Chapter 22
It was hot in the stairwell, the smell of rot and water ubiquitous in the air around them. Noah trudged up the stairs, his mind strategizing his escape. He had several options, but Hannah complicated every one, so he took his time, deliberately making the men slow down so he could think.
Lizzie’s condo was on the second floor of a four-floor building, and they were nearing the top.
He met Hannah’s eyes just as the group rounded the final landing before the roof access.
She was scared, he could see that. But if he wasn’t mistaken, she also looked pissed off, and he found himself admiring her spirit in the face of intense stress.
It was possible they were both going to die, being marched up these stairs like the damned to the gallows.
Not if I have anything to say about it.
The lead man reached the door, a heavy metal lock hanging from a chain securing it closed. He cursed and stamped his foot.
“Shoot it, dumb ass,” said the other man.
The first did as he was told, the blast echoing off the concrete walls of the stairwell like an explosion. The door opened to the orange rays of the sunrise streaming over the horizon.
But there was something else—the faint thump-thump-thump of helicopter rotors in the distance.
Noah glanced at the men, wondering if they recognized it or if it would need to get closer before they realized there was a chopper nearby.
It was probably a news crew or a disaster relief effort of some kind, but Noah added signaling them to the top of his list of options.
They just needed to stay alive long enough to do it.
“Sit down, Hannah,” Noah said.
She turned to look at him and dropped to the ground. So did he.
“Get the fuck up,” said the taller of the two men.
“Why can’t we just shoot them here?” asked the other.
“No. I want them to feel the fear Eric felt, to know what it’s like to see that muddy water rushing up to meet you, the concrete right beneath. They will suffer for what they did.”
The sound of the chopper was closer now, and the men noticed. “What the fuck is that?” asked the shorter one.
“Probably just the goddamn Weather Channel,” said the other.
The rays of sun hit the side of the chopper and Noah saw the dark green color for the first time. His eyes shot to Hannah’s, then back at the chopper. That was no weather station. It wasn’t first responders, either. That chopper was military, and it was heading right for them.
Hope lit in his breast that it might be HERO Force, though he didn’t know how they could have found him. But there were two armed tangos on the roof and it was high time Noah gave them a run for their money.
He got up on one knee. “Let’s get this show on the road,” he growled, coming to a stand.
He bent at the waist, lifting his zip-tied hands high over the back of his head, then slammed the loop made by his arms and conjoined hands over his buttocks.
The zip ties snapped, and in one continuous movement he grabbed a knife from his tactical pants and straightened, elbow bent.
He whipped the knife at the shorter man, the gun falling from the tango’s hand as he was struck just above his heart.
The taller man pulled his gun, training it on Noah. “You son of a bitch,” he said. “What are you, some kind of killing machine?”
The chopper had finally gotten close enough now to rouse the tango’s alarm, and he turned around to see it, raising his gun at it.
The red HERO Force logo was clearly visible on the side.
Noah swiftly moved behind him and twisted his neck, breaking it with a practiced yank, the crack of bones loud enough to be heard over the chopper. He let go and the man fell to the ground.
He moved back to Hannah, cutting through her zip ties with a second knife from his pants.
“How many knives do you have in there?”
“This is my last one.” He pulled her to a stand. “We have to get out of the way so they can land.”
“Land?”
They moved to the stairwell entrance and the chopper descended, landing in the middle of the roof like a leaf falling to the ground. Noah yelled to be heard over the noise. “HERO Force.”
“The men you work for?”
He nodded. The sound of the rotors slowly died down. “Stay low,” he said, moving toward the helicopter. Her hand on his arm stopped him.
“I have to get Brady.”
“I’ll go with you. Hang on.” He jogged to Cowboy and Booger, coming out of the cabin. “How the fuck did you know I was here?”
“Little interview you did with your wife on TV.” Cowboy pointed to Hannah with her chin. “Who is she?”
“Hannah Fielding. A doctor. She saved my life. Come on, I’ll introduce you, then we need to go find my son. He’s still downstairs.”
“Your son?” asked Booger.
“Not mine, hers. That’s what I said.”
He didn’t see the look the men exchanged behind his back as he moved back to Hannah, anxious to get downstairs.