Sacrifice the Wicked (23 page)
Gunfire erupted behind them.
“One way out,” Miles yelled. The stair exit was wired for alarms, but it didn’t matter now. He kicked the safety bar, slammed the door open.
Voices echoed from above. Shouts and warnings.
“Move it!”
They made it down half a flight, Eckhart behind Simon and Miles in front, before the first bullets cracked through the echoing stairwell.
Parker twisted in his grasp. “Give me a gun!”
“
Shit
.” Miles ducked, turning to return fire. Shadows filled the space between the landings. Muzzle flares lit up the gloom.
“Hurry.” Eckhart pushed Simon, slammed his weight into Simon’s back hard enough that Simon half dropped Parker. Her feet hit the stairs and she grabbed the railing, wrenching herself out of his hold.
“Damn it, I can walk!”
Bullets pinged off the metal stairs. Voices shouted orders, swore.
Simon looked up.
Blood glistened on the railing beside Eckhart’s white-knuckled grip. His eyes met Simon’s over Parker’s head. Steady.
Resigned.
“I’ll hold them off,” he said through clenched teeth.
Simon unholstered his gun, fired off two more shots. He’d only have three more, at this rate. “Eckhart, move!”
“No.” He sank to the stair, lips white with strain. As he turned, his T-shirt darkened. Red licked through the fabric, a gory stain at his back. “Get her safe, Wells. That’s a fucking order.”
“Alan?” Ducking low, Parker clung to the railing. “You’re hit!”
Simon nodded. Once. “I will.”
“You better.” Eckhart’s smile stretched over teeth suddenly bloody.
Fuck. He’d been hit somewhere vital then.
“Go!”
Simon bent, grabbed Parker as she tried to push past him.
Footsteps tromped over the stairs, clattered and thudded. For a brief moment, the gunfire ceased.
It didn’t matter. Simon’s senses told him exactly how many operatives filled the stairwell. Too many for them to handle.
Too many to assume they’d be taking prisoners.
“We can’t leave him,” she cried.
“Go,” Simon snapped as Miles watched, transfixed with horror. With anger and grief.
He knew.
Hell, Parker knew.
There wasn’t anything to do for Eckhart now.
Simon bent, threw Parker over his shoulder and followed Miles down the stairs. She grabbed Simon’s shirt for balance, propping herself up.
As they sprinted down the stairs, gunshots riddled the landing behind them.
Parker twisted, too hard for Simon to hold. He cursed.
She hit the ground on her feet, wobbled, but caught herself against the railing. White-faced, blue eyes too brilliant, she set her jaw and faced forward. “Let’s go.”
Miles didn’t bother to hide his tears. “Yes, ma’am,” he said tightly.
They ran like hell itself burned at their heels.
As smoke filled the stairwell, Simon knew it did.
T
he alarms wailed, adding to the cacophony as Miles pushed out into the underground lot. The air remained clear, but lights flashed on every pillar.
Parker resisted the urge to cover her ears. It wouldn’t help.
“My car is down here!” she shouted.
Miles shook his head. “Impounded,” he yelled back. He looked . . . Well, he didn’t look much better than she felt. Drawn, hounded.
Behind her, Simon shut the door, jammed his now empty gun into the handle.
“How do we get out?” Miles asked.
“You don’t know?” When Miles only shook his head helplessly, Parker caught his arm. Squeezed in whatever silent reassurance she could give.
“Parker, hot-wire something,” Simon ordered. “Miles, get her out of here.”
Her head snapped around. She whirled, eyes wide as she stared at Simon’s implacable features.
He wasn’t looking at her. His gaze pinned somewhere beyond them.
Toward the Magdalene Asylum, on the other end of the lot.
He wouldn’t.
“Where are you going?” she asked.
“To even the odds. Miles,” he snapped.
The missionary flinched.
“Stop it!” Unthinking, panic rising like a tide, overwhelming even the memory of pain, Parker grabbed the front of Simon’s shirt. Jerked him closer, hard enough that seams popped. “Don’t you dare. Don’t you
dare
commit suicide on me, I won’t let you.”
He covered her hands with his, but his mouth tightened. “I’m not out to kill myself.”
“You
liar.
” Parker’s fingers twisted into his shirt.
Behind her, Miles tucked his Colt into his belt. He walked a little distance away, peering at the cars parked closest. As if he could give them space.
As if their voices didn’t echo between the sirens.
She ignored him. “If you’re going after the syringe, I’m coming with you.”
Simon’s eyes banked. “No, you aren’t.”
“You can’t stop me.”
“Miles—!”
Parker slammed her fist into Simon’s chest. Hard enough that he cursed. That her knuckles cracked. “Don’t look at Miles,” she ordered icily. “Look at me. It’s my fault that serum has vanished, it’s
my
fault Kayleigh Lauderdale has it. My responsibility, and I won’t have you dying for it.”
Rage lit like a fire in his eyes. Simon let go of her hands. Reached up, grabbed a fistful of her hair and gritted out, “The only end for me is death. Don’t you get that? Either I die getting the fucking syringe or I die without it, but I’m not giving them the key to an unstoppable army.”
