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The sting of a warm leather-gloved hand gripped her wrist, and reeled her in as if a giant fish. She was able to stand—for two seconds.
A fist to her gut forced up a hacking cough of water. A
Kicking at the man who leaned over her, she managed a boot to the side of his face. He yowled. The hood of his jacket fell away to reveal a bald head.
She hadn’t the mental dexterity, or warm enough muscles, to exercise a judo kick or to pull out her Krav Maga moves.
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Not completely focused, her brain felt half-frozen. She blindly swung backward. Contact. The hilt struck his temple.
The attacker went down in silence. Must not have expected the fish to bite back.
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Her cheek settled on a thin layer of snowflakes. Lying sprawled, her hand gripping the heavy backpack, she closed her eyes.
Did other women spend their Saturday nights like this? She must be doing something wrong. What did a girl have to do to meet a nice guy who wasn’t either set on killing her or being hunted himself?
Standing, her body shivering and her steps moving her in zigzags across the ground, A
If the man lying on the ground was the sniper, she wanted to get out of his range before he came to.
Her lungs thudded like heavy chunks of ice against her ribs, and the muscles in her legs felt as if they’d been stretched like taffy. She wasn’t far from home.
Forcing herself to wander through the debris-littered back lot of a warehouse, she found the street and trudged onward.
When a cab pulled alongside her, A
“GOOD GIRL, ANNJA. You got the prize.”
Dropping the sniper scope, the tall dark-haired man quickly crossed the cement floor and descended the iron stairs. Each footstep clanked loudly. He wasn’t concerned with stealth.
He’d almost been too late. Hadn’t been able to stop the first shot. But the second he’d altered the course. Not much, but enough to save the girl.
Now, to see what she did with the prize.
HARRIS LET THE PHONE ring six times before hanging up. The sniper had agreed to contact him with details of the skull’s whereabouts, and keep him posted about each move Cooke made.
He wasn’t supposed to fire a shot unless the man holding the skull looked as though he would hand it over to someone else. Cooke hadn’t even gotten the thing out of his backpack. Harris, from his vantage point on a building half a mile down the canal, bit back a growl as the pair went over the railing, taking the skull with them.
“Idiot,” he muttered. “Ravenscroft must have hired the sniper. That man knows so little about fieldwork!”
Tucking the cell phone inside his jacket, Harris eyed the brick-fronted warehouse where he knew the sniper had been positioned. The shooter should be long gone.
Five minutes later, Harris topped the fourth-floor stairs in the abandoned warehouse. His shoes crunched across debris of broken glass and Sheetrock. An icy breeze whipped up his collar and froze his face. At the far end of the warehouse he saw the M-16 rifle, still set upon a tripod.
He rushed through the darkness and stopped before he tripped over a man’s body.
“What the hell?”
Inspection found no ID on the body. He wore black leather gloves and shooting glasses. The sniper. He was dead. No blood evidence. Looked as if someone had broken his neck.
Harris stretched his gaze through the hazy darkness in a circle around him. Whoever had taken out the sniper could still be lurking.
Why had this happened? Had Ravenscroft sent his own backup?
It made no sense at all. This was merely a surveillance job. Keep an eye on Cooke, and make sure he doesn’t do anything rash between the time he landed in New York and met Ravenscroft for the handoff.
Harris scrubbed a hand over his scalp. Anything and everything had gone wrong.
“Ravenscroft is not going to like this one bit.”
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The cabbie had argued fiercely for a generous tip after he’d seen A
Much as A
Dropping the backpack inside the door of her loft, A
Stripping away her wet clothes, she caught a glance of herself in the vanity mirror. Her lips were blue, as was the fine skin under her eyes. Tilting her head up she stroked the bruised skin on her neck. An abrasion tormented the base of her earlobe. The bullet had skimmed her flesh, but hadn’t drawn blood.
“Lucky girl.”
To touch it hurt worse than actually getting the wound.
She pressed a palm over her gut. She could still feel the bald guy’s knuckles there. He’d packed a force. But she’d gotten lucky when the hilt had clocked him on the temple. A blow to that sweet spot joggled a man’s brain inside his skull and instantly knocked him out.
“Should have searched him for ID,” she said to her sodden reflection. “You weren’t thinking straight, Creed.” Due to her frozen brain. “Who was watching us that would rather kill the one who holds the artifact than see it retrieved?”
Because the shooter had to have known if he did kill one or the both of them, the backpack would be irretrievable.
Had Sneak expected a tail? He’d been nervous. Probably a thief. Might explain why someone was following him.
Twisting the water faucet adjusted the temperature and she climbed into the shower, but was too weak to stand any longer. Settling into the tub in a self-hug, she let the warmth spill over her aching half-frozen muscles.
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She laughed into her elbow. “You must still have brain freeze. The game? Whatever.”
A half hour later, with a mug of hot chocolate in hand and some warm fla
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