Page 34 of Lone Spy

"I can't imagine that's much of a challenge for you." He gives me a very charming smile.

"You might be surprised."

"Oh?" He smiles like he's a fan of surprises.

Candlelight flickers off my wine glass, dances over Omar's face, and reflects in the window.

It's all so romantic?—

ChapterFourteen

My head throbsin the darkness behind my closed lids. A hissing sound seethes close. I cough on air thick with the scent of burning plastic. Rain-scented wind rushes over my heated skin, pushing the smoke away.

Prying my eyes open, I'm forced to blink dust from my lashes. Through a haze of smoke I’m looking at a white ceiling stained with streaks of soot. Fire reflects in a crystal chandelier—or what's left of it. The thing is canted to the side, half the armature hanging precariously.

I need to get up.

Rolling to the side, glass tinkles off my body. It's all over the floor. I raise up on one elbow. The scene in front of me is almost incomprehensible.

Moments ago, I was sharing a drink with a handsome man in an elegant, romantic dining room. Now I'm trapped in a hellscape, prone on the floor, alone.

Several of the large window panes are broken. Diamonds of safety glass litter the hardwood floor, reflecting the fires that have sprouted around the room, feeding on the overturned tables and chairs, licking up the walls, consuming the space, spitting embers out into the air that float like glowing dust motes.

Adrenaline floods my system, clearing my confusion. There was some kind of explosion. I've lost time. I need to get out of here!

My body aches as I shift to stand. My skirt is singed, ash streaks my skin, small scratches bead blood on my legs and arms—from the glass?

I take a tentative step, and my balance shifts, head going woozy. I reach out, grasping a still-standing table to steady myself.

I'm about ten feet from where we were sitting, the gaping window making my dizziness worse. It's at once terrifying and also the only source of breathable air. Wet wind whips through it, making the flames hiss.

The French doors we entered through are open wide. A red exit sign glows from the gloom beyond. Smoke curls around it. I glance back at the broken window.

The mist shrouding the city twirls, mimicking the smoke. I don't want to leave the fresh air but can't stay here.

Where is Ash? Omar? Anyone?

Ash wouldn't leave without me. Unless this was an attempt on my life and he was somehow complicit. He warned me…

Just get out of here, then worry about what's next. The compass. I can't leave without it.

What a stupid thought. I need to live. Fuck the compass. But I'm scanning the ground for my purse. Taking a step back toward where we sat, toward the shattered window, and the twenty-eight-story drop beyond it.

The table is overturned. My chair lies broken to the right. My napkin—with a shadow of red lipstick on its edge—is crumpled between me and the chair. I bend to pick the napkin up. Wrapping the cloth around my nose and mouth should help filter the smoke. Staying low, I scan for my purse.

There it is! Under a chair…that's on fire. Flames dance on the upholstery, spitting and crackling, dark smoke pluming up. The shiny beads faceted in orange glimmer at me.

Leave it. This is ridiculous. Are you really going to risk dying for this bullshit? You don't even know what it is!

I'm already crossing toward it, though. Air rushes in the broken window making the flames dance and sputter. The fire feasts on the seat, some kind of plastic blend upholstery that is dripping down to the floor in long, molten drops.

I lower to my knees, my thick leather boots protecting me from the glass and debris littering the floor. My clutch is trapped under the chair. The heat of the fire breaks sweat across my brow and upper lip. Tears burn tracks down my heated cheeks, catching on the napkin. My breath comes in short, scared pants. My head spins.

This is so fucking stupid. I reach under the seat, the crystal face of my Patek reflecting yellow and orange. My fingers wrap around the beaded purse. A scorching heat sears my forearm. I scream and wrench back, dropping the purse at my knees.

My arm is shaking. A hot wad of whatever was melting off that chair flings away. In its place, a red welt the size of a small slug burns. "Fuck." My voice trembles. "I'm okay. It's okay." My skin blisters before my eyes.

I scoop up the purse and stumble to my feet. The smoke up here is harsher. I choke and drop back to my knees. A gust of night air pushes into the room, clearing the space around me. Through tears I see the ice bucket holding the bottle of champagne still upright next to Omar's overturned chair, the shattered window behind it. It's beaded with condensation—a lone survivor in this wreck of a place.

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