Chapter 7

NADIA BARELY HEARD Matt’s words over the thundering of her heart. If she hadn’t been pressed between the back wall and him, she couldn’t have stayed on her feet. The bomb… the destruction… gunshots fired at them and… Sarika! How could she be— Nadia couldn’t let herself think the word. Pain filled her chest, and her eyes burned with hot tears. She started to gasp, but Matt’s warning registered. She took deep breaths and willed her heart to slow.

The restroom door swished open, followed by heavy footfalls. More than one person, Security searching for them. Praying Matt was right about their hiding place, she lowered her forehead against his warm, solid, reassuring back. Even the musk of his sweat reassured her.

Clanks and other noises, more footsteps as they searched the stalls. Then, “Personne ici.” No one here. How she remembered her French at this point was a miracle.

Another barked, “Allons, à l’escalier.” Let’s go, to the stairs.

“Ah, non, les autres a cherché là-bas.”

A moment later, the two or maybe three guards slammed out of the restroom. The clicking of their shoe soles grew fainter as they trotted away.

She gulped in air, and thoughts spun in her head, disjointed, jumbled. For a moment, she couldn’t move.

Light sliced through the door opening as Matt pushed it open. “Stay put.” His whisper grated like fine-textured sandpaper. Before she could react to ask what he was doing, he’d stepped around the mop bucket and crossed to the exit.

He peered out for barely a second and returned. “We have to move fast. They didn’t take the stairs, so we will.”

When she just stared at him, his gaze shifted from concerned to hard. He grabbed her hand and tugged. “Nadia! Let’s go. You can fall apart later.”

His words woke her like a splash of cold water. Fall apart? No, not her. She didn’t fall apart when her mom died. She didn’t fall apart when her father was charged and convicted on a guilty plea. And she wouldn’t now. She straightened from her huddled stance and took off with him. She had to trust Matt’s skills and experience. He knew better than she did how to get them out of here. And maybe out of this whole mess.

With alarms ringing in their ears and the smell of smoke drifting through the hall, they raced the short distance to the red exit sign. When they slipped into the stairwell, he said, “Go all the way to the basement,” as he took off.

This was the third floor, so a long way down with no cover, no hiding place. “What if someone—”

“Keep going. Let me handle it.” The footfalls and squeaks of his sneakers echoed as he raced ahead of her.

Throat tight, she stared at the four stark-white walls of the vertical tunnel. She was alone. If guards — or anyone — showed up, she’d make an easy target. She wasted no more time and headed down at a fast clip. Second floor. First floor, only one to go.

Nearing the next landing, she was breathing hard, and in spite of regular jogging and weight training, her legs were rubbery. Maybe it was shock and fear—

Thumping resounded below her. “Fuck!”

At the outcry, her pulse leaped. She slipped and grabbed the metal railing, but saw no guards, only Matt. He’d fallen and was tumbling down the last flight. He curled in on himself, tucking in his arms and protecting his head.

She winced at the thud of his body as his knees and arms and back struck the cement treads and the metal edges. She raced downward. How badly was he injured? What if he couldn’t get up? He was a solid six feet. Pressed against him in the closet, she’d felt those hard muscles. How could she move him?

Reaching the bottom, she found him still, his visible eye closed. But panting as hard as she was, thank God. She knelt beside him. “Matt, where are you hurt?”

He hauled in deep breaths and lifted himself up on one elbow. He held up a hand in a wait signal.

She detected no voices, no sounds of doors or footsteps, only the stillness of this emergency stairwell. Maybe everyone had evacuated out front onto Mass Ave and forgot about them in the chaos. Not likely. For some strange reason, Security must think they were the bombers.

In a moment, Matt sat up and stretched his limbs, taking stock of the damage. “Lost focus and misjudged the distance. Missed a fucking step. Don’t think anything’s broken.” He ripped off the patch, which had slid off to one side, and stuffed it in his jeans pocket.

Ah, the eye damage was the likely culprit. Depth perception. When she’d seen him before without the patch, he replaced it quickly. Now she could see that the lines above and below the patch weren’t separate scars, but one continuous, jagged track. Puckered flesh on the eyelid marked where it had been struck. Other than that, the eye looked perfectly normal. She tried and failed to imagine how he must’ve felt to learn the vision loss might be permanent. Fifty-fifty, he’d told her, but his optimistic tone had sounded forced. He was probably terrified he’d lose the so-called freedom he’d told her five years ago that he needed in his life.

Now wasn’t the time for advice on covering his eye with the offending patch. He was already beating himself up, so sympathy would only embarrass him. She pushed to her feet, digging for matter-of-fact. “Can you get up?”

He said nothing, only grasped the railing and pulled himself up. No bruises were visible, but no doubt black and blue marks would be blooming damned soon.

He dug in his front jeans pocket and pulled out his phone. “Looks intact.” He stuffed it back in his pocket. “Take the battery out of your phone, so they can’t trace us that way.”

She knew that from the news and thriller novels, but wouldn’t have thought of it. She removed her battery and put both phone and battery in her pants pockets. “What about yours?”

