Sacrifice the Wicked by Karina Cooper Page A

whirled in the dark hallway, her face a bone-white shadow of surprise in what little lightning residue crept through the dark hall.
    He couldn’t give her time to adapt. Not this time. Her name on his list proved even the Mission director was fair game. And he wasn’t the only cleanup agent on the roster.
    There weren’t that many operatives out there yet, but taking on three by himself wasn’t his idea of a good time. They’d already hit the power grid in the block; not even streetlights remained visible.
    “Wait!” she whispered. She took a step back toward the lamplight—and the bull’s-eye target it’d make of her.
    He caught her by the shoulders, fingers tight in her blouse. “Leave the cat,” he said tightly. “They’re not after him.”
    “It’s not—”
    “Now!” he snapped. As his senses unfolded, as the individual bodies pinged on his witch-born radar, he dragged her back further down the hall.
    Parker’s mouth flattened into a hard white line. She caught up with his urgency—and to her credit, she caught on fast. Saying nothing, she pushed past him, a red-capped shadow.
    Although only an administrative missionary, she had serious spirit. He liked that about her.
    He liked a lot of things about her. Her copper red hair, always so tightly wound. Her midnight blue eyes, the way she thrust out her jaw when things didn’t fall into place. Her red lipstick, sultry as hell and one more plate in her polished armor.
    The sweet curve of her ass in the jeans he hadn’t thought she owned.
    Amid the wild rush of adrenaline, the thought slammed home in a surge of heat.
    Focus, damn it.
    She crossed the room, her stride long. Her feet bare. Lightning flashed outside, streamed through the flirty sheer curtains he’d never have expected from the uptight director. It painted her bedroom in fluorescent purple and blue, sank it back into darkness made all the worse for the memory of it.
    Simon knuckled at his eyes. “Move it,” he ordered quietly, shutting the door as softly as he could. She’d put a lock on it.
    Paranoid?
    In this case, just paranoid enough.
    He slid the metal catch into place, hurried across the room as she forked right.
    She ignored him, flinging open her closet and kneeling to rifle through God only knew what. Simon growled a curse.
    The look she shot him might have been censure. He wouldn’t doubt it. But spots of color rode her cheeks, and fear shimmered in the depths of her usually so steady gaze.
    Maybe there was hope for her yet.
    He twitched the curtains aside. Rain splattered the window, hammered the metal fire escape clinging to the building wall. Contrary to his earlier assertion, nothing moved outside, though a muffled series of thuds faded beneath a wild clap of bone-rattling thunder.
    “Let’s go, Director.”
    “I need shoes,” she half snarled, waving sneakers in one hand and her Beretta in the other. Simon flung aside the curtain and unlatched the window. It opened easily.
    Rain splattered the brick windowsill, blew a fragrant blend of wet cement and acid through the room. He braced one hand against the glass over his head, leaned out far enough to study the dark path through the fire escape.
    It was a long way down.
    “Ready,” she breathed behind him. Simon turned. Offered a hand by rote and raised a surprised eyebrow when a wild fork of lightning turned the room bright as daylight.
    Somehow, she’d managed to pack a bag. It hung over her shoulder, a simple canvas rig. Her bare feet now sported laced sneakers, and a black neoprene jacket covered her blouse, hiding the curves he’d had too much time to admire.
    “Always prepared, huh, Director?”
    If looks could obliterate, he’d be a pile of ash on the carpet. Thunder swallowed her response, but Simon bet on a talk on their immediate future.
    Then again, he’d bet on a whole lot more than talking, but not if he didn’t get her out of this net right fucking now.
    Biting back a hard little smile, he gestured