The lights vanished, and for half a second nobody moved.
Then Brenda said, "Floor."
I dropped beside Richard's bed.
Something heavy struck the outer door.
Not a knock.
A controlled impact.
Richard swung his legs over the side of the bed and immediately folded forward, one hand pressing his bandaged ribs.
"Stay down," I whispered.
"Not planning a sprint."
Another impact came from the corridor.
Brenda crossed the room in darkness with the confidence of someone who had memorized every piece of furniture.
She opened a cabinet.
A dim red emergency lamp flickered on.
I could see her face again.
"What did you mean, two minutes?"
"The building has perimeter sensors."
"Police?"
"I triggered a silent alarm."
"To Alvarez?"
"To three places."
"Which three?"
"Police, a private security company, and a federal contact."
Richard looked up.
"Federal?"
Brenda ignored him.
The outer door crashed again.
Metal bent.
"How many exits?" I asked.
"Three."
"Which one isn't obvious?"
Brenda pointed toward a storage rack.
"Behind that."
Richard laughed weakly.
"You've been busy."
"I've been alive."
She pulled a steel handle behind the rack.
A narrow panel opened into darkness.
"Service corridor. Leads to the neighboring warehouse."
"Then move Richard."
He shook his head.
"No."
I stared at him.
"Don't start."
"If we all leave through the same exit, they follow."
"You're injured, not expendable."
"Chloe."
"No."
His expression changed.
For the first time since seeing him again, he looked like my older brother rather than a wounded stranger.
"Still impossible."
"Still here."
Another crash.
The exterior lock gave.
Brenda moved toward the hidden passage.
"Argument later."
Richard tried to stand.
His knees buckled.
I caught him beneath one arm.
Pain crossed his face.
"You're heavier than I remember."
"You're meaner."
"Eleven years."
"Apparently good for both of us."
Brenda helped from the other side.
We entered the passage.
The panel closed behind us.
Darkness swallowed the red light.
Brenda used a small flashlight pointed toward the floor.
The corridor smelled of concrete and machine oil.
"Who owns this building?" I whispered.
"A company that doesn't officially exist anymore."
"Helpful."
"It belonged to one of Michael's vendors."
I stopped.
"Dad used this place?"
"Once."
Richard leaned against me.
"Can we do family history after nobody's trying to kill us?"
Fair.
We moved.
Behind us came a muffled bang.
They had entered the medical room.
A voice shouted.
Another answered.
I recognized neither.
Brenda hurried.
The corridor ended at a steel door.
She entered a code.
Red light.
Denied.
Again.
Denied.
Her face tightened.
"They changed it."
"Who?"
"Someone with system access."
Richard swore.
Behind us, metal scraped.
The hidden panel had been found.
"Other exit?" I asked.
"Back thirty feet."
We turned.
Too late.
A flashlight beam appeared at the far end.
Brenda raised the gun.
"Stop."
The light froze.
Then a man's voice.
"Brenda."
She went rigid.
I knew before she said the name.
"Sloane."
The supposedly dead security contractor stepped into the dim spill of her flashlight.
He was older than the apartment footage suggested.
Broad shoulders.
Gray at the temples.
No mask.
No reason to hide his face from people he apparently did not expect to remain witnesses.
"Put it down," he said.
Brenda didn't.
"Eric."
"You're making this harder."
"You broke into Chloe's apartment."
"Wasn't supposed to be occupied."
"Comforting," I said.
His eyes moved toward me.
"Chloe Bennett."
"Apparently everyone knows me."
"Your father made sure of that."
My stomach tightened.
Richard straightened despite the pain.
"You don't talk about him."
Sloane looked almost amused.
"Still protecting her?"
"Still breathing, aren't I?"
"For now."
Brenda's gun remained steady.
"Who sent you?"
"You know."
"Coleman?"
Sloane smiled.
"Which one?"
Richard and I exchanged a glance.
Richard Coleman.
Or perhaps someone else using the same surname as a shield.
"Victor?" Brenda asked.
Sloane said nothing.
"Peter?"
That changed him.
Tiny.
But visible.
His jaw tightened.
Richard saw it too.
"Peter Vale," he said.
Sloane's expression flattened.
"You're finished, Richard."
"People keep saying that."
A second flashlight appeared behind him.
Then another.
Three men at least.
Brenda could not hold all of them.
My phone remained useless.
No signal.
I looked at the service door beside us.
Steel.
Electronic lock.
Maybe power failure had put it into restricted mode.
Or someone had remotely changed the code.
I examined the frame.
Emergency release box.
Red cover.
I moved slowly.
Sloane noticed.
"Don't."
I stopped.
"Chloe," he said, "give me the bag."
Of course.
"What bag?"
"The one on your shoulder."
I touched the strap.
Dad's notebook.
Mom's letters.
Copies of Richard's drive.
Halcyon records.
