It was a joke, wasn’t it? Rome was acutely aware of this as he ran alongside Derek, the other man’s every move smooth and fluid in a way that spoke of years of training—whereas Roman’s had been more haphazard and slipshod, more bruised knuckles and steady nerves than sharpshooting and team formations.
Their target had managed to crawl her way out of the car, which gave them a reassuring view of the Department of Resources patch on her jacket. Roman paused above her, his wall-like body blocking out the pale morning sun, both their guns now trained on her. Watching for the twitch of that blood-slick hand, wary of it drifting towards her hip.
It wasn’t right, preying on a woman like this, but they’d do what had to be done.
“Hands up, and we won’t hurt you,” Roman rumbled, waiting to ensure that she complied before he hunkered down with a zip-tie for those bruised wrists. The agent seemed dazed, jarred, as one would be after such an explosion.
After all this time and various setbacks, the unpredictability of their operation had, at least, worked in their favour.