She’d spent far too many of the past twenty-four hours hunched over the handlebars of the bike, in a car and—as luxurious as it was—Roux’s jet. Her muscles were cramped, her joints stiff. Still, considering she’d just fallen thirty feet from the runners of a helicopter and landed on her back, she felt brilliant. Alive. She powered across the dusty desert, eyes always on the prize: the V in the mountains that marked the Pass of the Moor’s Sigh. Her phone vibrated against her side. Annja fished it out of her pocket. It was the professor; obviously, he was every bit as much an insomniac as she was. She didn’t answer, assuming he’d leave a message. She’d check it at the top. She didn’t want him to think the heavy breathing was for his benefit. The gradient increased. Annja had to dig a little deeper to maintain momentum as the path rose sharply. Sheep grazing on the mountainside watched her progress with detached interest.
What do You think about Rogue Angel 52: Death Mask?
