Russell Blake - Betrayal

She turned and mounted the concrete steps to the second floor. It was gutted, empty except for a workbench, with no place to hide, so she continued to the next level, Rob behind her.

They heard their pursuers trying to pry the doctor’s corpse from where it blocked the gate, and then another blast of gunfire shattered the night as one of the men shot the padlock off.

Jet pointed at a far window and then broke for it. Peering over the edge, she calculated the distance to the next building and then backed away from the empty aperture before hurling herself through it feet first.

She landed in a pile of broken glass. She’d kicked through the window and was lying on the floor of a darkened office.

“Jump,” she hissed at Rob, who was still standing in the other building, then she sprang to her feet and took off into the space beyond, looking for an exit or something that could be used as a weapon.

Rob pounded after her and found her at a stairwell.

“They’re right behind us,” he rasped.

“I know. If we go down, we run the risk that one of them stayed on the street.”

“So what do we do?”

She cocked her head and pointed.

“We go up.”

A crashing sound reverberated through the empty building from below as the gunmen leapt across the chasm and landed on the glass. Jet and Rob took care to climb the stairs to the roof as silently as possible, hoping that their pursuers would think they had made the predictable choice and had gone down to the ground level.

The door to the roof was old and rusting from years of exposure to the salt air and the elements. Jet listened, finger held to her lips, for sounds from two stories below and was rewarded by a door opening and then footsteps moving stealthily down the concrete stairs. When they had faded, she shouldered the roof door open.

The rusty hinges springing wide sounded like a grenade detonating to her ear.

A door slammed beneath them, and the clump of boots ascended steadily from below.

She reached into her purse and withdrew the phone she’d gotten from Edgar and keyed the sequence that would convert it into a gun.

“Go see if there’s a fire escape or a building we can jump to,” she whispered. “I have three shots in this thing, and it should stall them when I start shooting. But that will only last so long. If we don’t get off this roof, we’re dead.”

He took off across the roof as she held the door ajar. Three yards of range wasn’t ideal, but maybe she wouldn’t need that much.

She sensed rather than heard the lead man, and a second after his gun barrel came into view, she depressed the fire button, and the little phoned popped like a small pistol, the shell bouncing to the side through a sliding port. She heard a grunt of surprised pain and then gunfire filled the stairwell. Jet threw the door shut, allowing the fire to ricochet back on the shooters. Hopefully at least one stray would hit them, further adding to the sense that she was shooting back. She knew from experience that things could get weird fast in a firefight, and perceptions could play tricks on you. That was her only bet at this point.

“Over here!” Rob called. “There’s a building next to us we can get to. It’s a story lower, but I think we can make it.”

Jet leapt to her feet and ran to him, took one glance over the side, and then backed up and tore off at full speed in the direction of the edge.

Jet seemed to hang suspended in the air for a few seconds, then she hit the roof of the next building, rolled to absorb the impact, and sprang to her feet.

“Come on. Do it!” she yelled at him, and a moment later, Rob sailed into space, tucking and rolling in the same manner when he landed. The shooting from the stairwell had stopped, so Jet guessed that the gunmen had either figured out that she was no longer there, or had sprayed so many slugs into the space that the ricochets had laid waste to them and they were lying wounded or dead on the stairs.

“Look. There’s a fire escape,” Jet said, moving to a ladder that extended from the building’s edge below. “It looks solid. I’m going down.”

She swung her leg over and dropped below the roofline. Rob trotted to the edge and followed her, but just as his head was dipping out of sight, he saw two men with rifles on the roof of the other building.

“Slide down. Fast as you can. They’re on the roof. It will only be a few seconds before they’re here shooting down at us.”

Jet was still two stories above the street and, after weighing her options, kicked in the window of a second-story office and climbed in.

“We can make it to the street once they follow us inside,” she said as he hung on the ladder outside the window.

“No. Let’s split up. That will make them do the same thing, or it will allow one of us to get away clean.”

“No-”

But by the time she had shaken her head, he was gone.

Jet heard his soles drop to the ground a few moments later and then the sound of running. She didn’t wait to see if he would make it. Since he had made the decision to go his separate way, she owed it to both of them to do whatever it took to escape.

Then the shooting started.

She froze, then made an instantaneous decision. If the gunmen split up, that meant only one would come after her. And there were few fights she couldn’t win one-on-one. Even if both of them came, if she could pick her environment, they were as good as dead.

The ladder creaked as the two men lowered themselves, weapons hanging over their shoulders. One man’s leg was bleeding from where a stray round had hit him, but he was still pushing himself even as crimson drops leached from the wound and fell to the sidewalk below. The lower man made a hand signal as he reached the broken window and then unstrapped his rifle, leading with it as he strained with his leg for the ledge. He winced with effort as he pulled himself into the darkened room, peering around warily.

His partner followed him in, and they exchanged a glance in the gloom, both men straining for the slightest sound in spite of their ears ringing from the gunfire. A ricochet had killed their companion in the stairwell so they were being especially cautious, their mission having been a disaster so far.

The lead man pointed to the doorway with two fingers. The other man nodded before stepping over the glass and inching cautiously towards it. Sirens keened in the far distance, and they knew that they were now on borrowed time. Even in Bangkok, the police would show up for a full-on gun battle.

Once through the door, there was almost no light, so they waited a few seconds for their eyes to adjust. A scraping came from further in the depths of the offices. The lead man pointed at the light switch. His partner shook his head. Light would make them sitting ducks. Right now they had the same darkness to contend with as their adversary.

They moved down the hall, pushing doors open with their gun barrels, ready for anything, and then the noise became clearer. Rhythmic. Like a machine of some sort.

From the next office down.

The lead man tapped his temple with his hand and pointed at the door. A bead of sweat rolled down his face and crept into his eye, causing him to blink the burn away. His partner stood by the side of the doorjamb and eased the knob to the right, then threw it open and rolled into the room.

An old copy machine was churning away, its internal scanning arm clattering each time it fulfilled its journey across the screen and hit the carriage-stop. The lead man followed his partner into the room, gun at the ready, but the machine was the only occupant.

The sirens grew louder. It wouldn’t be long.

Somehow their target had gotten away.