless you'd rather go it alone?"
I wave a hand vaguely. "Just…fucking go. We'll have our row later."
He stalks forward a few steps and then stops, jogs back to the wall, hopping up to retrieve his jacket. "My best mate gave me this," he says by way of explanation, as if I'd asked.
"Wonderful." I follow after him.
A taxi is stopped a few feet down the road from us, and a well-dressed young couple is preparing to get in. Rush levels the rifle at them. "Fuck off, the both’a ya."
He shoves me toward the car and then plants his hand on the back of my head like a cop does to a perp on TV; I shake my head. "Get off me, asshole, I'm going. I know how to get into a fucking car on my own."
I slide over to the passenger side as Rush piles in after me. The driver, a young African man, glances nervously at Rush, who settles the rifle across his lap while barking out a clipped phrase in French.
The driver nods jerkily, planting the accelerator. The taxi jolts forward with a squeal of tires. I turn to look behind us—half a dozen suited men wielding assault rifles jog to a halt, watching us depart. One of them lifts his wrist to his mouth, giving a report that we escaped.
Rush exhales shakily, scrubbing his face. "I don't suppose you know anyone who can get that fuckin' tracker outta ya, do ya?"
"Yes, as a matter of fact, I do. I'll have to contact my parents, though. I was hoping not to involve them in this." I glare at him. "Weren't you SAS? You don't have any contacts?"
"I wasn't exactly thrown a parade when I left, love."
"Do not fucking call me that shit, Rush. I’m not your fucking love. I'm not your fucking anything."
That agony passes over him again. "I know." He closes his eyes. "Fuck. I fucked up. I really fucked up, Bryn."
"Selling me out to Pugli? Not sure ‘fucked up’ is a strong enough phrase. When did he get ahold of you, anyway? The bathroom? That was him?"