Her scalp pulled, neck muscles tight, but Parker didn’t care. She stepped closer, stepped into him, until her body pressed against his and he had no choice but to soften his grip or cause her real pain.
Tears filled her eyes. “That serum is worthless without you,” she whispered.
“I am worthless without that serum.” Slowly, his fingers opened. Gentled. His palm cradled the back of her head. “I’m going to die, Parker. One way or another.”
“Then be man enough to look me in the eye when you do.”
Simon stared at her.
Behind her, Miles cleared his throat. “I’ve got a car,” he offered, embarrassment mingled with the strained tone of a man who knew shit rode hard behind them and didn’t dare ruin a moment.
She knew that feeling.
Her whole world rested on this single second. Suddenly trembling inside, her heart hammering in her ears, she opened her mouth to try again. To ask him, beg him. “Simon—”
She didn’t get the chance.
He dragged her closer, forced her to her tiptoes. Her eyes widened.
“Fucking Christ,” he said, dragged hoarsely out of him by some force she couldn’t see. Couldn’t understand. “I love you.” Lowering his head, he claimed her mouth, covered her lips with his. Caught her completely by surprise.
But not as much as his words did.
Not as much as the rough, almost desperate way he kissed her.
Reeling, Parker stumbled as Simon pulled away. “Okay. You win, sweetheart.” He glanced at Miles, arm curving over her shoulders. “Let’s get out of here.”
The missionary pointed to a boxy blue sedan. “That way.”
“W
here’s my daughter?”
“She checked into Lab Seventeen ten minutes ago.”
Laurence Lauderdale studied the ribbons of smoke wafting up from the Mission-side quad. One hand tugged at his earlobe, twisting the wrinkled, malleable flesh as a window shattered. Sirens wailed, Church staff scurried like ants below, and he blew out a hard breath. “What’s the word down there?”
Behind him, Patrick Ross adjusted his thick glasses. “It’s still too early to count losses, sir, but the systems array took heavy damage. Not every prisoner’s been accounted for.”
“What about Adams?”
“Still not clear.”
Lauderdale grunted, turning away from the window to glower at his assistant. “Keep a close eye on that situation. I want Adams found, you hear me?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Will this cause delays?”
Ross raised the digital reader, a gesture that echoed Kayleigh’s studious habit, and scanned whatever it was people like him kept on those technical things. “Maybe,” he finally said. “I’ll know more as the shipments arrive.”
Damn it. Lauderdale sank back into his chair, shifting his bony weight into the padding as it creaked. He reached over, twitched the computer keyboard closer, and stared blankly at the monitor as he cycled through the options.
Adams was a threat. A real one. She knew more about the events in the quad than anyone else outside of this room, and if she was half as clever as Lauderdale suspected, she’d be long gone in the chaos down below.
“Sir?”
He glanced up, narrowed his eyes at Ross. The kid was young, bright. Studious. Sharp as glass.
Twice as transparent.
But he had that spark, that verve Lauderdale needed to succeed.
He tapped the reader. “I’ll get press releases out to every news feed. If Director Adams is out there, she won’t get two feet without seeing her face on a wanted line.”
A real go-getter. Laurence allowed himself a smile. “You’re a good boy, Patrick. Get it done. And hold all my calls for the foreseeable future.”
“Sir?”
“I’ve got meetings to schedule with Bishop Applegate.”
We deeply regret Parker Adams’s defection . . .
“What about your daughter, sir?”
“She has plenty to keep her busy,” Lauderdale said, already picking out keys with halting care. “She can wait.”
“Right away.”
The door closed. A muted thrum rocked the walls as another set of windows blew out across the quad.
Rest assured, we’re doing everything in our power to restore order.
Nestled in his pocket, a small comm vibrated. He pulled it out, opened it between arthritic fingers, and pressed it to his ear. He said nothing.
He didn’t have to.
“Green across the board, sir. One more trip into the trench, and we’ll be all set.”
Media queries have been handled, and I will continue to ensure that no stone is left unturned in the search for the traitors.
Smile widening, Laurence Lauderdale closed the comm, disconnecting the line, and tucked it back into his jacket pocket.
I remain your humble servant . . .
“Just as I said, Mattie,” he murmured, squinting at the screen. “Everything’s just as I said.”
I win.
M
iles handed Simon a key. “There’s three other safe houses I can check.” His voice dragged through Parker’s doze, forced her awake. “Not every missionary reported in by the time they moved on us.”
Parker stirred, exhaustion clinging to her like a black fog. After twenty minutes of dodging and weaving through the topside streets, the sound of the rain on the car hood had lulled her into a kind of doze.
Now she blinked blearily as Simon turned around in the front seat, bracing a hand on the driver seat to look at her. “Wake up,” he said. Gently, for all that he’d gone back to implacable again. “Time to get moving.”
She straightened, rubbed her face. “Where are we?”
“One of the safe houses we’ve got set up,” Miles replied.
“How safe is this one?” Simon hunched, studying the luxury complex through his window. Rain hammered at it, colored everything inside the car in eerie light-patterns of gray and blue.
