Special Agent | ✓

Twenty-Three

TWENTY-THREE

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Quinn flung the door in Scott's face, heard him grunt as it slammed into him before locking into place.

Oh, thank the heavens. It locks from inside.

Nevertheless, Quinn was sure Scott would find the quickest way possible down to the street, where'd he'd riddle her with holes until she truly resembled a Swiss cheese. Not that she had time to worry about that now, as she first had to find a safe place to heal and process ... .everything.

Whatever 'everything' even means. This is bloody shot to hell, already.

Though now ... she had it confirmed. Scott Davidson, Special Agent Davidson of The Agency, was a bloody traitor. A big, fat, stinking bloody liar. A cowardly, limp-dicked, flat-assed excuse of a man.

Those last ones were lies, and you know it.

Either way — his personality was bloody rotten, all the way through. Anger and fury bubbled within Quinn as she thought of what he'd said, how casually he'd planned to put a bullet in her head, then let her cold, dead body topple across the ledge of a random building in Venice.

No, Quinn had more self-esteem than that. More fight in her, than that. She'd been through so much shit that an asshole like Scott wouldn't bring her down. She'd cry and overanalyze her current life situation later, but for now she needed to make sure there was a later.

And find Gavin.

Worry clumped in her gut at the thought of Gavin, and where he was, though that worry swiftly crumpled and died as she realized he might be a part of this, too.

But why would Scott ignore his call if he was? Wouldn't he be in on it?

Those were fine points. Fine points, indeed. For any other time that didn't include Quinn running for her life, and half-praying to every deity that deigned respond to her that she'd make it. Make it somewhere safe.

She had no back-up. No bodyguard, not that she needed one — she did, however, want weapons of her own. It's not as if she could waltz up someplace random in Venice, half-expecting someone to show up and drop a couple of guns and some ammo into her hands.

Though that would be nice. Come on, deities, you can deliver on that, right?

They didn't, which sort of dampened Quinn's spirits as she made a mad dash down another flight of stairs. She needed to get the bloody hell out of that god-forsaken building, and then dart across the entire town of Venice like a cat out of hell, while bleeding out of a bullet wound that never seemed to run out of blood.

Honestly, bleeding out seems like a better option at the moment.

Shaking that discouraging thought off, Quinn focused on shoving herself down another flight of stairs, spotting the ground floor only two more flights below her.

Come on, come on.

Her breaths came hard and fast (and not for the fun reason) as she toppled down another dozen steps, hands clammy and slipping against the iron railing. She'd make it down, for sure, but the question of how she was to make it out was another one entirely. She'd need to evade not only a highly skilled Special Agent, but the squad of highly skilled bodyguards slash killers courtesy of Mr. Fabio Ricci.

Wait until Tibble hears about this.

And she would. Quinn had promised herself that, no matter what kind of snarky comments were running through her subconscious, attempting to dampen her will to fight. With a shaky landing, Quinn ended up on the ground floor. She burst through the entryway door to the building, finding herself in an unfamiliar road that she didn't dare linger in.