“Idiot.”
A loud snore erupted, calling out their location like an overpowered homing beacon.
“I pity your lover.” Lila turned the man onto his stomach to stop the bulk of the noise. She ran her fingers along Nic’s neck and retrieved her dart, then ran quickly to the rookie to do the same.
The job had gotten far too hot. With nothing stolen and no other crimes evident, the first thing Bullstow would consider was the security of its computer network. Even if Lila didn’t get caught, she might never work again after such a mess.
Neither would Tristan, if she had anything to do with it.
Lila stowed the darts in her pocket and sprinted toward the stone wall at the edge of the compound. She ran up the side and stretched toward the top, lifting her head over the cold stone, mentally cataloging all the ways she could torture her partner with an expensive beer bottle and a few used sleep darts.
Luckily, the searchlights on the street still had a rhythm to them, not thrown off by the blaring alarms or the fire truck hurtling closer to Bullstow’s front gate. Since she could predict the beams again, she could avoid both the light and the blackcoats who patrolled the front gate.
After the fire truck wailed past her position, she scrambled over the wall and dropped onto the street, littered with wads of trash and grime. She skirted the domain of the floodlights and peered at the guard post a block away. A herd of blackcoats shouted back and forth to the driver of the fire truck, surrounding it in a press of skittish eyes and cocked revolvers.
Lila removed her thermal hood and cast about the streets, settling her newsboy cap over her curls once more. She thrust the hood into her pocket, waited for the correct pattern in the search lights, then crossed the street toward a lowborn perfumery. The clash of a hundred floral scents invaded her nose, fighting for control of her stomach.
Holding her breath, Lila walked steadily toward the alleyway next to the shop. From now on, she was nothing more than a citizen of New Bristol out for an early morning stroll.
“Halt!” someone shouted down the street. The group of blackcoats sprinted away from the fire truck in a swirl of confusion. Their boots clomped against the asphalt, disturbing bits of paper and shopping bags that dotted the street.
Lila kept walking despite their presence. A cackling radio struggled against her jammer and called out the location of the perfumery. She slipped her hands inside her pockets and thumbed off the device.
Instantly, the static disappeared.
“Halt, under order of Governor Lecomte!” one of the guards called out again, Weberly revolver drawn and pointed at her chest.
Lila turned slowly, a practiced look of innocence pressed into her features. She did not look directly at the men. Instead, she scanned the streets for Tristan and his people. At any moment, they would appear and provide a distraction so that she could run away.
The guards formed a ring around her, guns swaying in the air. Guards, she couldn’t help but notice, who were unmolested by a roaring swarm of criminals.
“Hands up,” another guard ordered, punching the space between them with the butt of his gun.
Lila was too shocked to comply immediately. Her eyes danced across the rooftops, peered into alleys, and even squinted hard at the guard post. But the man behind the glass was far too young and far too plump to be confused with Tristan.
“The man asked you to put your hands up. I think you should comply, madam.” The leader of the guards marched closer, a swagger heavy in his gait, a gun held tightly at his thigh. He was smaller and leaner than the others. He’d pressed his uniform just a bit sharper, and polished his boots to a brighter shine. The stars pinned to his collar revealed his rank as sergeant, and if Lila had to put money on it, he’d been a sergeant just long enough to become antsy for his next promotion. A deep scar ran across his cheek, marring an otherwise average face. Any doctor could have tended such a wound. Any half-decent plastic surgeon could have corrected the scar it had left behind, and Bullstow contracted with the best plastic surgeons in the world.
“What did I tell you, boys?” the sergeant called out to his brethren as Lila finally raised her hands. He dug into her pockets, ignoring the cigars and beer bottle in favor of the thermal hood and tranq gun. He held them up as trophies, neglecting to pat down her boots.
Sloppy.
“If you turn on the thermal camera on nights like these, you never know what you might find. A bodiless head floating down the street, for instance.” He snickered. “My man behind the thermal camera nearly soiled himself thinking we had some sort of ghost on our hands. Congratulations for that.”
Lila cursed under her breath as he studied her hood. “Using thermal imaging on the streets of New Bristol is against regulations, even for the mighty Bullstow.” She dropped her hands and pitched her voice deeper, the change straining her throat. “Do what you want within your compound but not outside. The city doesn’t take kindly to perverts peeking into their homes and businesses.”
“My unit does not suffer perverts. I would not allow it.” The sergeant’s focus drifted from her hood. “Keep your hands up, madam.”
“There’s always a pervert or two. Perhaps in this unit you’re the pervert, since you wanted to use the thermal cameras so badly.”
“Madam, I’m a sergeant in the government militia. I—”
“Yes. I can see that from all those pretty little stars on your collar.”
Several of the men chuckled.
The sergeant clenched his jaw and shoved Lila’s possessions into the chest of a subordinate. “Hands,” he growled, stepping closer toward her, withdrawing a pair of handcuffs from his belt. “Under the authority of Governor—”
“Yes, I’ll be sure to note your adherence to proper procedure. Of course, I will have to inform Chief Shaw that you only caught me because you used thermal imaging. Illegally, I might add. The bonus will go unclaimed this season. Again.”