Chapter 1096
“He’s got the case!” Skye gasped, pointing down the corridor.
Alistair didn’t hesitate. He sprinted past her with the focused speed of a predator, closing the distance at a frightening pace.
They broke out into the alleyway. Victor was already loading the case into the back of a waiting motorcycle.
Alistair’s black SUV screeched around the corner, blocking the alley exit. Gabriel Ross held the wheel, engine revving.
“Drop it, Victor!” Alistair roared, leveling his weapon.
Victor froze. He looked at Alistair, then at Skye — hobbling through the door, leaning on Victoria. Slowly, he raised a small remote detonator in his left hand.
“Back off,” Victor said calmly. “Or I blow the case. And the gem inside it.”
The standoff in the alley was a tableau of frozen violence. Rain had begun to fall, slicking the cobblestones. Alistair’s gun was trained on Victor’s chest, his finger hovering off the trigger.
“You won’t destroy it,” Alistair said. “Marcus needs that key.”
“Marcus needs the money,” Victor corrected. “But he’d rather see it turned to dust than end up in your hands.”
He thumbed the detonator.
Alistair didn’t flinch. “Then do it. Blow it up. And then explain to Marcus why you failed.”
Victor’s smile faltered. He knew Alistair was right. It was a bluff.
But Victor was a professional. He didn’t need to win the standoff — he just needed to escape. He hurled the detonator at Alistair — a fake, nothing more than a garage door opener — and simultaneously kicked the motorcycle into gear.
He gunned the engine and drove straight at Alistair.
Alistair threw himself to the side to avoid being crushed. The bike roared past, clipping the SUV with a screech of metal on metal, and disappeared into the night traffic.
“Damn it!” Alistair drove his fist against the hood of the car.
They regrouped at the Thorne safe house an hour later. The mood was funereal. They had been outplayed.
“He has the gem,” Skye said, sinking onto the sofa. She felt hollowed out. “Marcus wins.”
The large screen on the wall was dark — they hadn’t yet reconnected with Julian. Victoria was pacing, cursing her brother’s existence in three languages.
Alistair disappeared into the kitchenette. Skye expected to hear things breaking, some outlet for his rage. Instead, ten minutes later, he returned carrying a tray.
The smell of garlic and basil filled the room. He had made pasta — simple, unpretentious spaghetti aglio e olio.
He set a bowl in front of Skye. “Eat.”
Skye looked up at him. “Alistair, we just lost billions of dollars. I can’t eat.”
“You haven’t eaten since yesterday,” he said, sitting down beside her. He rolled up his sleeves, the tattoos on his forearms catching the light. “Your brain is running on fumes and you look like a ghost. Eat. That’s an order.”
Skye took a bite. It was incredible — spicy, comforting, warm.
“I didn’t know you cooked,” she murmured.