Page 8 of Reckless: Collision

“Plenty of time.”

“That wasn’t a challenge!”

I grin, sliding along the wall. “Everything’s a challenge if you’re brave enough.” Or stupid enough. The line gets pretty blurry sometimes.

Movement ahead—a shadow passing through moonlight. I duck behind a cubicle wall, my pink gun ready. The shadow moves again, more purposeful this time. They’re good. Professional. Probably expecting Puritan security or Omega Guardian response.

They’re definitely not expecting five-foot-six of pissed-off beta with a bedazzled Glock and impulse control issues.

“Found you,” I whisper, mostly to myself. Then louder: “Nice shot back there. Points for style, but you really should have led with the kill shot. Rookie mistake.”

A pause, then a deep voice, “My job was to destroy the evidence. No casualties.”

“Aw, that’s sweet. Inefficient, but sweet.” I move silent as a shadow, using the voice to triangulate position. The floor is freezing against my feet, but at least it makes stealth easier. “Here’s the thing though—you missed a drive. So now I’ve got backup copies of everything, plus attempted murder on top of the data. I’m thinking Pulitzer.”

A bullet embeds itself in the cubicle beside my head. Rude.

“That was your second mistake,” I say, rolling to new cover. My unicorn pajamas catch on something—probably karma getting back at me for all my life choices. “Your first was assuming I’d run down instead of up.”

“And your mistake,” the voice is closer now, “was assuming I came alone.”

Oh. Oh shit.

Movement behind me—a whisper of sound, a shift in the air. I dive forward just as a second shooter appears, their bullet cutting through the space where my head was. I come up firing, my bedazzled gun throwing fabulous pink reflections everywhere as I put two rounds into their knee.

The scream gives away both positions. I sprint for the stairwell, bullets chasing my heels. My bare feet slap against the floor, each step a reminder that I really need to rethink my emergency preparedness plan. Maybe addproper footwearto the list, right afterstop antagonizing professional killers.

“Quinn! Need an exit that isn’t currently occupied by professional killers!”

“Window-washing rig, north side!” His fingers fly across keys. “I can lower it to the thirtieth floor but?—”

“Perfect!”

“CAY NO.”

“CAY YES.”

I burst through a set of doors into an open office space, floor-to-ceiling windows showing the glittering city beyond. The window-washing rig hangs like a promise, just waiting for someone crazy enough to use it as an escape route.

The universe really does provide.

“Aria?” I ask, shooting out the window locks. “Remember when we were ten and you said I’d either end up winning a Nobel Prize or jumping off a building?”

“...Please tell me you’re about to win a Nobel.”

I kick out the glass, tiny shards sticking to my bare feet. Pain shoots up my legs, but adrenaline’s a hell of a painkiller. “Well, you were half right.”

The first shooter appears in the doorway just as I leap onto the window-washing platform. Their bullet grazes my arm as I slam the control panel, sending the rig into a rapid descent. Wind whips my hair into a red tornado, my sparkly gun still throwing disco ball patterns across the city’s face.

“Quinn? Now would be a great time for Puritan Security response team.”

“North entrance, fifteen seconds.”

“And how long until this rig hits the thirtieth floor?”

“...Twenty seconds.”

I look up at the two shadows now leaning out the broken window, then down at the approaching floor. My feet are bleeding, my arm’s on fire, and my favorite unicorn pajamas are probably ruined. “Anyone ever tell you your timing sucks?”

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