Mary Ellen Porter - Into Thin Air

“Yes, I’ll be fine.” She didn’t have a choice.

“If you need to take a break, let me know. If you get dizzy or—”

“How about we just go?” she cut him off, because the longer they stood around talking, the more her head ached and the less energy her legs seemed to have. They were on the eighth floor, which meant navigating seven flights of stairs down to the ground floor. She was fit and healthy. She had to be to train dogs the way she did. On most days, she could sprint up ten flights of stairs and barely break a sweat. This wasn’t most days.

“Just remember,” he responded, opening the stairwell door and ushering her onto the landing, “you pass out and I’ll be carrying you out of here like a sack of potatoes, not worrying about maintaining your dignity.”

“If I pass out, dignity won’t be first on my priority list.”

But neither of them would have to worry about it, because there was no way she was passing out in the stairwell like some damsel in distress. That wasn’t her style. It was bad enough she was forced to make a covert escape from the hospital in tight, itchy leggings and a fuzzy poodle sweater. She wasn’t going to do it lying over Agent DeMarco’s shoulder.

Not if she could help it.

By the time they reached the fifth-floor landing, she wasn’t sure she could.

Her head throbbed with almost every jarring step. She was dizzy and nauseated. The only thing that kept her on her feet was the horrifying vision of herself slung over Agent DeMarco’s shoulder, her puffy sweater–clad torso slapping into his back as he jogged down the stairs.

Just five more flights of stairs. Four more. She counted them off in her head, forcing herself to take one step after another. She’d do everything she needed to do to buy the FBI and the MPD some time if that meant there was a chance of finding Olivia and the other children.

Her feet seemed leaden, every step more difficult than the one before, but she kept going, because she didn’t want the image of Olivia’s fear-filled eyes to be the last one she had of the girl. She wanted to see photos of her being reunited with her family, wanted to see her smiling and happy and playing the violin she’d been carrying when she was abducted. She wanted this time to be different. She needed a happy ending for Olivia. An ending she’d not been able to offer her teammates’ families...

She stumbled, her legs nearly giving out.

Agent DeMarco’s grip tightened on her waist. “Do you need to sit for a minute?” His voice rumbled close to her ear, his breath ruffling the fine hairs near her temple.

“No. I’m fine,” she lied, and kept walking.

* * *

Laney was lying, and Grayson knew it.

He wouldn’t insist she sit down, though. He wanted her out of the hospital, and this stairwell, as quickly as possible. If that meant carrying her out, so be it.

Voices drifted into the stairwell as they neared the third-floor landing. Grayson tensed, wary of who might be approaching. He didn’t believe in coincidences, and a power outage at the hospital while the key witness to a kidnapping was in it would be a big one. It was possible the construction crew had knocked out the power, but he wasn’t counting on it. If the kidnappers were responsible for the power outage, they might be on a fact-finding mission, hoping to discover who Laney was and whether or not she was actually deceased.

If they already knew she was alive, Grayson had a new problem. Namely that someone who knew Laney had survived had leaked the information to the kidnappers. Though he hoped it wasn’t the case, a leak could explain why the kidnappers always seemed one step ahead.

Laney stumbled again. He pulled her closer, steadying her.

“We’re almost there,” he murmured, leading her down the stairs as quietly as possible. By the time they reached the second floor, she was visibly weak, her hand clutching the railing as she took the final step onto the landing.

Even in the dim red light, he could see the paleness of her skin, the hollows beneath her cheeks. Her eyes were glassy, her skin dewy from perspiration. She might have the will to make it out of the stairwell, but he wasn’t sure she had the strength.

He pulled the hood from her head and pressed a palm to her forehead. Her skin was cool and clammy, her breathing shallow and quick. “Maybe you’d better sit for a minute.”

She backed away from his touch, squaring her shoulders and yanking the hood back up over her hair. “I appreciate your concern, but if we stop every time I feel light-headed or dizzy, we might not make it out until morning.”

Her matter-of-fact tone left no room to argue, so he stayed silent. Now was not the time for a struggle of wills.

“Three more flights to go,” he pointed out, and he thought he heard her sigh quietly in response.

It was taking forever to reach ground level, but then, Grayson wasn’t the kind of guy who liked to do things slowly. He liked to have a plan in place and execute it with efficiency and as much speed as was prudent.

In this case, that meant going at a snail’s pace.

It would have been quicker and easier to carry Laney the rest of the way down, but she wouldn’t have appreciated it, and he needed her cooperation.

Somewhere above them, a door opened and shut with a bang.

How many floors above? he wondered. Four? Three?

Grayson stilled, listening. A quick shuffling of feet, then nothing.

Ten seconds passed.

Twenty.

The stairwell remained eerily silent. He didn’t like it. Someone was up there, still and listening, and he had a hunch it wasn’t a hospital employee. If he was right, his witness’s identity had been compromised. Peering over the railing, he scanned the stairwell below, its dark corners untouched by the dim emergency lights. There were now only two flights between them and escape. Multiple doors that the enemy could enter. He and Laney were vulnerable here, sandwiched between whoever had entered above and anyone who might be waiting below.

If there had been any other way out of the hospital, he would have selected it over the stairwell. Experience had taught him stairwells were prime locations for an ambush. A gunman above, a gunman below, and a person could be taken out in an instant.

Caught between floors, they had no choice but to continue down. He doubted Laney would make it up even one flight of stairs. Meeting her eyes, he held a finger to his lips, then guided her quickly down.

On the ground floor below, another door opened. He could hear heavy footsteps coming their way.

Not good.

Grayson had no intention of being caught in the middle of an ambush. Better to go on the offensive—meet trouble one-on-one. Grayson urged Laney down to the first floor landing, gently pushing her into the shadows. Drawing his gun, he peered over the rail.

A shadowy figure ascended the steps quickly, the barrel of a gun glinting in the dim emergency lights. From above, footsteps echoed loudly as the second person rushed down the stairs.

Grayson needed to act now. And it wouldn’t be by the book.

If he announced himself, he’d lose the element of surprise. If he took a bullet, Laney would be easy pickings.

There’s no way that was happening.

He had to time it perfectly. The gunman slowed as he neared the landing, cautiously stepping around the corner, gun first. In one quick motion, Grayson cracked the butt of his service weapon on the guy’s wrist, eliciting a startled howl of pain and sending the gun clattering down the stairs.

The guy turned back—whether to flee or retrieve his gun, Grayson couldn’t be sure. Reaching out, Grayson grasped a handful of the guy’s sweatshirt and brought his gun forcefully down on the man’s temple. The blow sent the man crumpling to the ground in a motionless heap.