Page 33 of Rogue

With my next step, my right foot submerges into water. Right up to my ankle.Ew.I immediately shift backward, shaking my head with disappointment.

I can’t continue any further. Not without the proper preparations, namely a flashlight and a map of the tunnels. How easy it’d be to get lost, to disappear off the face of the earth and become just another catacombs casualty?

Hell, I’m not even sure this is the direction Novák’s men have taken.

I turn and begin my retreat, my fingertips grazing the wall as I recount my steps backward.

That’s when the catacomb turns into a theme-park freak feast.

A familiar buzzing sound ricochets off the limestone. A bullet . . . shit.

I forget my step count and high-step it out of there. Running like the devil’s on my heels back toward the exit.

It’s unclear whether that bullet had my name on it or not.

What is clear by the sloshing sound of water is that whoever fired it or whoever it was intended for is on the move as well.

I find the hole, army-crawl through it, and scamper up the ladder toward the light seeping through three holes punched into the manhole cover.

I reach the top, and with a sharp inhalation of relief, push up against the cover.

It doesn’t budge.

Balancing myself on the ladder, I try to lift it with both hands.

Shit. Oh shit.

My heart speeds up, racing harder than it had during my sprint. I bite my lip, thinking . . . thinking . . .

I remove the butter knife from the waist of my skirt and with a scowl, slice into the material. Cursing myself for not ordering a steak with fries and subsequently stealing a sharp steak knife instead of this worthless bit of metal. Impatient and growing more frantic by the moment, I jam my finger into the hole I’ve created and rip my skirt.

There we go.

Quickly, I remove the lid off the hydrogen peroxide and dip the long piece of boho cotton into the bottle, giving three-fourths of it a good soak before replacing the lid and dropping the bottle back into my satchel.

Wedging the soaked end into the space between the cover and the sidewalk, I then loop the soaked material into the three holes, careful to leave the dry end dangling free.

Risky. But whoever fired that bullet ruined any advantage I had. I’ve got to get out of here, pronto.

I light a match and hold the flame beneath the material until it takes.

Time to blow.

As fast as my legs can carry me, I retreat back down the ladder. Praying whoever is behind me hasn’t reached the ladder yet.

Halfway down, the manhole explodes. I throw myself against the side of the chute, my arms overhead blocking any falling debris.

But instead of debris, blessed light fills the chute.

Bingo, baby.

The ladder abruptly shakes.

I hear yelling—“I’m going to kill you”—in a thick accent. Big-Belly? But I don’t wait around to find out.

I haul ass back up the ladder. Ignoring how the ladder shakes from whoever is behind me. Mindless of my fear of not reaching the top before I’m overtaken. I focus on the defensive . . . if he grabs my ankle and attempts to pull me off the ladder, I’ll drop my satchel on his head. Sure, it’s only a few pounds at best, but hey, gravity is on my side.

To my relief, I reach sidewalk level. Hauling my body out of the manhole, I army-crawl forward, adjust the gun at my waist, and scramble to my knees.