Page 56 of Breaking Rosalind
“No, fucking way,” I mutter.
“What?”
“He wants me to go alone.”
Her gaze hardens. “But not on foot. Let’s swap places, and I’ll slip out of sight.”
“And as soon as Miranda gets into the car?—”
“I’ll reverse out and won’t stop driving until I’m one thousand percent certain we’re not being followed.”
Warm gratitude floods my heart and spreads across my chest. “Thank you,” I say, my words choked. “I couldn’t ask for a better friend.”
“Just promise me you’ll find a way out,” she says, staring straight ahead.
She’s still annoyed I didn’t take up her offer to get us both out of the alley. If we were dealing with any other hostage, I would take the risk, but Miranda is untrained, untested, and untainted by the world of crime and death.
After shuffling to switch places, I take the steering wheel and continue down the road. Sweat beads across my brow, and my heart pounds hard enough to rattle my bones.
“I haven’t been this nervous since the last time I had to rescue her,” I say.
“If things get desperate, say the word and I’ll burn those abductors to ashes,” Britt replies from where she’s tucked between the dashboard and the front passenger seat.
A shaky laugh escapes my chest, and I make a right turn. “Then all three of us will be on the run.”
There’s a truck parked ahead of us, blocking one end of the dim alley. The only source of illumination comes from a faint light above the nightclub’s side exit.
My fingers grip the steering wheel as I wait for movement, but after a minute, I pick up my phone and send a message:
I’m here.
Seconds later, a police car rolls in behind us, its headlights filling the alley with light.
“Shit,” I hiss.
“What?” she whispers.
“We’re blocked on both sides.”
“Don’t worry about it.”
My stomach lurches. I’m already picturing how I had to use a rocket launcher to escape the last time we were blocked in. Ten years of being relegated to analyst work flashes before my eyes, and I shudder.
It’s not like we have any other choice.
The truck’s back door rolls up, revealing a figure in black armor and a helmet standing with his arm around Miranda’s narrow shoulders. My heart skips as though someone has infused me with a thousand volts of electricity.
Her academy uniform is in disarray, its white shirt marred with red stains. She looks more bewildered than hurt, her wrists bound with her school tie, and her eyes darting from side to side. Despite being subjected to torture, I don’t see any visible injuries, but the worst of her trauma will be on the inside.
The man in armor leans his head to her ear and says something that makes her nod. He turns his attention to me and beckons with a gloved hand.
“Remember to get the hell out,” I whisper.
“Go,” Britt whispers back.
I open the car door and walk through the alley on shaky legs, fixing my gaze on Miranda. My hands curl into fists. What the hell did Cesare do to my little girl? Her shoulders are tight, and her entire body trembles as she takes quick, shallow breaths. She holds her features in a tight mask as though trying to contain her emotions.
As I approach, the man kicks down a set of steps and stands aside with Miranda tucked tightly beneath his arm.