Marcus didn’t even glance up. He was stroking his wife’s hair back from her bruised forehead, holding her cold hand. Their little girls whimpered and clung to his leg, too young to know or comprehend what was happening around them, but old enough to know terror. “He goes to bring medicine. Food, water, blankets. We will hide her in the Sanctuary.”
Jenna didn’t know exactly what or where Ianira’s Sanctuary might be, although she suspected it was hidden deep under the station. But she knew enough to blurt out, “You can’t! It won’t be safe there. These bastards will hunt through every inch of this station, looking for her. For you, too, and the children.”
Frightened brown eyes lifted, met hers. “What can we do, then? We have friends here, powerful friends. Kit Carson and Bull Morgan—“
Armstrong cut him off. “Not even Kit Carson can stop the Ansar Majlis,” Noah bit out, bitterness darkening the detective’s voice, leaving it harsh and raw. “You have to get completely off this station. The faster, the better. We sure as hell are,” Noah nodded toward Jenna. “The only place that’s gonna be safe is someplace down time. There’s a whole lot of history to hide in, through this station’s gates. We hide long enough, stay alive long enough, I can slip back through the station in disguise—and I’m damned good at disguises—and get the proof of what we know to the up-time authorities. If we’re going to stop the bastards responsible for this,” Noah jerked a glance toward Ianira, curled up on her side, fragile as rare porcelain, “the only way is to destroy them, make sure they’re jailed for life or executed. And we can’t do that if we’re dead.”