He pulled her out of the office and into the hall.
A shot.
They flattened against the wall like a team. Cole shot back. “Come on!”
They burst down the hall the other way, toward the door, Cole taking the rear, shooting behind them once more.
Angel blasted through the door with Cole behind her, and they took off over the perfectly manicured emerald lawn and around the side of the mansion toward the back. Angel wasn’t as fast as Cole, but she was fast all the same.
They reached Cole’s SUV, which was thankfully in a group of cars.
Guys were coming around the corner in the distance.
He gave her the gun. “You keep them back while I start this thing.”
Angel crouched behind a nearby car and shot. The two guards who’d come out onto the expanse of lawn retreated. She didn’t like shooting at people. She’d never done it. The truck roared to life behind her.
“Stay there,” he said. “When I give the word you jump in. You’re driving.”
He wanted her to drive?
Angel stayed focused on the corner. Someone poked his head out and shot, but nobody chased.
“Go!” he said.
Angel fired into the air, jumped into the SUV driver’s seat, and slammed the door, jarring her broken finger in the process. It throbbed in pain. She sped off. “Tell me this is bulletproof.”
“It is,” he said, belting up. He looked pale. Sweaty. “Go left. It’s a shortcut. We may have to crash the gate out. You up for it?”
“Yeah.”
She looked over at him. He was holding his shoulder. Still bleeding.
“Put on your belt.”
“Don’t think I can,” she said. It wasn’t just her broken finger. She didn’t want to slow down.
Cole swore and pulled his off, sliding over to her.
“You need to keep pressure on your wound!” she protested.
“Like hell I rescue you just to have you fly through a windshield.” He buckled her roughly. It was here she noticed how shaky he seemed.
“You’re in trouble.”
“Just get us out of here.”
She approached a booth between two openings in the rambling stone wall. Both openings were blocked by metal gates. A guard strolled out of the booth, waving. She veered around him, jumped the median, and, eyes shut tight, she crashed the car out through the in gate.
“Turn right.”
She screeched right.
“Word to the wise, don’t close your eyes when you crash a gate.”
“I was never the driver,” she said. “How bad are you?”
“Shoulder wound. Clean but bloody. Get onto the interstate at the next ramp.”
“We should get you medical attention.”
“Let’s get safe first. The man has people everywhere.”
After a bit she said, “Thank you.”
“You should’ve let me handle it with you.”
“Save plan B’s ass? Why would I think you’d do that?”
He stared grimly ahead. He’d gotten shot because of her, maybe even blown his operation.
“Why did you?”
He shook his head.
After a long silence she asked, “You think Borgola’s dead?”
“No.”
“What? You can tell? Just like that?”
“Just like that.”
“What’s the Association?”
“Just drive,” he growled.
“You’re bringing Borgola down?”
“Get off here.”
“The Holericon exit? Seriously?”
“I doubt it’s much more dangerous than blundering into a madman’s torture room. What do you think?”
She took the exit.
“Drive naturally.”
She slowed. He’d saved her. Yeah, he’d gotten her into it, but he’d saved her. He’d thought she was worth saving. The road blurred from the tears brimming into her eyes. “Thank you,” she said again.
His shoulder hurt like a motherfucker. But what really consumed his very feverish attention was the fact that he’d chosen her over the job. In terms of mission luck, her going back for the hair bead and becoming the Association scapegoat was a mind-bendingly convenient gift.
She would’ve occupied Borgola’s attention for a day; hell, Borgola would’ve drawn it out for two.
She’d been resisting gallantly—he hadn’t expected that. But she’d have broken down and given up Cole eventually—not a lot of people could hold up to what Borgola could do. It wouldn’t have made a difference if she had given him up or not. Borgola would never have believed her; Cole knew how to play his part. Torture table talk—that’s what Borgola would’ve taken it for. And Borgola would’ve felt safe because he thought he had intercepted the Association plant right there. There would’ve come a point—the last four hours or so of her torture—where Borgola wouldn’t take interruptions. All good torturers know if you take breaks, it gives the victim moral high ground.
They could’ve used those hours to ransack his worldwide operations beyond measure, to tighten the noose in almost operatic ways.
