“Yes,” Alec said, stepping forward as Bruce turned to guard their flank. He lifted the keypad’s flap – it looked like a small portrait of Henry V – and punched in the numbers.
“I’m not sure why everyone acts like I must behandled,” Ian complained. “As if I’m a small dog in an old woman’s purse.”
“Sweetie,” Alec said absently, and pressed Enter.
The lock disengaged, and the panel swung inward with a light press of Alec’s fingertips. Opening to reveal–
Two gun muzzles trained on them.
Alec swore.
Ian registered hired muscle in black tac gear, fleetingly, but his gaze settled on the man at the center. The slender young man in a black turtleneck, holding a ridiculous gun, his longish, black hair falling out of a ponytail to frame his pretty face, diamonds glinting in his ears.
He smiled, flashing dazzling white teeth. “Mr. Shaman. Perfect. Let’s have a chat.”
~*~
Leah’s previous employer in Chicago had mandated they all watch an active shooter training video.
She wished she’d paid better attention.
There hadn’t been any gunshots, yet, only screams. That group of unarmed, twenty-something boys hadn’t warranted shooting, she guessed. No real threat.
She couldn’t think of that. They had to hide. And, when they had the chance, run again.
The door Rochelle had opened let into a wide, group workspace just like their own. The lights were off, the computer screens dark. The desks and partitions were mostly glass, reflecting the sunlight coming in at the window: not direct, because it was noon and the sun was straight overhead. There were some shadows. Some dark cabinet faces in the kitchenette where she could squeeze…but the others wouldn’t fit.
She stood a moment, panting, trying to think, think,think.
“We have to hide,” she said. “All of us – find somewhere. Anywhere.”
They scattered. She was dimly aware of Isobel climbing down inside a tall trash can. Eric hunkered in under a desk, pressed back into the opaque panels that surrounded the computer modem.
Leah ducked between the printer and the copier, crouched down low beneath a small table that held stacks of unpackaged paper and toner, arms tight around her knees. She closed her mouth, and forced herself to breathe through her nose, slowly, silently, despite the chaos of her nerves. She heard rustling, and a few murmurs, and then silence.
And then the outer door opened.
~*~
Ordinarily, Carter would have loathed the idea of pulling on a dead man’s clothes. Michael had shot them through the throat, and blood had pooled beneath and dribbled down the front, until the neck of the black turtleneck was cold and clammy and stank like salt and iron. Then again, ordinarily, he wouldn’t have volunteered to go with Reese and Tenny.
It had been spur of the moment, an instinctual snap to action. Leah was inside. He’d said, “I’m going with you.”
Tenny and Reese had traded unreadable looks. Reese had nodded. Tenny had said, “Stay behind me, and don’t get in my way.”
There had been three bodies, three sets of black gear. Carter held a dead man’s rifle in black-gloved hands and tried his best to mimic the silent, floating way that Tenny and Reese moved ahead of him, a fast walk that covered more ground than a run would have, and kept their equipment from jangling.
A quick sweep of the ground floor proved that those in the lower part of the office had already evacuated, and successfully.
They found the first team of goons on the second floor.
They left a stairwell, and entered a dim, gray-carpeted hallway to find employees in smart clothes sitting on the floor against the wall, wrists zip-tied together, some of them crying, others staring numbly. One woman was praying. A three-man team in black gear stood in the center of the hall, rifles held casually.
One of them glanced up, eyes shielded by goggles, voice a rough smoker’s crackle.
“What are you doing in here? We’ve got this floor covered.”
“Sorry,” Tenny said, and shot him.
