6:03 P.M.
“What’s that?” Grace whispers.
Cole’s eyes don’t move from the phone’s screen, but his voice betrays his surprise as he turns the Jeep in a tight circle. “He’s got a silencer.”
Down the hall, the sound is muffled to a loud clap. Then the screen goes dead.
Grace’s mouth falls open as she realizes her phone has just been destroyed. “I thought you said they wouldn’t shoot.”
Cole swears. “I didn’t know he had a silencer! We have to get out of here. Go back!”
Out in the hall, one of the killers shouts, “It came from that direction.”
Footsteps pound down the hall toward them. All their practice has centered around a curious guy with a long gun and an unwillingness to shoot, not an angry guy with a silenced pistol. They have to get out of this hall before he spots them. Maybe then he might not know where the Jeep came from. Although the kiosk filled with remote-control toys is a pretty good clue.
As they dash for the alcove they just left, Miranda’s stockinged feet almost slide out from under her. It’s like running in a nightmare. The world narrows to a swath of bright colors, vague smears. Part of her wishes that it was just over. She doesn’t care how it ends. Just that it does.
When they reach the end of the hall, Cole puts his finger against his lips and then points. Not at either service door, but at the stairs going up.
Miranda sees the logic. Upstairs, where there are no direct exits, is the last place the killers will look for them. There might even be places to hide.
No matter what, they have to keep moving. Right now, they’re all too visible.
They hurry up the stairs, or at least they try to. Miranda feels as if she’s moving through quicksand. She attempts to push her fear away, to concentrate on lifting her leaden legs, but it’s like she’s underwater, weighted down and helpless. Her socks slide on each step. The others are trying to be quiet as they climb, but each footfall echoes.
Cole is in the lead. The muscles in Javier’s arms stand out as he pulls himself up with the help of the railing. Behind them, Grace is panting openmouthed, her face contorted with fear. She pumps her arms, the broomstick swinging with each step. As they round the turn in the stairwell, it slams into Miranda’s hip. She bites back her cry of pain.
Somewhere below them, footsteps echo. Miranda’s heart skips a beat.
How long until it’s not beating at all?