I opened my door, snagged the knife from my ankle sheath, and lunged, knocking Rufus backward and pinning him beneath me. His head cracked off the blacktop. He yelped.
“You son of a bitch.” I pressed the serrated blade to his throat. “How long have they been tracking us?”
“I don’t know,” Rufus gasped, eyes wide and wild. He didn’t fight back. “Probably since I got out of that damned fridge. The brass is tabbing all of us, Evy. They’ll be here any minute. You need to run.”
I blinked and pressed the knife harder, drawing a speck of blood. “Run right into a fucking trap that your pals set up for me? No thanks.”
“Before they get here. I believe you now, and I didn’t before, I’m sorry. I can still help, but you need to get away right now.”
I looked over the hood of the car. Two black sedans were in the opposite-turn lane, and as I stared, the first turned left into the parking lot entrance. It crept forward, tinted windows glaring with specks of sunlight. “Goddammit.”
“Hit me. Hit me and run. There’s a pay phone on the corner of West Elm and Tierney. Be there at dusk and I’ll call you.”
“Wyatt.” I lunged toward the restaurant, but Rufus grabbed my wrist. I stumbled sideways, nearly falling on top of him.
“I’ll help you get him back, Evy, but right now hit me and go!”
I did, without further thought or hesitation. Fingers numb and wrist aching, I bolted. Across the rocky pavement, toward the back of the lot, eyes on the lowest rung of the fire escape. My heart was thundering in my ears, and adrenaline surged through my veins.
Voices shouted. Gunshots pinged the blacktop by my feet. Something grazed my ankle with liquid fire. Each step was agony, but no other shots connected. One foot on a trash can lid vaulted me up to the fourth rung of the rusty escape ladder. Up I went, scrambling for each purchase. At the first landing, a peppering of gunfire shattered the nearest window. I hurled myself through, tucking into a tumble. I hit rough carpet, and glass dug into my arms and shoulders.
I sprang up into a crouch, in the middle of a dim living room, ripe with the odors of last night’s binge. Empty bottles and paper wrappers littered the floor and tables. A trash can was piled high with garbage of every variety. But no one came running at the sound of my inauspicious entry.
The ceiling exploded bits of plaster as more bullets flew in from the destroyed window. I ran toward the front door, leaping awkwardly over an upholstered ottoman and almost tripping over my own feet. Chalice’s feet. Why couldn’t I have been resurrected into a ballet dancer? I fumbled with the door’s chain—on, so someone had to be home—and turned the dead bolt.
“What the blue f—?” A man’s voice turned into a startled yelp, punctuated by a thud. I didn’t stop, didn’t turn, simply yanked open the front door and ran.
A long, bare cement block corridor greeted me. I spotted a red “Exit” sign and jerked left, heading toward the fire door. I slammed through it and hit the cement stairs at a dead run, down two at a time, adrenaline feeding me more speed than felt natural. My ankle was numb, probably leaving a trail of blood for anyone with two eyes to follow, but I couldn’t stop to wrap it. I had to keep going. To get away before they had me cornered.
I burst through the first-floor door and emerged in a dimly lit lobby. An elderly woman stared at me over her cane. Her mouth dropped open, and a thoroughly gummed cigar fell to the threadbare carpet. I tore past her, toward bright sunlight and a pair of double glass doors. Past a row of metal mailboxes and a closed door with “Manager” printed in choppy block letters. Back outside into warm spring air.
And the wail of police sirens.
The west wall of the apartment building butted up against a grubby mom-and-pop grocery. The windows were papered with ads dated two years ago, but still advertising “Fresh! And Cheap!” produce. I stopped on the cracked sidewalk, under the protection of a red vinyl canopy, and tried to catch my breath. Calm my heart. Think straight.
My teeth ached, and I finally noticed that at some point during my flight, I’d bitten down on the handle of my serrated knife—probably right before I climbed the fire escape—and it was still clenched in my teeth. I slipped it back into its sheath, and then checked my other ankle. My shoe was soaked, but the graze had stopped bleeding, leaving behind an angry red gash. A quick sidewalk check revealed no trail.
