Chapter Twenty-Six

The emergency stairwell was dark, illuminated by flashing red emergency lights. Alarms were sounding in the hallways, muffled through the doors. They could hear shouts below and smell the first traces of smoke. It was acrid, a strange mix of burning plastic and sulfur.

“It’s four stories to the roof, Boss,” Russ shouted. “We will have to clear it so the bird can land!”

Graves grabbed Nick and pulled him in close.

“You hold the back of m-my jacket and stay behind me,” he snarled. “M-m-move when I move, turn when I turn. You stay behind me always!”

Nick wasn’t afraid. He felt ice cold, everything crystal clear, details obvious to his eyes. He felt anger, but not his usual reckless, heedless fire. Instead he was calm, firmly anchored in the present. He held a hand out to Bishop who hauled a handgun from behind his waist and slapped it into Nick’s palm.

He had never held a gun in his life, aside from hunting rifles with his uncles. But he flicked the safety and held it in both hands without even thinking about it. Whatever was happening, his higher intellect was safely parked, his body and instincts completely in charge.

“Good lad,” Graves said approvingly. He touched Nick’s face, a brief press of fingers. “We’ve got you.”

They met the first resistance at the turn, a hail of fire pinning them against the wall. Charlotte counted three, two, one, and leaned out, placing two precise shots and ducking back. After another count, she did it again. This time a body fell past them. They rushed up one more turn, passing two more bodies. Somewhere above them a door banged open. There were shouts and clattering boots. The stairs were in a tight square spiral above and below, difficult to see up or down, bullets zipped and snapped past them, clanging on the metal railings or kicking little chips of concrete from the walls. Smoke was rising from below; it stung Nick’s eyes.

They moved smoothly, in a bounding overwatch up each turn of the stairs. The horsemen kept Graves between them. Nick stayed glued to Graves’s back. The shots were deafening in that small echoing space. His friends’ faces appeared and disappeared in the flashing red lights and spiraling smoke. Bullets zipped up and down. Bishop’s covering fire kept the police below them from getting too close.

They were pinned again from above, rounds cracking against the walls. Russ and Rook were firing back, ducking behind each other. Graves suddenly leaned out and fired, the big gun roaring out. Another body fell past them even as Bishop dragged him back with a curse.

Russ was clipped in the leg after the third turning, shouting in pain. He limped on, leaving bloody footprints on the stairs. The look Charlotte gave Graves was tense and angry, a mask in the red light. Bishop kept firing down behind them, as doors in the stairwell opened below. The smoke was getting worse.

“One more to the roof!” Graves bellowed. “Tell Tony to clear that fucking landing pad! I don’t care who he kills!” Bishop relayed this into the radio.

Something blew above them with a roar. Russ threw his body over Graves as concrete dust and pieces rained down on them. A blast of hot air and screaming—Bishop pushed past Nick and threw Russ’s arm over his shoulder. Rook was firing with grim concentration. Nick couldn’t see through the smoke. He held onto Graves’s jacket, trying to see where they were going.

They were on the roof. There was burning debris, a crater in the landing pad. Gusts of smoke made things appear and disappear in turn. Bishop dragged Nick back as rounds snapped and zipped by. There were a handful of men, behind a giant air-conditioning unit, firing at them.

“Here he comes!” Bishop shouted, and Rook pushed Graves flat, throwing her body over his. Another roaring explosion and the air-con unit was gone. Nick fell back onto his ass from the blast of heat. Out of nowhere, a helicopter came screaming in, sending the smoke whirling around them. Rook stood up and shoved Graves toward the bird.

Nick crouched and followed. He tried not to trip over the broken concrete and scattered pieces of metal but it was hard to see. He slipped to his knees, cracking his shin against something. White hot pain shot up his leg, and he bit his tongue. As he made to get up, he saw Mac, still in his tuxedo, was raising a gun to Graves’s back. The look on his face was terrifying: a mix of pain and anger that cut right through Nick’s confusion. His teeth were bared in a rictus of hatred as he steadied his gun with a hand on his wrist.

Nick shot him.

Later he would wonder how it even happened. But in the moment, he didn’t think. He raised Bishop’s gun and fired it three times, screaming a warning. Someone grabbed his arm, and he was jerked backward. He heard Graves shouting, but he was hit in the face, something hot and wet in his mouth. He tried to turn over and found he could—whoever had grabbed him had let go. He saw Graves, his face contorted in rage, being physically put on the helicopter by three men. They were holding him back as best they could. He was fighting them, but they were having none of it. The Boss was being evacuated and that was that.

He is trying to come for me. He will get killed. The thoughts were perfectly calm. Nick shoved to his feet and sprinted pell-mell to the helicopter, jumping over a crushed duct. Something plucked at his shirt again. Then Bishop was running toward him, firing the way Nick had come. He grabbed Nick around the waist and threw him over his shoulder, sprinting to the bird like it was nothing. Nick was trying to say that he was fine—but then he was being grabbed and pulled aboard and the building dropped away below them. He watched it vanish down in the smoke and heard the chaos around him as the people on the helicopter organized themselves.

Nick was hauled over and there was Graves, looking down at him, clearly furious. But when he saw Nick’s smile, his head sank forward onto Nick’s chest. His shoulders were shaking. Nick patted his head, noting the dust and grime on Graves’s tuxedo. He was lifted up, and gently put in a seat, buckled in beside Rook. He tried to hand her his gun but she was busy wrapping a bandage around Russ’s leg. He was laughing at something Bishop was saying, and Nick breathed a sigh of relief. Russ was okay. Nick rubbed his own knee where he had cracked it. It didn’t feel broken. His arm was hot, he had twisted his shoulder when someone grabbed him—something had wrenched in there.

