Sacrifice the Wicked by Karina Cooper Page B

gallantly to the open window. “After you.” The door creaked as something—someone—tested the lock. Simon’s humor vanished. “Now,” he added, wrapping his hands around her waist and all but spilling her onto the slippery metal platform.
    The metal groaned beneath her sudden weight. Telling enough to anyone listening. And Salem Project operatives weren’t stupid.
    Under the cover of the storm’s rage, the door exploded open behind him, lock tearing from the doorjamb. Splinters rained into the room.
    A man in black plasteel body armor followed.
    “Move!” Simon yelled, but he didn’t have time to draw his gun. The operative came at him so fast, Simon couldn’t even gauge any details about him. Black-clad, face covered, build lean and lethal. Gun ready. That was enough.
    He lurched to the side, grabbed the man’s gun hand, and yanked him into the room, hard enough to hear his shoulder pop. The operative stumbled, grunting, but twisted sideways. Simon cursed as the motion snapped tension through his side, pulling at his wounds.
    Who was he? One of his own generation?
    A newer breeding pool?
    Three operatives. Nobody’s working alone. Fisher’s warning repeated itself in his brain as Simon caught the fist flung at him, rotated his grip, and rammed the agent face-first into the window frame under his own momentum. The whole wall shuddered.
    The operative righted himself but staggered. Simon danced away from the boot lashed back in lethal intensity. It grazed his shin. Too close.
    As Simon wrenched his gun free, his opponent turned, hands splayed. Giving up?
    Simon hesitated.
    No. It didn’t matter. Setting his jaw, he pulled the trigger, twice in quick succession. He didn’t even stop to check as the man dropped mid-lunge, skidded face-first on the carpet.
    Known or not, the operative made his choices.
    And Simon had just sealed his own.
    He half dove out of the window, adrenaline pounding in his veins. Another impression in his awareness suddenly changed direction; as if Simon were the center of a compass, he felt it—saw it—alter course. And fast.
    Nothing broke stealth like gunfire.
    Rain sluiced down the fire escape, making the rails treacherous. He caught sight of Parker’s soaked form two platforms below him, scaling the escape as if she did it every day. She’d hit the ground first; he still had two floors to go.
    Humor skated through apprehension.
    Faded as a shadow detached from the corner of the building beneath her.
    “Parker!” he roared.
    She looked up, pale features furrowed with intense concentration.
    Only to curse in mingled surprise and anger as the operative grabbed the bag across her shoulders and plucked her, kicking and fighting, from the ladder. Her feet flashed, reflectors on her sneakers throwing back glints of silver. One collided with the operative’s knee.
    The man staggered but held tight.
    Simon holstered his gun, snapped it in place. Didn’t stop to consider the alternative. Seizing the railing in both hands, he vaulted over the edge and hit free fall. His stomach launched into his chest. Vertigo slammed through his head, wrenching his senses lopsided, even as his feet scraped against the operative’s shoulders. Slid down his armored back.
    Silver glinted in a flash of lightning; a metal edge colored blue, and fire seared up his side as Simon hit the ground, took the operative down with him and felt the impact all the way to his bones. He cursed savagely as pain wrecked every nerve from heels to hips. But the operative hit the ground tangled with him, sending Parker sprawling in the opposite direction. The knife flashed as it buried itself in shadow.
    He didn’t have time to hurt.
    The operative recovered first, slammed an elbow into Simon’s sternum as he tried to get to his feet. Gasping, Simon caught his arm, wrenched it; rolled with it until he felt as much as heard the joint in the man’s elbow give with an audible pop. The operative screamed.
    The tattoo