The men were either horrible shots, or they had no intention of killing him.

The loud punch of gunfire echoed around Jake as he ran. His feet pounded the uneven concrete, the cold hard surface assaulting his heels as he tore through the empty building. Shots sprayed against the floor, nipping at his ankles.

The massive space was nearly empty—a ghost of a building that once housed dozens of men and women who’d churned out products at the assembly line. Scraps of paper littered the floor, sticking to his bloody feet as he tore through the large space. A rancid odor crept into his nostrils as he looked at the staircase that led to the second floor, open to the factory down below.

He tried not to limp as a shooting pain spiraled up through his left leg. Still, he staggered to the set of steel stairs, clenching tight the trigger in his hands. One slip of his thumb and it’d all be over. No overtime. No do-overs.

Upstairs now, Jake started down the hall. He focused on the corridor of rooms that spanned before him as his sight blurred. He blinked rapidly to clear the sweat and blood from his gaze.

The bullets had stopped, but any glimmer of hope that he’d escape fizzled fast when the thumping of two sets of boots barreled behind him down the hall. So far, every window had been boarded up.

Shit. He turned left and halted, taking two steps back to the entrance of an open doorway. He released a pent-up breath as he spotted a large, expansive open window—a piece of plywood lying in front of it. He’d almost missed it.

Thank God. The open window, with its glimpse of dusky blue sky, was the most beautiful sight he’d ever seen.

He hurried into the room and braced one hand against the wall. The cool, biting air slapped him in the face, and he narrowed his eyes, trying to get a better look outside. His heart pumped hard in his chest as his insides shook.

He swiped away the blood and sweat from his eyes, ignoring the burning pain, and focused on the rooftop of a neighboring building maybe fifteen or twenty feet below. The jump wouldn’t be too bad. Not deadly, at least.

He lowered his hands, the trigger still grasped tight, and spun around as he heard the two men draw near. They stood before him, staring at him with the same brownish-black eyes that had become so familiar. Green bandannas were tied around their faces beneath their eyes and draped down in a pointed V to their chins.

One of the men moved in front of the other and entered the room with slow and cautious steps. He stopped a few feet shy of Jake and pushed a breath through his lips; the bandanna puffed lightly out in front of him. The man’s eyes, void of emotion, darted down Jake’s chest as he lowered the gun to his side.

Jake glanced down at the timer on his black vest. The red numbers glowed on the stopwatch strapped over his heart, which was wedged between small packaged blocks of what Jake assumed was C4. Wires sprang out of the red blocks and wrapped around to the back of the vest.

Jake cocked his head and slanted his eyes. “You guys have less than sixty seconds to get the hell out of here. You might want to run unless you’ve got a death wish.” He panted a little and swallowed.

When they didn’t move, Jake raised the trigger out in front of him. He could set it off now if he wanted to, but the men weren’t afraid. They could see it in Jake’s eyes—his desire to live, to see another day. To tell his mother he loved her because he worried he didn’t tell her enough. To remind his sister Emily how proud he was of her. And to tell his dad—well, his dad was a man of few words and wouldn’t need to hear how he felt. But he’d been the rock of the family. Someone he could always count on.

“You Americans think you’re so smart.” The guy closest to him took a step back. “You think you’re so much better than the rest of the world.” His accented voice pushed through the dusty air, and Jake tried not to look at the stopwatch. He had to stay strong.

“We don’t think we’re better or smarter than everyone, but we’re for damn sure stronger and smarter than you assholes.”

The man’s gaze flickered back to the vest for a moment, then he and the other guy turned and disappeared.

Jake now had twenty seconds to get out of the mess he was in.

He worked fast at the vest, attempting to remove it while also keeping his hand on the trigger. If his thumb lifted from the button, he’d be painting the walls with his blood.

He’d trained for moments like this. Although he knew how to deactivate a bomb, there was no use trying with only seconds left. This wasn’t some blockbuster movie, and as much he and his pals always joked he wasn’t an action hero. The death attempting to claim his soul was all too real. And he wasn’t ready to learn whether it would suck him down to the netherworld of hell or the soft grace of heaven.

The vest finally slipped off, and he cleared the room in two galloping strides to chuck it down into the factory. His veins pulsed in his neck, squeezing tight until he could hardly gather oxygen into his lungs as he sprinted back. Still holding the trigger, he climbed into the window and squatted.

He didn’t know how large the blast would be—perhaps not too bad, based on the amount of explosive material on the vest.

This is shit, Jake thought as he sucked in a breath and leaped out the window. A hot blast of flames fanned out behind him, propelling him forward.