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“Now, Logan.” My fingers trembled, I squeezed them into fists. “It has to be now.”
He nodded, giving me one long look before heading for the door. It was against his better judgment, but he would do as I asked. I thought it was probably the last time he’d trust me, once I’d told him what I’d found. The papers stared at me from the surface of the table, accusing.
“A shadow,” I whispered. “You are a shadow.”
A thick, thunderous boom resonated from somewhere below. The floor suddenly shifted beneath my feet, throwing me to the ground. For half a second, I thought a bomb went off. And then I realized it had. Heart racing, I scrambled to my feet and ran for the door. In the dozen steps it took me to reach the handle, my brain registered that the blast had come from across the building, somewhere beneath where my old bedroom was located. I’d have seconds, maybe minutes, before they figured out I wasn’t there.
They could have been after Morgan, could have come for him, but they were hitting the wrong side of the house for that. I had no idea what Morgan really knew, if he was playing with us, if his men intended to keep me alive. Shots fired somewhere in the yard as my hand turned the lever and the latch broke free. The door swung open behind me, plush carpet beneath my bare feet as my legs pushed as hard and fast as they could. A solidbampenetrated the hallway, too loud, too close, and I knew it was the door to my bedroom busting open. They were behind me. I wasn’t going to make it.
My feet turned the corner of their own will, the instinct to flee having taken full control of my body, and another blast rocked through the hall. This one threw me into the wall, slamming my shoulder against drywall and something too solid, some reinforcement hidden beneath the plaster. Blackness swirled across my vision, I was in a bubble of soundlessness, yet still I ran. There was a corridor, a safe haven in the walls ahead—three yards, just a few running steps—I only had to make it.
And then my legs dropped out from beneath me.
My head smacked the floor with a dense thump, the fizz of soundlessness turned to ringing in my ears, and solid pain filled my skull. Gloved hands wrapped around my wrists, yanking my arms upward, and I spun, kicking my attacker solidly in the knee. It cracked and he stumbled, but I was only able to break one of my wrists free. I rolled, pulling him off balance because of his grip, and he let go, only to pin my hip with his other knee. He outweighed me by half, but I had leverage in my position on the floor.
My free leg bent, shoving and twisting at once with all my might, and another explosion rocked the hallway. A bare hand, slick with blood, wrapped over my arm and jerked it behind me. I blinked plaster from my eyes, but the hall was filled with smoke. Gunfire erupted in the corridor behind us and I felt the sudden, pointed pressure on my arm spreading to raw heat. I glanced down in time to see a syringe, but it was too late. Fire tore through me, and I felt more hands—strong and holding too tight—gather my arms behind me to wrench me off the ground. I jerked, landing an elbow into one’s stomach and was backhanded across the face in return. The last thing I felt was that distant stinging, and the resulting taste of blood, before my head lolled to the side.
