Page 46 of The Unlikely Spare (Unlikely Dilemmas #3)

Someone told them. Someone on our team gave away our position, our protocols, our escape routes.

Which means everything I’ve been trained to do is now a liability.

“Alternative exit?” I ask Blake.

“Kitchen, then out the back,” she replies, eyes never leaving the door. “But it’s all open ground up that slope.”

The security briefing flashes through my mind—the Green Dragon sits at the water’s edge, with a grassy slope rising behind it. Tree line at the top, then down to the staff car park. We’ll have to crest that rise completely exposed before we can drop down to the vehicles.

“Better than being cornered here.” I make the decision instantly. “Blake, coordinate with Cavendish. I’ll get the principal out through the kitchen.”

Blake hesitates for a fraction of a second. “Standard protocol is to keep the principal surrounded?—”

“Fuck standard protocol. Someone just blew up our exit vehicles.” I grab Nicholas’s arm. “We move now.”

To his credit, Nicholas doesn’t waste time with questions or protests. He follows my lead as we move swiftly through the kitchen, past wide-eyed staff who’ve hit the floor at the sound of the explosion.

At the rear door, I position myself in front of Nicholas, my body a shield between him and whatever might be waiting outside.

Through the window, I can see the grassy slope stretching upward.

The summer sun beats down on brown- tinged grass.

There’s no cover until we reach those trees at the ridgeline.

“When we go, you stay directly behind me,” I tell him, not turning around. “We make for the trees at the top. The car park’s on the other side.”

“Understood.”

I push the door open and move out, immediately scanning for threats. The afternoon heat hits like a wall after the cool interior.

We start up the slope, my body angled to shield Nicholas as much as possible. The dry grass crunches under our feet, the incline steeper than it looked from below. Every step feels exposed, the bright sun making us perfect targets against the hillside.

Halfway up, shouts erupt behind us.

Fuck.

Someone has spotted our exit.

“Keep moving,” I urge Nicholas.

The first shots crack through the air just as we near the tree line. I push Nicholas down, covering him with my body as bullets snap through the air above us.

“Haki!” The shout comes from below, full of rage. “Haki!”

I have no idea what it means, but there’s no time to wonder. The trees are only ten meters away.

“Crawl,” I order. “Fast.”

We scramble on hands and knees, the dry grass scratching at exposed skin. More shots, but they’re firing uphill blind now—we’re too close to the ridge for them to get a good angle.

My heart is in my throat, but we manage to reach the row of established trees. Through the trunks, I can see the slope down to the staff car park, native plantings dotting the descent.

“Down the other side,” I tell Nicholas. “Stay low, use the plantings for cover.”

We slip through the trees and start down, half-sliding on the loose earth. Behind us, our pursuers crest the hill, their shouts growing closer.

The car park contains a dozen vehicles baking in the afternoon sun. I spot a dark-colored Toyota Hilux near the exit. Sturdy, common, and pickups are notoriously easy to start.

“That one,” I point.

We reach the bottom of the slope and sprint across the exposed tarmac.

I use my body to shield Nicholas as I check the doors of the Hilux. Locked, as expected. Of course. Nothing’s ever easy.

“Stay down,” I order, then bring my elbow down hard on the driver’s side window. The safety glass spiders and crumbles, the alarm immediately shrieking to life.

I reach through, unlock the door, then push Nicholas into the car.

He slides across to the passenger seat, and I climb in, examining the ignition.

“Eoin!” Nicholas’s warning cuts through my concentration.

I turn and find that one of the attackers is halfway down the hill, weapon raised. Young guy, military bearing, face twisted with determination. Twisting around, I fire twice, forcing him to dive for cover, then return to the desperate task of hot-wiring the vehicle.

The wires are where they should be. Strip, twist, spark—the engine roars to life just as more shots strike the side of the pickup. The sound of bullets punching through metal is distinctive, unforgettable.

“Get down!” I yell at Nicholas as a bullet shatters the rear window, safety glass exploding across the rear seat.

I throw the vehicle into reverse, backing up hard, tires screaming against pavement, then slam it into drive.

“Hold on,” I warn, then accelerate straight toward the maintenance gate.

It explodes on impact, metal and wood giving way with a satisfying crunch. I swerve onto the access road, pushing the vehicle as hard as it will go. The engine protests but holds.

In the rearview mirror, I can see figures running toward vehicles in the parking lot. They’ll pursue, but we have a head start. It might be enough.

Hopefully.

“Are you hit?” I demand, splitting my attention between Nicholas and the road.

“No.” He runs his hands over his torso, checking. “You?”

“I’m fine.” Adrenaline is still pumping through my system, making my hands shake as I try to clutch the steering wheel.

Fine is relative. But we’re alive. That’s what matters.

“How do you know how to hot-wire a car?”

“Misspent youth.” I swing the wheel hard into the first corner. I need to focus on driving, on escape routes, on keeping us alive.

“Check the glove compartment. Anything useful?”

Nicholas rummages through it with hands steadier than mine. “Registration papers, a torch, some tissues. Unless you want to navigate our escape by blowing our noses, I don’t see much tactical advantage here.”

Despite everything—the terror, the adrenaline, the very real possibility that we’re not out of this yet—I feel my mouth twitch. In the midst of a kidnapping attempt, Nicholas’s wit remains intact. It’s so essentially him that my chest loosens just a fraction.

I take a sharp turn onto a larger road, putting more distance between us and our pursuers. The speedometer climbs past legal limits, but that’s the least of our concerns.

The New Zealand countryside blurs out the windows. All those picturesque rolling hills we admired on the way here are now just obstacles between us and safety.

If safety even exists anymore.

I do a mental inventory. One stolen vehicle. No backup I can trust. And the Glock at my hip with eighteen rounds total—the diplomatic permit had been a nightmare to arrange, and even then, New Zealand’s restrictions mean I’m carrying a third of my usual ammunition.

Eighteen bullets between us and whatever’s coming.

I’ve been in worse situations, but not many.

“What about the others?” Nicholas asks, and the concern in his voice cuts through my focus. “Blake? Cavendish?”

“If they got out, they’ll contact HQ.” I grip the steering wheel harder. “But we can’t rely on standard protocols now.”