“You can save me from crashing and burning,” I say. “I’m desperate for caffeine. Can you direct me to the nearest Starbucks?”
“Of course,” he says, smiling a friendly smile. “Gotta have that caffeine fix.” He points me in the expected direction. “That way to heaven.”
Hopefully, not in a literal way, I think, shoving aside that daunting thought.
Thanking the doorman, I step away from him, and there is a slight prickling of my skin and I suppress the need to respond with a cursory glance around the lobby, telling myself that of course I’m being watched—the Walker team is, in fact, watching me. Hurrying toward the exit, I enter the revolving doors, preparing myself for the cold New York City day, busy streets, and potential assassins waiting for me outside. The instant my foot hits the sidewalk, the cold is colder than expected, sideswiping me with biting air. I snuggle deeper into my coat, turn right, and start walking.
Blake’s voice sounds in my ear. “I’ve got eyes on you all the way to Starbucks and even when you go inside.”
This news is comforting, as is the cold weather that offers me an excuse to walk faster than would be normal. And so, I do. I hurry forward, melting into the folds of the thick crowd, seeking the shelter of many, and hoping my prospective killer will not as well. Fortunately, I live through the short walk and break from the crowd to approach the Starbucks door. That’s when a man blasts out of nowhere and knocks into me. I gasp at the impact and then his hands are on my shoulders.
Adrenaline surges through me, my instincts screaming that this is trouble. “Easy there, miss,” purrs a cigarette-roughened voice, and then I’m staring into icy blues eyes framed by a well-lined face. There is something brutal and hard in those eyes.
I jerk back from his touch. “Sorry about that.”
“Just be careful,” he says, and his lips quirk as he adds, “I wouldn’t want you to get hurt.”
In that moment, Savage steps to my side, his big body nudging mine to the right, toward the Starbucks. “Hello, Michael,” he says, and his voice is as cold as the ice in the other man’s eyes. I gasp with the realization that he knows this stranger, and that this stranger must have come here for me.
Michael is an assassin.
My heart thunders in my chest and I turn for the Starbucks entrance, seeking shelter, but I never make it inside. The door opens and Adam steps out. The next thing I know, he’s placed me between him and the wall, ushering me forward. In a blink, we turn the corner, and then I’m pulled into the alcove of some sort of business or residential space. Adam disappears and Adrian grabs me, pulling me to him.
“What just happened?” I ask, urgently, when it’s really a nonsense question. We both know what happened.
Still, I do revel in his confidently spoken reply. “Nothing we weren’t ready for and now we maneuver accordingly.” He removes my wig, tossing it behind him, somewhere inside the alcove, and then he’s reaching for my coat. “It’s going to be a cold walk out of here, but you have to get rid of this.” He tugs at the buttons and slides the coat down my shoulders.
A part of me resists losing that coat, and not because I’m a Texas girl who hates the cold, but rather, because it feels like a shield that protects me beyond the weather. Still, I do as is necessary. I shrug out of it and Adrian dumps it behind him before he shrugs out of his own jacket, pulling it around me. “This will be better than nothing,” he says, urging me to push my hands through the oversized sleeves.
“We’re going into the subway,” he explains, rolling up the sleeves above my hands. “Just stay close and don’t look around. Looking around gains attention. Trust me and the team to know what is happening. And Adam won’t be far behind us. Got it?”
I nod. “Yes. I’m good. Let’s just do it.”
There’s a hint of something in his brown eyes that I can’t quite read—respect, I think—and appreciate, though I’m wondering if I really deserve it. I did secretly want a coat of armor.
Adrian leans out of the alcove, scans the area a moment, and then he’s leading me onto the sidewalk and into a brisk, cold wind, and he does so in only his shirt sleeves. If he notices the wintry day, he never hunches, never indicates discomfort, but then right now, I’m not cold either. Adrenaline burns hot through my blood, along with a hefty dose of nerves and a bit of fear. I hate the fear, but it’s hard not to think about the fact that I just had an assassin’s hands on my body. And that at any moment, a bullet could hit one of us, or both of us, if the assassin knows just when and where to place the shot.