But the second Cole came out of the bathroom and saw her lucky lipstick on the dresser instead of on the bedside table where she’d left it, he knew where she’d gone. And he’d gone after her.
It was the most messed-up decision he’d ever made. And he’d make it again.
He’d heard everything from the closet, and it was all he could do not to run in there shooting blindly. He still didn’t know where he got the presence of mind to take the time he’d needed to get himself into position before opening fire. But why hadn’t she nabbed the diamonds? That’s the one thing he didn’t understand. He’d thought at first that’s why she’d gone back there, but even if it was the bead she’d wanted, why not seize the moment? The woman was a jewel thief after all. She’d completed her end of the bargain, and any goodwill she might’ve felt toward him was long gone when she figured out his plan B. “Take a left. Up two blocks and pull into that station.”
Fedor’s body shop was a 1940s gas station that looked like an old timey postcard if you blurred your eyes to the rusted car carcasses, the garbage on the sidewalks, and the barbed wire fencing all around. He had her pull right up to the door, grab him a coat out of the back, and drape it over his shoulders.
“Sit tight,” he said, pushing open the door and stumbling out. He downgraded his current goal from getting a few towns east to arriving at any motel conscious.
Cole approached the station, spotting Fedor through the window. He stood behind the desk wearing a feed cap over his short brown hair, eyeing Cole with his highly deceiving baby face. The man was a rogue operator—Association when it suited him, which it hadn’t lately.
Every Associate had a specialty, twisted up all dark and dangerous. He’d never known the devious power of a forensic accountant, how handily a linguist like his friend Macmillan could read between the lines, or the danger of a dark watchmaker like Fedor.
Nobody knew what Fedor was up to with the body shop, but Cole had no doubt he could fix cars better than anybody—the man’s way with machines was frightening.
The bell rang when he pushed in the door. Two disreputable-looking men in mechanic’s jumpers lounged lazily in plastic chairs near the coffee machine.
Fedor calmly took in Cole’s bloody, wavering self. “Nice day for a drive.”
Cole steadied himself on the counter. “Clears the mind.” He told Fedor he needed to switch the SUV for an ordinary-looking vehicle.
Fedor eyed the souped-up Navigator. “Bulletproof?”
“Yup.”
“Girl come with it?”
“No,” Cole growled, gripping the counter, shocked by his sudden fury. It was here he realized how frightened he’d been for her, how much he’d needed Angel to be alright.
Fedor smiled. Cole had always seen him as a dangerous wild card, but right now it meant he wasn’t the mole. Arturio and Macmillan weren’t moles, either—otherwise, Borgola would never have thought Angel was an Associate.
“There might be people looking for it,” Cole said, “possibly tracking it. You need to hide it ASAP.”
“I don’t think so.” Fedor smiled. “Get your party favors, boys.”
The mechanics were suddenly all action, pulling Sigs out of nearby Bucket Buddies and holstering them in flaps in their jumpsuits. They grabbed boxes off the shelves. From the size, Cole was guessing automatic rifles.
“These boys need practice,” Fedor explained.
“You starting your own army or what?”
“Personal business. I’ll be back after.” Fedor motioned at the scratched display case. “Will a car be all? Can I offer you beverages? A banana? Smith & Wesson five hundred, maybe?”
“Ooh.”
Fedor smiled and slid a gun across the counter.
“Thank you.”
Fedor pointed out an old Cutlass. “Keys in the visor.” He wiped his hands on a rag. “I’ll start her and fill.”
Fedor left with his guys. Cole used the phone to call Macmillan. He gave him the level nine code—their own private lingo. Trust no one. Meaning, a mole or worse. Macmillan located a motel ten miles southwest that would work.
Fedor was out there washing the windshield. Taking pity—not a good sign. Cole grabbed a map from a holder and brought it out to Angel, who took his arm.
“Cole. You keep that pressure on.”
“I am.” He pointed out the Cutlass and made her memorize the address of the motel. “My guy Macmillan is going ahead to rent the room and we’ll sneak in,” he said, feeling faint. “Macmillan will leave a sign of some sort to mark the room. It’ll be something like the curtains closed, but a magazine or Bible propped between the curtains and the window. But it might not be.”
“But you’ll be conscious, so you’ll be able to recognize it.”
“Just in case.”
“You stay with me,” she said.
