Page 35 of Lone Spy

I crawl toward it, glass digging into my knuckles wrapped around the clutch. The closer I get to the window, the easier it is to breathe. I reach the stand and raise up, sinking my arm into the cool water next to the still chilling bottle.

I'm at the window's edge. A dizzying height. The city looks the same, shrouded in mist, lights haloed. All of it undisturbed. The wet air whips against me, pressing my sweat-soaked clothing against my skin.

Keeping my injured arm submerged, I open the clutch one-handed. The compass is still there, the bronze glinting in the eerie light next to my phone and lipstick. Pulling my injured arm from the water, I pull out the compass, and click open the cover to stare down into its simple face.

The thing isn't fancy but its needle trembles in my unsteady hand, finding north over and over again. It's pointing out the window. My gaze is drawn to that empty space again. And there is some dark part of me that wants to step out into it.

That exhilarating, terrible instinct causes my stomach to clench. I should throw this thing out. Let it dash onto the street below. But I don't think it's the compass itself that has any value. There must be something hidden in it.

I slip it between my breasts, pushing it down until it's out of sight from prying eyes. Then I pull out my phone. There is no service—could it have been knocked out by the blast?

Slipping the phone into the waistband of my skirt, anchoring it at my lower back, I'll just have to hope it stays there. I look back at the smoky exit. At the red glow in the gloom. I need to get the fuck out of here. And yet the idea of moving away from this window and into that darkness terrifies me.

There is a cloth napkin over the champagne bottle, and I dunk it into the water, wrapping it around my wound.

I take in a final deep breath of the fresh night air and turn to face the smoke-swirled exit. Time to leave.

What if there are people out there waiting to shoot me?

No. All this destruction can't be for me, it must be for the prince. There's no way any US entity would risk a member of a royal family of an allied nation when going after me. Right?

I don't have to figure this out now, but I do have to get the fuck out of this burning building. The entire wall leading toward the kitchen is covered in flames. The heat is intense, the ceiling almost invisible through the dark smoke. I'd rather get shot than burned alive.

Decision made, I move quickly through the dining room, the air thickening, darkening. When I step through the French doors I cough against the napkin over my mouth. My eyes burn, blurring. I need to get lower.

Dropping to my hands and knees again, the air is a little clearer but the space still looks like a charcoal drawing of a tempest. I shuffle across the grit-lined marble floor, the red exit sign my beacon.

An ember bites the skin at my waist, bared by my shirt riding up. I swipe at it, hissing through the cloth. Fuck, that hurt.

The smoke twirls and dances. Each blink sends a tear down my cheek. There is something in front of me. A darker shadow in the swirling sea of them.

I crawl closer and the outlines of a body form. A giant is slumped against the wall.

It's Ash. Adrenaline surges. Fuck.

He's lying on his side, back against the wall, legs splayed in front of him. I reach out. His hair is silky and thick, his scalp warm. I lower my head, laying my cheek against the floor, putting my face down in front of his.

Smoke films between us. His soot-streaked face is slack in unconsciousness. How strange to see him so defenseless. My chest tightens. He can't be…

I place my fingers on his throat. A pulse thrums against his skin. Relief surges through me.

His heart is beating but I need to get him out. If I leave him, he’ll die. No time to think. I just need to do this.

I shift to get my hands under his lower shoulder and push. Fuck, he's heavy. My breath catches as I haul him into a sitting position, his back against the wall, chin on his chest, legs straight out in front of him now.

Slumping against the wall next to him, I use my own body to keep him upright while I take a precious moment to catch my breath. It doesn't work. The smoke seizes my stressed lungs and I cough hard, bending forward. There isn't time for this!

Tears pouring, I get my legs under me, crouching next to him. I need to drag his giant ass to that exit, and I need to do it now!

Pushing between Ash and the wall, I hook my arms under his armpits and slide my hands up so I'm grasping the top of his broad shoulders. Shuffling along the wall, dragging his body with me, I begin to move toward the exit.

Glancing over my shoulder, it seems I've made no progress. Closing my eyes against the smoke, I keep going. Shuffling. Dragging. Coughing. Shuffling. Dragging. Coughing. Checking. A little closer but it still feels like there is an entire nightmare between that red beacon and me.

Labored step. Sweat runs down my spine and pools at the back of my knees. Dizziness threatens to turn to unconsciousness. And then I'm at the door.

Resting Ash against my thighs, I turn to slam into the push bar. It swings open. Smoke rushes into the space of the stairwell, polluting the cooler air brushing my skin. Keeping one foot cocked to keep the door open, I bend back down to grab Ash again.

Taking tiny, almost impossible steps, my back against the door. I get us mostly into the cement stairwell, the bright emergency lights illuminating the smoke we are escaping—a black seething swell billowing after us.

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