part of the Bay.”
Shit.
“They’ll trap us―”
A brief, scathing glance shut her up. She focused her eyes beyond him, tried not to let this new anger wound her.
Rain stopped beating at her, and she realized they had reached the overhang sheltering the threshold of the mover. Maura spotted the digital clock just above the entrance. Grey numbers marched across the white background.
12:50.
There’s enough time―we have enough time. If she hadn’t been out for more than a few minutes. If Dr. Lang’s machine actually worked.
John stepped on to the moving sidewalk. Soaked, miserable people hemmed them in, normally blank faces animated by the storm. The curving tunnel of glass cut off any escape. Looking up at John, she was no longer certain he w ould run. Given his current frame of mind he may set her aside and walk quietly to his execution.
He thought he deserved it.
How the hell am I supposed to convince him otherwise when I can’t talk to him?
Anxiety crawled over her skin like dancing spiders. She waited, heart pounding, for the inevitable.
The inevitable announced their presence with a herald of pained cries.
John’s head snapped around. Before Maura could get even a glimpse he tightened his grip on her and muscled forward through the human blockade. She twisted in his arms, tried to glance over his shoulder.
“Keep your head down. They will have a death warrant out on you by now.” Shock froze her. “Now, Maura.”
His sharp voice brought her head around. Movement caught her eye; behind them, black uniforms gouged a painful, ragged path through the wedged-in bodies.
“John—they’re coming―”
“Hold tight.”
She closed her eyes in relief. He wasn’t giving up. Not yet, anyway.
He fought the terrified crowd, reached the guardrail and slid Maura under it, into the shallow well between glass wall and sidewalk.
“Ouch—damn it―” She untangled herself from the trench, slipped on the polished metal, nearly slamming her wounded leg into a narrow pole. “Damn it―”
She threw hair out of her eyes with a practiced flip—and found John, hanging by his left hand from a hook in the ceiling, facing their pursuers. The sleek pistol was an extension of his arm, outstretched and lined up to his dodging targets.
“What are you doing―”
“Go, Maura.”
His gaze followed the men sent after them. Bodies bumped his legs, forcing him to constantly readjust his aim.
“Are you out of your mind? Do you think they need target practice?”
“Just do as I say.”
“I won’t leave without you.”
“Damn it, Maura.” He glanced down at her, briefly, his eyes as vivid and furious as the day they met. The enraged god was back. “You have to―”
A familiar, high-pitched whine cut off his protest. He let go of the hook, twisting to avoid the lase blast. It snapped through the air like a fire whip and sliced into his left shoulder.
“John!”
Cowering bodies cushioned his fall, rolled him, unconscious, against the railing. Maura grabbed for him. Still clenched in his hand, the pistol snagged itself in the crush of limbs, dragging him out of reach.
“No―John―”
She crawled forward until she came up beside him, dug her fingers into the front of his uniform and hauled. His hand jerked free, minus the pistol. Momentum threw him off the sidewalk and into the well. Right on top of her.
The shock of impact ignited every injury. In the excruciating minute it took to recover her breath, she heard their pursuit, preceded by screams of pain, of fear.
“John.” She spoke into his ear, prayed he could hear her above the chaos. “Wake up―oh God, please wake up.”
“Maura.”
His voice barely crossed the space between them. Turning her head, she met his eyes. “Can you move?”
He answered by pushing himself up, his right arm trembling as he shifted his weight off her and sat, hunched over his bleeding shoulder. “Go.”
“Not without you.” He closed his eyes. “John,
Shit.
“They’ll trap us―”
A brief, scathing glance shut her up. She focused her eyes beyond him, tried not to let this new anger wound her.
Rain stopped beating at her, and she realized they had reached the overhang sheltering the threshold of the mover. Maura spotted the digital clock just above the entrance. Grey numbers marched across the white background.
12:50.
There’s enough time―we have enough time. If she hadn’t been out for more than a few minutes. If Dr. Lang’s machine actually worked.
John stepped on to the moving sidewalk. Soaked, miserable people hemmed them in, normally blank faces animated by the storm. The curving tunnel of glass cut off any escape. Looking up at John, she was no longer certain he w ould run. Given his current frame of mind he may set her aside and walk quietly to his execution.
He thought he deserved it.
How the hell am I supposed to convince him otherwise when I can’t talk to him?
Anxiety crawled over her skin like dancing spiders. She waited, heart pounding, for the inevitable.
The inevitable announced their presence with a herald of pained cries.
John’s head snapped around. Before Maura could get even a glimpse he tightened his grip on her and muscled forward through the human blockade. She twisted in his arms, tried to glance over his shoulder.
“Keep your head down. They will have a death warrant out on you by now.” Shock froze her. “Now, Maura.”
His sharp voice brought her head around. Movement caught her eye; behind them, black uniforms gouged a painful, ragged path through the wedged-in bodies.
“John—they’re coming―”
“Hold tight.”
She closed her eyes in relief. He wasn’t giving up. Not yet, anyway.
He fought the terrified crowd, reached the guardrail and slid Maura under it, into the shallow well between glass wall and sidewalk.
“Ouch—damn it―” She untangled herself from the trench, slipped on the polished metal, nearly slamming her wounded leg into a narrow pole. “Damn it―”
She threw hair out of her eyes with a practiced flip—and found John, hanging by his left hand from a hook in the ceiling, facing their pursuers. The sleek pistol was an extension of his arm, outstretched and lined up to his dodging targets.
“What are you doing―”
“Go, Maura.”
His gaze followed the men sent after them. Bodies bumped his legs, forcing him to constantly readjust his aim.
“Are you out of your mind? Do you think they need target practice?”
“Just do as I say.”
“I won’t leave without you.”
“Damn it, Maura.” He glanced down at her, briefly, his eyes as vivid and furious as the day they met. The enraged god was back. “You have to―”
A familiar, high-pitched whine cut off his protest. He let go of the hook, twisting to avoid the lase blast. It snapped through the air like a fire whip and sliced into his left shoulder.
“John!”
Cowering bodies cushioned his fall, rolled him, unconscious, against the railing. Maura grabbed for him. Still clenched in his hand, the pistol snagged itself in the crush of limbs, dragging him out of reach.
“No―John―”
She crawled forward until she came up beside him, dug her fingers into the front of his uniform and hauled. His hand jerked free, minus the pistol. Momentum threw him off the sidewalk and into the well. Right on top of her.
The shock of impact ignited every injury. In the excruciating minute it took to recover her breath, she heard their pursuit, preceded by screams of pain, of fear.
“John.” She spoke into his ear, prayed he could hear her above the chaos. “Wake up―oh God, please wake up.”
“Maura.”
His voice barely crossed the space between them. Turning her head, she met his eyes. “Can you move?”
He answered by pushing himself up, his right arm trembling as he shifted his weight off her and sat, hunched over his bleeding shoulder. “Go.”
“Not without you.” He closed his eyes. “John,
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