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Monsoons sweep in from the Indian Ocean, drenching Mombasa down to its deepest, narrowest alleyways. York dashes around the corner and flattens himself against the back of the building, heart thudding. D, when’s this letting up?
According to all official weather reports, this current tropical storm is predicted to subside… Monday.
Fuck.
York tilts his head back against the wall, water streaming down through the grooves in his armor. Thanks to the pouring rain, he won’t hear someone coming after him until they’re right around the corner. He shifts his grip on his pistol and tries to peer around the corner without losing cover.
They are not coming after us, as far as I can tell, says D. Which admittedly is not much.
Well, maybe we lost them, says York, taking a moment to catch is breath.
Maybe.
They’re going to have to leave Mombasa after this. It’s not as bad as if actual PFL soldiers had found them, but having the city police discover you’re wanted for “desertion, theft of government technology, breaking and entering, destruction of government property, and conspiracy and collusion with a known terrorist” doesn’t bode much better. Sorry, D, he says. Should have known that lead about Carolina was bait.
I told you. D’s voice is flat with disapproval and resentment, and somehow York gets the feeling that it’s not just about the logistics.
I know, I know, I should have listened, sighs York. Still no pursuit has come down the alley after them, no megaphoned voice commanding WE HAVE YOU SURROUNDED, COME OUT WITH YOUR HANDS IN THE AIR. Maybe they gave them the slip after all. We’ll get out of this, though. Promise.
Probability of escaping the police is seventy-two point four percent, says D. But I appreciate the promise all the same.