A heavy shadow fell into view.
Mrs. Kenworthy . . .
Her body was quickly dragged off. A breath later, a door slammed, likely from the caretaker’s flat as the murder was hidden away.
Then a trampling of boots pounded toward them.
7
11:44 p.m.
Sharyn turned to the others. “Up,” she mouthed, barely making a sound and pointing.
Her friends remained silent, their eyes huge, but they heeded her instruction. The three of them quickly ascended a half-flight to a sealed door that led to the roof. Tag reached to the push bar, which would automatically unlock in case of emergency.
Which this definitely counts.
Still, Sharyn grabbed Tag’s arm. “Stop,” she hissed softly.
She shifted him aside and freed her knife from its sheath. She flipped the blade to unfold its short length and reached for the door. Two months ago, she had already inspected it.
Always have an exit strategy.
It was the caveat tonothing can trap you if you keep your head.
She used the knife’s tip to slice the alarm wire. She held her breath, fearful that severing the power might trigger the alarm, but thankfully it did not. Huffing out her relief, she pushed the door wider, waved the others across the threshold, then followed.
Behind her, the pounding of boots had nearly reached the third floor.
Wincing, she carefully closed the exit door as quietly as possible.
“What now?” Naomi whispered, her face pale in the moonlight.
“This way.”
Sharyn rushed to a waist-high brick parapet that separated their rowhouse from its neighbor. With the line of buildings tightly packed, there was no gap between them. She hopped over, then helped Tag.
For once, the man did not object to her assistance.
“Keep moving,” Sharyn urged and led them across the roof’s gravel and tarpaper surface, sidestepping satellite dishes, boxy air-handling units, and rusty old flues.
She cast a glance behind her. It would not take long for the attackers to discover the apartment was empty and recognize their targets could only have fled in one direction.
Moving swiftly, she crossed two more rooftops. She wished these old buildings had been retrofitted with fire escapes. Instead, if flames drove someone to the roof, the only means of escape was to flee across the adjoining rooftops, to buy time before a rescue could be mounted.
Time we don’t have.
At the fourth rowhouse, she headed to its rooftop door, dropped to a knee, and removed the flat leather pouch. She thumbed its flap open and shook out two lockpicks. It was another defensive skill taught to her by her father. As a cop in Tulsa—which was ranked among the most violent cities in the States—he had witnessed too many bodies, many of them women who had been victims of kidnappings or abductions.
No wonder he took to the bottle . . .
With her heart pounding, she fumbled the steel hooks into the keyhole and fished for the tumblers. Panic dulled her dexterity.
“You’re proving to be a woman of many hidden talents,” Tag noted.
“Let’s hope you’re right,” she said. “Still, be ready. I can’t cut the alarm wire from this side. It’ll go off once I open the door. After that, we must move fast.”
“You’d better hurrynow,” Naomi warned, ducking and pulling Tag down beside her.
