Page 59 of Wicked Intentions (Wicked Games 3)
Because the glass is laminated, it stays in a single sheet instead of exploding. I have to punch out a hole with a rubber mallet to get to the diamond, which—because the excessive vibration has triggered an internal sensor—is rapidly descending into the base. I snatch it from its velvet perch just before the vault closes over it.
The Hope is as big as my fist, dark as a sapphire, glittering like it’s alive. I stuff it into my backpack and sprint back to my rope, still dangling from the ceiling. Using the footholds, I climb up to the ducts, pull the rope in, then crawl like mad, listening to the sirens and men’s frantic shouts. Boots pound against the floor below as guards flood Geology Hall.
I make it out with se
conds to spare. Now I don’t have to be quiet; I only have to be swift.
When I finally see the square opening I entered through, the night sky sparkling with stars beyond, elation floods me like wildfire.
My skin is electric. Every sense is sharpened. Every nerve is a firecracker.
I’m invincible. Euphoric.
Alive.
Grinning like mad, I tumble out of the duct and sprint through the butterfly garden. The Mini is still parked right where I left it. I gun it and fly down a side street toward my safe house, cold wind whipping through my hair from the open window, a hot pulse of victory burning through my veins.
I did it! I did it! I actually pulled it off!
I take a corner at top speed, but am immediately forced to come to a screeching, tire-smoking halt, because the street in front of me is blocked by a line of police cars.
My heart stops. My stomach drops. My mind wipes blank, except for a name, played on repeat.
Reynard.
My capture equals his death warrant.
In front of the line of black-and-whites stands a large man with his legs braced apart, his arms crossed over his chest. I can’t see who it is because all the police vehicles have their headlamps on and emergency lights running, but then he steps forward, and his face clears from the shadows.
All I can focus on is his grin.
His perfect, shit-eating, American grin.
Rage erupts inside me like a supernova exploding into space. “SON OF A—”
“Peach farmer, actually.” Ryan leans down to look at me, his blue eyes shining with mirth. “But you probably already knew that, didn’t you, Angel?”
He reaches through the open window and wraps his hand firmly around my wrist.
Sixteen
Ryan
Whoever coined the phrase “If looks could kill” would have to create something substantially worse than death if he saw the expression on Mariana’s face right now.
Her look isn’t simply murderous. There’s a holocaust behind her eyes. Planets are being destroyed. Entire universes are getting incinerated by the sheer heat, power, and enormity of her fury.
It’s so cute, I want to kiss her.
I open the door and pull her from the car, listening to her sputter, “You lying, scheming, untrustworthy prick!”
I chuckle. “Uh, hello, kettle? Yeah, it’s the pot calling. We’d like our hypocrisy back. At least I didn’t drug your OJ.”
Her back is so stiff, her spine might be in danger of snapping. The whites of her eyes glow all around the pupils. She’s pulling hard against my grip, but she’s not going anywhere.
Not without me, anyway.
I lean in close to her ear. “I like this outfit, by the way. Very heroin chic. Nice touches with the filthy hoodie and the dirt smudged on your face. You must fit in real nice with all the drug addicts and indigents at that fleabag motel you’ve been holed up in for the past week while you planned the job, hmm?”