Graves put headphones over Nick’s ears. Instantly, he was enveloped in a babble of voices. They were coordinated, though, queries about fuel and altitudes. All pretense of civility was gone—Russ and Bishop were both wielding military-grade rifles and strapping themselves in so they could hang out the open doors.

“Don’t let the boy so much as poke his head out,” Graves snarled into the mic and Rook nodded, still watching Russ.

The bird swung out over Victoria Bay, climbing high away from the city. Nick was shoved back into his seat as they climbed. He noticed Bishop and Graves both leaning out the door pointing in the direction of the mainland. They were passing binoculars back and forth.

“Here they come,” Bishop’s voice was calm over the comms.

“I don’t think they saw us take off—we will have—”

Suddenly, the frame of the helicopter shook, and Nick felt rather than heard the slap of bullets against the hull.

“Incoming fire! Incoming fire! One thirty—another bird—coming fast! Two o’clock, now two o’clock!”

Graves spun and dragged a crate from where it was strapped to the ceiling. He was shouting into his mic.

“Get me a clear angle! I’ll have Tang’s balls for this!” He popped the lid of the crate and pulled out one of the long rifles

“Incoming two thirty, Boss; which direction you need?”

“Guide right, Tony; get me a clear shot,” came Graves’s reply. His manner had dropped into a cold calm. Nick was terrified, clutching the edge of the seat under his knees as the bird swung left, turning the right side door toward the oncoming helicopter. It made his bruised shoulder bang against the frame of the seat, sending up a jolt of pain.

“Think they know we took the American?” a voice Nick didn’t know asked. Graves looked across at him, and Nick’s heart surged at the affection there.

“No, he is still my little secret,” Graves said with a wink. “God, if they did, we would have more than just HKPD.” The bird swerved again, and the sound of more bullets slapped against the side. One of the red lights over their heads shattered with a shower of sparks, and Nick yelped.

Now, even Nick could see the other helicopter, blue-and-white, with flashing lights, as it came straight at them.

“Ready, Boss, in three, two”—Graves raised the rifle to his shoulder and leaned out the door. Nick drew in a strangled breath, clutching the harness around him—“one, all clear.”

“Steady,” Graves said, quietly. “Steady.”

“Come on! Take the fucking shot, Boss!” Bishop was barking into the mic. “We have two birds lifting off from the mainland, and we—”

“Shut up, David.” Graves said coolly. “I was doing this when you were still a snot-nosed private.”

The rifle went off, Graves’s body shifting easily with the recoil. He sat back and handed the gun to Rook who put it away. Bishop handed him the binoculars.

“Nice shot, Lord Graves!” came the unknown voice again.

“Get us out to sea!” Graves barked. “The other bird is already peeling off. Rendezvous with Scimitar, and let’s see if they think they can catch her this time.”

None of this made any sense to Nick, but the tumbling flame and smoke that was the HKPD helicopter tore a shout of fear from his throat. There was a larger burst of flames as the helicopter crashed somewhere down by the seafront.

“Here come the Chinese—they’re rounding the port—” Bishop said, his eyes still fixed on the binoculars.

“Then they are too late,” Graves said with grim satisfaction. “They’ll never make the altitude in time.”

While the others busied themselves closing the helicopter doors and putting away the weapons, Graves clambered over to Nick and pulled him tight against his side. The voices on the radio were laughing and talking about the shot Graves had made. Graves fiddled with the headset, and the banter of the others shut off.

“Are you all right?” he asked and Nick understood he had put them on a private channel.

“Who were—? The other helicopters?”

“Chinese,” Graves said calmly. “They have a drug agency same as you lot. Hong Kong is…difficult for me.”

“Why did you come then?” Nick asked. “You could have been killed!”

“For you of course,” he said and ran a hand along Nick’s cheek. “Thought it might be my last chance.” The crooked smile returned. “I’m disappearing. This is it for me. But I love you, Nick. And I was hoping you would want…that you would consider…”

Nick leaned in and kissed him again. I love you. I love you. Graves wrapped him up and pulled him close. Nick was dizzy. He tried to say it back, but his lips were numb, vision blurry. He could feel Graves’s hands on his face, his lips against his skin, but he couldn’t seem to say anything. Rook was talking to him, asking questions. Then he was on his side, and Graves was shouting. They ripped off his shirt. It was so cold. He saw it when they threw it on the floor of the bird. The sleeve was solid red. Nick tried to understand. I got shot. That’s stupid. I’m going home. Home with Graves. He loves me.

He must have passed out because next thing he knew he was being lifted and bundled off the helicopter.

It was cold and the wind was blowing hard. He was being carried across a dark, open space, just a few lights leading them forward. As the bird took off again, Nick realized they were on a ship. But not the sleek little yacht Graves had in Singapore. This ship was much bigger. A single glance at the horizon showed how high up they were. And they were far, far out to sea. The smell of the ocean was clean, unlike the bays and estuaries he had been around. The difference was obvious. Looking around, Nick saw a pitch-black sky, bathed in stars. And the ship was moving fast, a wide white wake streaming out behind her in the moonlight.

Scimitar!