Miles ran his hand over his short hair. Impatient. Uncertain. “It’s as safe as we can get. This one was pulled off the Mission roster, but the cleanup techs haven’t been in yet to strip it. We’ve got maybe a day or so before they come knocking, but it’s the best we’ve got for now.”
“Good.” Simon opened the car door, slid out and bent, one hand on the hood. “Get somewhere safe. Get a new comm and contact Jonas.”
The missionary’s smile twisted. “Will do.”
Simon shut the door, opened Parker’s, and didn’t let her even try to stand on her own. “Hey, I can walk,” she protested.
He ignored her, sliding one arm under her legs and the other around her back.
Miles watched silently in the rearview mirror. His eyes reflected the same heaviness, the loss and anger and helplessness, dragging at her every breath.
Every thought, every replay. Even while she’d dozed, she’d watched it unfold. Over and over, and always with the same outcome. She’d failed.
“Be careful, ma’am,” Miles told her.
Simon pulled her bodily from the interior. Rain splattered against her head, her cheeks—refreshing after the blood and bullets and icy sweat that was all she seemed to be able to think about.
“I’ll take care of her.” Simon slammed the door on Miles’s faint, rueful smile.
Parker frowned, too tired to struggle. “That was rude.”
“He’s a big boy,” Simon muttered, and shifted her weight.
Maybe she should have insisted he put her down. He looked drawn and ragged, the gaunt hollows under his cheekbones more pronounced. His jaw set in razored lines.
Instead, unable to summon the strength, she wrapped her arms around his shoulders and let him carry her through the gated lobby.
Topside didn’t believe in low-key motels or modest appointments. The place reeked of money.
As a rule, the Mission frequently changed safe house locations. After they pulled a place from active roster, a cleanup crew would step in—stripping the location of all extra Mission security and tech.
Most of the time, topside safe houses went unused. There just wasn’t as much need in the higher streets for them.
As Simon located the suite—this one on the second floor—and unlocked the door, she nuzzled her cheek into his shoulder and took a deep breath.
She was out. She was free. But how many loyal agents remained behind?
How many people had been sacrificed?
Her fingers tightened in his shirt.
Simon shut the door behind them, locked it with one hand. It allowed her legs to swing down to the floor, but he didn’t let her go. Instead, one arm curved around her back, he pitched backward. Thudded his weight against the door and dragged her closer.
As if she were a touchstone, he held her close; clung to her with both arms—a cage of flesh and bone. His cheek rested against the top of her head as he took a long, shuddering breath, echoing her own.
Tears filled Parker’s eyes. Knotted in her throat. “Oh, God,” she managed.
It broke.
“I know.” Simon’s arms tightened; crushed her against his chest. Held her as the tears worked out of her chest on a ragged sob. “I know,” he whispered into her hair. “Crack, Parker. It’s okay.”
She didn’t want to. She had so much riding on her shoulders. So many things to fix.
It didn’t matter.
Parker wept, burying her face into his shoulder. She clung to his shirt, cried as if the world had ended and grief was all she had left. It filled her to overflowing, poured out of her in gasping, wild sobs, until she couldn’t breathe anymore and his whispers couldn’t penetrate her sorrow.
Tears for Alan Eckhart, for Silo and Williams and every slain missionary. Tears for the way things used to be—for the ideal of the Mission, for the people she’d tried to protect from the witches cultivated by the same organization she’d defended so strongly.
She sobbed for Danny, for the names on that list. For Jonas, who’d only done as she’d ordered and became a criminal.
For Simon, dying every day because she’d been
so stupid
.
And he held her. Simply held her, one hand rubbing her back, the other cradling the back of her head. Supported her when her knees gave out, sank with her to the floor and rocked her—whispering reassurances, soft and tender.
Parker cried until she had nothing left to give.
Empty, aching with the force of her own grief as it dulled to a blunt edge, she listened to the silence. To the beat of Simon’s heart, slow and steady. His breath.
When he stirred, threading his fingers through her tangled, damp hair, she flinched. “I—” What could she say?
“You don’t have to explain.” Simon turned his head, pressed a kiss to the top of her head that she felt all the way to her bruised soul. It warmed. At least a little. “You’re only human, Parker Adams.”
At a time when she couldn’t afford to be.
“I should have done something with that syringe,” she said bitterly.
“You couldn’t have known.” His fingers traced her cheek. “You sure as hell couldn’t give it to me.”
“Why not?”
“Because I’d have handed it right over to Kayleigh,” he replied, brutal honesty. “Anything for the cure.”
Slowly, every muscle aching with the effort, she braced both hands against his chest and leveraged herself upright.
He didn’t let her go to do it, forcing her close enough that she couldn’t avoid his gaze. Searching. Exhausted, but so . . . so intent. So focused on her that she looked away.
She didn’t know what she needed. What she wanted.
All she knew was that she wanted him to give it to her. Even after everything he’d done.
“Then,” he admitted quietly, his hazel eyes shadowed. “Now, I’m not sure I wouldn’t do the same.”