Page 118 of The Blonde Who Came in from the Cold
“No.”
“We should split up.”
“No.”
“We have a better chance apart. They’re looking for a couple. If we split up...”
King knew the odds and the theories. He’d memorized the protocol in the cradle, and he would take the truth to his grave because, like it or not, Michael Kingsley and Alexandra Sterling were very good spies. They just made each other stupid sometimes. And it had to end. Now.
“No!”
“Listen to me.” King cradled her face in his hands. “Maybe I was wrong—”
“You’re never wrong.” He watched her try to pull the words back. “I mean, you are, but only when you disagree with me. Which makes you wrong right now!”
“Alex!” He had to make her listen. He had to make her see. So he said, “Mercy.”
“No.” A tear slipped down her cheek. “Michael—”
“Maybe you were always better off on your own.”
“No.” She was tugging and pulling—still an unstoppable force to his immovable object.
“I wanted to give you forever.” He brushed away a strand of hair that had blown across her cheek.
“You have,” she told him. “You will. We will.”
But the sirens just got louder, and he tried to force out a smile, because Michael Kingsley knew many things, but in that moment, there was only one that mattered.
“No, sweetheart.”
“But—”
“I can’t give you forever.” He pulled her into his arms and kissed her hard. “But I can buy you five minutes.”
Then he picked her up and dropped her over the side of the bridge.
Chapter Sixty-Eight
King
King watched Alex land on top of a boat that was passing beneath the bridge, but he didn’t wait to watch her disappear down the Seine. He could hear her shouting—cursing. Shooting?
Shots were ringing out, echoing over the water and off the bridge, and that’s how he knew they were out of time.
King had to lead them away from Alex and the boat, so he started running, praying that he wasn’t making the biggest mistake of his life. But that wasn’t possible. He’d already made it. A year ago—the day he let her walk out of the castle without him. It was almost fitting that the only way to keep her safe was to send her back out into Paris on her own.
“Stop!” someone shouted, and he found a new burst of speed as he left the bridge and raced down the streets that were becoming bright with swirling lights. Tourists shouted. Sirens blared. And King knew that he just had to buy her a little more time because as long as Alex had time, she had a chance.
But he could hear the sirens coming closer. Paris was a net that was getting tighter and tighter—like a noose. So he darted down an alley, running until—
The alley dead-ended, and King let out a curse that was a little too loud for comfort as he spun and started back the other way, but a shadow filled the mouth of the alley, silhouetted against the light.
“Come on, Michael!” someone shouted. Except it wasn’t justsomeone. King knew that voice. King hated that voice. “I know you’re in there.”
And he was trapped.
Sort of. There was a building to his left. The door was old and half off its hinges. Abandoned. And King was too tired to be stealthy, so he just knocked it down, barged into the big, empty space, and looked around.
