Page 75 of Dangerous Passion

He talked quickly, hoping to get it all out before he lost consciousness, gulping in air, shaking his head in an effort to keep conscious.

“Grace, there’s a keypad on the wall at the end of this corridor, under the flower print. Code…” he sucked in air, coughed, “code 9076. Punch it in, door will open…” The gray was turning to black at the edges of his vision. “Elevator,” he gasped. “To basement. SUV in slot 58.” With a fumbling hand, he dug into his pants pocket. He always carried the key to a getaway car no one knew about, a secret cellphone and several credit cards. He’d spent his life ready to run at a second’s notice. “Key.” It dangled from his nerveless fingers.

They’d been shuffling forward as he talked, Grace bearing almost his entire weight, pulling the trolley behind them.

Finally, after what felt like a century, they were at the wall and Grace punched in the code. The pounding at the door to his quarters grew fiercer, the shouts louder. They would be debating amongst themselves whether to break down thedoor. They could try. It was built to bank vault specifications. If and when they finally managed it, they would open the door to the charred remains of what had once been his home.

The sniper was still shooting at a steady pace, but had started to shoot into other rooms, hoping for a random hit.

A section of the wall slid open and Grace helped him into the elevator. He found it almost impossible to pick up his feet and if it hadn’t been for Grace’s arm around his waist, he would have fallen.

He couldn’t fall. If he fell, he’d never get up again.

She didn’t need further instructions. Drake was blessed in having fallen in love with an intelligent woman. She didn’t tempest him with questions or idle comments. His strength was ebbing second to second and he had to hoard it.

They were in deep trouble. She understood that and didn’t waste their resources.

If he’d had the strength, he would have kissed her.

The bottom dropped out of the world. The elevator was an emergency exit and had been designed to fall as fast as possible, faster than safety regulations allowed. In seconds they were in the basement.

Drake kept his fleet of vehicles in a walled off section of the basement to the right that only he or his men had access to, but kept his secret getaway vehicle separate. Slot 58 was to the left.

He opened his mouth to croak outgo left, when he saw that Grace had already figured out the number system. The slot was close by. It was pointless having a quick getaway car far from the emergency elevator.

Even moving sluggishly, feet dragging, they were at the Tahoe in seconds, Grace unlocking the doors with the key fob from five feet away. Instead of heading for the driver’s side, she opened the passenger side door first.

Drake shook his head, resisting.

If enemies were coming after them, she had to get in first and, if necessary, pull away without him.

He tried to say it. “Get … in … first.” His lungs were heaving, his voice was hoarse. He was clinging to the doorframe with shaking fingers.

She didn’t pay any attention at all, simply pushed and prodded until he half-fell in. She shoved his legs in, threw the trolley in, slammed the door behind him and ran to the driver’s side.

He kept the vehicle completely serviced, with a full tank of gas, at all times. It roared to life at the turn of the key in the ignition and Grace backed out of the slot immediately, wrenching the wheel and shooting for the exit.

After several tries, Drake managed to buckle his seat belt. Everything was dimming. He needed to do the next things fast.

As Grace shot up out of the underground garage onto the street, skidding wildly, barely missing an oncoming bus, Drake brought his cellphone up, squinting to make out the numbers. Shaking, he punched in a number he knew by heart. All the numbers he needed to know—cellphone numbers, bank account numbers—he had memorized. They were not written down anywhere—they only existed in his head.

The man at the other end picked up immediately.

“Boss,” said a deep voice. The relief nearly wiped him out. Grigori, his best pilot.

It was snowing heavily and cellphone reception wasn’t very good. Drake had about a minute or two of consciousness left, but what he had to say was very simple.

“Grigori—“

A heavy chunk of metal fell on the hood, bounced heavily then rolled off, leaving the hood badly dented. Grace screamed and lost control of the vehicle for a moment. Another piece of red-hot metal fell from the sky, then another. A long steel rectangle clattered down. The blade of a helicopter rotor.

Someone had blown up the helicopter on the roof. Drake had instinctively made for the ground, and his instincts had once again proven sound.

Grace was weaving erratically down the street, wide-eyed and white-faced. “What’s happening?” she cried.

Drake stretched out a hand to touch her arm, failed, tried again. She turned slightly at his touch, then turned her attention back to the white, icy road ahead of her. She was sitting forward in her seat, terrified, clutching the wheel with white-knuckled fingers. She wasn’t a very good driver, but she would have to do the driving. Drake was in no condition to take the wheel.

“It’s okay,” he said to Grace and squeezed her arm. She didn’t answer, just pressed her lips together and nodded, eyes on the dangerous road ahead.

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