“Encrypted and secure, like all DARK communications,” he said. “Only DARK can track me.”

“The guards in the ladies’ room said others had searched this stairwell, but I suspect someone might check again soon.” Dammit, her voice was shaky.

“Forgot you knew French.” He took a tentative step and nearly went down again. His eyebrows drew together and sweat beaded on his forehead. “Must’ve wrenched my right knee when I hit the deck.” A wry grin twisted his mouth. “Never thought I’d have to say this, but I’ll have to lean on you.”

“Wasn’t on my bucket list.” She wrapped an arm around his middle as he looped his right arm around her shoulders.

He hobbled a sort of hop-step and shuffle forward, and she pushed open the door. He peered out. “Nobody in sight. Head off to the left.”

Nadia had never been in this rear part of the basement, far from the production company room and the employee dining hall. “You know where we are?”

“DARK had the building plans, and I did a little exploring.” He indicated a shadowed corner and urged her forward as he hop-step-shuffled toward it.

An inset wooden door led them outside to an alley lined with metal trash cans and bigger bins on wheels. Her sneaker soles squelched on something, and she wrinkled her nose at the odors of rotting food and who knew what else. Late afternoon sunlight barely filtered into the narrow passage. A chain-link fence blocked one end.

“What now?” Nadia glanced toward the other end, which led to a street where cars whizzed by and people hurried along focused on their phones.

Leaving her support, Matt hop-shuffled to one bin. “I locked the exit door, but help me move this trash bin over.”

She looked up and down the alley while pressing a hand to her jittery stomach. She then pushed with what strength she had left. Small metal wheels protested, the shriek jacking up her pulse again, but the heavy metal container rolled over to seal the door. She kicked the wheel locks into place.

“Better ditch your jacket in one of the others,” he said as they headed toward the street end of the alley.

She looked down at herself. Yeah, sooty and torn and red. A trifecta. She might as well wave at Security and yell, “Shoot me.” She retrieved a few things from the blazer pockets before slipping it off. She tossed it into the next bin.

The temperature was dropping as sunset neared, and she shivered. “The eye patch would’ve been as easy to spot. Is that why you took it off?”

“Sure. I don’t need it anyway.” Before she could react to that intriguing statement, he touched her cheek. “Cut doesn’t look too bad, but it’ll probably bruise. You got a tissue to wipe off the soot?”

She pulled one from a pocket and let him dab at her cheeks. The warmth of his fingers through the thin paper and the gentleness of his touch made her want to curl into him. Bad timing. Worse idea. “Okay now?”

He nodded and turned around. “I got a few cuts on my back. How about my shirt? Blood, soot?”

“Some slits in the fabric, maybe blood too. The shirt’s so dark, nothing is really obvious.” She hadn’t noticed the tears in the dark closet, when she’d been pressed against him. She reached out tentatively, but drew her hand back without touching. “Does it hurt?”

“Not much.” He shrugged and put his arm around her, as ready to get going as she was. “Not like my damn knee.”

She resumed her support and they headed for the street.

“This neighborhood’s too upscale to have a sleazy corner bar, but there’s a wine bar a couple blocks over where we can hang out until I can get DARK to pick us up.” He’d been watching his footing, but as they reached the sidewalk, he turned toward her. “You okay?”

She nodded. “Peachy. You’re the walking wounded. Can you make it the two blocks?”

“Moving around, I feel better. Just look at me with love in your eyes, honey.”

She wrinkled her nose and did her best. As they strolled down the street, their arms around each other — in a manner of speaking — his body heat eased her chill. A few people smiled at the lovers, but most paid no attention and went about their business. Nadia noted Matt’s labored breathing and that he made an effort not to lean on her too heavily. By now his knee was probably puffing up.

Their slow progress made the trek seem interminable. When she spotted a lighted sign reading Ambassador Wine Bar, she sagged with relief. The sidewalk tables were full of happy-hour patrons sampling the establishment’s vintages and snacks. Matt led the way into the darkened interior, then to a glass-topped corner table. He sank onto a chair facing the street.

A guy in ripped jeans and a T-shirt whose design blended with the tattoos on his scrawny arms hustled over and took their order for coffees. Probably frowned on in a bar where wine labels covered the walls.

“Won’t they search places like this?” She took the chair beside Matt.

“Yeah, but not yet. An embassy is sovereign territory, so the ambassador has to invite outside help. Confusion and grief will delay an investigation. So we have a little time before the D.C. cops and the Feds start a search for us.”

“How long do you think?” Her worried glance swept the entrance.

“Long enough to drink our coffee.” He took his wallet from his back jeans pocket. “I’ll get DARK to pick us up, but that could take time. In the meantime we need cash and some other stuff. An ATM and shops, a drugstore too, are down the street. Can you manage that while I stay here?” He handed her a debit card and recited the PIN.

When he finished listing the supplies they’d need, she turned over the card and frowned. “This belongs to a David Martinez.”

“My alter ego when I need an alias.” His lips curved, but it was a grim smile. “Spy, remember?”

Lights flashing, a white D.C. cruiser jerked to a stop at the curb.