Voices from the main area grew louder and more strident as men and women grabbed weapons and equipment. Morgan skittered across the hall to the stairwell door. Locked, but not for long, thanks to the picks concealed in her sunglasses.
She propped it open—it locked automatically from this side, which worked to her favor—and sprinted to the fire exit, shoving the door open, throwing her purse out into the snow piled up along the edges of the parking lot. Blonde-Barbie-secretary’s props scattered across the pavement, creating a trail. Perfect.
The fire exit alarm blared. She raced to the stairwell, pushed through that door, shut it, and ducked down below the glass window at the top, just as footsteps pounded past.
Then she raced up the stairs to the second floor. Entry to the side of the building being renovated was protected by sheets of plywood and a heavy door secured by a padlock. She could open it—but no way could she close it again when she was through, which would give them an easy trail to follow, once they began to search in earnest. Instead, she turned to the glass door at the lawyer’s office with its gaudy parody of the old Uncle Sam recruiting poster. In an accident? We get money for You!
Should use some of that money for better locks, she thought as she opened the door and slipped through. No alarm, either. The lights were off in the office, and no sounds came as she entered. Out to a late lunch? In court? Chasing ambulances? Given the stack of overdue bills scattered below the mail slot, maybe they weren’t even open anymore. She didn’t really care.
She locked the door behind her and moved into the inner office that shared a common wall with the construction area. On the way here, she’d noticed the dumpster in the alley was filled with insulation—which meant there was probably nothing but drywall between her and her escape route. If she chose her access point correctly.
The lawyer’s decorating skills were no better than his advertising. The drywall hadn’t even been painted, was bare except for its original coat of primer. The only furniture was a cheap desk and a wheeled AV cabinet with outdated equipment, including a VCR.
She rolled the cabinet aside, knelt down close to the floor, and drew one of her knives, a serrated Kershaw Leek, tough enough to cut through bone. A sheet of cheap drywall was no match for it. In less than two minutes, she had a small door cut out of the wall between two studs, just large enough for her to wiggle through.
Good timing, because as she was pulling the AV cabinet back in place to cover it, she heard pounding on the office’s front door and a man’s voice radioing in that the office appeared secure. She huddled, kneeling on the plywood subfloor, her head still inside the hole in the wall, studs on either side, one hand grasping the base of the AV cabinet, the other her knife.
Everything went silent. She finished creeping backwards into the half-demolished space. The exterior walls were intact, but everything else had been stripped, leaving exposed studs, dangling wires, floorboards littered with debris. One window was removed, the opening filled with a yellow plastic chute. She eyed it. It wasn’t a gentle slope down to the dumpster, rather a straight drop. She might be better off climbing down the outside of the building.
She glanced out the other windows, taking care to stay hidden. Cop cars with light bars rolling red and white waited at the main entrance and the rear parking lot. If she tried to climb down the alley wall, she’d be totally exposed. How long would they search for her?
She needed a vehicle but had to get clear of the cops before she stole one. Sliding her phone free, she considered. Not Andre—first, he’d be surrounded by cops at Gibson’s house, and second, he’d be on Jenna’s side, want Morgan to do the right thing, trust the cops to figure things out. As if that ever actually worked.
Micah. He didn’t live far from here, and no one would ever suspect him. All she needed was twenty minutes of his time, and she’d be gone.
Still…she actually had doubts. A twinge of remorse. So unlike her. It wasn’t that she didn’t trust that Micah would come through, it was that she knew he would. And she hated getting him involved in anything to do with Clint, no matter how remote.
Clint could never know about Micah. But it wasn’t like Clint was anywhere near here. Micah would be safe. She hit the speed dial. “Hey. Got a few minutes? I could use your help—and a ride.”
“Sure,” he said. So trusting. She worried that someday it might get him killed—it’d already gotten his neck sliced open and him thrown in juvie for something he didn’t do. Maybe it was good she was in his life, if only to watch out for him.