"Run!"
Cassian didn't wait for Claudia to answer. He kicked the heavy oak desk over, sending it crashing onto its side to create a barricade just as the room erupted in gunfire.
Bullets shredded the drywall above our heads. The noise was deafening, a continuous thunder that vibrated in my teeth.
"The drive!" I screamed, realizing the laptop—and the USB stick with my life on it—was still on the floor, exposed near the foot of the bed.
"Leave it!" Cassian roared, firing three controlled shots over the top of the desk. One of the guards grunted and went down.
"No!"
I didn't think. I scrambled out from behind the dresser, keeping low, crawling across the carpet through the debris.
"Elena!" Cassian shouted, his voice laced with panic.
A bullet tore into the mattress inches from my head, sending a puff of feathers into the air. I lunged forward, grabbed the small black USB stick from the laptop port, and shoved it into my bra.
I rolled back toward Cassian just as the mirror on the wall shattered, raining glass down on us.
Cassian grabbed me by the back of my shirt and hauled me behind the overturned desk. He looked furious, his eyes wild.
"Are you insane?" he snarled, reloading his magazine with practiced speed.
"I'm an investment," I panted, clutching his arm. "You paid twenty million for that drive. I wasn't leaving it behind."
He stared at me for a split second, a dark, terrified pride flashing in his eyes. "Crazy. You are absolutely crazy."
He peered over the desk. "We can't go out the hall. Claudia has the elevator locked down. We have to go over."
"Over?" I looked at the floor-to-ceiling windows behind us. "Cassian, we're on the penthouse floor!"
"Exactly," he said. "The terrace below us is the Presidential Suite. It's a ten-foot drop. Can you jump?"
"Do I have a choice?"
"No."
He turned and fired two shots at the doorway to keep Claudia's men pinned. "Go! Shoot the glass!"
I scrambled to the window. I didn't have a gun, but I picked up a heavy bronze statue from the side table. I swung it with everything I had.
CRASH.
The glass shattered. The wind from the ocean roared into the room, howling like a banshee.
"Jump!" Cassian yelled, retreating toward me, firing blindly behind him.
I stepped out onto the ledge. The wind whipped my hair across my face. I looked down. Ten feet below, a concrete balcony jutted out. Beyond that... a three-hundred-foot drop to the jagged rocks and the churning black ocean.
My stomach lurched.
"Elena, move!"
I heard Claudia shouting orders inside the room. "Grenade! Flush them out!"
That was all the motivation I needed.
I squeezed my eyes shut and jumped.
For a second, I was flying. Then, impact.
I hit the concrete of the lower balcony hard, rolling to absorb the shock. Pain shot up my shin, but I scrambled to my feet.
Above me, Cassian appeared on the ledge. He didn't hesitate. He vaulted over the railing, landing beside me with a heavy thud, gun still raised.
BOOM.
A concussion grenade went off in our suite above. Windows blew out, showering us with glass dust. If we had stayed, we would be dead.
"Inside," Cassian ordered, kicking open the glass door of the Presidential Suite.
We burst into the room below. It was empty—thank God.
"Corridor," Cassian panted, grabbing my hand. "Service stairs. We need to get to the garage."
We sprinted through the unfamiliar suite, out the heavy double doors, and into the hallway. The alarm was blaring now. Flashing red lights pulsed on the walls.
We reached the stairwell door. Cassian shoved it open.
"Hold up," he whispered, throwing an arm out to stop me.
He leaned over the railing, looking down the central shaft.
"Clear," he muttered. "Go. Fast."
We flew down the concrete stairs, taking them two at a time. My bare feet were cut from the glass, but I couldn't feel the pain. All I could feel was the adrenaline and the warmth of Cassian's hand gripping mine.
We reached the Parking Garage level (B1).
Cassian kicked the door open, gun raised.
The garage was a cavern of concrete and echoes. Rows of luxury cars sat silent.
"Which one?" I gasped, my lungs burning.
"Any of them," Cassian said. He ran toward a sleek silver Porsche 911. He smashed the driver's side window with the butt of his gun.
"Hotwire?" I asked.
"No time," he grunted, reaching under the dash.
Bang!
A shot rang out, echoing off the concrete walls.
A bullet sparked off the roof of the Porsche, inches from Cassian's head. He ducked, dragging me down behind the car.
"There!" Claudia's voice echoed from the stairwell door we had just exited. She stood there with two new guards.
Cassian popped up and returned fire. Bang. Bang. One guard went down, clutching his leg.
"I can't drive and shoot," Cassian hissed, looking at me. "Elena, can you drive a stick shift?"
"No!" I cried. "You never taught me that!"
"Damn it." He looked at the guards advancing. He was pinned. If he tried to hotwire the car, they would rush him.
He looked at his gun. Then he looked at the gun of the guard he had just shot—it had skidded across the floor, about twenty feet away.
"I need cover," he said, looking me dead in the eye. "I need three seconds to start this car."
He pulled a spare pistol from his ankle holster—a smaller Glock—and shoved it into my hands. It was warm. Heavy.
"Shoot back," he ordered.
"I can't kill them!" I shook, staring at the gun.
"You don't have to kill them," Cassian yelled over the gunfire. "Just make them keep their heads down! Suppressing fire! Do it, Elena, or we die here!"
He turned his back to the enemy and dove under the dashboard of the Porsche, ripping wires loose.
He was trusting me. He was completely vulnerable.
I took a breath. I remembered the basement. I remembered his chest against my back. Widen your stance. Focus.
I stood up from behind the car.
Claudia saw me. She raised her gun, smiling.
I didn't give her the chance.
I squeezed the trigger.
The gun kicked hard. The bullet smashed into the pillar right next to Claudia's face, sending concrete dust into her eyes. She screamed and flinched back.
I fired again. And again. Bang. Bang. Bang.
I wasn't aiming to kill. I was aiming at the world that was trying to crush us.
The guards ducked for cover.
The Porsche's engine roared to life behind me.
"Get in!" Cassian screamed.
I dove into the passenger seat over the center console just as Cassian slammed the car into reverse. Tires squealed, burning rubber and smoke filling the air.
He spun the car around, shifting gears with a violent jerk.
Claudia stumbled out from behind the pillar, firing wildly at us. The rear window shattered.
"Head down!" Cassian yelled, his hand pushing my head into his lap as he floored the accelerator.
We rocketed toward the exit ramp. The wooden barrier arm shattered into splinters as we smashed through it.
We burst out of the underground garage and into the blinding sunlight of the island road.
Cassian shifted into fifth gear, the engine screaming as we tore down the coastal highway.
He looked in the rearview mirror. No one was following yet.
He slowed down slightly, his chest heaving. He looked down at me, still curled in his lap, clutching the smoking gun.
"Elena," he breathed.
I sat up, brushing glass from my hair. I looked at the gun in my hand, then at him.
"I did it," I whispered, shock trembling through my voice. "I shot at them."
Cassian looked at me. His eyes weren't cold anymore. They were blazing with something that looked terrifyingly like awe.
He reached over, his hand gripping the back of my neck, pulling me across the console until our foreheads touched. He kept one hand on the wheel, driving 100 miles per hour, but his focus was entirely on me.
"You really are a Vance," he said, his voice rough with adrenaline and pride. "My God, Elena. You were magnificent."
He kissed me hard—a kiss that tasted of danger and survival—before turning his eyes back to the road.
"Check the glove box," he ordered, shifting gears again. "We need a map. We have to find a boat before Claudia shuts down the docks."