Halo grabs the axe. He swings it hard, shattering the window frame and clearing the glass in one violent stroke to protect the rope from jagged shards.
Wind rushes in. Five stories of empty air.
He steps up onto the ledge. The wind whips my hair into his face.
“Breathe out,” he whispers.
And he jumps.
TWELVE
“The Connection”
HALO
Gravity isthe only law that never bends.
We drop.
The sensation is sickening—a stomach-flipping lurch as the world vanishes upward. For a second, we’re weightless, suspended in the gray morning air.
Then the rope catches.
SNAP.
My boots slam against the brick facade. Thud. The impact jars my teeth, sends a shockwave up my spine.
I kick out, braking our descent.
ZZZZIP.
The rope hisses against the heavy canvas of my jacket. The friction builds instantly, a sharp bite of heat digging into my shoulder and thigh, but the denim holds.
“Hold on!” I grit out through clenched teeth.
I feed the rope. We drop. Stop. Feed. Drop.
One kick, drop twenty feet. Brake. Kick. Drop.
Above us, the shattered window of Room 514 is a jagged mouth. A figure leans out—black helmet, tactical vest. He spots us.
“Target external! South wall!”
He raises a carbine.
Pop-pop.
Suppressed fire.
Rounds chip the brick inches from my head. Red dust sprays into my eyes.
“Don’t look up!” I roar.
I release the tension. I have to go faster. I have to outrun the friction burn and the bullets.
We free fall for another story. The ground rushes up—gray asphalt, wet and hard.
I clamp down on the rope again.
