doors in a dim hall, like something out of a nightmare.
I glance at the first door. Which is also the first place they’ll look. At the second, I try the handle. Locked. Max is already racing past, and I think that’s it, he’s getting the hell away while the little mouse looks for a hole to hide in. But he only tries the next door and then waves to me when it opens. He holds it while I dart through. Then he closes the door behind us, as carefully as he can, while footfalls thunder down the other hall.
When that door shuts, the room goes completely dark and I stop short. Then there’s a faint bluish light, and I turn to see Max holding down the glow button on his watch. He shines it around.
We’re in a cleaning closet. It’s big enough for me to get away from the door, picking past mops and buckets with extreme care, until I’m tucked down behind them. Max joins me.
Outside we hear footsteps. They’ve slowed now. A second pair joins them.
“What the hell are you doing?” It’s X-Files. “Stay in the room.”
“I can see the door from here,” the second man—Predator—says.
“Yeah, which means we’ll have to chase them if they run.”
“I just thought—”
“Don’t. That’s my job. Now get back in there and—Shit!”
A distant shoe squeak. Then the
pfft
of a suppressed shot, and X-Files snarls, “You left them with Mark’s
gun
?” Running footfalls. Several pairs, the remaining hostages fleeing the room. X-Files and Predator take off after them.
Max slips to the door, lighting his way. He holds up his finger and I see his lips move, counting to five, then he cracks it open and waves at me, still crouched behind the mops. I steady myself and follow.
We make our way to the front door. Footwear off—that was my idea, after hearing X-Files’s and Predator’s shoes squeaking and thumping. We move in stockinged feet to the main hall and then down it, Max walking backward behind me, both of us listening as X-Files and Predator pursue the remaining captives.
Remaining captives
.
Maria is dead. Maybe Lorenzo too. That’s not what I meant by “remaining,” but as soon as I think the word I see Maria, lying on the floor, not moving, and that smell … Maybe there was no smell, maybe it’s my memory of the Porters, but I still remember it with Maria, the stink of blood and urine and more, the smell of violent death. I can tell myself she’s alive, but I know she isn’t.
I stop running. Max bumps into me and turns with a whispered “What do you hear?” as he leans around and then sees my expression.
“Bloody hell,” he mutters as he takes my shoulders and propels me forward. “Keep those legs moving, Riley. You can do this.”
I want to throw him off. To shout at him. Why does he care, anyway? I’m suddenly furious at that care, at the burden of it.
You don’t know me. You shouldn’t give a damn. Get yourself out. Hell, throw me at them for a diversion. I don’t care
.
Except I do care. I haven’t reached rock bottom yet. Haven’t even glimpsed it. As dark as the world gets some days, I still see solid ground under my feet, and I don’t wish for anything else. Even if I did, I couldn’t risk Max’s life with mine. He’s decided to rescue me, and maybe that’s what keeps
him
moving. Something to focus on, to forget what we left behind in that room.
I pay little attention to my surroundings as we run. There’s emergency lighting in the halls, which are builder-beige with equally nondescript flooring. What matters is the path I need to take. Down this hall and then turn left to the end, turn right and the door will be there. Freedom will be there.
We get around the corner. The exit door is just ahead. I’m reaching out, as if I can grab the knob from ten feet away. Then I see the keyhole.
The door is locked. It must be. A locked solid steel door. I slow, and Max passes me, and I think maybe he didn’t notice the lock. But when he yanks on the door and it doesn’t
I glance at the first door. Which is also the first place they’ll look. At the second, I try the handle. Locked. Max is already racing past, and I think that’s it, he’s getting the hell away while the little mouse looks for a hole to hide in. But he only tries the next door and then waves to me when it opens. He holds it while I dart through. Then he closes the door behind us, as carefully as he can, while footfalls thunder down the other hall.
When that door shuts, the room goes completely dark and I stop short. Then there’s a faint bluish light, and I turn to see Max holding down the glow button on his watch. He shines it around.
We’re in a cleaning closet. It’s big enough for me to get away from the door, picking past mops and buckets with extreme care, until I’m tucked down behind them. Max joins me.
Outside we hear footsteps. They’ve slowed now. A second pair joins them.
“What the hell are you doing?” It’s X-Files. “Stay in the room.”
“I can see the door from here,” the second man—Predator—says.
“Yeah, which means we’ll have to chase them if they run.”
“I just thought—”
“Don’t. That’s my job. Now get back in there and—Shit!”
A distant shoe squeak. Then the
pfft
of a suppressed shot, and X-Files snarls, “You left them with Mark’s
gun
?” Running footfalls. Several pairs, the remaining hostages fleeing the room. X-Files and Predator take off after them.
Max slips to the door, lighting his way. He holds up his finger and I see his lips move, counting to five, then he cracks it open and waves at me, still crouched behind the mops. I steady myself and follow.
We make our way to the front door. Footwear off—that was my idea, after hearing X-Files’s and Predator’s shoes squeaking and thumping. We move in stockinged feet to the main hall and then down it, Max walking backward behind me, both of us listening as X-Files and Predator pursue the remaining captives.
Remaining captives
.
Maria is dead. Maybe Lorenzo too. That’s not what I meant by “remaining,” but as soon as I think the word I see Maria, lying on the floor, not moving, and that smell … Maybe there was no smell, maybe it’s my memory of the Porters, but I still remember it with Maria, the stink of blood and urine and more, the smell of violent death. I can tell myself she’s alive, but I know she isn’t.
I stop running. Max bumps into me and turns with a whispered “What do you hear?” as he leans around and then sees my expression.
“Bloody hell,” he mutters as he takes my shoulders and propels me forward. “Keep those legs moving, Riley. You can do this.”
I want to throw him off. To shout at him. Why does he care, anyway? I’m suddenly furious at that care, at the burden of it.
You don’t know me. You shouldn’t give a damn. Get yourself out. Hell, throw me at them for a diversion. I don’t care
.
Except I do care. I haven’t reached rock bottom yet. Haven’t even glimpsed it. As dark as the world gets some days, I still see solid ground under my feet, and I don’t wish for anything else. Even if I did, I couldn’t risk Max’s life with mine. He’s decided to rescue me, and maybe that’s what keeps
him
moving. Something to focus on, to forget what we left behind in that room.
I pay little attention to my surroundings as we run. There’s emergency lighting in the halls, which are builder-beige with equally nondescript flooring. What matters is the path I need to take. Down this hall and then turn left to the end, turn right and the door will be there. Freedom will be there.
We get around the corner. The exit door is just ahead. I’m reaching out, as if I can grab the knob from ten feet away. Then I see the keyhole.
The door is locked. It must be. A locked solid steel door. I slow, and Max passes me, and I think maybe he didn’t notice the lock. But when he yanks on the door and it doesn’t
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