Nothing moves.
I walk further into the alley, my boots crunching softly against a patch of dirty ice. I keep my back pressed against the brick wall of the warehouse, moving toward the dumpsters.
He is alive. For now.
I reach the first dumpster. I peek around the edge.
A massive, dark shape is lying on the ground between the dumpster and the wall.
I drop to my knees on the freezing asphalt.
Grant is lying on his side. His dark overcoat is torn at the shoulder, and a dark, wet stain is spreading across the collar of his white shirt. His eyes are closed, his breathing shallow and ragged.
"Grant," I say, my voice cracking. I reach out, my hands trembling, and press my fingers against the side of his neck. His pulse is there, but it is weak.
He groans, a low, gravelly sound, and his eyelids flutter open.
He looks at me, his eyes taking a second to focus in the dim light. When he registers my face, he tries to sit up, his massive hand immediately reaching for the empty holster strapped to his chest.
"Don't move," I tell him, pressing my hand against his uninjured shoulder to keep him down. "You're bleeding. They hit you."
"Ambush," Grant rasps, his voice thick with pain. "Two men. Suppressed weapons. They took the sidearm."
"I know. Preston is out front. He has four men with rifles." I look at the dark stain on his shirt. "I need to call an ambulance."
"No." Grant grips my wrist with surprising strength. "Preston monitors the local dispatch. If you call an ambulance, he will know you are out of the loft."
"Malcolm went downstairs to trade himself for me," I say, the panic finally breaking through my controlled facade. Tears spillover my lashes, hot against the freezing wind. "I can't just sit here and let him die, Grant. I have to do something."
Grant closes his eyes, exhaling a slow, ragged breath. "My ankle."
I frown. "What?"
"Right ankle," Grant murmurs, his grip on my wrist loosening. "Backup piece."
I don't hesitate. I crawl down toward his boots. I pull up the hem of his dark trousers. Strapped to his right ankle is a small, compact black holster holding a secondary firearm.
I unclip the holster and pull the gun out.
It is heavy. The metal is freezing against my bare hands. I have never held a gun in my life. I don't know how to check the safety. I don't know how to aim it properly.
"It’s loaded," Grant says, his voice weaker now. "Point and pull. Do not hesitate, Audrey. If they see you, they will not ask questions."
I look at the gun, then up at the dark alley leading toward the front of the building.
I am an architect. I draw lines on paper. I calculate load-bearing walls and aesthetic lighting. I am not a killer. I am not a soldier.
But the man I love is currently standing in front of a firing squad because he thought I was too fragile to save myself.
"Stay awake, Grant," I order, my voice dropping to a cold, absolute register that sounds terrifyingly like Malcolm. "I’ll be right back."
I stand up. I grip the heavy metal gun with both hands, keeping the barrel pointed at the ground, and walk toward the edge of the alley.
I reach the corner of the brick building. I press my back against the rough stone, my heart hammering so violently I can feel it in my throat. I edge closer to the corner, peering around the brick to look at the front of the warehouse.
The black SUV is still parked in the middle of the street.
Preston Vance is standing near the open back door of the vehicle. He is wearing a long cashmere overcoat, looking completely untouched by the freezing wind.
