My shoulders hit the door and I fumble for the knob, flinging myself into reverse.
A flicker of movement makes me jerk back just in time. Vale is perhaps thirty feet away, her own weapon raised. A bullet punctures the door and there is a shout from the stairwell.
Good. Maybe she just shot her own minion.
But I’m still trapped between them: Corey in the stairs and Vale behind me. I turn and sprint to my right, down another basement corridor. “We are heading away from the stairs,” says Edgar in my ear.
“I know,” I mutter. Something shatters to my left and I duck.
And then the doors begin to close. It starts at the end of the hallway, where an older door has been barred off. Then a storage closet swings shut and the lock clicks into place. Then another one, and another and another.
I hiss out a curse. “Damn it, Edgar.”
“You told me to lock everything down!” he says defensively.
I look around wildly. There has to be some way out of here. On impulse I seize a janitor’s cart and wedge it in the nearest doorway I can find. I’ll need a place to hide if I can’t find another set of stairs. Surely there’s another escape route or else—
The basement locks down. There’s a hiss of sealing vents and the whisper of dead bolts.
And then everything goes quiet.
I stand there, in the darkened hallway, panting. My chest heaves with exertion and I still feel vaguely drugged.
“You think Vale got out?” I ask softly.
“I have no idea,” says Edgar.
As quietly as I can, I make my way back to the basement doors.
They are closed. Along with every smart apartment in this building, they’ve been locked down. And now I’m trapped, just like everyone else.
I step closer to the doors. They aren’t bulletproof; the hole puncturing the metal and wood is proof enough of that. I raise my fist and knock a familiar rhythm.
Shave and a haircut.
I step back quickly, out of the line of fire.
And then I hear the answering knock.
Two bits.
18
Well, the good news is I’m not dead.
The bad news… I’m trapped. In a basement. And the not-terrorists are running free. Hannah Vale didn’t even do me the courtesy of trying to shoot me through the doors because I’m no longer a threat.
“Cool, cool, cool,” I say. “So as far as plans go, not my best one.”
“Not your worst, either,” says Edgar.
“True,” I agree. The bumblebee remains cradled in my hand. One of his wings was crushed and he looks unbearably fragile without it. He scoots along my thumb with wounded determination. “How are you doing, Edgar?”
“My external hardware is damaged,” he says. “You’re going to have to fix it.”
“I will.” As the adrenaline ebbs from my body, I shudder. That was so close. Too close. I’ve brushed up against death a few times, but it never gets easier. I give in to an impulse and stroke Edgar’s fuzzy little body. “Thank you.”
“For what?” he says.
