Nonna stands in the living room, glancing between the balcony and her front door. Her face is a clear question:What do I do?
She can’t delay. Not too long. Not without putting herself in danger.
“Shit.” The curse comes out in a quiet snarl. This wasn’t the way my plan was supposed to go. But that’s the story of my life.
Consul pulls the gun from her waistband.
No. I can’t afford to let a gunfight break out in my grandmother’s apartment. There’s simply too much to lose.
I reach for Eames. “We jump now.”
Eames gives me a wary look. “How do we know the other apartment is empty?”
“We don’t,” I admit. “But if we stay here, they’ll definitely find us.”
And they’ll know that Nonna was involved.
The railing is a searing kiss against my palm as I take hold of it. I don’t look down. I can’t look down. If I look down, the world will tilt sideways and my fingers will squeeze and never let go.
I think of those times when I was a kid, playing on the swings with my sisters. I remember swinging as high as we could go, then leaping from the rubber swings: the arcing path we would take through the air, then the slam of feet into bark dust and dirt. This is just another leap. Something I used to do for fun.
I jump.
Hot summer air tugs at my hair and clothes. For a moment, I am weightless—and then the arc of my jump reaches its pinnacle and I begin to fall. The railing of the other balcony comes within reach and my palms slam into it.
I manage to drag myself up and over. Glass crunches beneath me and I feel something slice down my leg.
I stagger to my feet and wave my hand to beckon the others over.
Eames is halfway over the balcony before I’ve finished the gesture. Piper is on his back, arms around his neck. His eyes sweep downward for the barest moment. He regards the fall not with fear but with defiance.
Consul comes last. She shoves her gun back into the waistband of her jeans—a terrible idea, but I’m not going to lecture her on gun safety—and then makes the leap and lands easily.
We hurry inside the apartment. Eames carries Piper over the broken glass and I close the curtains behind us.
This apartment rental is a mess. It’s been torn apart—furniture upended, dishes on the floor, everything askew.
Eames looks at me, clearly wondering what we’re supposed to do now. I gesture for silence, then point at the VA. “Wait,” I mouth.
I walk over to the small dining area and drag a chair to the shelf where the virtual assistant sits. I climb the chair, reach up, and unplug that infuriating machine.
I heft the VA into my arms, stagger into the kitchen, and set it in the sink. Then, for good measure, I turn on the sink until the entire device is underwater.
Even if the VA has an internal battery, I’d like to see it survive being drowned.
“What are you doing?” asks Piper.
“Wozniak would’ve thrown it out a window,” I say. “But that might draw attention.”
Eames looks around the ruined apartment. He reaches out to automatically straighten a coffee table. “Are you sure we’re safe here?”
“For the moment.”
I step toward the front door, intending to peer through the peep hole. But something crunches under my right foot. Maybe some glass from the door?
But when I squat down, I see the glimmering opalescence of an insect wing.
“No,” I breathe. I reach out, my fingers tracing the fibers of the carpet.
