concrete directly below them, but hitting it from this height would be dangerous. The pool itself was the only real option.
She opened her mouth to say something.
“Don’t talk,” he said. “Jump!”
“Well,” she said. “It’s just…” She blushed a little, looking away. “I’m not wearing a bra.”
Before he could stop himself, Peter glanced down at her chest. She had what looked to be a perky, larger than average bust beneath a loose-fitting, white button-up blouse. That blouse itself was relatively unremarkable while dry, but it was easy to imagine what it would look like when it was wet. Never mind what was underneath.
Then he mentally kicked himself for wasting the time.
All thoughts along those lines evaporated when the men in the room started yanking on the sliding glass door, slamming it over and over into the flimsy chair. The aluminum frame wasn’t going to hold for much longer.
One of them raised a gun to smash the glass.
“Go!” he said, giving her a shove toward the railing.
Once she committed herself, she was surprisingly graceful. She climbed over the rail and then launched herself at the rippling water, moving like a high-diver.
Peter was less graceful, but just as committed. He flopped over the railing, nearly falling, and then jumped, feet first and arms flailing, into the pool.
The water was shockingly cold, short-circuiting his brain and forcing all the air out of him in a bubbly rush. His kicking feet scraped bottom as he awkwardly dog-paddled upward toward the surface. He got his head above water and found that he had somehow twisted around on the way up, and was facing back toward the balcony from which he’d just jumped.
It was occupied by three men in dark suits.
The biggest of the three was a ruddy-faced blond with a stubbly, steam-shovel jaw and a massive, barrel-chested gorilla’s build that seemed to deeply resent being stuffed into his ill-fitting suit. A good three inches of thick, freckled forearm stuck out of the too-short sleeves. His pistol was dwarfed by huge, hairy fingers.
The other two were a hamburger-and-hotdog pair. One was tall, thin, and white, the other short, stocky and black. Different in every way, except they both wore the exact same cheap blue-and-gray striped tie, and the same practiced bad-guy scowls. If they had guns—which Peter didn’t doubt for a second—they had yet to draw them.
Doctor Lachaux was climbing out of the other end of the pool, and so Peter started swimming toward her. He had to do it one-handed, the precious virus clutched against his chest in the other.
The blond gorilla fired at Peter, missing him by an inch and sending a tiny, needle fine spray of water up into his face. Peter swore and called out.
“The gate!” he cried. “Run for the gate!”
Doctor Lachaux looked back over her shoulder at him and made a nervous, rabbit-like lunge toward the gate, just as a glass-top patio table a few feet in front of her exploded into a thousand glittering shards. She cringed and spun toward the balcony, staring up at the shooter like a deer in the headlights.
Peter dragged himself up out of the pool and tackled her bare, wet legs, knocking her to the ground just in time for a bullet to pass through the air where her head had been.
A hotel security guard appeared on the other end of the pool and shouted, drawing fire from the men in the balcony. He pulled out his own pistol and fired off a shot.
“Go!” Peter cried, shoving Doctor Lachaux in the direction of the gate. But she wouldn’t budge. She was turtled up on the concrete lip of the pool, arms over her face and shaking her head.
“Move, will you?” Peter looked back over his shoulder as the security guard cried out. He’d been hit in the belly, but was still firing. Judging from the amount of blood, it didn’t look good for him. “Hurry,” Peter added.
“I can’t,” she wailed, curling up tighter. “I don’t want to die!”
Knowing that the security
She opened her mouth to say something.
“Don’t talk,” he said. “Jump!”
“Well,” she said. “It’s just…” She blushed a little, looking away. “I’m not wearing a bra.”
Before he could stop himself, Peter glanced down at her chest. She had what looked to be a perky, larger than average bust beneath a loose-fitting, white button-up blouse. That blouse itself was relatively unremarkable while dry, but it was easy to imagine what it would look like when it was wet. Never mind what was underneath.
Then he mentally kicked himself for wasting the time.
All thoughts along those lines evaporated when the men in the room started yanking on the sliding glass door, slamming it over and over into the flimsy chair. The aluminum frame wasn’t going to hold for much longer.
One of them raised a gun to smash the glass.
“Go!” he said, giving her a shove toward the railing.
Once she committed herself, she was surprisingly graceful. She climbed over the rail and then launched herself at the rippling water, moving like a high-diver.
Peter was less graceful, but just as committed. He flopped over the railing, nearly falling, and then jumped, feet first and arms flailing, into the pool.
The water was shockingly cold, short-circuiting his brain and forcing all the air out of him in a bubbly rush. His kicking feet scraped bottom as he awkwardly dog-paddled upward toward the surface. He got his head above water and found that he had somehow twisted around on the way up, and was facing back toward the balcony from which he’d just jumped.
It was occupied by three men in dark suits.
The biggest of the three was a ruddy-faced blond with a stubbly, steam-shovel jaw and a massive, barrel-chested gorilla’s build that seemed to deeply resent being stuffed into his ill-fitting suit. A good three inches of thick, freckled forearm stuck out of the too-short sleeves. His pistol was dwarfed by huge, hairy fingers.
The other two were a hamburger-and-hotdog pair. One was tall, thin, and white, the other short, stocky and black. Different in every way, except they both wore the exact same cheap blue-and-gray striped tie, and the same practiced bad-guy scowls. If they had guns—which Peter didn’t doubt for a second—they had yet to draw them.
Doctor Lachaux was climbing out of the other end of the pool, and so Peter started swimming toward her. He had to do it one-handed, the precious virus clutched against his chest in the other.
The blond gorilla fired at Peter, missing him by an inch and sending a tiny, needle fine spray of water up into his face. Peter swore and called out.
“The gate!” he cried. “Run for the gate!”
Doctor Lachaux looked back over her shoulder at him and made a nervous, rabbit-like lunge toward the gate, just as a glass-top patio table a few feet in front of her exploded into a thousand glittering shards. She cringed and spun toward the balcony, staring up at the shooter like a deer in the headlights.
Peter dragged himself up out of the pool and tackled her bare, wet legs, knocking her to the ground just in time for a bullet to pass through the air where her head had been.
A hotel security guard appeared on the other end of the pool and shouted, drawing fire from the men in the balcony. He pulled out his own pistol and fired off a shot.
“Go!” Peter cried, shoving Doctor Lachaux in the direction of the gate. But she wouldn’t budge. She was turtled up on the concrete lip of the pool, arms over her face and shaking her head.
“Move, will you?” Peter looked back over his shoulder as the security guard cried out. He’d been hit in the belly, but was still firing. Judging from the amount of blood, it didn’t look good for him. “Hurry,” Peter added.
“I can’t,” she wailed, curling up tighter. “I don’t want to die!”
Knowing that the security
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