Page 131 of Wilde and Deadly

Weston gave a short nod, his concentration never breaking. “I’ll make it work.”

“Got it!”Daphne said.“You have two extra minutes, West. Three at most. Work your magic.”

Jesus, it still wasn’t enough. Weston was good under pressure, but this was a goddamn pressure cooker.

Elliot’s voice came over the comms, sharp and tactical, all business.“Drone’s got movement on a railway bridge almost directly above your position. Nearest access is an old service stairwell—should be about forty meters to your right, near the west end of the platform. It’ll put you out near the base of the bridge.”

“Brody?” Davey asked.

“Confirmed. It’s him.”

Sullivan was already moving. “I’m going.”

“Fuck.” Davey looked back to where Weston and Sabin were still working methodically on the vest. The clock had stopped at forty-five seconds, but how long could Daphne hold it there?

Rowan’s fingers brushed his arm again, and, yet again, it was enough to drag him out of his own head, out of the spiraling what-ifs.

She met his gaze. Steady. Unshaken.

“Go,” she said. “I’ve got their six.”

Christ, she was perfect.

Davey’s hand found the back of her neck before he could stop himself.

The kiss was fast, desperate, full of things he didn’t have time to say right now.

Be safe.

Don’t die.

Come back to me.

“Shoot to kill, Hellcat,” he murmured when he pulled away.

“Always do.” She grinned, and fuck, did he love her for that casual deadliness. She gave his shoulder a shove. “Now, go.”

“Dom. Cade. With me.” He turned away from his heart and didn’t look back. Didn’t hesitate.

He just ran.

thirty-four

Davey’s footfallsechoed against the worn concrete of the service stairwell as he took the steps two at a time.

Sullivan was ahead, moving fast.

Too fast.

That was the problem with adrenaline. It made men reckless. Made them forget what they were trained to do. And Sullivan wasn’t thinking anymore. He was reacting—raw, unfiltered emotion taking the wheel.

Davey hit the last step and burst out onto solid ground. The winter night slammed into his lungs, a shock after the stagnant, metallic rot of the tunnels.

Scan. Process. Control.

They were at the base of the bridge. The massive steel structure spanned the river, its main deck lined with parallel railway tracks, flanked by thick metal beams and cross-braces.

Above, dim industrial floodlights cast weak patches of yellow light onto the steel framework, flickering against the night. A narrow strip of grated steel ran alongside the bridge—some kind of walkway for maintenance workers. It had a single guardrail on the outer edge, and the inner side was open to the rail lines.

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