Page 201 of This Bitter Sweet Temptation
No reason he should evenknowwhat’s going down.
How many pies does he have his fingers in?
By the time I reach the end of the hallway—taking my own sweet time as the security guards watch me with annoyance—I pause.
My ears bristle at the low voices filtering through the museum. Mostly visitors, a curator giving a guided tour, kids clowning instead of paying attention to—
That’s when I hear it.
A muffledthunkfrom deep inside the office, and Cleo’s faded scream.
I don’t think.
Reflex takes over. I charge that golden door to hell like a raging bull.
Faster,faster,ready to break the bastard down before anyone can stop me.
Talbot locked it, presumably to keep me out, but there isn’t anything that’s going to stop me.
Certainly not the yelling guards racing after me. They’re softer and out of shape, which gives me a few more seconds.
I ram my shoulder against it first, then swing back and kick the handle.
Once. Twice.
It’s dense wood, the kind that used to be normal in old buildings built like fortresses.
On the third kick, pain lances up my knee, but one of the double doors creaks open. I don’t even think before I’m through it.
“What the hell?” The words fall out automatically.
For a breathless second, I wonder if I’m hallucinating.
I see Fairfax, Talbot, Cleo—and a tall, grizzled man on the floor I immediately recognize as Viktor Guchkov.
Head of Black Talon.
What the actualfuckis he doing here?
He’s sprawled out in a mess of limbs, clutching his face and swearing in Russian. One hand scrabbles for something. Not a gun, but a radio.
Behind me, the security guards take one look through the open door and bolt away. Probably to get reinforcements or the cops.
Cleo stands beside him, one hand wrapped around the familiar black briefcase that’s brought us so much grief. She stares at Guchkov like she can’t believe he’s on the floor.
For half a heartbeat, she lifts her glassy gaze and we lock eyes.
A whole conversation happens without speaking a word.
Her lips move, and I know she wants to say my name.
No time, girl.
Everything whips by, though it feels like treading water.
The window—a small glint moving past the blind, probably coming from the tall building across the street.
“Get down!” I yell, kicking the radio out of Guchkov’s hand and diving after it.
