I pull on the jeans. The sweater. My hands won’t steady.
“Shoes.” He doesn’t look at me. “Something you can run in.”
I grab my running shoes. Force my feet into them. I snatch my phone from the nightstand and shove it into my pocket.
Diego is already at the window, sliding the sash up. Cold night air rushes in, carrying the sound of car doors slamming shut below.
“They’re breaching,” he says. “Fire escape.”
“My laptop?—”
“Leave it.” He grabs my arm. His grip is iron. Not painful, but absolute. “We go down. Now.”
“What about?—”
“No time.” He throws one leg over the sill.
Footsteps in the hallway. Heavy. Multiple.
My door rattles.
“Now.” Diego’s hand extends.
CRASH.
The front door splinters inward. Wood explodes.
“Clear left!” A voice shouts from the hallway. “Room one!”
Panic flares, white and hot.
A hard shove propels me toward the open window.
I don’t think. I grab his hand and scramble onto the fire escape.
The metal is freezing under my hand. Four stories down looks like forty.
“Go.” He pushes me toward the ladder.
I climb. My hands slip on the rungs. Too fast. Too dark. The alley below is a black pit.
Behind us, men pour into my apartment. Flashlight beams cut through the darkness.
“There!” someone shouts.
Diego is right behind me. “Don’t stop. Don’t look back.”
Gunfire cracks through the night. Loud. Deafening.
Sparks explode on the railing six inches from my face.
I scream.
They’re shooting at us. At me.
“Don’t stop.” Diego shoves me.
I don’t. I drop. Second floor. First floor. My feet hit the alley pavement hard enough to jar my teeth.
