"Go. Fast. Second door to your right."
I hurried down the corridor, steps echoing off the walls. There fluorescents flickered overhead like a lie detector needle.
My pulse was thundering in my ears.
I think I was sort of trespassing.
Second door. I pressed my palm against it, expecting a lock, but it gave with a click, and I stumbled into a cramped employee restroom. The kind that was all stainless and tile, with a mirror warped by years of bleach. The smell was sharp—cheap soap and lemon disinfectant. I checked the corners. Empty.
"I don't think there's a back entrance," I whispered.
"There is."
"Well, the second door to my left isn't it."
"Right. Not left."
Shit.
Was I this nervous?
I took a deep breath and heard him say on the line, "Relax."
"Easy for you to say."
"Where are you?"
"Employee bathroom."
"Go back out," he instructed.
I did.
"Second door on the right," he said firmly.
I took a few steps back, glanced at the barista out front. The kid was still preoccupied. Then I looked to my right and headed over to the second door. "I don't think you know what you're doing," I supplied, staring at the redEmergency Exit Onlysign above.
"I know exactly what I'm doing," he countered, then added, "Don't worry about the alarm. It's disabled."
"How do you know?"
"It's my job to know." He didn't even wait for me to argue. "Open it. Now."
Whatever, I thought to myself and pushed the bar. The door gave in with a squeak. Nothing happened. No, not even a beep.
I was suddenly outside, at the rear of the coffee shop.
The tiny parking lot was empty except for a trash bin, an old Nissan, and him—Operative Seven.
He sat astride a motorcycle—black on black, chrome minimal, the engine ticking heat into the air. He wore a helmet that erased his face, a leather jacket zipped to the throat, gloves that looked like they could punch through a windshield. Tight black pants. Every inch of skin was hidden. He could have been anyone.A very fit anyone.Now that he was up close, I could tell that he had the body of a person who used it like a weapon.
I tried to remember what he looked like at the Windhaven.
My heart pounded so hard in my chest, it hurt. But it wasn't because I was scared. It was adrenaline.
There must be something wrong with me, I caught myself on the thought as he held out a second helmet.
The gesture was so clean it felt rehearsed. Like he'd practiced this, standing there, waiting for the girl to crawl out of the crawlspace.
