Upgrade(91)

The southwest stairwell was hazy with smoke.

I turned on the flashlight and raced up the stairs.

As I reached the landing between 36 and 37, the door to 38—one and a half floors above me—burst open. I hid my light, glimpsed another flashlight beam streaking the walls, heard the lightning-fast patter of my sister’s footfalls rushing skyward.

I followed carefully.

Heard a door creak open.

Her light vanished.

I felt confident she’d left the stairwell at 40, and as I reached it, I eased the door open and slipped through, just as the northwest stairwell door clanged shut.

I ran across 40.

Sweating again, past abandoned offices, a copy room, restrooms, until I reached the northwest stairwell door.

I pulled it open to the sound of footsteps climbing above me. The walls were strobed with my sister’s light, but I didn’t give chase this time. Just listened. Counting the floors as she continued to climb.





42.


I modeled an image of her progress up the stairs based on the speed of her footfalls.

43.





44.


I heard a door swing shut and lock. She had gotten off at 44, and I knew she wasn’t going any higher. She didn’t need to.

I ran the entire length of the building, back to the northeast stairwell, and as I climbed toward 44, I heard boot-falls on the steps above me and two distinct voices drifting down.

Had some of the JTF-Black team made it out of the helicopter? Because that was one thing to deal with. But if these were Kara’s people…

I strained to hear the voices.

Two men, talking a little too fast.

One saying: “…be safe, we’ll meet you there. Yeah, we’ll be fine.”

I knew that voice. It matched the one I’d heard perusing social media tonight—a video of Deshawn Brown from a year ago at his youngest daughter’s birthday party. Which would make the other guy Rodney Viana, the happily married cop from Ohio. Both upgraded special forces.

I was trying to think how I would take out the two of them. The chances were better than even, but not by much. In all likelihood, I’d kill one of them and they would kill me, their inherent training gifting them a huge advantage.

So I wouldn’t try to take them out.

I cut my light, needing to decelerate everything now more than ever.

Boot-falls, two different cadences, the lighter, shorter man in the lead.

Their scent preceding them—salt and the faintest remnant of a fragrance—Old Spice?—and the pungent reek of nitroglycerin from recent gunfire.

Their flashlight beams streaking across the walls.

I stood on the landing just below 43, and I could see the space perfectly in my mind’s eye.

They were fifteen seconds away.

In the pitch blackness, I climbed the steps to 43, hopped over the railing, and lowered myself until I hung from the second step from the top—out of sight from anyone descending.

They were two floors above me.

Now passing 44.

Now the landing between 44 and 43.

Then 43, one of their boots passing within millimeters of my fingers as I clutched the edge of the step. They were heading down to the 43/42 midpoint landing, both flashlights momentarily aimed at the floor, and I pulled myself up as they reached the landing, smoothly swinging my legs over the top of the railing and just out of their sight line as they made the turn, easing down silently, then rolling across the steps as they continued down the next flight.

A beam of light swept toward me, a second away—had one of them heard me?

I slithered soundlessly down the stairs, watching as the light passed over the steps where I’d just been sprawled, and I nestled against the wall as tightly as I could, not breathing, not moving, and their boot-falls still descending.

After a moment, I couldn’t see the lights anymore.

I waited, imagining their progress, just wanting them gone before I—

Shouting broke out, muzzle flashes lighting up the corridor eight floors below. They had engaged with someone. I came to my feet and ran up to 44. The door was locked. I pulled out a breach charge, set it for ten seconds, and ran down to 43.

The door exploded.

I rushed back up to 44 and raced through the open doorway.

The floor was wide open—nothing but the elevators and stairwells. It had been abandoned during a remodel, leaving ductwork exposed, electrical wiring hanging from the ceiling.

I saw a figure crouched down at the far end of the building.

I glanced back at the newly doorless entrance to the northeast stairwell—empty.

Eleven seconds from Kara.

She was crouched down, securing something to her back, and when she saw me, she sprang to her feet and began to run—just thirty feet back from a window that was missing an entire panel of glass.

I stopped at the bank of elevators, ninety-eight feet away, letting my consciousness divide and time slowing as I registered the pain in my fingers, gunshots still echoing several floors below, the cold wind blowing through the open window off New York Harbor, the lights of Jersey City in the distance, and a cascade of heartbreak at what I was about to do, which I immediately walled away.

I raised my pistol, focusing on Kara’s right leg, which now moved so slowly I had no doubt of my aim.

I fired, she fell—sliding across the floor toward the open window—and then I was sprinting toward her again as she rolled onto her back, facing me now, a weapon in her hand, her finger a split second from squeezing.