it hit.
The helicopter exploded in a rush of flame and heat. Fireworks of metal and sparks rocketed through the room.
“So much for the silent approach,” Ian yelled over the din, ignoring the spew of smoke already receding from the shattered window. “You okay?”
“Yes,” Lara answered. Alarms sounded—huge foghorns that blasted through, shaking the floor beneath them.
She scanned the room, ignoring the howling gusts of wind from the missing windows. Like most executive offices, the decor was no more than sterile layers of chrome, leather and glass. Double doors in front. Single door at the side, just beyond a fully stocked bar. Probably to the private bathroom. She tugged off her goggles and pulled out a miniature, palm-sized computer again.
“How are we looking so far?” Ian asked, yanking off his own night goggles. The office was semidark but the hallways would be lit.
Lara glanced up from the green display. “We’ve got a minute max. I show six goons coming up the stairs. One in the elevator. Two more just outside the front doors.”
In theory, they still had a mission to complete. The question was, could they succeed and still save their skin? Ian gestured toward the entrance, indicating he’d take point. Lara covered.
Within seconds, two men burst through the double doors. Their Uzi semiautomatics strafed the room, ripping through paintings and leather upholstery. The bar’s mirror exploded. Glass shards sprayed across their heads.
Lara dropped, rolled, came up on her knees, catching the farthest gunman off guard. When he swung back, she fired. But she’d misjudged the quickness of his reflexes. Pain exploded in her stomach, the impact knocking her back. She gasped as white-hot fire spiked her from belly to chest.
Ian jerked when she fell but didn’t turn until the two men dropped, dead, on the ground. Quickly, he grabbed their guns. “How bad?”
She clutched her stomach, covering the bullet wound. Fear rose, coating her tongue with acid and bile. “It’s nothing.” She moved, using the desk to stand. Lara fought off the wave of nausea and weakness. “Let’s finish this,” she whispered. Blood soaked her suit. She could feel the warm stickiness against her skin. She shifted her weapon to her left hand and braced her legs apart to keep them from shaking. “Options?”
“Stairs.” Ian snagged her computer and glanced at the screen. “I’ve got four more closing in.”
Lara nodded, only to stop when the room tilted. The loss of blood was already making her light-headed. “Let’s go.”
She staggered a few steps, then recovered long enough to reach the wall next to the double doors. Light from the hallway spewed into the office, its glare almost painful to Lara’s blurring vision. Taking short shallow breaths, she waited for Ian to give the go-ahead.
“Get ready, Red.”
“I’m ready.” She gripped the weapon tight to cover her trembling. With a jerk, she slid closer to the door.
Ian glanced back at her and swore.
Lara followed his gaze. Blood streaked the wall behind her.
The bullet had gone completely through and out her back.
Angry with herself for not realizing, she said, “There’s nothing you can do, Ian, except get us the hell out of here.”
Lara wasn’t a woman who relinquished control. She’d learned long ago that doing so would only bring pain. This time, ironically, pain was forcing her to do just that, leaving her no choice but to trust Ian to save them. “You’ve got about five minutes, hotshot. Then you’re going to have to carry me.”
“When this is over…” Gun raised, Ian used his foot to kick the double door open. The ding of the elevator ricocheted through the white hallway. “Get down!” he ordered, then grabbed a compact explosive, the size of a small metal hockey puck, from his belt. He tossed it directly into the path of the elevator and shoved Lara into a nearby doorway, shielding her body with his.
The explosion rocked the floor. A burst of heat surrounded them, rancid smoke of burned tile and plaster filled her lungs. Lara coughed, tasting the blood and bile.
Ian eased back, his eyes finding hers. “Can you make it?”
“I’m tougher than I look,” she whispered through the viselike pain that squeezed her chest, then prayed she was right.
Without help, Lara reached the stairway door first, but it was Ian who yanked it open.
Somewhere below the slap of running shoes echoed through the circular concrete stairway. Ian motioned her up the stairs.
Her legs grew weaker, shaking uncontrollably. She grabbed the railing to pull herself up the steps, but her hands, slick with sweat, slid. With a cry, she fell facefirst onto the concrete. Pain exploded in her chest, seared her belly.
“Lara.”
“Go,” she rasped. Blood bubbled up her throat, making each breath an effort.
Ian grabbed her by the shoulder, his arms braced to lift her.
“No!” The fire in her gut intensified. Weakly, she lifted her hand, showing him the steel puck clutched under her fingers. “Get out of here.”
Before she set the timer, Ian’s hand covered hers.
Too weak to tug free, she didn’t even try. “Let go, Ian. I’ll detonate it when they reach me. By the time their friends realize you’re not here, you’ll have the files and be long gone.”
“No.” He swung her up into his arms, pausing when she gasped with pain. “Not this time.”
A man yelled from the stairs. Lara heard the blast of gunfire, felt Ian shudder with each bullet’s impact. The warmth of his blood mingled with hers, its metallic scent suspended between them.
Slowly he pressed her back against the wall, his body now more deadweight than not. Still, he protected her.
“Ian,” she rasped, ignoring the movement behind them, the growing echo of feet as the bad guys closed in. Instead, she concentrated on the small flecks of silver in his blue irises, the rapid beat of his heart beneath her fingertips—trying to absorb the strength behind each. “Game over.”
“No, Red, it’s just beginning.” Ian leaned in until his lips hovered only slightly above hers, his breath brushed warm, reassuring against her cheek. Anticipation—and maybe a little panic—rifled through her and came out in a shuddered breath. All she needed to do was lift her chin….
“I breached the building first.”
Chapter Two
“Damn it, MacAlister!” Lara sat up, pulled her hands out of the computer cuffs and tugged off her Virtual Imaging helmet. A cascade of red hair tumbled free. With fast, jerky movements, she disconnected the sensor wires from her training suit. An instant later, lights flashed on and the VI program shut down—leaving all four walls of the lab room an iridescent blue and the air silent. Anger whipped through her. “You sabotaged my operation, didn’t you?”
Ian removed his helmet, tossed it into the leather seat next to him. He ran a casual hand through his chestnut hair, now sweat darkened to a charred brown. Cropped military short, his hairstyle complemented the broad sweep of his cheekbones, the hard line of his jaw and a nose that was a touch off center and, she suspected, had been broken more than once.
“Answer me, MacAlister,” she demanded. Born from a French mother and an Irish father, Lara had more than her fair share of temper. Most times, she kept a tight rein of control over it. Other times…
“I can’t. I’m dead, remember?”
“Funny,” she bit out the word. “Did you or did you not sabotage my operation?”
“Now why would I do that?”