The sound echoes in the massive, empty loft, loud and final. I stare at the metal surface. The deadbolt is engaged from the outside. He locked me in. He actually locked me in a bunker while he walked downstairs to let his father’s mercenaries execute him in the street.
My chest tightens so violently I can't draw a breath.
If they come up here, we both die.
I take a step toward the door. My hand reaches for the heavy metal lever, but I stop inches from the cold steel.
If I open it, I expose his back. If I open it, Preston’s men have a clear line of sight into the loft. Malcolm calculated the structural integrity of the door before he left. He knows it will hold them long enough for the police to arrive, provided someone actually calls the police.
I spin around, my boots slipping slightly on the concrete floor.
I look at the spot where Malcolm dropped his phone. The screen is completely shattered, the internal components crushed under the heel of his boot. He destroyed it so Preston couldn't track the GPS.
My phone.
I left my phone on the metal desk when we were eating pasta.
I run across the loft, my heavy winter coat flapping around my knees. I grab my phone off the desk. The screen is still cracked from when I dropped it in the boutique, but it lights up when I press the side button.
I dial 911.
My thumb hovers over the green call button.
I stop.
Your head of security is currently unconscious in the alley behind your warehouse.
Preston’s voice from the phone call echoes in my head. Preston knows the police are looking for him. He knows the FBI is raiding his holding company. He wouldn't show up to an off-the-grid warehouse with four men carrying automatic rifles unless he owned the local precinct. If I call 911, the dispatcher will route the call to the nearest patrol cars. If Preston has officers on his payroll in this district, they won't come to save Malcolm. They will come to secure the perimeter for Preston.
I lower the phone.
My hands are shaking so badly I almost drop the device again. I press the heel of my hand against my sternum, forcing myself to breathe.
Think like an architect. Think like a tactician.
I look around the loft. The windows are narrow and frosted, but they are reinforced with security wire. Malcolm said the safe house was designed for high-risk extractions. He wouldn't design a bunker with only one exit. It defies basic structural logic.
I run toward the back of the loft, past the stainless steel kitchen. There is a heavy fire door at the end of the corridor, painted industrial red.
I push the push-bar. The door opens heavily, revealing a dark, narrow stairwell that smells like damp concrete and rust. It isn't the main stairwell Malcolm used. It’s a secondary fire escape.
I step onto the landing, letting the heavy door click shut behind me.
The stairwell is freezing. I pull my coat tighter around my body and start running down the concrete steps. I don't try to be quiet. I need to move fast. If Preston’s men are covering the front entrance, they might have someone stationed at the back.
I reach the ground floor.
There is another heavy red door. I press my ear against the cold metal. I don't hear voices. I don't hear the idle of an engine.
I push the bar.
The door opens into a narrow, filthy alleyway behind the warehouse. The wind cuts through the gap between the brick buildings, carrying the faint smell of garbage and exhaust fumes.
I step out into the alley, letting the door close softly behind me.
I scan the shadows. The alley is dark, illuminated only by a single, flickering streetlamp near the far end. There are massive commercial dumpsters lined up against the brick wall.
"Grant," I whisper, my voice barely carrying over the wind.
