by Matt Rogers
He made it up three flights before the first gunshot rang past him, the angle only slightly too extreme to allow the sicarios below to squeeze off a decent shot.
Now.
Capitalise.
Clawing his way through the discomfort, he jerked sideways to the railing and pointed the Glock down into the abyss. He thought he made out a silhouette and squeezed a cluster of shots off — three, back-to-back-to-back. The muzzle flare showed the sicario’s head snapping backward, spraying blood over the two men behind him. His body bounced and thudded down the first flight of stairs.
Slater didn’t bother trying to shoot at the next two assassins. They were already drawing a bead on him, so he threw himself back behind cover and kept ascending.
His vision wavered, a little harder, and fear seized him.
You might actually pass out.
He searched for somewhere to regroup. He figured he was three storeys up, definitely amongst the residential apartments now, so he scoured the stairwell for the first available exit. He found it two flights up — a plain door reading Emergency Exit: do not obstruct. There was dull yellow light emanating behind the glass, and dull white light emanating overhead from an emergency light at the very top of the stairwell.
He pushed down on the handle and put his weight into it and smashed it open, stumbling through into a hallway with hard floors and bordered by decorative pot plants sitting on polished tables. A forward-thinking resident had already lit and placed candles along the length of the corridor, giving the whole space the vibe of a haunted manor.
A quiet, calm, respectable slice of Manhattan real estate.
Not anymore.
Slater made a racket as he powered down the corridor, searching for anything that might constitute an empty apartment. Numbers flashed by: 501, 502, 503, 504…
The door to apartment 505 flew open in his face.
He froze in his tracks, aware that half his clothing was saturated in his own blood, and his face was contorted with pain.
He came face-to-face with a woman in her late twenties, her features lit by the flickering candlelight. She was naturally beautiful — devoid of makeup, with her hair pulled back in a tight bun. She was still dressed in the remnants of smart business attire from a day at the office, with a collared shirt open at the neck under a black vest and a tight-fitting black skirt hugging her hips. She had pale skin and green eyes and long lashes and a face that he imagined would ordinarily be warm and inviting.
Now, it shifted from hopeful to reserved, then to outright fear.
‘Oh,’ she said, noting the blood all over him and the handgun in his palm. ‘I’m so sorry. I thought you were a cop and—’
She was speaking faster and faster with each sentence, terrified of the potential consequences, and now she started swinging the door closed with enough verve to send a message.
Slater heard motion at the top of the stairwell.
The door was halfway shut when he lunged forward, shouldered it back open, and spilled through into her apartment.
46
She opened her mouth to scream and he grabbed her around the mid-section with his good arm.
He used the sole of his boot to gently push the door shut.
Then, just in time, he brought his good arm up and clamped his hand hard over her mouth.
She moaned into his palm, but he didn’t budge an inch.
They stayed that way, frozen in the entranceway. He could make out her features better here thanks to the handful of candles lit down the passage, resting on a pair of identical hall tables made of dark polished wood. The floor was thin carpet, cushy under his boots but not thick enough to mask the sound of footfalls entirely. So he didn’t dare move. He’d already cut it too close. If the two remaining sicarios found him like this, he didn’t fancy his chances.
Sometimes, morality spelled disaster. This woman would be caught in the crossfire and he’d hesitate before he shot at anyone if she was between them. The sicarios wouldn’t. They’d cut through her like she was meat to get to Slater.
If he was halfway coherent, he wouldn’t have bothered with secrecy. He would have let her shout for help, and when they busted through the door he’d be waiting there to shoot them in the face. But he could barely see straight. The blood had drained from his head minutes earlier, and if he didn’t sit down soon he’d drop like deadweight, passing out from the pain. He’d dislocated a shoulder before. This was nothing like that. He wasn’t a doctor, but he knew a whole lot about discomfort. Whatever was happening in the socket had ratcheted his pain levels up to an unbearable height. It was affecting every part of his behaviour, from his choices to his balance.
Two pairs of thudding footsteps came closer and closer, reverberating on the other side of the door.
Practically running.
Zoning in on the door labelled “505”?
Slater tensed up. It took most of his conscious energy to keep the woman silent. She was writhing and struggling against his torso, but he clamped the palm harder over her mouth and the struggling ceased. Then he held his breath.
Closer.
Closer…
Right outside.
He had a choice to make. Take his hand off her mouth, switch hands with the Glock 22, and raise it to the door. Or keep her silent. It all depended on whether the sicarios knew he was in here. If they did, the palm over the mouth was futile.
He heard them right there, only feet from the door, and it struck him that the woman was between himself and the door.
No, a voice in his head said. She didn’t ask for this.
He took a deep, silent breath, and turned her around with his palm so she could look into his eyes. He stared right back, and he didn’t blink. He hoped she could see something in there other than a stone-cold killer. Something to reassure her, convince her everything might be okay. She stared back, and she didn’t struggle against his hand. It all unfolded in seconds, but it was the best he could do.
