The boots never slowed as they passed, marching on without breaking rhythm.
I released a breath and then reached for the doorknob with my left hand. Viggo moved to the other side of the door and gave me a nod. I slowly drew it open. He checked the hall again, and then looked back at me with a frown.
“What is it?” I asked, my pulse starting to spike again.
“It’s clear. I just thought we were done with these damn hallways.”
I followed him out and realized he was right: we hadn’t reached the garage yet. It was yet another mildly colored wall, tiled floor, and hallway lined with velvet-curtained alcoves. “Which way?” Viggo whispered.
“I don’t know. I’ve never been on this floor before.”
“All right, we’ll just keep checking all our options. It can’t be far.”
We were barely halfway down the length of the hall when all hell broke loose. The floor beneath our feet shuddered, and the sound of some distant chaos came to our ears. Viggo and I looked at each other, and that was when the alarm started: a sharp and shrill bell that repeated over and over again. As if timed with the alarm, two sets of footsteps rang out from behind us, moving fast.
With a hissed curse, Viggo hooked his arm around my waist and pulled me down the hall a few feet, pushing us both into one of the curved alcoves behind a heavy curtain. I had barely gotten a glimpse at what looked like a window seat without the window when, in one solid motion, Viggo pushed me against the wall and tucked himself into the nook behind me, his arms curving around my waist, his warm body pressed against mine.
The alarm blared on, covering the sounds of our breathing. The boots moved past us, retreating into the hallway… but I was beginning to suspect it wouldn’t be long before they turned around and headed back. Even through the pain I was in, the sudden proximity of Viggo’s body to mine was distracting. His breath went in and out right next to my ear.
As the sound of the boots quietened, I squirmed in his arms, turning to see his rugged, tired face, shadowed with the scruff of a neglected beard. “They’ll be back,” I breathed, my voice barely audible in spite of the intimacy of the tiny alcove.
“The cameras must be back on,” Viggo replied, looking down into my eyes, and we held our position. I could feel his heart beating fast against my shoulder.
The alarm was interminable, and the distant thudding sounds continued. We heard the pairs of boots return, this time at a run, and as they neared us, Viggo suddenly let me go and stepped out of the alcove.
There was no sound of struggle or gunfire—he’d caught them unawares. I peeked out to see that Viggo held them at gunpoint. Both their hands hovered in the air over their weapons. I stepped out beside him. “Don’t,” I warned, and, slowly, both of them raised their hands.
I quickly disarmed them and then held one of the pilfered guns awkwardly with my left hand, stuffing the other one into the back of my pants with the safety on. The weight felt wrong—too heavy and unbalanced—but I managed to hold it as steadily as my fatigued body would allow. That would have to be enough, because if these women tried something, I doubted I would be able to hit either one of them, even from this tight range.
“In the room,” Viggo said, using his gun to point to the one he meant. One of the guards gave him a steely glare, her lips pursed, but she moved, pushing open the door and stepping in. Her partner followed her. I followed too, closing the door behind us. Over us, the alarm wailed on.
“On your knees,” Viggo ordered, and the guards shakily sank to the ground. I could see that they were afraid now, although they were doing an admirable job concealing it.
“Don’t be afraid,” I said. “We aren’t going to hurt you.”
“That’s right, ladies. We just need to ask you a question,” Viggo said, and I could hear his warden voice surfacing. “Where’s the garage?”
“How do we know you’ll let us go?” shot back one of the guards, her voice alarmingly loud.
“Viggo doesn’t kill unarmed women,” I said, pointing my gun at her, hoping she couldn’t see my weird posture behind a barrel to her face. “But I do. So it’s either him or me—your choice.”
My voice was conversational, but cold, and by the look in their eyes, I had them convinced. The other guard spoke up sullenly.
“Two… two more floors down. Take the access stairs from the door on the left at the end of this hall.”
Viggo nodded.
“Now let us go,” the louder guard said tightly.
“Of course,” Viggo said. “We just need some insurance.” And without warning, he lunged forward and hammered the woman on the head with the butt of his gun.
She crumpled to the ground. The second guard made as if to scramble away, and Viggo tackled her, wrapping his arm around her neck in a chokehold. When her hands came up and began beating at his head, I shoved the barrel of my gun into her chest, and she stilled, then succumbed to unconsciousness. My left hand shook from the weight, and I yanked the dangerous thing away from her as soon as her body relaxed.
The corridors outside were empty—too empty. We followed the guard’s instructions and reached still more stairs. There were only two more flights down before we would be at the hallway that led to the garage. The stairs were also clear. The alarm was fainter inside the stairwell, but the crashes and thumps we’d been hearing were louder. Much louder.
We cautiously made our way down the stairs, where I pulled open yet another door for Viggo, letting him check this hallway. He gave me a little nod and stepped through, and I followed.
A rapid burst of gunfire filled the hall, and I reflexively leapt right, into a doorway, pressing my back into it to make myself as small a target as possible. Shards of stone and mortar flew everywhere as bullets pounded the walls.
I looked over and saw Viggo pressed into a doorframe farther down. “Dammit, she was hiding around the corner!” he swore. Bullets impacted around him as the unknown shooter unloaded her clip. Anger flooding through my veins, I grabbed my pistol from the waist of my pants, gripping it tightly in my left hand.
Taking a deep breath, I called a warning to Viggo before sticking my arm out and firing down the hall at the shooter. I wasn’t trying to aim, which was good, because I wasn’t sure I was capable of hitting anything with this hand—but I did hear a yelp of surprise, and the gunfire stopped for a moment.
My eardrums were throbbing from the thunderous cracks of bullets being fired, and my wrist stung from the recoil of the gun, but I ignored the pain. Taking a step into the hallway, I dropped to one knee and raised my gun, using my other wrist as a brace since my hand couldn’t have taken the pressure.
I aimed for a spot to the left, and waited. Sure enough, the guard swung back into view, her body in a half crouch, and I squeezed the trigger repeatedly, a yell escaping my throat, watching all my shots go wide.
My pistol fired a final time and then clicked. The woman raised her rifle again, but something caught her in the shoulder—Viggo’s shot. She gave a small cry and dropped her gun, her hand going up to cover the spurting wound. Viggo pushed past me, colliding with the woman and slamming her head against the ground.
The faint wailing of the alarm and the sound we’d been hearing continued even louder—a series of sharp bursts—gunfire.