55. SARA

This is literally the craziest thing I’ve ever done, and I’ve done plenty of crazy things.

“You expect me to jump to your neighbor’s roof from here?”

“Front and back doors aren’t an option, and we can’t tunnel out,” Chance says. “I’m open to other options, if you’ve got any.”

We’re both hunkered below the low wall that surrounds the greystone’s rooftop patio. There’s a little more cover from the trees, but we probably have only a couple of seconds once we stand up. We have to sprint and then leap the ten feet or so between us and the house next door.

“Have faith in yourself,” he says. “I’m sure Kelsey trained you well.”

“Yeah, and what if she didn’t? I drop three stories to the ground and then the DoD hauls what’s left of me away, that’s what.”

He puts a hand on my shoulder. “Which leg is your strongest?”

“I don’t know!” I whisper-shout. “I’ve never tested them against each other!”

“You’re left-handed, so it’s likely your left.”

“Wait, what if it’s not?”

He smiles. “Have some faith in yourself.”

“Okay, but you go first. I need you there to catch me if I don’t make it.”

He frowns, thinking it over.

“All right,” he says. “It’s time.”

I take a deep breath. He knows damn well I’m afraid of heights. He took me to a train bridge in Philly once and tried to get me to climb up. I told him to kiss my ass.

Now he’s my husband. Go figure.

He points to the area where we’re going to launch from. It’s a drain well, so we won’t have to step up onto the wall in order to get across. He shoulders the pack he brought with him onto his back.

He nods. I nod.

Next thing I know, my hand is gripped in his and he’s pulling me forward. My heart races as my pupils dilate – he’s taking me with him! I pump my knees to match his speed as we cross the space to the edge in under two seconds. I make sure to push off with my left leg.

“You asshole!” I hiss as we launch across the divide between houses, trying to position our legs in front of us for the landing. We hit the gravel with our heels as the momentum pitches us forward into a barrel roll.

We lie there on our backs, looking up at the sky and panting.

“Sorry,” he says before I can scream at him. “But we both know I would’ve jumped and you wouldn’t have. Besides, that was romantic.”

“You can forget everything I said about post-wedding blowjobs,” I say. “Starting right now.”

We manage to shimmy down a tree and reach the backyard gate. Chance double-checks the coast is clear before he pulls a key from behind a false brick on the façade of the neighbor’s garage.

“How did you know that was there?” I ask.

“People tend to tell me things when they find out what I do for a living,” he says, opening the door. “Like they feel the need to brag about their own security to me.”

There’s a late-model Range Rover and Toyota Rav-4 parked inside. Chance opens the driver’s door on the Toyota.

“Get in,” he says.

“Not the Range Rover?” I ask, doing as I’m told. “But you’re rich.”

He gives me a sardonic grin. “Good one. There are thousands of Rav-4s in Chicago. Not so many Range Rovers.”

“How are you going to drive it? Something this new can’t be hotwired.”

“With this,” he says, producing a key fob from his pocket. “I ghosted his radio-frequency identification signals the day he brought it home, for just such an occasion.”

I blink at him. “Of course,” I say. “I do that all the time. Twice on Sundays, sometimes.”

He shrugs. “It’s sort of in my job description.”

The garage door whirs behind us and he pulls out into the alley. There aren’t any surveillance vehicles that I can see, but that doesn’t mean they’re not there. Luckily, the brilliant afternoon sun will make seeing through the Rav’s windows difficult for anyone who might be looking in our direction.

“Where are we going?” I ask as we pull into traffic on Southport. “If they’re watching your – our – house, chances are good they’ve got eyes on your bank accounts and the Atlas offices.”

“That’s what the pack is for. Emergency cash and supplies.”

“So you’re whisking us off to your secret billionaire hideaway then?”

“Sorry,” he says. “That only happens in cheesy romance novels.”

“I stand by my earlier blowjob comment,” I say as we drive toward whatever the hell fate has in store for us next.