Chapter Four
She heard the command in her mind, but it didn't seem to reach the rest of her body. Paralyzed by a horrific combination of fear and grief, she could only listen as the man’s footsteps got closer to the hall. He was almost there when the adrenaline kicked in, suddenly flooding her body with a rush of energy that prompted her to move.
She clambered to her feet and turned away from Maggie’s office. Then she ran, ducking behind the first row of cubicles in the open part of the office reserved for general accounting and administrative staff.
The footsteps were in the hall as she hit her knees, crawling along the carpet, careful to stay low as she made her way to the stairs.
“Hello?” the man called out. “Is anyone there?”
She navigated her way through the winding partitions, trying to orient herself to the stairwell while listening for the man’s footsteps, trying to make sure she didn’t inadvertently work her way to his position.
Say something, she thought. She was flying blind without the sound of his voice, scrambling along the floor in what she hoped was the general direction of the stairs while hoping she wasn’t playing right into his hands.
He remained quiet, hunting her while she moved at what felt like an excruciatingly slow pace, careful not to knock anything over. Not to bump into anything or make any noise. She’d lost all track of time when she finally saw something she recognized — the pair of potted Ficus trees that flanked the hallway just past the lobby.
She was almost there. She just had to make it through the wide open space of the executive foyer without being seen. Then she’d be in front of the elevators, only steps from the door leading to the stairwell.
Still on her knees, she glanced back. She didn’t know where the man had gone, but time was her judge, jury and executioner. He was somewhere in the offices behind her. It was inevitable that he would make his way to the lobby, and that was assuming he wasn’t already watching, waiting for her to make a break for the elevator or stairs.
But she didn't have a choice. If she stayed, she was dead. As dead as Maggie…
Oh, god. Maggie...
She couldn’t think about that right now. She had to get out of the office. Find the guards. Get help. Maybe they could save Maggie. Maybe she was still alive.
She clung to the idea for a moment before putting it out of her mind. She wouldn’t do Maggie any good unless she could escape the men who had shot her. She turned her attention on the hall beyond the lobby. The elevators were right there, the stairwell just a few feet past them.
She got off her knees, rose to a crouching position like a runner waiting for the starting shot in a race. Then, before she could change her mind, she bolted, making a run for the elevator lobby. She was free. Out of the office, past the first elevator, then the second. She pulled open the door of the stairwell and rushed headlong down the concrete and metal stairs. The door had just closed behind her when she heard the ping of metal on metal.
He'd spotted her. Had shot at her. But the bullet had hit the stairwell door, and now she had a head start. It wasn’t much comfort against the knowledge that Maggie had been mixed up in something, that she’d been shot, that the same men who had shot her were now after Diana.
But it was something.
The stairwell door opened above her. She barely had time to register it before a series of shots rang out in the enclosed space. Muffled by the silencer, the sound was surreal — a soft thud followed by the deafening ping of bullets embedding themselves in the metal staircase.
She moved against the wall, as close as she dared without slowing her pace, trying to shield herself from the view of anyone peering over the railings above her. She looked at the door as she raced past another floor. It was painted with a large “3”.
Third floor then. Almost to the bottom and the guards who could protect her.
Another round of gunfire opened up behind her. She kept moving, half expecting to feel the tear of hot metal into her skin. And then she was passing another door.
2…
Cursing above her, something in the language she couldn’t identify followed by a word she could have sworn was “bitch.” Then more gunfire and the hot sting of something hitting her upper arm, a flash of pain that was gone a moment later.
She launched herself onto the ground floor landing and pulled open the door, spilling out into the bank’s main lobby. She was almost to the guard’s desk when she realized her error.
His body was sprawled out on the floor, half behind the long desk that was used to check in visitors, half in the open. A small circle marred the center of his forehead, blood caked around the opening. His eyes were open, unseeing.
He was dead.
She didn’t have time to feel anything. Her body and mind were singularly focused on survival. On the new reality that she would now have to clear the lobby to get help for Maggie.
She ran as fast as her feet would carry her, only vaguely aware that she was barefoot. Had she taken off her shoes? Had they fallen off? She couldn’t remember.
She sprinted for the glass doors, trying to remember if they were left open from the inside or if she needed her key. Her mind was a canvas, blank except for the overwhelming desire to escape, find help for Maggie, make the men who had shot her pay for what they had done.
She didn’t have a chance to ponder the consequences of being wrong. She hit the door at full speed as a series of muffled shots hit the floor around her, some of the bullets burying themselves in the tempered glass that surrounded the lobby.
She expected to be met with resistance. To find the door was indeed locked. Instead it seemed to fly open as if by magic.
Easily. Almost like someone had opened it from the other side.
Except she was alone on the darkened street. A car sped past, disappearing into the distance. She hesitated only a split second before turning right, then broke into a sprint, wondering if she would be shot in the back.
She wasn’t, and she rounded the corner into an alley and plastered herself against the brick wall of a restaurant, already closed for the night. Everything came into sharp focus as she caught her breath.
The cool night air moving into her lungs, touching her skin with icy fingers.
The pavement, wet and cold under her bare feet.
The distant sound of tires whooshing through puddles.
It was foolish to stand still. She knew it in some distant part of her mind, but she couldn't seem to make herself move. She was paralyzed, immobile against the wall, relieved to feel something strong and unmoving at her back.
She didn’t know how much time passed before her head began to clear, but slowly, her brain started working again, cataloging everything that had happened. Everything that still might happen. She hadn’t seen anyone run past the alley, but that didn’t mean they wouldn’t be looking for her. She’d left her light on in her office. Her handbag was there, and yes, now she remembered, her shoes. It would be simple to figure out her identity. To realize she’d witnessed Maggie’s shooting. Then it was only a matter of looking at her identification. Showing up at her flat.
She couldn’t go home. That much was obvious.
She ran through the list of other possibilities in her mind. It didn’t take long. It was a short list. She didn’t dare contact her parents. Whomever had hurt Maggie — she still refused to believe her friend was dead — would expect her to go there. She would have to call them.
Eventually.
The only other person she would have trusted was lying in one of the executive offices, counting on Diana to get help. She didn’t have any more time to be indecisive.
She pushed off the wall and sprinted to the other end of the alley. They might come after her, but she could at least try not to be in their path when they did. She emerged onto Cannon Street and hurried toward the intersection, looking for one of the old phone booths that could still be found downtown.
She found one near Mansion House, the official residence of the Lord Mayor. Shutting herself inside the booth, she looked blankly at the machine in front of her. She’d never made a call from a pay phone. Did it cost money to dial in an emergency?
There was only one way to find out, and she picked up the handset and dialed 9-9-9. She held her breath while it rang, then exhaled in a rush when the dispatcher came on the line. She gave them the bank’s address, told them there had been a shooting. Then she hung up before they could ask her name.
She stepped back onto the street a moment later, relieved against all reason to be out of the booth’s close quarters. She looked both ways, debating. Then she started running.