Leverage in Death (In Death 47)

As she coiled to finish it, Silverman made a desperate leap for the wall of the rooftop. Eve lunged forward, grabbed his wrist, slippe

ry with sweat and blood, with both hands.

He dangled there while her muscles screamed in protest. Four stories up. It might not kill him, but she wasn’t going to risk it.

“You don’t get off this easy.”

“I’ll take you with me.” Throwing up a hand, he grabbed her arm, dragged.

She dug in as the toes of her boots slammed the wall. She wouldn’t go over, she would not, but she wouldn’t be able to hold him much longer.

Roarke reached down beside her, adding his weight, his muscle. When Silverman continued to pull, to fight, Roarke ended it with a vicious, short-armed punch.

As he went limp, they hauled Silverman back over the wall.

Adrenaline gone, pain blooming everywhere, she slid to sit, back to the wall. Her breath whistled harsh out of aching lungs.

Roarke knelt beside her.

“Ten minutes,” he said. “It couldn’t have been ten minutes before I got up here, and look at you.”

“Yeah, well.” She swiped at the blood dripping out of her nose. “Look at him.”

She did. He lay dazed, surrounded by a half dozen cops all with weapons drawn.

“The kid,” she said when Baxter crouched in front of her.

“Trueheart’s got him, taking him down to Mom and Dad. He’s fine. Got a scratch. Just a scratch, some bruises.”

“He caught the edge of my stream.”

“He’s fine, LT. Lucid, a little shocky, scared. But he’s fine. Now you? Ouch. Do you want to wrap him up?”

She shook her head, winced when it spun a little. “You take him. He’s going to need medical, then he’s in a cage until I’m ready for him. My weapon—”

Baxter handed it to her. “We’ll bag his knife. You cut any?”

“No. I don’t think. Wrap him up, Baxter.”

“You got it, boss.”

“Magic coat,” she murmured to Roarke as Baxter moved away. “I don’t think he even noticed the blade wasn’t getting through.”

He dropped his brow to hers a moment. She let him have the moment, took it for herself. But pushed back when he started to lift her.

“You’re not carrying me out of a scene loaded with cops.”

“Then you’re not arguing about a trip to the nearest health center.”

“Let’s just start with the on-scene medical. Okay?”

“We’ll start there.”

23

She suffered the exam, the treatment, the blockers, ice patches, healing wands. But drew the line at the pressure syringe and tranqs.

“I’ve got to finish this,” she argued. “I can’t finish it if I’m dopey.”