Page 7 of Bad Blood Alpha

She was pretty sure Flynn could, too. Shifter superpowers.

“Fire escape.” He headed to the right, where Kira knew there was a metal ladder leading down. Clearly, she wasn’t the only one who’d researched escape routes. Damn, she was really starting to like this man. Even if he didn’t have the sense to stay out of this.

They raced for the ladder. Behind them, the access door banged open. Bullets whipped by their faces.

They veered away from the ladder headed in the other direction. A searchlight cut through the air, pinning Kira in its glare. “Stop where you are!”

She froze, mere feet from the edge of the roof. She hoped Flynn had the sense to stay low, though sense didn’t seem to be his strong point.

Of course he didn’t. Flynn hurtled out of the darkness and wrapped his arms around her, swinging her around so their sides were to the gunmen. “Don’t hurt her!” he yelled.

Like that would help.

“Don’t make us,” the man behind the spotlight called. “Just step away from her and raise your hands in the air.”

Kira felt Flynn’s hand slide up under her jacket, to the small of her back where her gun was holstered, and she began to grin. Clever lion. Her arms were around his waist, under his vest, her head pressed to his chest. She could feel the oiled leather of his shoulder holster. There were no safety straps on it, and she closed her fingers around the grip of his concealed pistol.

“I said, step away from the girl!”

But she only heard Flynn’s voice in her ear. “The roof next door,” he breathed. “Can you make it?”

Sure, dude. It was a twenty-foot jump, at least. In the dark, with a seven-story drop below. Who did he think she was, Batgirl?

“Piece of cake,” she said. Her voice didn’t sound shaky at all.

She felt him smile. “Ready?”

She gave a quick nod.

Flynn released her. They both turned in one smooth motion, sliding each other’s guns out of the holsters and opening fire on their pursuers.

The gunmen dove for cover behind the HVAC units. The hellhounds came bounding toward them.

Shit. They were gonna die.

“Go!” Flynn barked. Thank god the woman had the sense to listen, taking two running steps and leaping across the near-impossible gap between the roofs. The moment seemed to stretch out forever—her flying through the air, Flynn firing at the hellhounds, forcing them to dodge and weave. Damn, they were quick. He got one in the lower leg, knocking it to the ground, howling.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her clear the parapet and land on the roof, rolling to one knee.

She’d made it with room to spare. What the fuck was she? Some kind of shifter, to make that jump, but he couldn’t tell what—not from her scent.

Bullets whipped by. She had both guns out now, Flynn’s own and her backup piece, and she was covering his retreat. The handguns were wildly inaccurate at that distance, but it didn’t matter—all she had to do was get close enough to keep their pursuers from shooting straight.

Better if she didn’t hit them—dropping bodies would draw even more attention than a damned rooftop gun battle.

Her hail of bullets scattered their pursuers, and Flynn took off for the edge of the roof. Bunching his leg muscles, he called on his cat to give him extra spring. The alley rushed by below him—way, way too far down. Bullets whistled by, and one slammed into his left shoulder. It was nearly spent, but it still twisted him and threw his trajectory off. The parapet of the neighboring roof was coming up too damn slow, and he was falling too damn fast.

He stretched out his right hand and grabbed the edge of the parapet, using his remaining momentum to vault his legs up and over. He landed on his feet, overbalanced, tucked his head and rolled.

The second hellhound leaped across the gap, but it didn’t quite make it. With a howl, it slithered down the wall, raking it with thick claws, until it slammed onto a ledge two stories below.

The woman was already running, stopping every few seconds to get off another shot, keeping their pursuers off-balance. She handed Flynn’s gun off to him as he caught up with her, and he shoved her little pea-shooter into the back of his pants.

His Colt felt good in his hand.

They dashed across the rooftop. A bullet pinged off a ventilator shaft as they dodged around it. The hellhounds’ handlers had come to the edge of the other roof and were shooting, but no one jumped across.

Not shifters, then. Who?