Ten seconds.
Cooper turned, saw the girl standing beside him, facing east. She started forward, but he lashed out, caught her wrist. “No!” He was shouting, but could barely hear his own voice. “Snipers!” He let go of her, turned to the west, and began to run.
Eight seconds.
The platform ran another thirty yards. Benches and trash cans were strung along the length. He leaned into the run, hoping she could keep up. The beginnings of a potential next step were assembling in his head, and she was at the heart of it. No time. He reached the end of the portion with a roof.
Here went nothing.
Five seconds.
Something angry and hot burned past his arm, and sparks popped off a trash can ahead. He did a quick zag to the left. A patch of concrete burst. He faked right and then went left again. The hipster he passed collapsed, hands clutching at his leg, which seemed to have exploded from the inside. Cooper never heard the shots, hadn’t expected to. The flashbang was part of it, but also the snipers—there would be at least three—would be on upper floors hundreds of yards away.
Two seconds.
He hit the end of the platform at a dead run, planted his right foot without slowing, leaped upward, got his left foot onto the railing, and flung himself into space, arms whirling, wind on his face, heart in his mouth.
Below him the street. Unforgiving concrete and the buzz of cars. Empty air. He just had time to wonder if he would make it, and then he hit the fire escape of the building opposite. It wasn’t a graceful landing; he pretty much collided with the railing, ribs banging into it. He gasped, then hauled himself up and over. Turned to see if—
—she landed like a cat, flexing her knees down to a squat crouch, her hands catching and pushing her up.
Goddamn.
Cooper pushed aside his appreciation. They were out of time. A flashbang worked by throwing enough photons that it activated all light-sensitive cells in the eye, temporarily blinding anybody nearby and facing it. But ten seconds was as much as he could hope before the team would be able to see enough to start moving. Maybe even to risk a shot. He lunged for the corner railing, ripped off the strip of duct tape, and yanked the crowbar free, then whirled and smashed the window with one blow. Hauled it back across the bottom to clear the worst of the shards.
He turned to gesture to the girl, and found her no longer there. Right. He leaped through the window as gunfire cracked behind. He hit something, her, and the two of them tangled and fell. He landed on top of her, not a suave action hero move but a clumsy, wind-losing collapse. He caught a whiff of female sweat and some spicy sort of perfume, and then they were both squirming to their feet.
A thin man with thinner hair sat on the opposite side of the desk. His mouth was wide open. He stared at them like, well, like they had just exploded through his window. Cooper snorted a laugh—something about a fight, he always found synchronicities and amusements when he couldn’t afford them—and went for the office door. She followed. An office like any other, cubicles and filing cabinets and fluorescent lights. He walked steadily, nodding at people he passed, just another office drone. The stairwell was by the elevator. He hurried in and up. His ears rang and his ribs hurt. He went up one flight and then paused on the landing and checked the time.
“Why are you stopping?”
“Waiting for them to get here. All of the units in the area will be rerouted to this building.”
“What? This is a trap?”
“No. They’ll surround it, secure the exits. Then tactical response teams will move in. That’s when we move out.”
“Screw you. I’m not waiting.”
He shrugged. “Okay.”
Her eyes narrowed. “You’ve had this all planned.”
“I figured Zane would sell me out.”
“Then why show up?”