Kelley Armstrong - Exit Strategy

Something whispered behind me-the soft sound of a carefully placed foot. I wheeled, gun going up. Jack lifted his free hand. He’d come in the window, obviously deciding I needed closer backup. I nodded and motioned for him to follow, so he could stand at my back while I examined the wall farther down. We slipped through the wall studs into what looked like the kitchen. There, alongside the counter, the drywallers had left a bare two-by-three-foot section, presumably waiting for something to be roughed in.

While Jack covered my rear, I crouched to examine the hole. The gap was partly drywalled on the other side, but there was a spot big enough to squeeze through-big enough for me . I straightened and gestured at the hole. As Jack ducked for a better look, something thumped overhead.

I froze, eyes narrowing as I looked up. For a moment, all was quiet. Then it came again, the faint thump of a foot on uncovered floorboards…right over our heads.

Jack’s gaze shot left. I gestured at the stairwell, the only obvious route to the second floor. I mentally raced through my image of the exterior, then leaned over to Jack, and whispered an idea.

“Where?” he mouthed.

I took a moment to figure it out, then pointed. His gaze flicked up, and I could see him processing the second-floor plan, working out the logistics. Then he nodded and waved me off.

Once I was through the hole between units, Jack hunkered down beside it, giving me cover while protecting his own back. For a minute, I didn’t go anywhere, just stood there, looking and listening. Just because we knew someone was upstairs in unit 508, didn’t mean there wasn’t anyone in 510.

Like its neighbor, this unit was all open stud-work, meaning the only thing between me and a potential attacker was the darkness-but that worked both ways. Once I was reasonably confident that I was alone, I moved for-ward, gun ready, steps soundless as I moved toward the stairs.

Construction had progressed further on level two, making travel easier in some ways, tougher in others. Without Jack’s cover, I had to take it slow and careful. With my back to the wall, I crept down the hall, peeked through the master bedroom door, then darted over to the balcony. Here the patio door had been installed, but didn’t yet have a lock-or handle. I eased it open, crept onto the balcony and moved to the far right end.

A few feet away was the balcony for 508, where we’d heard the steps. Crossing the gap would have been easier-and safer-with proper tools, but I made it. Once across, a look through the glass door assured me the bedroom was empty. Within seconds, I was inside and across the room, pressed against the wall beside the hall doorway.

The footsteps had come from the northeast corner of the unit, right across from the master bedroom. I strained for a sound from that direction. None came. I tapped a fingernail against the drywall. A second tap answered. All units in position. I counted to three, then silently swung through the doorway.

The hall was empty. A split second later, Jack wheeled around the other end, gun drawn. He nodded. I lifted my hand and counted down: three-two-one. We each moved to cover the next doorway. Mine was the bathroom. No one was in it. I glanced at Jack. He shook his head.

With the next countdown, he swung into the entrance to the room where we’d heard footsteps, with me covering him from anyone coming down the hall. A soft grunt told me the bedroom was empty.

I squeezed past him, leaving him covering the door, and moved into the room. A quick check out the window. I shook my head. All clear.

While Jack kept me covered, I crouched and took out a penlight. Shielding it with my free hand to limit the reach of the light, I examined the floorboards. The thick layer of drywall dust showed the ghost of many feet, and two sets of recent prints, made after the last of the dust had settled. One set was mine. The other crisscrossed the room a few times, then ended at the window.

As I bent to examine the window, Jack tapped my shoulder and shook his head. I arched my brows. He gestured at one of the footprints. Misshapen, as a few of them were, with an extra bump-out near the heel, as if the walker had slipped in the dust.

“Retraced his steps,” Jack whispered.

He motioned for me to get the window open.

“Make noise,” he said. “Be obvious.”

I nodded. Jack slid soundlessly back to the door, and I started working on the window. I was careful not to be too obvious about it, but didn’t take pains to open it quietly. Jack motioned for me to keep up the ruse and disappeared around the corner.

I got the window open, then stage-whispered, “Here, let me go first.”

I grunted, playing Jack hoisting me into the window.

“Shit,” I whispered. “It’s a helluva drop. Give me your hand and lower me down.”

Another grunt. Then the crack of a gunshot. I wheeled away from the window, realizing as I moved that the shot came from the hall, not outside. A second shot-returned fire. As I sprinted across the room, two more shots came in quick succession from the second, farther gun.

As I neared the door, gun drawn, I could see Jack inside the bathroom doorway, diagonally across the hall. He had his gun up, listening. Seeing me, he jerked his chin, telling me our assailant was down the hall. I motioned, asking Jack if the gunman was far enough away for me to cross my open doorway safely. He nodded, and I flipped to that side. Then we waited.

I heard it first, the slap of a foot brought down too quickly. I gestured to Jack, telling him the gunman was on the move. Then I motioned a plan. He hesitated, then nodded.

I counted to five, leaned into the hall, making myself a target, then jerked back. The gunman fired. Jack fired. A hiss of pain. Return fire, receding, covering the sounds of retreat. Only when I heard the distant sound of feet racing down the stairs did I peek to check on Jack. He was already in pursuit. I hurried after him.

Wilkes huddled under the tarp, back against a lumber pile, gun drawn to blast the first shape that came near him. Gone to ground. Holed up like a rabbit.

God, wouldn’t Evelyn love to see him now?

No. She wouldn’t. Wouldn’t care one way or the other. She’d just sniff, as if to say “What do you expect?”

His hands trembled, but he told himself it was rage, not fear. The fury of a wounded lion cornered by a sniveling jackal. He’d set the trap at the window, assuming they’d draw the obvious conclusion and climb out. Jack would let the girl go first to help her down. Such a gentleman. Then Wilkes would have swung around the corner, opened fire and rid himself of an annoying little scavenger.

That’s all Jack was-a scavenger. A jackal. Fed scraps by Evelyn, petted and pampered until he thought he was good enough to compete with the lions. One swing of Wilkes’s paw and he could have brought Jack down twenty-five years ago. Should have.

Wilkes shifted, inhaling sharply as pain knifed through him. Two shots. How the hell had Jack managed to hit him twice? He knew the answer in a heartbeat. Because he’d screwed up.

These past two weeks he’d prided himself on the care he took, on the control he exercised. Easy enough when it was a stranger at the other end of his gun barrel. But when given the chance to take down Jack, that cold layer of detachment had evaporated, and he’d been running on hate and adrenaline. He’d moved quickly, carelessly. Unforgivable.

He wouldn’t make the same mistake again. At least he’d had the sense to back down after he was wounded. Neither shot was serious, and that was all that counted…even if it meant he was forced to crouch here, bleeding like a stuck pig, when he should be hunting Jack.