MirrorWorld Part 7

While the security team continues to fire blindly, I swipe the key card. The light shines green. Whatever lockdown was put in place by the first alarm has been undone by the fire alarm. The door is unlocked. I whip it open to find a stairwell. But it's not empty. A team of five security guards turn their heads, and guns, in my direction. I duck back as bullets punch into the backside of the metal door.

The blind fire from the elevator continues until magazines run dry.

In the moment of silence that follows, I heft Shiloh over one shoulder so I can run and fire at the same time. Holding her is a risk. She could get shot. But I'm willing to bet both our lives that the security guards won't shoot at an unconscious woman. Me? I might. No, I would. But they're not me.

I lean against the corner wall of the T junction, poke my head around the corner, and fire two more missed shots into the elevator. A moment later, a second barrage tears up the hallway and the window at the end. When the firing stops, I step out into plain view, weapon raised, ready to charge into the elevator and finish things. But before I can, a door at the far end of the hall bursts open.

Five soldiers in black armor, complete with helmets and face masks, storm into the hallway. They're armed with laser-sighted MP5 submachine guns. I can't beat them. Not now. But my gambit has paid off. They haven't opened fire.

Yet.

That changes when the Doc.u.mentum doors swing open and Katzman steps out. He points at me and shouts, "Kill him!"

I turn and run.

Bullets chase me, punching into the window ahead as they buzz past. Despite the order to kill me, the soldiers are obviously trying not to hit Shiloh. There's a good chance she's going to die anyway, but they haven't left me with much choice. I put a few more holes in the now loose and sagging window, lower my shoulder, and slam into it like a hockey player against the boards.

The abused pane bends outward, resists for a fraction of a second, and then gives way. Instead of punching through the gla.s.s, as planned, the window lifts up and falls beneath me as I leap out of the window. I land hard on my a.s.s, feet forward, like a kid on the world's biggest slide.

Startled shouts pursue me but fade quickly as I begin my gla.s.s-on-gla.s.s carpet ride down a several-hundred-foot-long, forty-five-degree slope. The windows beneath shriek as we etch a path of scratches in our wake. Our escape is going to cost Neuro Inc. a lot of money, though I suspect the damage is a negligible expense compared to losing the contents of the syringe in my pocket.

I lean forward, watching the ground quickly approach. Looks like a five-foot drop at the bottom, but the building is surrounded by a carpet of thick gra.s.s that should cushion our fall. Shiloh's the lucky one. She's as limp as a rag doll in my arms. Of course, I have no trouble staying loose, either. A lack of fear means that I'm free of the thirtysomething hormones dumped into the body when afraid. My muscles are relaxed. My heart rate is regular. There's no tunnel vision, meaning I'm still able to focus on the larger picture, planning moves in advance, rather than just reacting.

With five stories to go, an explosion blows out the third-floor window directly below us. I glance up. Katzman is above us, shouting into a two-way radio, no doubt directing the unit waiting for us below.

When we reach the fourth-floor window, with just a moment to spare, I roll hard to the left, throwing myself over Shiloh and then yanking her back on top of me. We whip past the open window and the startled faces of the team waiting to put a bullet in my head.

Our descent slows thanks to the friction created by my jeans and the soles of my feet. When we reach the bottom, I have time to sit up, get Shiloh into my arms, and inch over the edge. I land on the gra.s.s, bending at the knees to keep Shiloh from being jolted too hard-again. If she wakes up anytime soon, she's going to hurt.

Better than being held prisoner or kept in a tube.

With the woman over my shoulder again, I glance up. No one in sight. Not a single man is willing to follow my escape route. I dig into my pocket, remove Winters's keys, and push the lock b.u.t.ton. A distant horn beacons me onward.

The horn guides me like the returning sound waves of a sonar ping, but I try not to cram the car's lock b.u.t.ton too many times lest I advertise my destination. I doubt anyone inside can hear the horn over the two alarms reverberating through Neuro Inc. Even outside, I can hear the blaring sirens. h.e.l.l, I can see the windows vibrating with each shrill whoop.

