Chapter 7
Sharyn turned to the others. “Up,” she mouthed, barely making a sound and pointing.
Her friends remained silent, their eyes huge, but they heeded her instruction. The three of them quickly ascended a half-flight to a sealed door that led to the roof. Tag reached to the push bar, which would automatically unlock in case of emergency.
Which this definitely counts.
Still, Sharyn grabbed Tag’s arm. “Stop,” she hissed softly.
She shifted him aside and freed her knife from its sheath. She flipped the blade to unfold its short length and reached for the door. Two months ago, she had already inspected it.
Always have an exit strategy.
It was the caveat to nothing can trap you if you keep your head.
She used the knife’s tip to slice the alarm wire. She held her breath, fearful that severing the power might trigger the alarm, but thankfully it did not. Huffing out her relief, she pushed the door wider, waved the others across the threshold, then followed.
Behind her, the pounding of boots had nearly reached the third floor.
Wincing, she carefully closed the exit door as quietly as possible.
“What now?” Naomi whispered, her face pale in the moonlight.
“This way.”
Sharyn rushed to a waist-high brick parapet that separated their rowhouse from its neighbor. With the line of buildings tightly packed, there was no gap between them. She hopped over, then helped Tag.
For once, the man did not object to her assistance.
“Keep moving,” Sharyn urged and led them across the roof’s gravel and tarpaper surface, sidestepping satellite dishes, boxy air-handling units, and rusty old flues.
She cast a glance behind her. It would not take long for the attackers to discover the apartment was empty and recognize their targets could only have fled in one direction.
Moving swiftly, she crossed two more rooftops. She wished these old buildings had been retrofitted with fire escapes. Instead, if flames drove someone to the roof, the only means of escape was to flee across the adjoining rooftops, to buy time before a rescue could be mounted.
Time we don’t have.
At the fourth rowhouse, she headed to its rooftop door, dropped to a knee, and removed the flat leather pouch.
She thumbed its flap open and shook out two lockpicks.
It was another defensive skill taught to her by her father.
As a cop in Tulsa—which was ranked among the most violent cities in the States—he had witnessed too many bodies, many of them women who had been victims of kidnappings or abductions.
No wonder he took to the bottle . . .
With her heart pounding, she fumbled the steel hooks into the keyhole and fished for the tumblers. Panic dulled her dexterity.
“You’re proving to be a woman of many hidden talents,” Tag noted.
“Let’s hope you’re right,” she said. “Still, be ready. I can’t cut the alarm wire from this side. It’ll go off once I open the door. After that, we must move fast.”
“You’d better hurry now,” Naomi warned, ducking and pulling Tag down beside her.
A door crashed open in the distance, accompanied by a muffle of angry voices. With their flat’s rowhouse sitting in the middle of the block, the assailants would not know which direction their quarry had fled, which might make them hesitate.
But not for long.
With her teeth clenched, Sharyn forced herself to concentrate. She heard her father whispering in her ear: Take deep breaths. Panic is your worst enemy.
She heeded this advice, while still struggling with the darkness her father represented. She inhaled deeply, then let it out slowly through her nose.
Finally, the lock clicked under her efforts. She did not wait. She grabbed the handle and yanked the door wide. As she feared, an alarm blared inside. Worse, light from the stairwell blazed out like a spotlight, bathing them brightly.
“Go!” She waved the two ahead of her, while she huddled behind the swing of the open door. “Head down. Don’t slow for anything.”
As she followed, a flurry of rounds peppered the far side of the door’s reinforced steel. Gasping at the enemy’s swift response, she slammed the door behind her and rushed after the others, who had reached the landing below.
“Keep moving!” Sharyn called out.
The three fled headlong down the steps. In the lead, Tag struggled with his cane. The stress had clearly worsened his palsy.
Rather than scold him, Naomi offered encouragement. “We’ve got this.”
They rounded landing after landing. Doors popped open in their wake, roused by the blaring alarm. Questions and curses trailed them as they ran. Finally, they reached the main floor. Sharyn sped past Naomi and Tag and shoved the door open.
“Make for the park. Keep low.”
They burst out the door, fled down a short flight of steps, and raced across the street, aiming for the dark shadows of the park. Only a few lampposts glowed out here. Several others had been broken long ago, likely by those who had sought to hide their illicit activities.
Sharyn suddenly appreciated the due diligence of drug dealers.
As she raced for the tree line, she glanced down the road.
A black sedan sat at the curb, with a flashing blue light sitting on its dash.
Across the street, another larger vehicle idled, half bathed in one of the few remaining lamps.
She did a double take, noting the hood ornament’s spread of silver wings.
A Rolls-Royce . . .
Such a vehicle looked as out of place here as a diamond ring on a panhandler’s finger. She squinted at the oddity for half a breath—then from inside the cab, the red flare of a cigarette spurred her onward. She ducked past a hedgerow and into the park, hoping she had not been spotted.
Once they had gained enough distance, Sharyn used her cellphone to light the way.
She muffled its glare with her hand. She only took this risk once she heard the growl of engines erupt behind her, then fade off in another direction.
Still, she kept their group moving, fearing the assailants could have sent someone on foot.
They only slowed once they exited the park and lost themselves in a maze of side streets and alleys. By now, Tag wheezed heavily, but he made no complaint. Still, Sharyn drew them to a stop.
“I can keep going,” Tag coughed out.
Sharyn had read up on cerebral palsy, wanting to know more about Tag’s condition without overtly prying.
People with CP were prone to respiratory compromise due to reduced lung capacity and an impaired elasticity to the muscles of the chest wall.
Guilt ached through her for putting her friend in danger.
Tag lifted an albuterol inhaler and took a hit from it. He held his breath, then let it out with a long sigh. “That’s the good stuff,” he mumbled and forced a smile. “Truly. I can keep going.”
“But to where?” Naomi asked. “Do we just keep running the streets all night?”
Sharyn weighed their options. “No. If those gunmen were truly cops, they could access the city’s CCTV cameras to find us. To avoid that, we must get out of sight as soon as possible.”
“How?” Tag asked. “Where do we go?”
“Somewhere public. With many people. A crowd to get lost in.”
Naomi frowned. “What are you thinking?”
Sharyn reached into her pocket and pulled out a set of black tickets emblazoned with a crimson logo. “Luckily, someone already invited us to a party.”