29. Dominik
DOMINIK
The change hits my ears first. A chair scrapes down the hall. Then nothing. Doors shut one after another. The ventilation system drops to a low hum.
“The woman,” I say. “She’s the custodian.”
Ana looks at me.
“She stayed at her desk,” I say. “When we opened the shelf, she looked at her screen and picked up the phone.”
“She didn’t call maintenance,” Ana says.
I pull out my phone and dial Igor’s secondary. The number he told me to use only if things were already wrong. The screen lights up. The call timer pulses once. Then again. Like it’s deciding whether to exist. I count to three and end it. Dial again.
Nothing.
I pocket the phone and catch Ana by the arm.
“Move. Now.”
The shot comes through the glass beside the door and slams into the wall behind us. Plaster hits my shoulder. I pull her down as another round punches through, blowing the rest of the panel apart. Glass scatters across the floor where she had been standing.
“Down.”
She’s already moving.
A third round snaps past from the hallway, low and angled. I grab the desk and tip it onto its side, shoving it toward the doorway. It scrapes across the tile and lands hard. Paper spills. The monitor crashes to the floor.
Boots thud outside.
The shelves are tall and bolted to the floor. Narrow aisles run between them. We drop into one of those aisles, metal racks rising on both sides. I push Ana ahead of me.
No shots follow.
She’s a few rows forward now, shoulders tight, the bag clutched to her chest. She keeps her head down and makes for the inner service door at the back of the archive, the one meant for staff, not visitors.
A shadow crosses the doorway. Another pair of boots shifts to the right.
I grab Ana’s sleeve and pull her back just as the third shot cracks. It slams into the far shelf. Metal shrieks. Binders shudder and spill. The shot isn’t meant to hit. It’s meant to close space.
I push her forward again, harder this time. “Move.”
They fire again. The shots strike low, tearing into the tile near our feet and chewing along the base of the shelves. We move left.
“Fuck,” Ana says, breath sharp against my side.
I push her toward the narrow aisle and break the other way without speaking.
Boots pound forward. One man breaks from cover and cuts toward her side, weapon up. Another stays on me.
I step out just enough to take the angle and fire twice at the man clearing the doorway. He drops hard.
Another man moves into his place and fires low. He comes in fast, crouched, keeping close to the shelves.
I close the distance before he can settle.
The muzzle rises between us, close enough that I smell the oil on it. I knock it aside with my forearm and drive my shoulder into his chest. The shot goes off into the shelving behind me. Metal rings. Paper bursts.
He drives back into me, trying to bring the weapon in tight. We slam into the racks hard enough to shake them. The shelf hits my spine.
I bring my knee up and feel it connect. He grunts but stays upright. There’s weight under his jacket.
Another shape moves at the far end of the aisle.
I catch the outline of a shoulder, the tilt of a head, but not a face.
I twist, wrenching the gun down and away, and drive him into the shelf.
The binders spill again, slapping the floor.
He stumbles, recovers, and swings the muzzle toward the aisle Ana disappeared into.
I slam my forearm into his wrist and force the barrel off line before he can fire. I fire once into his torso at contact distance. The sound is wrong at that range, flat and heavy. He folds against me and slides down the shelf.
I don’t watch him fall. I turn because the others are already shifting, because Ana has to keep moving. She has already cleared the aisle and broken back into the corridor. I step out after her.
Three sets of boots push from the left. One holds the stairwell door. The elevator display is dead.
I hear the faint scrape of plastic against fabric as Ana slides the card into the pocket sewn inside her jacket. The zipper closes in one smooth pull. That’s all I need to hear.
A round takes the corner of the desk and wood bursts into my cheek.
“Go,” I say, and I don’t turn.
She doesn’t answer. I hear her move.
I step out and fire twice to the right, then once left, then push forward. I close the space, forcing them to shift. One man loses his footing and slams into the wall. Another tries to swing wide. I catch him high in the shoulder.
Ana moves at a steady pace, not running. She angles toward the exit I’m not blocking and pushes through the compliance doors without breaking stride. Her head stays down.
