Page 145 of Into the Fire

Invisibly protected by a guardian angel.

Ten yards ahead two operators closed ranks, sighting on her. They were afraid now; she could see that in their rolling eyes. But even as their ranks thinned, felled by an invisible hand, they kept coming at her. She was the only thread they had to follow, the sole target for their desperation. Two barrels rose and aimed at her critical mass.

She closed her eyes. Did not slow.

She heard the crack of the gunshots and knew herself to be dead. A double clap of corpses struck the ground. Neither was hers.

She opened her eyes. Warm syrup on her cheeks, her shirt. Flecked with blood, she never slowed. Breath burning. Lungs on fire. A panic heat lighting her skin, flushing her face. Running past the fallen men.

Running to her son.

She was almost there.

The last operator lifted his rifle to aim at her. Her legs had gone numb, sprinting of their own accord, carrying her forward. The world turned to slow motion, every detail rendered with hyperclarity—the single furrow of his brow on the right side, the glisten of sweat at his hairline, the whiteness of his hand on the grip. She sensed that her mouth was open, that she was screaming.

Fifteen yards out. Now ten.

She saw the bore come full circle. Stared down the throat of the rifle. Every muscle clenched, a razor edge of rage slicing through her fear, cutting her to ribbons.

And then he was gone, a blood spray painting the van’s rear door.

She halted before the bumper, panting, terrified. Glanced back, sweaty hair whipping across her eyes. A trail of dropped bodies charted her wake. She turned back to the van.

The rear door gleamed in the late-afternoon sun.

She reached with a trembling hand and opened it.

It creaked on ungreased hinges.

A boy was balled up in the corner of the cargo hold, face tucked behind the tops of his knees. Through a fall of golden hair, Peter peered up.

The tiniest of voices. “Mommy?”

He scrambled forward and fell into her arms.

Sobbing, she held him.

60

Fly Away

The sound of sirens drifted up to the twelfth-floor balcony.

Evan scooped up the kill brass and hustled across the hotel room, leaving behind the empty Hardigg Storm Case. Stepping over the bodies, he cracked the door and peered down the corridor.

Empty save for an overturned housekeeping cart, probably upended by a fleeing employee when gunfire had broken out.

He jogged to the cart, fluffed out a transparent trash liner, and slid the FN Ballista inside. Tommy had been right. It was an excellent rifle, and if Evan had been the type to grow attached to tools, he wouldn’t have been so quick to discard it.

He grabbed a jug of bleach and emptied it inside the bag as he moved swiftly down the hall. Knotting the bag, he dumped it in a trash chute and then stepped onto the elevator.

A Muzak rendering of Lenny Kravitz’s “Fly Away,” heavy on woodwinds, accompanied him down. His heart rate started to slow, the epinephrine easing off to a more gentle glow in his veins.

Though the lobby was largely cleared out, a few workers and guests huddled behind the front desk.

Evan stepped out into the street and hustled up 6th to the intersection. The intensity of holding perfect focus had cost him, as he knew it would, the concussion symptoms seeping back, messing with his perception. Squad cars were pulling up on Grand Avenue from all points of the compass, clogging the side streets, corralling the damage zone. He misjudged a step and banged into the fender of an abandoned car hard enough to knock himself into a quarter turn. Straightening himself up, he progressed more cautiously, ignoring the mounting pressure at his temples, concentrating to keep his vision clear.

Looking up the block, he spotted Mia.