Twenty one
"Upload's at sixty percent," Jim said, his fingers flying over the keyboard. "Just need another minute."
Through the window, Vincent Torrino was walking across the street toward the newspaper office. No hurry, no concern. Just the confident stride of a man who knew he held all the cards.
"We don't have a minute," Hank said.
As if to prove his point, the power went out.
The office plunged into darkness. Jim's computer screen flickered and died, taking our upload with it. Emergency lighting kicked in a few seconds later, but the damage was done.
"Backup generator?" Maddie asked hopefully.
"Budget cuts," Jim said grimly. "I had to choose between keeping the lights on and keeping the presses running."
Vincent had stopped in the middle of the street. Even from inside the darkened office, I could see him smiling. He'd cut the power to the entire block, stopping our story before it could go live.
"Back door," Hank said. "Now."
"What about the story?"
"What about staying alive?"
We grabbed what we could, Sarah's evidence container, Maddie's tablet, Jim's backup drives containing years of research. Then we were moving through the cluttered office toward the loading dock at the rear.
Hank checked the back door carefully before opening it. The alley behind the building was narrow and lined with dumpsters, perfect for an ambush. But it appeared empty.
"Stay close," he whispered. "Move fast and quiet."
We slipped out into the alley, Jim leading the way since he knew the neighborhood best. The morning sun felt too bright after the darkness of the office, making everything seem exposed and dangerous.
"My car's two blocks over," Jim said. "If we can get there—"
The first shot came from the roof of the building across the alley.
The bullet struck the brick wall inches from my mother's head, sending up a spray of dust and fragments. We all dropped to the ground, scrambling for cover behind a dumpster.
"So much for talking," I gasped.
"Vincent doesn't negotiate," Hank said. He had his gun out now, scanning the rooftops for the shooter. "He eliminates problems."
More shots came from different directions. At least three shooters, positioned to cover all the exits from the alley. Professional crossfire, designed to pin us down while other team members moved into position.
"We can't stay here," Maddie said. She was clutching her tablet like a lifeline, probably thinking about all the research that would die with us.
"Fire escape," Jim pointed to a rusty ladder on the side of his building. "Leads to the roof."
"That's suicide," my mother said. "They'll pick us off the moment we start climbing."
"They'll pick us off anyway if we stay here."
Hank was studying the positions of the shooters, calculating angles and timing. "Cover me," he said. "I'm going to clear a path for us."
"How?"
"The way I was trained to."
Before any of us could stop him, he was moving. Not the careful advance of someone trying to stay hidden, but the swift, purposeful movement of a predator. He flowed from cover to cover with impossible speed, using dumpsters and doorways to shield himself as he closed distance on the nearest shooter.
I watched in horrified fascination as he scaled a fire escape with the fluid grace of someone who'd done this kind of thing before. Many times before.
The shooting stopped. Sudden, complete silence that was somehow more terrifying than the gunfire had been.
"Now," Hank called from somewhere above us. "Move."
We ran for the fire escape, Jim helping my mother climb while Maddie and I followed close behind. My hands were shaking so badly I could barely grip the rungs, but adrenaline kept me moving.
The roof was flat gravel with a low parapet wall around the edges. Hank was crouched by the far side, looking down at the street below. There was blood on his knuckles, and his shirt was torn.
"Are you hurt?" I asked.
"Not my blood."
The clinical way he said it made my stomach clench. This was what he'd meant about becoming the person he used to be. This was Antonio Torrino, the man trained from childhood to be a killer.
"How many?" Maddie asked.
"Three down. But Vincent will have more people positioned around the block." He checked his watch. "We've got maybe ten minutes before they regroup."
"Then what?"
"Then we disappear. Completely. New identities, new lives, new everything."
"What about the story?" I asked. "What about stopping the trafficking?"
"What about staying alive long enough to fight another day?"
The frustration in his voice was clear. He was trying to protect us, but protecting us meant abandoning everything we'd worked for.
"There has to be another way," I said.
"Like what?"
Before I could answer, we heard helicopter rotors in the distance. Getting closer.
"Vincent's bringing in the heavy artillery," Hank said grimly. "Time to go."
We moved across the roof toward the adjacent building, jumping the narrow gap between them. My mother stumbled on the landing, and I caught her arm, surprised by how frail she felt.
"I'm slowing you down," she said.
"We stick together," I said firmly. "All of us."
The helicopter appeared over the downtown area, black and unmarked like the one that had hunted us at Rocky Point. It began circling the newspaper building, searchlight probing the surrounding rooftops.
"There," Jim pointed toward a church steeple rising from the next block. "The bell tower has a fire exit that leads to the parking lot behind the grocery store."
"That's four buildings away," Maddie said.
"Do you have a better idea?"
The helicopter was expanding its search pattern, moving toward our position. In less than a minute, that searchlight would find us on the exposed rooftop.
"Go," Hank said. "I'll follow."
"Together," I repeated.
"Elise—"
"Together, or I don't move."