We burst through the gate and he didn’t stop. He kept sprinting down the block, then across the street, and I recognized it now. Fifth Avenue.
My feet slowed of their own accord, and I threw a glance over my shoulder. There was no one following, or not that I could see.
I came to a stop, hardly knowing which way to look for maximum safety. Messina was half a block down, still jogging, but IwasFBI, dammit. I wasn’t supposed to run from gunshots. I was supposed to stick around. Protect the public, even. Only it hadn’t happened that way, had it? I’d been the one getting protected.
I turned around again, surveying the wide street. Sirens were sounding, coming closer; someone must have reported the shots, or maybe the sirens were headed somewhere else entirely. I leaned over, hands on my knees, to catch my breath.
“You want to get to the gym more often,” said a voice behind me. I whipped around to see Messina only a few feet away, looking me up and down as I panted.
“I go four days a week,” I told him. “The FBI has mandatory fitness levels.”
“And yet,” Messina said, and left it open-ended. He looked down the street, scanning for threats. “So what was that all about?” he asked.
“I’ll ask the questions,” I said, only the way I wheezed between words made it sound less authoritative than I’d hoped. “Shit. What the hellwasthat all about?”
Messina gave me a head-to-toe stare again, incredulity in the twist of his lips. “Come on, kid. I don’t want to wait out here until whoever that was gets lucky and finds us again. I don’t know if he was after me or you, but I don’t plan to find out tonight.”
He turned to start walking away again, and I followed him a few yards behind, my mind at war with itself. What was Idoing? He led me through various cross streets until we came to a halt and Messina squinted at the building across the street.
“Got a gun?” he asked.
“Why?”
“Because if the person back there knows about this place, they’ll be waiting for us.”
I recognized the building then, the same one I’d been standing outside the last few nights. “Don’t you have a safe house or something?” I asked faintly.
“What sort of businessman needs a safe house?” he replied.
I snorted. He didn’t even smile. “Jeez. Alright,” I said, and went to unholster my gun—but it wasn’t in the holster. “Shit. I, uh…I think I dropped it.”
“You dropped your service weapon?” The question was even, neutral, but I couldn’t meet his eye.
“I guess I did. I don’t—I’m not a field agent, I don’t use it day-to-day. I’m not used to…”
“I see,” Messina murmured, his eyes still scanning the shadows. “Well.” He took out a gun from under his jacket, a gleaming, gorgeous piece of machinery that was obviously loved and well-cared-for. “Here.”
“But I—”
“Only shoot if you’re sure. But it’s now or never and I need to focus on getting the door open. Let’s go.”
We ran lightly across the quiet road to the stone steps opposite that led into the apartment building. It was one of those fancy stone ones with gargoyles mounted on the corners, the kind that usually has a doorman. But there was no doorman on duty tonight, and Messina quickly pressed in the security code to the electronic lock before pulling open the door. We dashed inside; he closed the door; we both took several steps into the foyer and waited.
Nothing. No shots, no yells, not even my own breath as I held it.
“Keep moving,” Messina said, and started up the stairs.
Four flights up, I was starting to wish I’d done more cardio than weights during my gym sessions. “There’s an elevator,” I gasped out as we passed it again on the fourth floor.
“You want to chance it, be my guest,” he said mildly.
With an internal groan, I climbed on after him.
Finally we reached the top floor, the ninth, just when I thought my knees were going to quit on me. Definitely more StairMaster at the gym, I decided. Angelo paused outside 9C and put his ear to the door, listening.
Whatever he heard or didn’t hear must have satisfied him, because he entered another code into the key button lock, and the electronic lock whirred open. He pushed the door and gestured. “You first.”
“Age before beauty,” I blurted out for some reason.