He didn’t have time.
He took his hand off her mouth, took the Glock out of his bad hand, pivoted and pointed the barrel right at the door’s centre mass.
And there he froze, still as a statue, his back to her.
She could attack him, if she wanted.
Pick up a heavy object and bring it down on the back of his skull. No amount of reflexes would save him there. She probably should do it, too. He’d stormed into her home and practically assaulted her.
All he could hope was that she understood.
He didn’t blink.
Didn’t move.
Didn’t think.
Just listened.
And the footsteps thudded away. They came within a foot of the woman’s apartment door and then carried on past, slowing only to maintain a measured pace. They hadn’t been running at a destination. They hadn’t seen Slater go into the apartment. Seconds after they passed by, they disappeared from the edge of his hearing.
Gone, for good.
Melting away to sweep the rest of the building.
The seconds ticked by, and Slater realised he hadn’t been struck from behind. In fact, she hadn’t moved. He lowered the gun and turned, slowly.
She was still right there, a few feet away, watching him with unabashed curiosity.
She kept her voice low and said, ‘Who were you running from?’
‘Unsavoury people.’
‘Did they do that to you?’ she said, motioning to his right arm, still pinned to his side, and his bloody collarbone, and his overall state of dishevelment.
He looked himself over. ‘Actually, I did most of this to myself.’
‘You okay?’
‘You should be telling me to leave.’
‘But I’m not.’
‘I assaulted you.’
‘It’s been a weird night. You didn’t mean it.’
He stood there awkwardly, barely able to think, his shoulder socket drilling sharp bolts through the rest of his body. ‘How can you tell?’
/>
‘That’s why you looked me in the eyes before,’ she said. ‘To show you were … vulnerable.’
‘Yeah.’
‘The type of men who do what you just did don’t ever pretend they’re vulnerable.’
He nodded toward the door. ‘I needed a place to hide. You opened your door. I’m sorry.’
She was still scrutinising him. Then she realised she’d prolonged the silence, and said, ‘It’s okay.’
‘Do you mind if I stay here for a few minutes?’ he said. ‘I’m—’
Then the needles of pain merged into one giant wave, and it hit him like a tsunami, and he went down on one knee with an uncontrollable grimace.
The next thing he knew, she was helping him to his feet in a daze.
47
‘I’m sorry,’ he mumbled as she helped him down the hall.
They came out in a loft-style space, like a smaller version of his own penthouse on the Upper East Side. Exposed wooden beams criss-crossed over their heads, adding a rustic vibe to the otherwise modern architecture. The walls were reinforced concrete, and the floor was carpeted in the living area, and the kitchen had tiles the colour of steel. A narrow staircase led up to a second floor loft, where he figured the bedroom lay, overlooking the main space with the help of a thin railing. She hadn’t held back on decorations, furnishing the ordinarily cold space with ample throw rugs and a plethora of pot plants and hanging vines draping off the kitchen island lighting.
He liked it a lot, and he wasn’t quite sure why he was paying so much attention to it.
Delirium, maybe.
She seemed to notice. She dumped him down on the old-school corduroy sofa and perched herself on the edge of the armchair opposite it, still on edge. She made sure she had a line of sight with the entranceway, and she threw intermittent nervous glances down the length of it to the front door.
She said, ‘You like the place?’
It was in jest, considering the circumstances. He was covered in blood, with only half his wits about him, and his right arm rendered useless. Swamped with crippling pain. But he still said, ‘Yeah, I do.’
She pursed her lips, as if wondering what the hell to do next.
He said, ‘I don’t want to bother you—’
‘But?’ she said, raising an eyebrow.
‘I need to get my shoulder back in.’
She winced. ‘It’s dislocated?’
‘Yeah.’
‘How’d you do that?’
‘Running away from those guys,’ he lied.
Didn’t consider it prudent to tell her the truth.
I caved a man’s throat in.
‘Who were they?’
He shrugged. ‘Just a couple of gangsters. They saw me on the street and didn’t like me.’
‘How’d you get in this building?’
‘The lobby was open.’
‘There are a million better places to run than an unfamiliar apartment building.’
He shrugged. ‘Beats me.’
‘Did they shoot at you?’
‘Yes.’
She nodded. ‘There was a god-awful racket a few minutes ago. What sort of firepower did they have?’
‘Can we just get my shoulder back into place? Then I’ll answer all the questions you have.’
‘You’ll answer them now or I’ll kick you out.’
He paused. Then half-smiled. ‘You drive a hard bargain.’
‘You’re lucky I didn’t send you packing straight away.’
‘You really should have. That’s not usually how I introduce myself to women.’
Now it was her turn to half-smile. The corners of her lips crept upward, despite her best efforts to fight them back down.
Then a commanding voice in his head said, No.
