The hallway shakes.
“Too late,” Halo says.
He grabs my arm and pulls me toward the window.
“We’re on the fifth floor!” I scream.
“The stairs are compromised.” He pulls the heavy drapes back.
“Fire escape?”
“No. Just a ledge.” He looks at me. His eyes are dark, intense, and terrified. “Do you trust me?”
BOOM.
Something slams into the hotel room door. The wood splinters. The dresser slides an inch.
“Diego!”
“Do. You. Trust. Me?”
I look at the door, buckling under the assault. I look at the man who held me all night.
“Yes.”
He doesn’t hesitate. He moves to the closet, tearing it open to reveal the items he staged yesterday. The “contingency.”
An axe. A coil of black tactical line.
He ties the rope to the radiator with a knot I don’t recognize, pulling it tight to test the anchor.
Then he turns to the rope itself. In one fluid motion, he wraps it around his body—passing it under his right thigh, diagonally across his chest, and over his left shoulder.
“Friction brake,” he mutters. “Old school.”
He turns to me.
“Jump on my back,” he orders. “Wrap your legs around my waist. Lock your ankles. Arms around my chest. Not my neck.”
“What?”
“Do it. Backpack carry.”
I step behind him. I jump, wrapping my legs around his waist, locking my ankles as hard as I can. I bury my face in the curve of his neck, wrap my arms around him, keeping clear of the rope.
He shifts his weight, testing the load. He reaches back with his left hand to grip my thigh, checking my lock. His right hand grips the rope behind his hip.
“Do not let go,” he says. “No matter what happens, you hold on. We’re exiting.”
“How?”
“Don’t ask questions you don’t want answers to.”
The door explodes inward.
Men in black tactical gear swarm the room. Laser sights cut through the dust.
“Contact!” one shouts.
