It had seemed like a good idea at the time. Really, it had. After all, if both ends of a bridge are blocked, then the only options left are the sides, right?
But that was before she found herself standing on the icy railing, realizing for the first time she might be afraid of heights. And sharp falls. And water? Oh no. What if I’m afraid of water? What if I don’t remember how to swim? Or, worse, what if my lifelong fear of water meant I never even learned how to swim? What if . . .
But then she noticed the silence. All the Russians had stopped shooting and started staring. It was just a matter of time until they remembered that they were supposed to be shooting at her.
So she threw out her arms and jumped, flying through the air and landing with an incredibly unladylike splat. But not a water splat. Oh no. More like a bug on a windshield splat in which she was most definitely the bug.
Or so it felt as she looked down through the glass-covered roof of a boat full of tourists who were staring up at her. One man even picked up his camera. She forced a smile as he took a picture—click.
Her body hurt. Her head hurt. Her pride hurt. Then her whole body bounced as—splat—someone landed right in front of her, spread-eagled, a gun in each hand.
“Hi,” he told her.
“Hi,” she said back.
And that’s when the tourists started to scream.
And that’s when the Russians started to shoot.
And that’s when the big pane of glass that half his body was lying on shattered and Mr. Looks at Her Like She’s Crazy Guy started to fall. She grabbed his arm and held on, helping him swing onto her section of glass.
“Go!” he shouted, and they both got up and started running down the very long, very narrow boat that looked like a floating greenhouse. There was so much very clear, very shatterable glass that was . . . well . . . shattering behind them as Kozlov’s men fired and the boat took off, racing farther and farther away from the bridge and the Russians and the guns.
“Are you going to yell at me?” she shouted over her shoulder, breathing hard even though she’d only gone thirty feet.
“No!” he yelled. “Yes! I don’t know. Ask me again later.”
Which seemed like an okay plan because, at the moment, she had a lot on her mind.
Like how some of the tourists were still screaming and others were still taking pictures, not to mention the sudden realization that anyone beneath her could totally see up her skirt.
“Hey!” she shouted at a man who was aiming his camera in a most undignified way. She stomped on the glass. “Pervert!”
Mr. Hot Spy growled and made a gesture that, considering he had a gun in each hand, made the guy turn as white as the snow, and she felt warm all of a sudden.
“Aw. Thanks.”
“Any time.” Then he growled again because it was a very growly kind of morning.
“Okay,” she said as a big gust of wind came rushing down the Seine. Her hair blew wildly around her as the boat sped up, roaring away from the Russians and the bridge.
With every passing moment, Kozlov’s men got a little farther away. But it was just a matter of time until they jumped on those motorcycles and chased after them. Streets ran along the river, after all. And there were other bridges. It wouldn’t be hard to get ahead. They’d only gone two hundred yards.
“What do we do now?” she asked just as the wind caught her stolen hat and whipped it off her head. On instinct, she lunged for it, but she lost her footing on the sloping glass. In the next moment, she was sliding. She was falling. Until, suddenly, arms like steel bands wrapped around her waist and hauled her against a hard chest, blue eyes staring down at her, colder than the wind.
“Damn it! Are you trying to drown? Are you trying to die? Are you trying to—”
There was a shadow over his shoulder, long and dark and coming this way fast.
“Duck!” she yelled, shoving and tackling him to the top of the boat as they passed under another bridge.
So that’s how she found herself straddling a stranger on top of a floating terrarium while two dozen tourists took photos from below.
“At least the . . . uh . . . shooting stopped?” she tried.
“For now,” he warned. And he was right, she remembered, as they floated out from underneath the bridge and back into the sun. It was just a matter of time until the goon squad caught up with them. They’d be exposed. They’d be dead. Or nearly. They would most assuredly be pre-dead!
He must have sensed it, too, because he pushed her off him and cocked both guns.
“Any more bright ideas?” he bit out, but all she could do was lie beside him, watching as another—even lower—bridge passed overhead, old beams and arches close enough to reach.
Wait. Close enough to . . .
“Yeah. Actually. This.”
She let go of her beret, let it flutter to the icy water below as she reached up and grabbed hold of one of those ancient beams—wrapped her arms and legs around it and held on for dear life as the big glass boat moved on.
Without her.
She looked at Mr. Spy Guy . . . Hot Guy . . . Gun Guy . . . watched him drift away, and all she could think to call him was Mr. Please Don’t Make Me Do This Without You Guy.
Then he cursed under his breath and shoved his guns into his pockets and reached for one of the braces overhead and held on.
And the boat floated away.
Without them.