I round the corner to the front of the building. A ma.s.sive parking lot stretches out before me. It's full, but not just with cars. A steady stream of confused Neuro employees hurries out the front doors, filtering into the parking lot. They're a blessing and a curse. They'll help me disappear, but they'll also slow me down, giving the security teams time to reach the parking lot. I slow my stride, shift Shiloh into both arms, and do my very best to look afraid.

The first person who sees me looks at Shiloh first, then at me. She reels back upon making eye contact and hurries away. She either recognized me or my attempt at fear went horribly awry. I give up trying to look afraid and calmly strut into the parking lot, which is swirling with more people than a football tailgate party.

Walking calmly with the woman in my arms while showing no fear garners far less attention. A few people look my way, concern in their eyes, until they see my rock-solid confidence. It's like some voice in their heads is saying, "Don't worry. He's got it under control." And they go right back to chatting about what could have caused the double alarms. It's a far greater mystery to them than the fate of the unconscious stranger dressed in a johnny. It's also possible that Shiloh isn't the only unconscious patient being brought out of the building. I didn't get a look in the other rooms. They might have all been occupied for all I know.

I push the lock b.u.t.ton. The horn responds, pulling my eyes to the right. Winters's orange SUV is easy to see. Unfortunately, so is the woman my worried face sent running. She's got a man in tow, but a quick a.s.sessment of the man reveals he's not a threat. For starters, he's pudgy and soft. But it's the medical kit he's holding, along with the red cross on his white polo shirt, that reveals he's a medic, which, if I'm honest-and I always am-could come in handy.

"There he is!" the woman shouts, pointing at me.

The people around us turn and stare, but my continuing calm and the medic's arrival make us a nonevent compared to the continuing evacuation. It probably helps that no one seems to recognize Shiloh. Or me.

"What's wrong with her?" the medic asks me. He's out of breath. Hands on knees.

I motion to the back of the SUV and click the unlock b.u.t.ton. The rear lights flash yellow. "Get the hatch so I can lay her down."

He nods quickly and opens the hatch. "Good idea." He climbs inside the SUV and puts down the back seats. He turns to me and waves me in.

This is going to be easier than I thought.

I gently place Shiloh into the back of the SUV and the medic, supporting her head in one hand, helps guide her inside. Once she's settled, he puts his fingers on her wrist and stares at his watch, checking her heart rate.

A hand on my arm turns me around. I'm ready to deliver a number of attacks, but it's the concerned young woman. "What happened to her?"

"I rescued her," I say.

She turns to the Neuro building. "Is there really a fire?"

A quick glance around reveals that no one is watching us. In reply to the woman's question, I quickly squeeze, tap, and slap the same three pressure points that knocked Winters out cold. But here's the thing: a very small number of people are resistant to the technique. This woman is one of those people. Instead of falling unconscious into my arms, she reels around and says, "Oww! What the h.e.l.l was that-"

The b.u.t.t of my empty handgun against the side of her head does a much better job. I catch her in my left arm and lay her down in the empty s.p.a.ce beside Winters's SUV. When I stand back up, the medic is staring at me with wide eyes. Eyebrows turned up in the middle. Lips pulled tight to the sides.

Now that's what fear looks like.

I point the gun at him. "She's your patient now. You take care of her and you'll be just fine. Understood?"

He nods furiously.

With one last look around to confirm we've gone unnoticed, I close the SUV's hatch.

That's when a gunshot rips through the air.

"Everybody down!" The amplified voice is followed by a loud three-round burst. "On the ground! Now!"

All around the parking lot, people drop in fear.

All but one.

Dammit.

I need to start watching people's fear-based social cues and mimic them when appropriate. It's too late now. Being the only person still standing in the parking lot, in front of a bright-orange SUV, has made me stick out like a-well, like a bright-orange SUV.

I duck down a fraction of a second before the first bullet comes my way. I dive to the unforgiving pavement along the driver's-side door. The gunfire stops as I disappear from sight. They want to stop me something fierce, but they've got a lot of bystanders to worry about, too. I roll back to my feet, staying low, and open the driver's door.

The tall seats hide me from view when I climb inside, but that won't be much help when the security teams flank the vehicle. If they're even remotely competent, they have two teams already moving up the sides of the lot. I've got just a few seconds.