A man breaks left and shouts once. Another pivots to cut her off. I fire before his second step lands. He drops. Something hits my side hard and hot. My breath leaves me, but my legs hold.
I move forward.
Two men close in. They aim center mass and fire in tight bursts. I step inside their line before they can reset. One shot goes wide. I take the first in the throat at arm’s length. The second tries to pull back. I put a round into his chest and shove him aside.
The corridor fills with smoke and dust. Ana reaches the service stairs.
I cut the other way and reach the main stairwell door. I fire through the wired glass panel. The glass fractures and drops into the shaft. Someone shouts below. The echo comes back sharp. They’re already climbing.
I back away from the door and keep moving. I push toward the intersection where the hall narrows and the ceiling drops. The office layout here is older.
I hear Ana once more, not her voice, but the sound of a door opening. That tells me she’s taking the service stairs now. The ones without cameras.
Good.
A shot hits the wall beside my head. I fire back. Someone retreats. Someone else takes his place.
I hold my ground. I move fast toward the service stairs. The door has already swung shut behind her. A shot slams into the wall beside my head. Plaster bursts into my mouth. I fire back and keep moving.
I hit the service stair door with my shoulder. It gives just enough. I slip through and drag it closed as rounds strike the metal from the corridor side.
The impacts echo down the stairwell.
The stairs are narrow and steep, concrete worn smooth at the center. I move fast, one hand on the rail, weapon angled toward the steps. Footsteps follow me from the corridor.
I fire once and keep moving. He drops forward and blocks the step, and the man behind him stumbles.
I use the pause to take two more steps and pivot, keeping the rail between me and the next angle.
Another shape appears, weapon high. A hit lands, this one higher.
My arm goes numb for a moment and then comes back angry.
I switch hands and keep firing. I think about time.
Ana needs time.
The building shifts again. Doors open on the floors above and below. People step out, confused, then stop when they see blood on the stairs and bodies where there shouldn’t be bodies. Someone screams. Another person drops low and pulls a door shut behind them.
An alarm starts, a steady tone that fills the stairwell.
I keep moving down.
A man rushes up from below. He comes fast, weapon up but not steady. I catch him at arm’s length and fire into his chest. He hits the wall and slides down, leaving a dark streak behind him.
The stairwell fills with noise now, voices shouting over each other.
I take the next turn hard and nearly run into another man coming up.
We slam shoulder to shoulder. My gun jams against his jacket.
I drive my forearm into his throat and shove him back.
He stumbles. I wrench the weapon free and fire once into his side before he can recover.
Below me, footsteps scatter. Above me, more are coming down. I back toward the intersection again and listen.
I don’t hear Ana.
Then gunfire slows. Boots stop pounding the stairs. Voices shift to short bursts over radios. I move down, slower now. Smoke hangs between the floors. The railing is chipped where rounds struck it. Blood marks the steps.
Move, I tell myself and go.
Two floors down, I stop and listen. Nothing I recognize. No breath, no scrape, no sign she’s close.
One more level.
The service door on the second floor is cracked open. The hinge squeaks when I touch it. Light spills out. I clear the corners. No one here. I clear them again.
One more level.
The exit is ahead. Cold air hits my face before I reach it. I push through the door. The alley opens up. Damp concrete. Trash bins lined against the wall. Traffic noise bleeding in from the street. A horn. A bus grinding through a gear change.
I move fast. The second car is parked where I left it, tight against the curb, nose angled out for a clean pull. It’s still there. Engine cold. Windows untouched. Ana isn’t there.
I move forward slowly now, eyes working the edges.
The ground is wet from earlier rain, and there are marks in it.
Not many. Two sets of prints that weren’t here before.
One heel dragged half an inch. A smear near the rear door that could be dirt.
Could be something else. Not blood. No casing. No struggle loud enough to leave chaos.
The driver’s door is still locked. She knows the route and the timing, and she would have signaled if she had space to do it.
There’s no signal. No movement. No breath. No echo of her steps.
My chest tightens, not with panic, but with recognition. This is how it happens. Not noise. Not spectacle.
I stand in the alley and for the first time in years, I don’t know if Ana is alive or if she has been taken so cleanly that the city has already swallowed her whole.