“He’s a blond Brit. High opinion of himself. Medical chops. You can trust him.”
“A doctor?”
“Not exactly.
“An Associate?”
“Best for your health not to throw that term around.” Macmillan wouldn’t like her knowing. Cole would deal with that later. He needed to survive now.
She helped him into the passenger seat. Together they buckled him in. Fedor got out and she managed to get herself buckled in. A minute later they were back on the road.
“That finger looks bad,” Cole whispered.
“It’s okay.”
“No,” he said.
“Just the left hand,” she said.
Cole was seized with the urge to go back there and firebomb Borgola’s home. Such a stupid, sloppy impulse; he needed to reach inward now, to pull himself around his center.
She sped down the main road. They might make it with him awake, he thought. And she seemed confident about getting around in a part of town she didn’t know. Again he had the hit of her as a strong ally.
His thoughts folded over each other, fitting together and then not fitting together. Him making her feel like shit. Her as Plan B. Everything was a dark weight in his mind.
The engine downshifted. Stones crunched under slow tires. Had he been asleep? He blinked in the bright sun. A white door set into a pink wall. Blurry number. Macmillan’s face crowded his view.
“Come on, old man.” Macmillan opened the door and hauled him out.
The march up the stairs seemed interminable, and then there was the darkness of a room. He felt a bed under his back, a bounce that made him want to vomit, to sleep. Ripping. Cool air on his chest. The cool sting of rubbing alcohol. Somebody removed his glasses.
“You’re all right, old man. The bullet went clear through. You’ll have limited range of motion for a while, but you’re okay. You’ve lost a bit of blood. Nothing fatal it seems.” Cole knew what Macmillan was doing—trying to keep Cole’s mind engaged.
Voices in the background. Angel and Macmillan. Discussing him, probably. He heard a door close.
A slap on his face. “Focus, Cole. Tell me about the girl. How far do you trust her?”
“Angel. Where is…”
“She’s ditching the car on a side street. She’ll be back. Is she okay?”
“Dangerous out there…”
“Focus, Cole! It’s quite clear she can take care of herself. Who is she?”
“An independent,” Cole said. “Fenton Furst specialist.”
“Not Borgola’s?”
“No. He thought she was ours. Borgola knew the Association put somebody on him, but not who. She’s an independent, I’m telling you.”
“You’re sure.”
“Hurt her and I’ll end you.”
“Well, then,” Macmillan said.
Cole closed his eyes. It felt good to relax.
Voices. Angel was back.
He felt a needle pierce the flesh of the front of his shoulder around where the bullet had gone through. He felt the rough, slow vibration of thread being drawn through skin. Thread never felt quite smooth until it picked up a good deal of blood coating.
“Stay with me,” Macmillan commanded, shoving in the needle for another go, drawing it through. On it went.
Cole made it something else in his mind, trying to focus on the pain instead of the image of Angel, clamped to the wall for the camera. It filled him with blind rage, the idea of what Borgola was planning to do.
He felt a cloth pushed against his shoulder. The rip of tape. Bandaged up. “Get him sitting. I want him sitting.”
“Got it.” Her voice.
Hands on his shoulders. Cole’s world tilted, then righted as he sat up. He’d lost blood, that’s all.
“Are you a doctor?” she asked Macmillan.
“No,” Macmillan said, “but I play one in failed states and war zones.”
“Oh.”
“Get that,” Macmillan said. Cole heard things being unwrapped.
“Put on my hat and coat and fetch some ice,” Macmillan told Angel after a bit.
Cole started to protest. A door shut. Then he felt a stab in his cheek and his eyes flew open. Macmillan’s icy blue gaze came into focus, fingers holding a needle with string dangling down from it.
“Did you just prick my cheek with that needle?” Cole demanded weakly.
“Pep up. What do you know about the mole?”
“Nothing more than what I overheard Borgola saying. Thinking she was us. He knew the Association was sniffing around. But not how we were getting in.”
Macmillan’s face drew nearer. “Think. Was it possible he knew you were there? What if she’s an elaborate plant?”
“Of Borgola’s?”
“To infiltrate the Association.”
“She nearly killed him with a head butt tonight. And he broke her finger and …no way. It wasn’t show. Trust me.”