Page 60 of Locked and Loaded

Then gunfire. Not wild, not panicked. Controlled pairs. The first round punched through the plaster six inches from his head. The second would have hit him if he hadn't already been moving. They’d missed twice, but he’d bet his life that they’d miss a third time.

They reached the far edge of the roof. This jump was longer. Ten feet at least, and the next roof was lower by a full story. A clothesline sagged between the two buildings, heavy with sheets that snapped in the night breeze.

He went first this time. Cleared the gap, landed, turned.

Lennox jumped.

He saw it go wrong before it did. Her bare foot slipped on the parapet edge at the last second, and she didn't get the push she needed. She came up short. Her hands caught the ledge, but the rest of her slammed into the wall below it with a sound he felt in his chest.

He grabbed her wrists. "I've got you."

She was scrambling, her feet finding no purchase on the smooth plaster. Below her was three stories of dark alley and cobblestones. He hauled her up and over the ledge, and that was when the shot came.

The shooter had held his fire until they were both exposed. He'd waited for the moment when Dragan would be pulling and couldn't duck. A professional's patience. A professional's shot.

A hot line drawn across his left arm just above the elbow. The bullet punched into the plaster behind him, and he didn't stop moving, because stopping was what the shooter wanted. He pulled Lennox the rest of the way over, pushed her flat against the rooftop, and came down on top of her as two more rounds cracked overhead. Both hit the parapet within an inch of each other. The man was grouping his shots.

"Stay down."

He rolled off her and came up shooting. Two rounds. Not aimed. He didn't need to hit anyone. He just needed to make them flinch, make them reset, buy three seconds. The shooter on the other roof dropped behind the parapet, and Dragan grabbed Lennox's hand and yanked her up.

"Go."

They ran.

Lennox was already at the far edge. "There's a truck!"

He looked. Below them, a flatbed truck was crawling through the narrow street, its bed piled with crates of produce. It was moving slow, maybe ten miles an hour, navigating the tight turns of the medina. Oranges. The whole bed was full of oranges.

"That's our ride," he said.

"Are you serious?"

A shot cracked overhead. Closer this time. The shooter had repositioned and found his angle. Dragan could see two more men behind him, dark shapes spreading out across the rooftops, cutting off angles, herding them toward the edge. Textbook pursuit tactics.

"We jump on three. Aim for the crates."

"I don't have any shoes! I can't⁠—”

"Three."

He grabbed her hand and pulled her off the roof.

They hit the truck bed together. The crates collapsed under them in a cascade of oranges and splintered wood and canvas straps. The impact drove the air out of his lungs. An orange rolled into his face, another bounced off the back of his head, and for one surreal second all he could smell was citrus and exhaust and the dry desert wind.

He pushed himself up. Lennox was next to him, half-buried in oranges, her white blouse smeared with pulp, her hair full of splinters. She was laughing.

He stared at her. "Are you laughing?"

She held up an orange, then she sobered, went pale. "You got shot."

He looked down. Blood was running down his left arm from a gash just above the elbow. He hadn't felt it. He still couldn't feel it. "It's a graze."

"That's not a graze. That's a bullet wound."

"Trust me, it’s a graze. Bullet wounds are worse." He took the orange from her hand and set it aside. Then he pulled her up to sitting, checking her for injuries. A scrape on her elbow. A bruise forming on her shin. She was barefoot and covered in orange juice and laughing, and she was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen.

The truck rumbled on through the medina, taking a left turn that sent more oranges rolling. The rooftops behind them receded into darkness. The shapes of the men on the roof were getting smaller, and he knew they were regrouping. Not chasing. Rendezvousing. They'd lost the target, but they'd report in and get new orders, and whoever was running them would send a second team.