Page 57 of Breaking Rosalind

“Climb up,” he orders, his voice muffled through the helmet.

“Let her down, first.”

He barks a laugh, his free hand hovering over the gun on his belt. “I call the shots. Move.”

My jaw tightens. That little act of rebellion almost got Miranda hurt. With a deep breath, I climb the steps and enter the truck.

“Are you alright, Miri?” I ask.

Her features flicker with the strangest expression before the man releases her from his grip, and she jumps down and bolts.

I whirl around, trying to check that she’s safe, but the man yanks me further into the truck, and the doors slam shut.

“Let go of me?—”

A needle stabs into the side of my neck, making me flinch. I elbow the man in his armor, making him slam my body against the wall.

“Welcome back, pet,” the voice says through the helmet. “We’re going to have so much fun together. This time, there will be no escape.”

TWENTY-TWO

CESARE

I stand behind my little assassin, waiting for her next move, and taking nothing to chance with my prey. My breath hisses through my helmet, filling my eardrums with the sound of my anticipation. Every inch of my body thrums with excitement, from my head to my steel-toed boots.

Rosalind turns around, clutching the injection point on her neck, her features twisted with delicious contempt.

Every instinct wants to revel in the way her eyes burn with liquid fire, but it’s too early to celebrate. A professional like her won’t easily succumb to the muscle relaxant.

“What was that?” she asks.

“See what it’s like to be drugged? Not pleasant, is it, pet?”

“Tell me,” she says through clenched teeth.

I grin, resisting the urge to gloat. Rosalind is not to be underestimated, even when trapped. She is my most dangerous prey, my most enjoyable challenge.

Tires screech from outside the truck, followed by the sound of a collision. On instinct, my gaze snaps toward the doors. Rosalind charges, knocking me off balance. I stumble backward, my helmet crashing against the wall of the truck.

She lurches for the doors on her hands and knees, her fingers scrambling at a lever to fling the doors open. Her breaths come in ragged gasps, mingling with the groan and creak of metal.

I stand over her, my head cocked. “Going somewhere, pet?”

She ignores my question, focusing only on getting away. What an intriguing little assassin. She could have used that opening to slip a weapon between my helmet and collar to deliver a fatal blow. But that weak shove only bought her a few seconds to escape.

Sirens wail outside, punctuated by the crunch of metal, and then gunshots. It sounds like Rosalind didn’t come alone. Benito will nag if anything happens to the cops we have on our payroll. An engine revs, followed by an even louder crash as a vehicle slams into the back of our truck.

The door rolls open, revealing her SUV. Two figures sit within its darkened front seat—Miranda and Rosalind’s dour-faced accomplice.

Still blocking the other end of the alley behind them, Officers Rizzo and Barzelli exit a squad car that’s crushed like a concertina. Both cops shoot at the SUV, even though it’s obviously bulletproof.

Rosalind’s accomplice opens her door and steps out with a pistol. She’s a bulky blonde with hard features and startling blue eyes.

“Let go of her,” she yells.

I scoop Rosalind off the floor and hold her to my chest like a shield. Her friend adjusts the aim of her weapon to my helmet.

“I’ll give you a count of three to reconsider,” I shout. “Or Rosalind will lose a kidney. One.”