Taking Fire by Cindy Gerard

“Let’s go,” she repeated.
    He muttered something under his breath and grabbed two more water bottles, and without a word, they started walking.
    *   *   *
    Fatigue started winning out over adrenaline; it no longer blocked the pain. Every bruise, every cut—­especially the ones on her feet—stung like fire as they hurried across the lawn toward the parking lot.
    She knew she had to keep moving. Anything inside the embassy compound was considered the sovereign territory of the United States government. If any of the Marines guarding the embassy caught them attempting to leave, they’d detain them for certain. They’d want to clear everyone before they were allowed to leave the bombing area.
    She couldn’t let that happen. Using the background pandemonium and the emergency vehicles as cover, she kept moving. Until Taggart stopped abruptly, and she almost took a tumble.
    â€œWhat’s going on?” he asked sharply. “What do you want with me?”
    â€œLater. We need to get to my car and get out of here.”
    â€œYou need keys for a car. I don’t see any, and you sure as hell aren’t carrying them on you.”
    He would know. There wasn’t a part of her body that hadn’t pushed, pulled, collapsed, or rubbed against his as they’d fought their way out of the building. Her ruined tank top and what was left of her skirt couldn’t have concealed a breath mint.
    â€œI’ve got it covered,” she said, and pushed on until they finally reached the gate. Then she felt her heart stop when she realized it was locked.
    â€œNow what?” Taggart asked.
    She couldn’t panic now. And when an ambulance rushed up to the gate from the bombed building moments later, siren screaming, she knew this was their chance.
    â€œBe ready to move when I do,” she said.
    When the Marine walked to the driver’s side of the ambulance, she hurried Taggart around to the opposite side. As soon as the gate swung open, Talia, pumped on her last burst of adrenaline, hurried alongside the vehicle, out of view of the guard, and slipped through the gate. Then she rushed into the thick knot of people standing outside the perimeter.
    Once the Marine closed and locked the gate and returned to his post about ten yards from the perimeter fence, she took off toward the parking lot.
    She didn’t look back to see if they were being followed. Her car, while a good city block away, was in sight, which meant they were almost clear. They made it another ten yards before a moving wall of people stopped them. A dozen news crews swarmed around them like sharks around chum.
    Everywhere she looked, a microphone or a camera appeared, snapping pictures, shooting video, as reporters shot questions at them like bullets.
    â€œWere you in the building when it exploded?”
    â€œCan you give us an account of what happened?” A camera zoomed in close on her face.
    Oh, God, they had her on film now. Her face would appear on TV and the Internet, on news channels around the world via instant feed. The video was probably streaming live right now.
    And her enemies could be watching right now, gloating over their victory—and suddenly discover that they’d failed when they saw she was alive.
    There was no question now. They would immediately go after Meir. These vultures had just made certain that her son was now a target.
    â€œDid you see who did this?”
    â€œWas this the work of terrorists?”
    â€œGet out of my way!” With Taggart’s help, she pushed through the crowd, now frantic to get to a phone and warn Jonathan.
    A balding man shoved a microphone in front of her. “Do you know if the American ambassador was in the building today? Can you give us your name and tell us how bad the casualties are?”
    The large crowd felt like a pulsing wall of bodies, closing in and pushing against them. They leaned in and around her,