She was gorgeous, and her personality was right up his alley. He could banter with her, and nothing would make him happier than speaking to her for the rest of the night. But there were eight million people relying on him, and womanising had to be the last thing on his mind.
He’d confirmed the bank building was occupied by armoured mercenaries. Now, breaching it was priority number one.
He screwed up his face and said, ‘I haven’t been entirely honest with you.’
‘Okay,’ she said.
Unperturbed.
‘What’s your name?’ he said.
‘Alexis.’
‘Alexis, I’m Will.’
‘Pleasure to meet you.’
‘You too. I work for the government.’
She eyed him. ‘In what capacity?’
‘That’s hard to define. But I’m … in the middle of something.’
‘Okay.’
‘So I really, really need you to help me with this shoulder. And then I’ll be on my way.’
She shrugged. ‘Whatever you say.’
Slid off the arm of the chair, sauntered over to him and took his arm in her hands. Her fingers dug into his bicep, a little harder than necessary. He looked straight ahead. Every part of him wanted to respond to the touch. To look up into her eyes and see what happened from there. He was a man of opportunity, and he didn’t usually get opportunities as effortlessly as this, especially after such a harrowing introduction. It showed she had an underlying feistiness. She wasn’t easily disturbed. It spoke to him in all the right ways.
But he couldn’t speak back.
He said, ‘Do you know what you’re doing?’
‘I’m a paralegal,’ she said.
He hesitated. ‘What?’
‘You heard me.’
‘What does that have to do with—?’
‘First aid training,’ she said. ‘Part of the job introduction.’
Then she added a smirk, to let him know she wasn’t being serious.
He rolled his eyes. ‘Just do it.’
‘It’s going to hurt.’
‘You don’t say?’
‘Like, a lot.’
‘Story of my life.’
‘How long have you been working for the government?’
He said, ‘Look, I’d love to chat, but—’
Halfway through the sentence, she wrenched his shoulder back into place.
He lost his vision for a split second, plunging into blackness, and when he resurfaced he rode out a wave of agony unlike anything he’d experienced in a long, long time. A breathless gasp exploded from his lips, and he fell back into the corduroy cushions, stunned into silence.
But then the wave crashed on the shores, and subsided, and when it cleared he had full function of his right arm.
He lifted it up, entirely pain-free.
He felt like crying with joy, but he didn’t.
He still had a job to do.
She kept standing over him, watching him intently.
He looked up and said, ‘What?’
She smiled. ‘See? You’re fine now.’
‘I know.’
She slapped him on his brand-new shoulder. ‘There you go. Job done.’
With new life coursing through his veins, he sprung up to his feet. ‘Thank you.’
‘You’re welcome.’
‘You got a bathroom?’
She hesitated. ‘Uh—’
But the relief that came from crawling out of the pain chamber had blessed him with limitless energy. So instead of waiting for her to respond he spotted a closed door near the kitchen with a handmade wooden sign hanging off a peg reading: Restroom.
Cute, he thought.
He levered off the couch, left the Glock on the cushion, and strode for it. His bladder was fit to burst, and he didn’t need to put up with that inconvenience in the midst of trying to locate King and storm the fortified bank building.
He thought he heard her say something in protest, but he ignored it.
He also thought he heard something strange coming from behind the restroom door.
He ignored that, too.
Put a hand out and pushed it open.
The strange noise was emanating
from two men lying sideways on the tiled floor of the bathroom. Their hands were duct taped behind their back, and their ankles were bound, and there was thick grey tape over their mouths, too. They were yelling into the tape, but what came out was ineligible muffled nonsense, no louder than murmurs.
Slater froze with his hand still outstretched.
He turned around.
Alexis had his Glock in her hands. She was aiming it at his chest.
From that distance, she couldn’t miss.
48
Her voice shook as she said, ‘I really need you to leave.’
He soaked in what was happening. Compartmentalised it, then accepted it. He stayed quiet. In a tense situation, less talk was better.
She continued. ‘I know you work for the government. So you’re going to want to get involved in this. But please, just go. I helped you. I did what you asked.’
He still didn’t speak. Just folded his arms over his barrel chest and stared at her.
‘Did you hear me?’ she said, the barrel lurching up and down as her hands shook.
‘How could I not have?’ he said.
‘Then get out.’
He stayed right where he was.
She said, ‘I’m not playing.’
‘Put the gun down, Alexis.’
‘You’re unarmed. I have your weapon. Get out of here.’
‘When are you going to work it out?’
‘Work what out?’
‘I’m not moving,’ he said. ‘So you’re going to have to shoot me if you don’t want me to be here.’
Silence.
‘I’m not playing,’ she repeated.
‘You are playing,’ he said. ‘The fact you had to say it twice shows it’s a bluff. If you want to prove me wrong then shoot me in the face. There’s nothing I can do to stop you.’
She didn’t budge.
Nor did he.
He said, ‘So what happens now?’