Enough history to explain why people had been lying for eleven years.
"Come get it."
Richard whispered, "Bad idea."
"I know."
Sloane took one step.
Brenda raised the gun higher.
"Don't."
He stopped.
"You won't shoot."
"You sure?"
"You had chances before."
Something passed across Brenda's face.
History.
Sloane knew it.
"You always hesitate," he said.
Brenda's voice became quiet.
"Not anymore."
He moved.
The shot exploded inside the concrete corridor.
Sloane twisted.
The bullet struck the wall beside him.
Brenda had missed deliberately.
But the sound bought us two seconds.
I slammed my palm against the emergency-release cover.
Plastic shattered.
Inside was a mechanical lever.
I pulled.
The steel door unlocked.
"Move!"
Richard stumbled through.
I followed.
Brenda backed toward us, gun trained down the corridor.
Another shot cracked.
Not hers.
Concrete chipped beside my head.
I dragged Richard around the corner.
Brenda fired twice.
Then followed.
We slammed the steel door.
No lock on our side.
"Run," she said.
The neighboring warehouse was enormous and nearly empty.
Pallet racks.
Old machinery.
Rows of covered equipment.
Moonlight filtered through high windows.
Richard could barely move.
I got his arm around my shoulders.
"Exit?"
Brenda pointed.
"North loading dock."
We crossed fifty feet.
Behind us, the service door opened.
Flashlights swept through the darkness.
"Separate," Richard said.
"No."
"Chloe."
"No."
Brenda looked toward a forklift.
"Can you drive that?"
I stared.
"Probably."
"That's not reassuring."
"My father taught me."
Richard actually laughed.
"Dad taught you forklift driving?"
"He thought everyone should know one impractical skill."
"Mine was welding."
"Congratulations."
I climbed into the forklift.
Keys hung from the ignition.
Suspiciously convenient.
I turned them.
The engine coughed.
Then started.
Brenda helped Richard onto the rear step.
I drove toward the loading dock.
Not fast.
Forklifts are terrible escape vehicles.
But faster than Richard could walk.
Flashlight beams moved behind us.
A shot struck metal.
Richard ducked.
"Definitely not OSHA approved."
"Shut up."
We reached the dock.
The roll-up door was closed.
Brenda jumped off.
Manual chain.
She pulled.
The door rose painfully slowly.
Behind us, Sloane shouted.
"Stop!"
I looked back.
He was twenty yards away.
Gun raised.
Then blue lights flashed through the cracks beneath the loading door.
Sirens.
Sloane stopped.
Brenda smiled.
"My alarm."
The loading door rose high enough.
I drove underneath.
Police vehicles flooded the rear lot.
Alvarez stepped from the first unmarked car with her weapon drawn.
"Hands!"
For one absurd second, I thought she meant me.
Then officers moved past.
Sloane disappeared back into the warehouse.
Two men surrendered.
One ran.
Police pursued.
Alvarez reached us.
"You couldn't wait outside one building?"
"I was invited."
She looked at Richard.
"That's him?"
"My brother."
Richard raised one hand weakly.
"Hi."
Alvarez stared at his injuries.
"Ambulance."
"No hospital," he said.
"That wasn't a suggestion."
He looked at me.
I shrugged.
"She's bossier."
Richard sighed.
"Great."
Paramedics arrived.
Brenda stood apart.
Her hands were shaking now that she no longer needed them steady.
Alvarez approached her.
"Brenda Lawson?"
"Yes."
"You're coming with us."
"I expected that."
"Weapon down."
Brenda placed it on the pavement.
Then she looked at me.
"Your bag."
"What?"
"Check it."
I did.
Notebook.
Letters.
USB.
Everything seemed present.
Then I noticed the zipper on the inner compartment.
Open.
My heart jumped.
I searched.
Dad's cassette.
Gone.
"No."
Richard looked up from the stretcher.
"What?"
"The first tape."
Brenda's face drained.
"You had it with you?"
"I wasn't leaving it at the hotel."
"When did you last check?"
"Before coming here."
Alvarez swore softly.
Someone had taken it.
During the darkness.
During the escape.
Or earlier.
"Who touched your bag?" she asked.
"Nobody."
Then I remembered.
At Thomas's hotel.
Evidence room.
Sterling residence.
Marcus's house.
Too many places.
Too many people.
My phone regained signal.
Messages arrived at once.
Daniel.
Alvarez.
Unknown numbers.
Then one from Marcus.
CALL ME BEFORE YOU TRUST BRENDA.
I looked toward her.
She was being handcuffed.
Another message arrived.
This one from Daniel.
PETER VALE JUST CONTACTED ME.
My pulse increased.
Then:
HE SAYS HE HAS MICHAEL'S RECORDING.
I stared.
Peter had Dad's tape.
Another message.
HE WANTS TO TRADE.
For what?
Daniel's next text answered.
YOU.