The sirens grew louder, bouncing over from the opposite block. Distant reminders that I’d left Wyatt behind. Alone.
A figure emerged from the apartment’s lobby door, but he looked the other way first. I ducked into the grocery store, assaulted by frigid air and the yeasty odor of bread. Two ancient checkout counters marked the front of the shop. I smiled at the clerk—a bland girl no older than sixteen. She smiled and returned to her magazine.
I slipped down the first aisle, making tracks to the back room. Two rows over, I spotted a swinging “Employees Only” door. A bell jingled at the front of the store. My stomach churned. I pushed through, urged onward by fear and a feral need to avoid capture. I couldn’t help Wyatt if I were in matching handcuffs, or dead for the second time.
The stockroom reeked of rotting vegetables and stale water, thick and nauseating. But I ignored the stench and navigated a path past a small office—hearing the sounds of heavy breathing, which told me where the rest of the staff was—to another door. This one was next to a loading dock. The wires on the emergency handle were cut. The employees probably used it regularly. A tentative nudge proved me correct. I pushed it open far enough to get a peek into the back lot.
The loading dock was blocked off by three metal Dumpsters. A ten-foot chain fence, topped by razor wire, separated the narrow alley from the lot behind it. The Burger Palace was on my right, catty-corner from my position, line of sight obscured. I ducked outside, staying as close to the trash cans as I could manage without vomiting from the odor of rotting meat and produce. Then I ducked past them to the fence.
Between the scratchy branches of two unruly bushes, I could see part of the parking lot. Wyatt’s car was still in its spot, flanked by the two black sedans, all four doors thrown open. Two men about my (former) age were searching it—Hunters I vaguely recognized, mostly from instinct. The way they moved, analyzed, and searched for clues was instinctual, calculated, and deadly.
Rufus sat on the curb, holding an ice pack against his jaw. A man in a smart suit—a Handler named Willemy, if I recalled correctly—crouched in front of him, his hands moving in circles as he talked. Rufus kept shaking his head, saying little.
The one person I needed to see was missing. He could be in one of those tinted sedans, bound and ready for transport elsewhere. Would he have resisted and forced them to take desperate action? No, he wouldn’t risk getting himself killed. Not now. I just needed to see it with my own eyes.
A telephone rang. Willemy fished in his jacket pocket and retrieved his cell. His drooping frown morphed into sheer delight. He snapped the phone shut and said something to Rufus, who nodded, silent. I squinted at him. From that distance, I couldn’t tell if he was out of sorts from my punch, or if he was just a good actor. Willemy seemed finished with him for the time being. He stood up and faced the restaurant.
The side door swung open. Nadia Stanislavski and Philip Tully emerged, one on either side of Wyatt. His hands were cuffed behind his back, and he walked straight. No limping or dragging, no marks that I could see. Sharp pain lanced through my palm; I loosened my fist, releasing nails from indented flesh.
They led him toward the closest sedan. He looked straight ahead, giving nothing. If he expected me to be there somewhere, waiting for him, watching in the wings, he gave no indication. He would have yelled and cursed had he known I was crouching in the bushes instead of putting miles between us. I wanted to let him know I was there, to give some suggestion of my presence, but I remained a silent spectator, watching as they ushered him into the car and slammed the door.
Nadia slid into the front seat of Wyatt’s car. Rufus climbed in next to her. She followed the black sedan out of the parking lot, taking Wyatt away. One car remained behind, as did Tully. He was perched on the hood, waiting for … who? The person who’d chased after me, most likely. If the entire Triad had come after its Handler, that meant Wormer was tracking me. Or had already lost me; I couldn’t be sure. There were damn few things I could be certain of at that particular moment in time.
My neck prickled. I held my breath. Soft leather soles whispered across the parking lot’s cracked blacktop, kicked the occasional pebble, and came to rest close by my position. I didn’t turn to look. Looking might rustle the bushes that protected me. A cramp lanced through my thigh. I bit my tongue, trying to distract myself from the
