Page 144 of Theta

Getting off this balcony is.

I peer over—it's a long drop to a flagstone patio. No drainpipe, no trellis, just the balcony and a hell of a drop.

Fuck it, we ball.

I swing my leg over the railing and sit on it for a second, looking over my shoulder as Ionescu rifles his drawers—bottom left first.

His bellow of rage shakes the foundations.

Ionescu picks up a computer screen and hurls it across the room to smash onto the floor, cursing in several languages. And then he goes back to the drawer, and this time he takes the relic—I mean, phone. Dials a number.

Waits.

Morbid curiosity holds me in place, stupidly.

"It is me. We have a very big problem. Someone has stolen the drive." A pause. "If I knew who, you idiot, I would not be calling you, would I? Of course I have cameras in my office. No, not connected to the system."

Um?

Fuck?

What cameras? I killed all the cameras.

"If you must know, they are…strategically located. And encrypted.”

Oh, ew. He records his trysts.

And me robbing him, apparently.

“Yes, I'm pulling up the footage now."

Shit, fuck, damn. I'm screwed.

Remember back at the start when I said I was fucked?

See?

Fucked.

"It is a young woman. About five-ten, blonde hair. Magnificent ass." Thanks, Ionescu. "She was hiding in the closet. She must have been here when I came back unexpectedly. Which means she must have seen—never mind. She went out the…balcony." He gets up and drifts this way. "Yes, I have a good angle on her face."

His eyes meet mine for a split second, because I'm a crazy, arrogant, stupid bitch sometimes, and then I drop.

Hit the ground and roll, find my feet and sprint across the expansive grounds of Ionescue’s sprawling estate in the Swiss Alps—my right ankle screams the whole way, but I refuse to limp or slow down; to do so is death.

I hear a sound that curdles my blood—the savage barking of dogs.

Fuck, fuck, fuck me.

Ever seen someone get torn apart by dogs? I have. It's the single most brutal thing you can witness.

I run faster.

Bam-bam-bam. You know what that sound is. No, not my pulse. That’s more bambambambam.

It's the sound of my improbably large boobies whacking me in the face.

Run harder, Archer.