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Corrigan’s eyes glittered. Bingo.
J-Mac, however, was calm. He always was. He’d spent ten years in the military before going rogue, and Bonnie had learned that his stillness was more dangerous than any explosion. He was reading the room. Counting guards. Noting exits. Calculating the arc of the rusted I-beams overhead.
Three seconds later, a crack of lightning split the sky, and the world went white.
She caught J-Mac’s eye and mouthed a single word: Thunder.
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.
“The Duchess loot is in a safety deposit box,” Bonnie lied, her voice honeyed. “Needs two keys. Mine and his.”
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