Page 134 of One Secret

Deciding this is the best of a series of poor options, Cyrus takes the passenger seat.

I could just tell him the truth: that I know how to field strip his weapons as quickly as he does and that I had the highest marksman grade in my unit. But eccentric confessions have a way of reading like lies, especially in desperate situations. And we don't have time for me to prove my point. Instead, I jump behind the wheel, switch the car from auto-drive to manual, and slam it into reverse.

With a spin of the wheel and a heavy hand back into first gear, then second, I spin us around the parking lot and shoot down its eastern perimeter to mount the exit ramp.

'Holy...' Cyrus mutters.

For a second, it's like daylight. The bulbs of the external lights high overhead are trained on the exit and explode across my sight as we reach the open air. I don't slow down. I just drive blind for a heartbeat, blinking splotches of funny colors from my vision.

Speeding around the hotel, the front gates come into view and loom increasingly larger: tall, imposing... and made of heavy iron.

Cyrus has transferred his call from his phone to his earpiece.

'Nat!' he cries as I put my foot to the floor.

With little-to-no engine noise from the electric car, I can almost make out Nat's voice on the other end of the line:

"Gotcha covered."

To the great surprise of the approaching guardsmen, the electric gates click unlocked and begin to fall open.

'Slow up and I can take out the—'

I speed up.

We scratch up one of the headlights pretty good as I high-speed-wiggle our way through the still-opening gates. Then I swing us out on the drag and to the north: inland.

Despite our escape plan hinging on a boat near the harbor, Cyrus says nothing of my choice of direction. Which tells me that we're of the same mind: I've been theorizing his plan since he chose the Tesla over the nearby Suzuki Hayabusa.

Motorbikes, after all, don't drive themselves.

'How far do you think we need to get?' I ask, punching buttons on the central console. The navigation screen lights up and politely asks where I would like to go this evening.

The hell away from here...

Cyrus has twisted in his seat to get a better look out through the back.

'A little further than we were already planning,' he growls, eyes trained on the road behind us.

I glance in the rearview mirror, see nothing but the back of Cyrus's head, and adjust the wings instead.

Four large SUVs are speeding along the road behind us.

'Fuck,' I mutter. 'They were quick.'

'Felix must have had them on speed dial,' Cyrus sighs, flopping back into the passenger seat and reaching for the dark canvas bag Lana had thrown at him.

From inside, he takes out a series of cylinders and metal connectors. I flick on the internal light so he can see better.

In less than a minute, Cyrus has converted a series of harmless-looking metallic shapes into an assault rifle. I recognize it as the long-barrel variant of the FN SCAR. Best at 550 yards.

I glance in the mirrors again at the SUVs. Then ease off the gas. Their headlights grow larger and larger as I calculate the distance best I can in the dark.

Cyrus is busy opening the window and setting up his shot, one arm and the side of his head hanging from the car. I drift us over the center line, bringing his barrel at least generally in line with the cars behind. Everything else, every variable and element of a long-distance shot is now down to Cyrus.

It's not a shot I would want to make. Least of all hanging out the window of a moving perch.

Bang!

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