"Who are you?" the medic asks.

I glance back, rea.s.sessing the man. Most people would have bolted when I came under fire, but he stayed by Shiloh's side. He's got a blanket over her and a blood pressure cuff on her arm.

"And what happened to this woman?" He lifts her arm, revealing the string of bruises.

"Wish I knew," I tell him, answering both questions. "Better hold on tight."

He nods and lies down, draping an arm, a leg, and a portion of his torso over Shiloh's body. It's as secure as they're going to get.

The engine growls to life. I yank the gear shift into drive and crush the gas pedal. Tires screech as I punch forward, shoving aside the small hybrid car parked in front of us. People run for cover as the SUV roars through the parking lot, hitting thirty miles per hour. I hammer the brakes at the end of the row, twisting the wheel. All four tires squeal as we spin. A gray cloud of burning rubber billows around the vehicle. When our turn hits the ninety-degree mark, I hit the gas again and race toward the back of the lot.

Rows flash by. Five to go, then it's an empty lot and a clear shot to the long winding drive through the woods.

"Look out!" the medic shouts. He's still lying down, but he's leaning up, looking out the pa.s.senger's-side window. I follow his line of sight and see what has him concerned-a black Humvee complete with a mounted machine gun races up the parking lot's center aisle.

The big gun turns toward us and opens fire.

A row of cars flash between us, absorbing the high-caliber ammunition that would have shredded the SUV.

I hit the brakes and turn hard to the right, into the next row. The Humvee races ahead into the empty lot, turning in a wide circle. The SUV's throaty engine shakes my seat as the big vehicle accelerates to fifty miles per hour. We quickly reach the center aisle, and I turn hard to the left, just missing a car but careening over a concrete wheel stop at the end of an empty parking s.p.a.ce. The right side of the SUV bounces into the air and slams back down with a jolt.

"I've got her!" the medic shouts, rea.s.suring me that he's doing his job.

While the Humvee rounds toward us, I aim for the drive at the back of the lot and keep the gas pedal pegged.

Asphalt explodes from the parking lot ahead of us as a line of heavy machine-gun fire, lit by bright-orange tracer rounds, cuts across. Chunks of tar bounce off the windshield, but the gunfire stops as the gunner adjusts his aim.

A second volley of bullets shatters the rear side window, but we're quickly beyond the line of fire. Whoever is shooting at us hasn't had a lot of practice with a moving target. Even if the security team is ex-military with real-world experience, a lack of practice can dull reaction times.

Not for me, though. All of this seems to just come naturally.

The empty lot around us morphs into a wall of trees. Tall pines line the road, their scent washing through the shattered window and overwhelming the stench of burnt rubber.

Gunfire erupts behind us, but the trees get the worst of it, and continue to as the Humvee gunner spews lead. The winding path through the woods slows our flight, but it also keeps the Humvee from getting more than a brief glimpse of the SUV.

We round the final bend and race toward the security gate. A public road is just twenty feet beyond the solid-looking guardhouse. Four men in security uniforms stand in front of the gate, handguns raised. One of them shakes an open palm at me. These men have clearly not been warned yet. If they had been, they wouldn't have wasted time trying to request me to stop; they would have simply opened fire.

They get the idea when I accelerate toward them. The bravest of the four squeezes off two rounds. Both miss. Probably because the man was already running when he fired. They dive away, two to a side, narrowly missing being added to the long list of New Hampshire's daily roadkill. The gate, however, doesn't move for me. But it's not nearly as robust as it looks. The metal pole bends with a shriek and allows us pa.s.sage.

I glance in the rearview.

The Humvee skids to a stop. The guards pick themselves up.

No one pursues us.

The chase, it seems, ended at the gate.

I turn onto the road and tear away from Neuro Inc. I'd like to say it's the last time I'll see the place, but I know it's not. Once Shiloh is safe, I'll be back. What they're doing is wrong, and that's something I can't let go. Not because I'm a bleeding-heart vigilante, but because they thought they could add me to their collection of tortured souls, and I take that personally.

I look back at my pa.s.senger. He looks shaken. Frightened. But he's still tending to Shiloh. "How is she?"

