The Masked Truth(57)

Before he can say a word, I catch the clomp of footfalls. Max grabs my hand. Not my arm now. He takes my hand, and we race out of the room, and he yanks open the front door, and when he sticks his head out, he curses. Then he pulls me through, and I see the figure from earlier. It’s not a guy holding a gun. It’s a homeless man with a bottle.

Max drops my hand and runs to the man and says, “Is there anyone else here?”

The man backs away.

“Please,” Max says. “I’m not going to hurt you. Just tell me, is there anyone here?”

The man continues retreating, his hands raised now, his gaze fixed on Max, who’s barefoot, his shirt smeared with blood.

“Was there anyone?” Max says. “Please—”

That’s when the man sees the gun dangling from my hand. He runs, and Max starts after him. Then we hear a “Hey!” and I see that the door didn’t shut completely behind us. Gray’s footfalls pound down the hall. I slam the door, and that only makes it worse, the sound reverberating. Max is back at my side now, yanking me away.

We run. That’s all we can do. There’s no one out here. No one except a homeless guy with a bottle, and he wouldn’t be here if there was a SWAT team positioned around the corner.

No, be honest, Riley. There can’t be a SWAT team poised around the corner, because you’d hear them. You’d see the lights. There’s no reason for them to hide.

There’s no way they packed up and left. No way Gray promised them Sandy, and then Predator decided to shoot her instead, and the negotiation team just let that go.

There is no SWAT team. There never was any SWAT team. Never any hostage negotiator.

How is that possible? How? We—

I fall.

I don’t stumble over anything. I’m running and I just drop because the pain is unbelievable. I try to ignore it. We need to get farther, to get away, and I can’t slow Max down, can’t let him know how much I’m hurting. Can’t let him see that every running step is like a knife through me, every breath burns, and fresh blood is gushing from the stab wound. I’m pushing and I’m pushing and … and then I’m not. Then I collapse.

“I’ve got you,” Max whispers as he crouches beside me. “I’ve got you.”

I know.

“Just a little farther,” he says as he looks around.

I struggle to focus over the haze of pain. I was letting him lead and hadn’t even seen where we were going. He’d cut left, past the warehouse and into the ruins of a demolished building. That was the only nearby “shelter” in any direction. The nearest buildings are a cluster at least a hundred feet away.

“I-I can’t,” I say, and it physically hurts to admit that, but I have to. I can’t lie. I can’t pretend. For his sake, I can’t or we’ll be halfway between this bit of sheltered ground and those buildings and I’ll collapse for good.

“Is it your leg?” he says. “You can lean on me.”

He’s moving to check my leg and the moonlight catches the front of my shirt. It shines wet. Soaking wet. He touches it and lets out a string of profanity edged with panic as he tugs up my shirt.

“No,” he whispers. “No, no, no.”

“Just find me a place and go for help.”

“I knew it was bad. I saw that. Bugger it, I saw that.”

“Max?”

My breath comes hard and ragged now, and there’s no way to disguise it. I start to tell him again just to help me get to a better spot. That’s when we hear the tramp of Gray’s boots.

Max picks up the gun. He aims it in Gray’s direction, but I smack my hand against the barrel.

“Don’t,” I say.

“I’m not going to let him find you, Riley,” he says. “And after everything he’s done, I don’t care if I kill him. In fact, I’d be quite happy—”

“No,” I say. “It’s too far away, and if you miss, he’ll know exactly where we are.”

Max gives a strained laugh. “The logical answer. All right, then. But if he comes closer, I will shoot him.”

We peer over the long grass and rubble. Gray stands in the parking lot. He’s swearing loudly enough for us to hear every word. Then he turns toward the closest of shelter: this demolished building.

I reach for the gun. “I’ll do it.”

“No. And we’re not fighting over the gun, either. If someone’s shooting him, it’s me. I can— I have— It’ll be better if I do. They can claim …” He swallows. “Never mind. I’ll do this.”

“I can aim. I can shoot.”

“Too bad. You’re not.”

He waves me to silence. I don’t want him doing this, but I don’t know how to get the gun from him without doing something stupid and dangerous, and he’s lining up the shot, and I’m thinking madly, and …

A bottle drops. It clinks to the pavement and rolls, and I know it’s the homeless guy, maybe peeking around the corner to see what’s going on. All Gray hears, though, is a noise, and he turns, his gun rising, and the homeless man lets out a yelp, and his footsteps thunder as he runs. Gray follows.

“We need to get over there.” I point at the nearest buildings. “Quickly.”