All that mattered now was getting what was left of her team out and to safety, but her brain wouldn’t let go of the movement she’d seen.

She knew who’d taken that shot at Nick.

If she had a rifle of her own, she’d zero in on that window and put a bullet through it, and then another and another, bleeding her soul dry through gunpowder with the same gripping urgency she’d felt on so many wee-hour mornings when going home empty handed wasn’t an option.

No matter what else, that shooter would die.

She ran the scope toward the far end of the square.

Monotone, emotionless, she called in the coordinates.

Aaron said, “I don’t have a clean line of sight.”

She said, “Take the shot.”

His rifle answered.

She scooted back from the ledge, said, “Clear out. I’ll meet you for extraction.”

He said, “Where are you going?”

“You know where I’m going.”

“That’s against orders.”

She knew it. Nick knew it. They all knew before going into a job.

Injury, capture, death, if the team couldn’t get to you without compromising the objective, you were on your own. Headquarters might send in a local cleanup crew after the fact. If you were lucky, they’d get to what was left of you before the enemy did.

Every extra second she spent in this square was compromising the objective, but fuck if she was leaving Nick behind if there was a chance he was still alive.

She said, “If I’m not there in an hour, break for the border without me.”

Aaron said, “You—”

She unplugged, cut him off mid-syllable, scrambled for the access hatch, dropped down into the stairwell, and flung herself over the handrail. She dropped half a floor at a time in a race to ground level, burst out onto a side street, paused long enough to get a look at the obvious, and bolted between cars for the square’s narrowest point.

Detouring around the kill zone would eat away minutes.

The fastest way to him was through.

She charted a trajectory broken by the tram stop and an advertising board, put her head down, ran. Bullets hit the cobblestones, ricocheted, sent projectiles flying.

She ducked and scurried.

A mosquito whine passed inches from her ear.

Her feet kept moving.

Her heart hurt, her lungs burned. She skidded into the doorway that led to Nick’s position, barreled through, slammed it shut, and started up, listening for him, listening for life, but heard only her boots pounding, echoing thud against thud in an empty stairwell. She tumbled onto the third-floor landing and found him leaned against a doorframe two rooms off from where he would have been.

His vest was soaked. His hands were red. His eyes open.

She checked the hall.

All but two doors were closed. Offices.

Anyone already at work likely hiding beneath desks.