“Yes,” he says. “As fast as you can.”
“I-I can’t.” I wheel toward the room. “I won’t run again. I won’t hide—”
“Oh, bloody hell. This is not the time, Riley. Really, not the time.”
“But I need to—”
“No, actually, you don’t. You want to stand your ground? Next life-threatening situation, all right? For this one, you’re getting out.”
“I need to help—”
“Help me. I’ll be your designated rescue victim for today. You can’t go back, because if you do, I won’t make it.”
“Of course you—”
“No, I won’t. Now get me out of here.”
He shoves me, and I stagger a few steps and then start to run. It isn’t easy. I feel the pull of those fading voices and the pull of the panic too, twin forces, one dragging me back, the other dragging me down. But I keep going. I have to. For Max. Which is madness, of course. He doesn’t need me.
So why did he bring me along? He’s never struck me as the sort to slow down and help someone else—especially if it might lower his own escape chances.
Yet Max hadn’t just grabbed me at the last second. I’d recognized that grip and the arm around my waist as the one that pulled me back when Gideon came after me. The one that grabbed me when Maria went down too, the voice that whispered it was all right. Max’s voice.
We’re passing a hall juncture. I can see an exit sign ahead, pointing right. The front door is there, around the next corner, and—
Max slams his open hand into my shoulder, knocking me sideways. I start to turn, but he’s pushing me toward the adjoining hall, and I realize the noise from behind us has changed—not cries and scuffling now but one of our captors shouting, “Where the hell is the girl?”
I look down the main hall, toward the exit.
“No,” Max whispers. “Not unless you can outrun bullets.”
He’s right. The door seems so close, so damned close, but it’s at least another twenty running steps away, and I can already hear footsteps thumping behind us.
I take the side corridor. I see doors. That’s all I see: endless rows of closed doors in a dim hall, like something out of a nightmare.
I glance at the first door. Which is also the first place they’ll look. At the second, I try the handle. Locked. Max is already racing past, and I think that’s it, he’s getting the hell away while the little mouse looks for a hole to hide in. But he only tries the next door and then waves to me when it opens. He holds it while I dart through. Then he closes the door behind us, as carefully as he can, while footfalls thunder down the other hall.
When that door shuts, the room goes completely dark and I stop short. Then there’s a faint bluish light, and I turn to see Max holding down the glow button on his watch. He shines it around.
We’re in a cleaning closet. It’s big enough for me to get away from the door, picking past mops and buckets with extreme care, until I’m tucked down behind them. Max joins me.
Outside we hear footsteps. They’ve slowed now. A second pair joins them.
“What the hell are you doing?” It’s X-Files. “Stay in the room.”
“I can see the door from here,” the second man—Predator—says.
“Yeah, which means we’ll have to chase them if they run.”
“I just thought—”
“Don’t. That’s my job. Now get back in there and—Shit!”
A distant shoe squeak. Then the pfft of a suppressed shot, and X-Files snarls, “You left them with Mark’s gun?” Running footfalls. Several pairs, the remaining hostages fleeing the room. X-Files and Predator take off after them.
Max slips to the door, lighting his way. He holds up his finger and I see his lips move, counting to five, then he cracks it open and waves at me, still crouched behind the mops. I steady myself and follow.
We make our way to the front door. Footwear off—that was my idea, after hearing X-Files’s and Predator’s shoes squeaking and thumping. We move in stockinged feet to the main hall and then down it, Max walking backward behind me, both of us listening as X-Files and Predator pursue the remaining captives.
Remaining captives.
Maria is dead. Maybe Lorenzo too. That’s not what I meant by “remaining,” but as soon as I think the word I see Maria, lying on the floor, not moving, and that smell … Maybe there was no smell, maybe it’s my memory of the Porters, but I still remember it with Maria, the stink of blood and urine and more, the smell of violent death. I can tell myself she’s alive, but I know she isn’t.
I stop running. Max bumps into me and turns with a whispered “What do you hear?” as he leans around and then sees my expression.
“Bloody hell,” he mutters as he takes my shoulders and propels me forward. “Keep those legs moving, Riley. You can do this.”
I want to throw him off. To shout at him. Why does he care, anyway? I’m suddenly furious at that care, at the burden of it. You don’t know me. You shouldn’t give a damn. Get yourself out. Hell, throw me at them for a diversion. I don’t care.
Except I do care. I haven’t reached rock bottom yet. Haven’t even glimpsed it. As dark as the world gets some days, I still see solid ground under my feet, and I don’t wish for anything else. Even if I did, I couldn’t risk Max’s life with mine. He’s decided to rescue me, and maybe that’s what keeps him moving. Something to focus on, to forget what we left behind in that room.