Travis swept an arm low in front of him. After a moment it hit something rigid. A structural upright. He felt down its length and found the top of the still-sturdy handrail.
Thirty seconds later they were two floors down. Travis stepped off of the landing and navigated by memory to where he’d left the twelve-gauge, a few yards away. It was still dry, leaning under the intact metal panel. He carried it back to the stairs.
“Hand me the backpack,” he said.
He heard it shift in the darkness and then Bethany pushed it into his hands. It contained nothing but shotgun shells now. Bethany was still holding the SIG, and Paige had the cylinder.
“What are you doing?” Paige said.
“I’m going back up,” Travis said. “You’re going to keep heading down.”
“The hell we are. You’re coming with us, or we’re coming with you.”
“Finn and his people have the other cylinder,” Travis said, “and it’s their only way out of the building. The ground floor probably slammed shut like a bear trap half a second after you smacked Garner. Even the upper stairwells could have building security in them by now. Finn has to assume they do, either way. So his only exit is through the iris, on the top floor. Think of that, along with the fact that he still wants to capture or kill us. What’s his best strategy?”
Paige was quiet a few seconds. Then she said, “He’ll give us a few minutes to flee, and then come through the iris. That way we’re not right there, shooting at his guys on their way through the bottleneck.”
“Exactly,” Travis said. “Once they’re past that point, the advantage is all theirs. You saw the goggles around their necks. They can see in the dark and we can’t. If they come through the iris in the next couple minutes, while we’re groping our way down the stairs, they’ll overtake us long before we reach the ground. And they know we can’t use our own cylinder to go back through the iris on some lower floor—not with the building locked down. We’d be taken into custody, and we’d be under President Currey’s discretion within hours. We’re dead either way. The only real chance we’ve got is to stay here in the ruins until we’re well away from this building. But that only works if someone stays up here and covers the retreat. And I’m sorry to be a dick, but it’s gonna be me, and that’s it.”
He slung the pack on his shoulder. The weight of the shells inside felt reassuring.
“On the bright side,” he said, “this is a chance to end this right here.”
“Then we should all stay,” Bethany said.
“No,” Travis said. “We can’t risk the cylinder. What Currey said on the phone is right. No one’s going to believe any of this if they don’t look through the iris for themselves. Garner needs it. It’s more important than any of our lives.”
Neither of them replied right away. In the whisper of the rain, Travis could sense them accepting the idea. Hating it, but accepting it.
“Where do we meet you?” Paige said.
“Just get down onto Central Park West and head south. Get as much distance as you can. It’ll be hard in the dark, but do your best. You’ll hear the shooting. Hopefully sometime later you’ll hear me calling out behind you.”
The seconds drew out again. Then he felt one of Paige’s hands on his face. Her fingers tracing its contours. The closest she could get to a last look at him.
“Be there,” she said, and then her hand fell away, and Travis heard both sets of footsteps moving off down the next flight. He listened for a few seconds, then started back up.
He reached the head of the top flight and dropped to a knee. It was as good a spot as any, and it had at least some strategic value: he could descend a few treads if he needed to dodge return-fire.
The more he thought about his odds, the more he liked them. At any distance over a dozen yards, the shotgun’s spread would be at least as wide as the iris. Anyone coming through it was going to get cut to pieces.
Finn and his men had numbered seven originally. Two were dead now. Maybe more.
Travis dropped the backpack off his shoulder. He set it right in front of himself and unzipped it. Pulled it wide open so there’d be no fumbling later.
The Remington was already good for five shots—four in the magazine and one in the chamber. He felt for the loading port and mentally rehearsed sliding shells into it by feel alone. It wouldn’t be difficult. He probably did it mostly by feel even in daylight.
He surveyed the darkness all around him in long, rapid sweeps. He would see the iris the moment it opened, even at the extent of his peripheral vision. He could no more miss it than he could miss a searchlight being switched on.
He pulled the shotgun’s stock hard against his shoulder.
He was ready.
Finn stood at the open entry to the suite, listening to the larger corridor beyond. The stairwell was twenty feet away. No doubt Garner’s security detail had opted for that route when they’d left, rather than wait for an elevator.
Finn listened now for other footsteps echoing on the stairs—approaching, not retreating.