The door to the internal stairs is exactly where I calculated.
But there’s no handle on the outside. Of course not. Fire code requires exterior access, but building owners ignore regulationsuntil someone dies. Building code violations everywhere except the one that would save me.
Metal scrapes behind me. They’re coming.
I sprint for cover, wedging myself between the water tower and an HVAC unit. The metal is warm from the day’s heat, humming with mechanical life. Pigeon droppings and rust coat everything—the smell thick and organic, ammonia and decay mixing with hot metal and old grease. I pull out my phone; fingers slick with blood.
“Status?” The Cerberus operator’s voice is clipped, professional.
“Roof.” The word scrapes out of my constricted throat. “Three men. Armed?—”
“Two minutes out. Stay alive.”
One hundred twenty seconds. One hundred twenty reasons to keep breathing.
“Spread out.” The leader’s voice carries on the wind. “She’s here.”
Footsteps fan across the rooftop. Methodical. Patient. They know I’m trapped.
Ninety seconds.
A bottle clinks against concrete. A chair scrapes.
Seventy seconds.
A shadow falls across my hiding spot.
“Behind the water tower!”
Rough hands grab my arms, yanking me into the open. My phone flies from my grip, screen shattering against concrete like ice on stone. The stocky one wrenches my arms behind my back. His breath reeks of coffee and cigarettes. His grip is iron, fingers digging into my biceps hard enough to bruise. My shoulders scream, muscles stretching at angles they weren’t designed for.
The leader approaches with measured steps, adjusting his suppressor with the same care someone might clean theirglasses. Up close, he smells expensive—cologne, leather, and spice. But underneath, gunpowder and violence.
“The drive.”
I stare at him. My mouth opens. Nothing comes out but a wheeze. My throat constricts—that familiar strangling sensation. Nathan’s voice echoing in my head:You dissect life instead of living it. You’re like a computer pretending to be human.
His fist drives into my stomach.
Pain explodes through my core, white-hot and nauseating. My knees hit the rooftop hard, skin tearing through denim. I retch, tasting bile and blood—coppery tang coating my teeth. The night air burns my throat as I fight for breath that won’t come. Grit digs into my kneecaps, sharp edges cutting through fabric.
“Search her.”
Hands pat me down—invasive, violating, checking every pocket, every seam. They find the decoy USB in my bra immediately, fingers rough against my ribs, against my breasts, taking liberties that make my skin crawl.
“The copies.”
Blood pools in my mouth. I spit, watching red splatter across his Italian leather shoes.
His boot connects with my ribs.
The crack echoes across the rooftop. White fire spreads through my chest. The pain is so sharp it steals thought, reduces everything to sensation and survival.
“Pain is remarkably persuasive, Ms. Singh.” He kneels, gripping my chin, forcing me to meet his gaze. His eyes are gray, empty as a winter sky. His breath is mint-fresh—grotesque contrast to the violence. “The copies. Where?”
The stocky one hauls me upright. The movement sends lightning through my bruised ribs. City lights blur through tearsI refuse to acknowledge. Wind cuts through my torn clothes, raising goose bumps, making me shiver. Cold air stings the cuts on my palms, my thigh, every wound a separate chorus of pain.
The third man—younger, nervous—shifts near the roof’s edge. “We should hurry. Cops could?—”
