Jess took in three deep, stomach-straining breaths, oriented himself by the sun and memories of how far they’d come from the entrance, and ran. At the next alley, he cut around to the main road—it was, as the centurion at the gate had warned, the only way out. No point in wasting time.
The first block was easy; he’d caught their attackers by surprise, and when he exited the back of the alley at a flat run, he was moving like a blur. He heard the shouts rise like smoke, and a scramble up on the roofs, but they were nowhere near the right position. Someone shot at him, but it went wild. Five steps farther down, there were more shots flung his way, but with the same lack of accuracy.
Someone up there made good time or was in a lucky spot, and he saw a bottle of Greek fire arc toward the ground two body lengths away from him. No good choices: if he swerved, he’d lose momentum, and there was no telling which way the fire would splash. Going through it wasn’t an option. The thick goo would cling to skin and fabric and couldn’t be wiped or washed away. He’d burn.
As the bottle hit the ground and the fire rushed to life, Jess ran straight at the nearest wall. He put more energy into his stride and ran two gravity-defying steps sideways on the wall, then pushed off hard and launched himself like an arrow past the roiling green blaze in the middle of the path. He landed hard on the cobbles on his shoulder, and close enough that the toxic smoke crawled hot into his lungs, but he coughed it out and rolled to his feet and kept running. Shots scattered behind him, but they all missed, and now the inferno behind him was also—usefully—cover.
Only another block to the exit gates, and Jess made the turn and poured on even more speed. His heart was pumping furiously now, his lungs rebelling from the effort and the smoke, but the goal was within sight.
That was when a shot hit him squarely in the back with enough force against the flexible armor beneath his Library coat to knock him off stride and stun his lungs into paralysis. Deprived of breath, blazing with pain, Jess tumbled to the ground, rolled helpless as a beached fish, and convulsed as he tried to pull in air. Right in the same spot Tariq hit me. He saw black and red spots, and the pain came in waves as hot as Greek fire. I’m going to die, he thought, and it seemed incomprehensible to him, because the gates were right there. Rescue for Wolfe, Glain, Helva—all of them. It depended on him.
He wasn’t going to make it.
You will, he told himself over the screaming, mindless fear he felt. You have to! Get up. Get up! Do it!
His lungs released suddenly, and he sucked in a breath so fast it burned, then coughed it out and tasted bloody copper. The pain didn’t matter; he had air, and the pain couldn’t stop him. Wouldn’t stop him.
Jess crawled to his knees, then his feet. He was bitterly aware of seconds slipping by and pursuers catching up as he lunged forward. Half a block to go—hardly anything; just a few steps. Go. Just go.
Another half-strength bullet (he thought they must have been half-strength, or he wouldn’t have been able to get up the first time) raced past him, so close he felt the heat of it score his cheek. The hot desert sand hissed up into his face as if the street itself tried to hold him back, but he plunged on, only half coordinated now, step after pounding, uncertain step. He was leaving a trail of bloody drops behind him, and for a panicked second he was back in the streets of London, worried about leaving a trail for the Library lions to follow . . .
Focus.
He put his head down and forced his muscles to ignore the pain and managed one last, desperate burst of speed.
He made it to the closed gate at the end of the street where they’d entered and collided with the wood. His fist pounded weakly on it, but his lungs still felt too traumatized to shout.
Exposed. Pinned like a bug to a board. This was his greatest moment of vulnerability; he was a perfect target for anyone who cared to aim a well-placed shot.
Jess pulled in a painful breath and shouted, “On the gate! Open! Open now!”
To his sweet and unexpected relief, it swung wide in the next few seconds. He nearly toppled out, but the centurion who’d let them in caught him. The man barked, “What in Ra’s name is going on in there? Did you idiots start a war?”
“Santi,” Jess gasped out. “Captain Santi. Get him. Now.”
“Look, recruit, you don’t request the presence of an elite captain of the High Garda just because—”
Jess grabbed the centurion’s collar and yanked him close enough to smell his morning breakfast. “Get him! We have wounded, and our Scholar will be killed if you don’t shift your arse right now!”
“Scholar? What Scholar? You don’t give orders, you little—” The soldier stopped talking. Jess had pulled his utility knife and now it pressed gently on the man’s abdomen, right where it could do its worst.
“Someone betrayed us,” Jess said. “Tell me it wasn’t you.”
The centurion’s face was hard to read, but he seemed more angry than guilty. “You’d better use that toy if you think I’d put baby soldiers at risk. Betrayed you how?”