"h.e.l.l if I know," the medic says. "What happened to her? Is she in a coma?"

Hadn't considered that. "I a.s.sumed she'd been sedated, but I honestly don't know."

"Was this done to her at Neuro?" he asks.

I nod. "I'm guessing your security clearance is pretty low."

"I started a month ago." He looks back at Shiloh, then to me. He extends his hand toward me. "I'm Jim. Jim Cobb."

I twist my hand back and give his a firm shake. "I'm Crazy."

He gives a lopsided nervous smile. "I noticed."

I turn into the driveway after my third pa.s.s. The home, a tan cape with an attached three-car garage, is definitely unoccupied. Though the mailbox is empty-likely being held at the owner's request-three plastic-wrapped newspapers rest on the front porch steps. Even if the homeowner had lackl.u.s.ter feelings about reading a paper in the digital age, someone would have, at the very least, kicked the staircase obstacles aside.

I stop the SUV in front of the garage and turn it off, pocketing the keys. I glance back at Cobb, still monitoring Shiloh's condition. "Any change?"

He shakes his head.

"You gonna run if I have a look around?"

He frowns. Pats his soft belly. "I'm not a very fast runner."

"And you don't want to leave her alone with me, right?"

His frown deepens. He avoids eye contact. "That a bad thing?"

"I'd call it admirable." I open the door and slide out into the morning heat. Winters's vehicle has all the bells and whistles, including a frigid air-conditioning system and cooled seats. My a.s.s is downright chilly.

I take a quick look around. The house is in the woods, trees on three sides and across the street. The nearest neighbors are a hundred yards away. I jump up the front stairs and try the door. As expected, it's locked. On my way back down the steps, I notice a fist-sized rock sitting amidst the brown wood chips surrounding the neatly clipped bushes. I stop, eyes on the rock, and sigh.

What kind of moron puts a key in a fake rock and then leaves that rock in a place it doesn't belong?

I pick up the rock and give it a shake. A metallic clanging from inside confirms my suspicions.

Looks like I'm about to find out what kind of moron.

Key in hand, I discard the rock and unlock the front door. Hot, humid air that smells faintly like dog washes out of the home. But there's no barking. Definitely on vacation. With one last glance back at the SUV, I move into the house. It's spotless, despite the scent of dog. Ignoring the staircase leading up, I step into the small dining room, through the kitchen, and down the hall to the garage. I open the door and whistle. A black 1969 Boss 429 Mustang is parked on the far side. I take back every bad thought I had about the home's owner. While he had bad taste in security, his taste in cars is impeccable, though I'm now absolutely certain he's a moron, leaving this vehicle so poorly protected.

The garage itself is the pinnacle of organization. Pegboards hold a variety of tools. A wall of shelving holds an array of plastic bins with labels like WINTER, YARD GAMES, and GARDEN. A generator, snow blower, and riding lawn mower are parked along the back wall. All red. And above everything, arranged along a pair of two-by-fours hung from the ceiling is an a.s.sortment of skis.

I slap the middle of three large white b.u.t.tons and the center garage door grinds up. I run outside, pull the SUV into the garage, and close the garage door. We're only a thirty-minute drive from Neuro Inc., but we'll be a h.e.l.l of a lot harder to find inside the house than driving around in Winters's bright-orange beacon. It's a small miracle they didn't already locate us by helicopter, but they must have been relying on the vehicle's GPS unit to track us. Unfortunately for them, I stopped and removed the device's antenna the moment I realized we weren't being pursued on the ground.

I open the vehicle's rear door. Cobb is waiting for me, one hand supporting Shiloh's head, the other holding her hands over her stomach. "Take her under the knees. We'll carry her together."

"You in charge now?" I ask him.

"Do you have a medical degree?" he asks.

"I don't know."

"Let's just agree that you don't," he says.

Cobb is afraid. Probably terrified. But he's controlling it better than most, focusing on his job. I don't know anything else about him, but he's still earning my respect. I hook my hands around the back of Shiloh's knees and pull. Working together, we slide her out of the SUV and carry her into the house, depositing her on the first-floor bedroom's king-sized Posturepedic. Her lithe body sinks into the plush down comforter. Still immobile, but still breathing.