Debra Webb - A Colby Christmas

“Let’s move away from the door,” he suggested so quietly she barely heard him.

The urge to scream was almost overwhelming. People were dying and they were tiptoeing around and whispering.

She did as he said without argument, since she had no desire to give away their location. But now that they had some time to catch their breath she had a question or two for her anonymous ally.

“Who are you?”

She was pretty sure she had asked that before but there hadn’t been time for an answer.

“My name is Brad Gibson.”

A frown furrowed deep into her forehead, causing the ache she hadn’t noticed until now to take hold. Perfect. Everyone should have a headache when running from killers. She settled her attention back on the man standing between her and the long line of sinks on the wall. Brad Gibson. That name sounded vaguely familiar. She hoped like hell it wasn’t because she’d heard it on the news.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Gibson, but that doesn’t tell me a thing. Why are you in this building? Do you work here?”

She didn’t recall seeing him, but then again, she was usually the first to arrive and the last to leave on her floor. Well, besides Victoria.

It was doubtful that she wouldn’t remember seeing this guy though. He was, she realized upon closer inspection, really cute. Tall. Blond hair that looked just right for a shampoo commercial and steady gray eyes. Nice face. The tan-and-navy striped shirt paired nicely with his khaki trousers. The brown leather loafers kept his movements noiseless. She glanced down at the boots in her hand. Great-looking and warm but worthless when it came to stealth.

“Yes. I work—did work,” he amended, “on the second floor at Welton Investments.”

Did work. “Were you fired?”

“In a manner of speaking I suppose I was fired.”

“Wait.” She set her boots on the closest surface, the diaper-changing table provided for the convenience of the building’s clients. She didn’t know why she’d bothered hanging on to them after she’d shed her tights. Maybe because they cost half a paycheck and she wasn’t generally the type to splurge. But in a city like Chicago, good boots were a firm investment. “You were fired and you’re still in the building after hours?” Her gaze narrowed. Maybe this whole thing was about him somehow. But then why would those men have made the bogus appointment to set up equipment in the Colby Agency? Why would they be on the fourth floor at that very minute? And why the hell would they have killed two guards?

“It’s not as bad as it sounds,” he assured her.

She wasn’t so sure about that but she’d give him the benefit of the doubt since he didn’t appear inclined to harm her in any way. If she were totally honest he’d probably saved her life once already.

“Meaning,” she prompted.

“It’s a long story, Miss Younger. I’m sure you’d find it boring.” He shoved that thick hair back from his forehead and massaged his temples with his thumb and middle finger as if he had a headache of his own. “Our priority right now needs to be about getting out of here alive.”

Alive. She swallowed back a lump of uncertainty. He was right. These guys weren’t kidding around.

“Why is the power off in this building? The rest of the city seems to be fine.”

“Our visitors did that.” He tugged at his collar as if he were accustomed to adjusting a tie. “I guess they weren’t expecting the back-up safety defense system.”

“What back-up…whatever you said?”

“When they shut off the power, every internal door in the building equipped with a lock went into lockdown mode. Computers, phones, nothing can be accessed. The exit doors become unbreachable from the standpoint of attempting to pick the lock. It would take a small bulldozer to get one of those doors open now. There’s no way anyone’s leaving this building without a major effort and without tripping the alarm.”

“Maybe we should trip the alarm.”

“There’s only two ways to do that.” His gaze leveled with hers. “Break the glass in an outer wall.”

“Or?” Did he have to look so resigned to their fate?

“Start a fire.”

Damn, and she didn’t even smoke. “You carry a lighter?”

That blond head moved from side to side. “You?”

A frustrated breath puffed past her lips. “Nope.”

There had to be something they could do. Staying in this bathroom wasn’t exactly a prime safe zone. It would only be a matter of time before the bad guys searched every damned room in the building looking for her. They might not know about Mr. Gibson, but they knew she was here. Those bastards might not be able to leave the building, but they had keys to every single interior door.

Then again, she thought as she glanced down at her right wrist, so did she.

“We can’t stay in here.” As safe as it felt right now, she knew that wouldn’t last.

“We have to find a place to hide until—”

That he abruptly stopped sent a chill clattering along her spine. “What?” Had he heard something she didn’t?

He set his hands on his hips and looked around the spacious restroom. “We should hide until it’s safe to come out again. Just hide and stay hidden.”

He’d just lied to her. Maybe not lied, but omitted something important. She might not be a trained investigator but she couldn’t have missed that one if she’d tried. He hadn’t even been able to look her in the eye as he’d made his statements. Statements she was pretty sure weren’t what he’d started out to say.

“Right,” she agreed. “We should hide out for sure.” And here she’d thought she had herself a true ally in this war. She’d have to keep an eye on dear old Brad Gibson. He might look like the all-American boy next door, but she didn’t trust anyone who would lie to her.

“Any suggestions?”

His gaze met hers this time. That he could go from lying to wholly sincere amped up her trepidation. Maybe he had some reason for avoiding the truth on a matter that didn’t really have anything to do with the situation they were in.

And maybe Santa would be dropping by her house tomorrow night.

She couldn’t worry about Brad Gibson’s dependability just now. They had to hide. Someplace these guys wouldn’t think to look in a million years. All she needed was a couple of years herself to figure out where that would be.

Inspiration nudged at her. She looked up. Those big rectangular acoustical tiles that indicated the ceiling was dropped somewhat below where it could be. She thought about how high the ceiling was in the lobby, then considered this one. There had to be large space up there above those tiles. There always was in the movies.

She pointed up. “How about up there?”

He considered her suggestion for a long moment, the muscles of his neck flexing as he studied the ceiling. She wondered if he’d been born with that healthy color or if he’d bought it at a local tanning spa.

“You could be on to something.”

She blinked. Scolded herself for thinking about the tanned skin stretched over those toned muscles. To say this wasn’t the time might be a cliché, but this definitely wasn’t the time.

“Let’s have a look up there.” He angled his head toward the stalls and moved in that direction.

She followed him to the very last one. Since it was handicapped accessible there was plenty of room for both of them to be in the stall at once. And the toilet had a higher profile, which would facilitate what came next.

As she watched, Gibson closed the lid and climbed up onto the toilet. He reached overhead and pushed the nearest tile up and out of its designated slot. Climbing up through the opening he’d made would be the challenge. She estimated that Gibson was six or six-one. The ceiling was about nine feet off the floor, higher than the eight feet in her apartment but not quite as high as the ten in her parents’ living room back home. The handicap accessible toilet sat up about two feet. Reaching the tile hadn’t been a problem. All she could say was she hoped he had some good upper body strength to pull himself up there.