Of course. He’d planned multiple ways to kill me before he even arrived.
A sharp knock at the room door made my decision for me. I dropped to my knees and squeezed into the opening, feeling cobwebs brush against my face as I entered the musty space. The tight passage smelled of mildew and decay. Bile rose to my throat, threatening to spill everywhere, but I resisted the urge somehow. My eyes watered—whether from the smell or fear, I couldn’t tell. Nor did it matter.
Reaper followed, pulling the panel back into place behind us. Darkness enveloped us completely.
“Stay close. Move when I move,” he whispered, his breath warm against my ear. “The floor isn’t stable in some places.”
As if to emphasize his point, the wood beneath my hand gave slightly when I shifted my weight. My heart hammered in my chest as I heard the distant sound of the hotel room door being forced open.
Reaper began to step forward, moving with silent efficiency despite the confined space. I followed, every muscle tense, hyperaware of both the man in front of me and the threat behind.
I’d never imagined my escape route would be through the rotting innards of a building, led by the very man sent to killme. Was I crazy to trust him? Maybe. But what other choice did I have?
We’d gone maybe ten feet when I heard a crashing sound, curses, and voices from the bathroom we’d just left. Muffled but clear enough—they were looking for me.
I froze, holding my breath. Reaper’s hand found my wrist in the darkness, his grip firm but not painful—a silent command to keep moving. I swallowed hard and followed his lead, willing my limbs to move as quietly as his.
The passage narrowed, forcing me to turn sideways. My shoulder brushed against exposed pipes, still warm from carrying hot water. Dust filled my lungs with each shallow breath. I pressed my lips together to suppress a cough that would give us away.
“Where does this lead?”
“Supply closet. Second floor,” he murmured back, his voice impossibly controlled. “Keep moving.”
A distant crash from behind us—they were tearing apart the bathroom. Had they found the panel yet? My heart hammered so loudly that it was deafening.
My hand slipped on something slick—mold or worse—and I nearly fell face-first into a beam. Reaper’s hand shot back, steadying me with unexpected gentleness, but no words left his lips. Just a stern gaze that prompted me to be more careful.
The passage began to slope downward. Reaper paused at a junction, head tilted as if listening for something I couldn’t hear. Without warning, he turned left, where the passage narrowed even further.
“It’s tight,” he warned. “You should fit.”
“I don’t think…”
“You will fit,” he repeated, as if he didn’t have the time nor the patience to bicker about this with me. I wasn’t sure whether he was right, but there was only one way to find out.
I squeezed into the narrower passage after him, wincing as my hips scraped against the rough edges. Xavier used to tease me about my “Durham hips”—said they were sturdy enough to carry the weight of the world. Right now, they were carrying the weight of dust, cobwebs, and splinters as I shimmied through the tight space.
The wood creaked beneath me, and I froze. Behind us, I heard someone speak in Portuguese.
Reaper’s hand found my shoulder in the darkness, guiding me forward. I swallowed my pride and followed, ignoring the uncomfortable squeeze. We reached a vertical shaft with crude handholds carved into the wood—a makeshift ladder leading both up and down.
“Up,” Reaper directed, already climbing. “The third rung is loose. Skip it.”
I followed his instructions, testing each handhold before trusting it with my weight. The wood creaked ominously under us. I tried not to think about how old this building was and how easily we could fall through rotted beams to whatever lay below.
When we reached the top, Reaper stopped at what appeared to be another panel. He pressed his ear against it, listening intently. I held my position below him, arms aching from the climb.
“Supply closet should be empty,” he whispered. “But stay quiet.”
He pushed against the panel, which gave way with surprising ease. Dim light filtered in, and I blinked as my eyes adjusted after the complete darkness. Reaper pulled himself up and through the opening, then reached back to offer me his hand.
I hesitated for a fraction of a second before taking it. His palm was calloused but warm, his grip unfaltering as he pulled me up beside him with effortless strength.
We emerged into a cramped janitor’s closet filled with ancient cleaning supplies and a sink that looked like it hadn’t been used in years. Reaper immediately moved to the door, pressing his ear against it before easing it open a crack to peer outside.
“Service corridor,” he said. “Clear for now.”
I brushed dust and cobwebs from my clothes, my hands trembling with adrenaline. “Now what?”
