My initial suspicion is that this is some assailant ready to kill us. When the figure spins and pulls a pistol, my first reaction isn’t to run. My first reaction is to say to myself, I was right?
Paige pulls me into an adjacent hall as two shots ring out. One bullet clips the corner near my head. Paige shoots me a look of alarm and frustration. “Run!” she shouts.
I drop my shoes, and we sprint down the hall. The hard sound of Paige’s heels as she runs is echoed by a similar clacking made by our attacker. My back is turned, so I pray we can make it around the corner before the next gunshot.
We whip around the corner as two more shots ring out. My focus shifts to Paige, and in that moment, my only concern is that she is okay. Judging by the speed and determination of her running, she seems fine. Thank God, I think, despite the discomfort that causes. I don’t care—I need to make sure she makes it out of here okay. I stay on her six as we sprint down the hall, keeping myself positioned between her and our assailant.
Through my panting breaths, I yell the only plan I can think of. “Fire escape!”
We turn another corner and come to the frosted-glass window, which, of course, is closed. Paige slows down, and I overtake her. In a full-bore sprint, I jump, tuck my knees under my chin, and cannonball my way through the glass.
The shards claw at my wool overcoat and my skin as a hundred tiny fragments explode around me. I ribcage it against the iron railing, which stops me from falling the remaining five floors to the ground. My bare feet plant on the grating of the fire escape, painfully digging into the sharp metal.
I struggle to stand as Paige jumps through the now-open window. When she lands, her high heels immediately get caught in the metal grid. She kicks off her shoes and grabs me by the arm to drag me toward the ladder as another gunshot pierces the unbroken glass in the window. He’s getting closer.
We’re in the alley behind our building, with no cars or people in sight. Paige leads as I follow her down the series of zigzagging steps, and we make our way down as fast as we can. We slide, run, and climb—barefoot—as fast as we can down the fire escape. I ignore the pain as the metal tread from every step cuts into the soles of my feet. I wonder how Paige can move with such speed and grace with no shoes and a calf-length dress. Then I realize she’s hiked up her skirt enough to stretch her stride, and I also remember how calloused her runner’s feet are. When you run the equivalent of a marathon every three days, your feet can take a beating.
We make it two flights before our attacker appears above and takes aim. I risk looking up to see if I can get a glimpse of his face through the iron grate that separates us. I don’t see the face, but—
A muzzle flash distracts me. I duck on instinct as if that that would do any good. The bullet bounces off the iron grating. A loud, sharp ding reverberates as the bullet ricochets in another direction.
My attention shifts to Paige. Is she okay?
She doesn’t slow down. I see no impact wound. The momentary relief dissipates as I realize we’re nowhere near safety.
We keep going down as fast as we can without stopping. The farther down we go, the more iron separates us from the shooter.
Two more shots. Bullets zing in every other direction but ours. Paige is still okay.
He stops shooting. I glance up and see our assailant climbing down after us. One more flight to go.
Instead of taking the ladder the remainder of the way, Paige launches herself over the rail and free-falls the last ten feet. Her feet plant on the ground, and she rolls onto her shoulder to absorb the impact.
Then she stands there, waiting for me to catch up. She’s a clear target, so I do what she did to catch up, but I totally biff the landing, pain shooting through my bare feet and my shins. I stumble forward into the street.
“Come on!” Paige shouts, still standing on the sidewalk.
I sprint for her, pushing her toward safety. I position myself behind her as we run as fast as we can across the street. Another gunshot explodes. My eyes are on Paige to make sure she’s okay.
Bam! A searing pain punctures my shoulder. It knocks me off balance and onto all fours. Blood splatters onto the pavement before me—my blood.
For a moment, I’m frozen in shock. A fiery agony burns in my shoulder followed by a dull ache. Holy shit. I’ve just been shot.
Paige drags me to my feet and pulls me to a doorway across the alley. “Run!”
Another gunshot. This one misses us both. We fling ourselves through the open back door of a local business. I land on hard linoleum, and Paige smacks her head against a wall trying to catch me. We find ourselves on the floor in the kitchen of a local bar. A busboy yells at us, but Paige pulls me up and pushes me past him.
The pain intensifies. Adrenaline pumps through my blood. The electrocardiogram on my watch goes off—heart rate is rising. My brain is activating every chemical in my system to nullify the pain and keep me moving.
Everything whirls around me. I’m starting to lose my perception of what is happening and, with that, my control. On top of the panic of being chased and shot and keeping Paige from getting hurt, I’m now worrying about Dudley.
We barge through the kitchen and emerge in the lounge. It’s dark and noisy—probably happy hour. There are way too many innocent bystanders for my comfort. Paige doesn’t miss a beat and drags me to the
