"Gilman,.Laura.Anne.-.Overrush.(A.Wren.and.Sergei.Story)" - читать интересную книгу автора (Gilman Laura Anne)

pop, followed in quick succession by the lights over the exhibits.
As the crowd milled about in confusion, Wren raced back down the
hallway and slipped inside the seventh room, trusting the chaos
downstairs would hide her own intrusion.
Inside, the room was dimly lit, three paintings stacked against the
wall like so much trash. Sergei would have had conniptions if he'd
seen them treated like that. But Wren wasn't interested in their
artistic value. A razor let her slice the bottom painting out of its
frame and remove the piece of carved bone pressed between two
layers of canvas. The relic went into a small, rubber-lined case that
fit in her pocket, and the painting was placed back into the frame. A
finger run along the serrated edges and a tiny drawdown of power,
and the two layers sealed themselves together again. Done, and
prettily, too, if she did say so herself.
"Sssst!"
She managed not to freak by the skin of her teeth, turning to glare
at Sergei standing behind her.
"They're frisking everyone downstairs," he told her, heading off any
questions. "We need another exit."
"Right. This way."
"This way" ended up being a long hallway without a single door off
it until they came to a T-intersection Sergei looked decidedly
unhappy, his gun now out and ready in his hand. Wren barely
spared it a glance, too busy listening to the hum of current
throughout the building. It was alert now, singing in activity. The
building was locking down, tucking itself up tight. "No, down here,"
she said suddenly, grabbing his free hand and tugging him to the
left, concentrating on the patterns. Down the hall, through a heavy
fire door, a pause on the landing to determine up or down, then up
to another fire door and into a hallway that was the exact replica of
the one they'd left behind. They took a corner at a full-out run and
stopped.
"Oh hell."
Wren stared at the blank wall. She could smell the sweat on her
skin, Sergei's. She could feel the thrum of blood racing in her
veins. Panic bubbled just below the surface. But Sergei's voice,
next to her, was calm.
"Get us out of here."
She knew what he was asking.
I can't!
We're dead either way. Or worse . . .
She reached, grabbing every available strand of current, draining
every power source in the building, siphoning off Sergei until he
staggered. Filled and overflowing, practically sparking and glowing
from within, she grabbed her partner in a bear hug and threwЧ
There was no transition. Her chin to the ground, palms abraded by
macadam, vomit pouring from her mouth. Her body ached and
quivered, and she was drenched in cold, sticky sweat.
When the torrent finally released her, she fell to her side, panic
filling her brain.