Corrigan stepped closer. “Keys. Now.”
Bonnie let a slow, feral smile spread across her face. It was a look that had made stronger men than Corrigan reach for their wallets. “If we’re ghosts, Corrigan, what does that make you? A particularly ugly poltergeist?” bonnie blue jmac
“Syndicate,” J-Mac repeated, his voice a low gravel. “Then you’re just middlemen, Corrigan. Which means you want more than the money. You want the location of the rest of it. The Diamond Duchess haul.” Corrigan stepped closer
Bonnie shifted her weight, feeling for the tiny sliver of metal she’d palmed from a broken chair leg an hour ago. She’d been working the zip tie against it, strand by strand. She felt the last fiber give. Her hands were free, but she kept them behind her back, wrists together. It was a look that had made stronger
Bonnie moved. She was on her feet before the thunderclap faded, the chair leg in her hand. She drove it into the kidney of the nearest guard, then grabbed his dropped pistol. J-Mac had already rolled, used the rope to loop a guard’s ankle, and yanked. The man went down hard, and J-Mac was on him, freeing his own hands with a brutal twist.
Chaos. Beautiful, loud, violent chaos.
J-Mac shot her a look— what are you doing? —but he trusted her. He always did.