I input the last line of code, the one that had been eluding me for months.
Feet stomp closer. Right in front of us.
Sirens sound in the background, getting closer, louder.
A shadow falls over us as an accented voice says, “What do we have here?”
A bearded face with a jagged scar in his eyebrow bends down and meets my eyes.
“Got you,” the Russian man says.
I hit the button.
Everything goes dark.
Someone screams, sharp and startled.
I’m already moving. I haul Marco with one hand and Hannah with the other, ripping us out from under the table. Hands swipe blindly at my legs, fingers grazing my ankles, but I kick free and keep going.
We stumble for half a second, disoriented.
Then we run.
I’ve always had unnervingly good night vision. In the blackout, it saves us. The only light comes from the red emergency EXIT signs glowing high on the walls, steady and ominous. I lock onto them like they’re beacons, leading us to safety and freedom.
Hannah’s hand is clenched in mine, white-knuckled, desperate. She gives my hand a squeeze, and I squeeze back just as hard. Needing to feel her, to know she’s there, keeping me calm and focused. Marco’s arm is trapped in my grip as I drag him along behind us. I don’t stop to question why I’m bringing him. This isn’t the time for a morality check.
We slam through the door that leads to the kitchen as gunshots fire over our heads and strike with a sickening thud into the wall next to us. I’m guessing they were fired wildly, without aim. A desperate attempt to stop us.
“Damn Russians,” Marco mutters, ducking low.
We sprint past hulking shapes in the dark. Massive industrial refrigerators, steel counters, stoves where flames still lick at pots left unattended. Sauces boil over, hiss, spill down the metal sides.
I killed the electricity.
Not the gas.
For half a heartbeat, I picture it, the whole block going up in flames, maybe half the city with it, but there’s no time to stop and turn off the burners.
I have one goal right now. Just one.
Keep Hannah safe.
“Down there!” Hannah points to the left. “An exit.”
I swerve, following her directions.
Footsteps pound behind us. The sound of the door to the kitchen being flung open, but we’re already in the hallway that passes by the restaurant’s storerooms, stacked with crates and shelves, straight toward the alley exit.
I shoulder the door open, and we explode into the night, where the sirens wail even louder. We stagger a few steps into the alley, bend forward, hands on our knees, sucking in air like we’ve just broken the surface of deep water.
No time.
I move.
“There,” I gasp, already running toward the large dumpster parked along the wall.
I grab the wheel lock, fumble it open with shaking fingers, then throw my shoulder into the metal side.
