I can’t exactly feel Mrs. Fitzgerald’s warmth and concern radiating through the phone, but for some reason, this further convinces me that she hasn’t betrayed me. She is the same as ever, and she’s just given me a piece of important information.
“Got it,” I say. “But once I get out of here, I’m going to need to lie low. I could use some help with that.”
“Understood. Are you incapacitated or injured in any way?”
“No.”
“If you survive, go to the meet-up point we’ve previously discussed.”
She hangs up.
If I survive. How reassuring that Mrs. Fitzgerald has such full confidence in me.
And now, finally, Mikey’s phone rings. Mikey answers, says, “Yes, sir,” and hangs up. He looks at me.
“I’m supposed to bring both of you up to the roof.”
“Okay.”
“But first I’m supposed to shoot you in the shoulder.”
“What?!”
“Claymore wants you visibly injured, to help explain how we were able to overpower you and convince you to give yourself up.”
Mikey raises his gun and points it at me. “Where you want it, right or left?”
“Neither, thanks very much!”
“Sorry, Angel, you know I don’t want to do this . . .”
With a sudden rush of movement that I didn’t think she was capable of, Mrs. Claymore strikes Mikey’s arm with her cane, knocking the gun out of his hand. I immediately lunge for it, but it slides across the polished wood floor and rolls under the sofa. While I dive to the floor to retrieve it, Mrs. Claymore moves between me and Mikey, brandishing her cane at him.
“You’ll have to come through me, son,” Mrs. Claymore says.
“Come on, Mrs. Claymore. I don’t want to hit an old lady.”
Mrs. Claymore juts out her chin defiantly. “That’s what you’re going to have to do if you take one step toward my granddaughter.”
“Angel, tell her to stop this. I’m gonna be forced to hit her.”
My straining fingers find the gun under the sofa. Just as I’m about to straighten up, Mikey lunges.
And then Mrs. Claymore whacks him again. Hard, right on the ear. She must have had a killer golf swing at some point because it sends him flying back.
“I don’t feel as bound by civility as you seem to be,” she tells him. “One of the only good things about being an old lady.”
I roll over and point the gun at Mikey.
“You’re not going to kill me,” he says.
“Nope. But I might shoot you in both your knees. That would be just as effective.” I kick the handcuffs over to him. “Put these on. For real this time. Then get in Mrs. Claymore’s wheelchair.”
“Are you serious?” “Should I shoot you in the right knee first or the left?”
“Fine!”
He stands up, clicks the cuffs into place, and throws himself into the chair. I use my free hand to strap him in with the Velcro restraints, around the chest and legs.
“Well done,” says Mrs. Claymore approvingly.
“Couldn’t have done it without you . . . Grandma.”
A sad smile flashes across her face. “No one’s ever called me that before. I like the sound of it.”
“I . . . I have to go now.” The last thing I want to do is leave her here in this prison. But bringing her with us would be a stupid move. Right now she’s in no danger, and she might be in harm’s way if I bring her along.
“I have the utmost confidence in you, my dear.”
There’s so much warmth and pride in her eyes that I feel a little ache of loss when she looks away. Now she seems to slip back into that self-protective fog she created to keep herself alive all these years. There’s so much more I want to say to her, but there’s no time. I’ve got to move.
I wheel Mikey down the hallway to the medication room.
“Okay, Mikey, I’m going to need you to fight Claymore’s orders again, just for half a second. Which bottle is the Snowball antidote?”
Mikey clenches his jaw, shuts his eyes.
“Middle shelf, blue label.”
“Good.”
I take out two of the vials that match this description and cram one into my pocket. “How long does this stuff last without refrigeration?”
“Do I look like a doctor? I have no idea.”
“Do you know the dosage?” I ask.
His body starts to tremble and he begins to thrash against the restraints.
“I think . . . you need to give me . . . the whole thing . . .”
I’ve certainly gotten enough injections in my life that I know how to administer one. I load the syringe and plunge it into his arm. Ideally, I would’ve taken the time to prep the injection site with alcohol, but time is in short supply right now. He can sue me for malpractice if he gets an infection.
Within ten seconds, Mikey’s eyes start to grow dim and unfocused. While he’s zoning out, I help myself to a pint of donor blood and smear some over my shoulder. That ought to fool people from a distance, even with spotlights trained on me.
As soon as Mikey looks docile enough for me to move him, I untie him and lead him down the stairwell, checking at each level to make sure no one sees us. Even though he’s woozy and confused, I keep the gun on him the whole time, just for good measure.
We head all the way down to the parking garage. I steer us to a spot just outside the loading dock where Tai dropped us off. Here, I ease Mikey into a sitting position on the ground, uncuff him, and crouch down to look him in the eye.
“You’re not going to remember me, Mikey, but I hope you remember this much. You deserve a chance at a good life. You should look into becoming a cop. How’s that sound? I think you’d be a really good cop.”
I tuck the handcuffs into the waistband of my scrubs next to the gun and slip Mikey’s phone out of his pocket to make a call. The number tumbles easily from my mind like a small gift from Velocius—perfect recall.
“Hello?”
“Tai. It’s Angel.”
“Oh, my God! You’re all right! Should I not have called the police?”
“No, you did great. In fact, I think you saved us. Some of us, anyway. Listen, I need you to make another call and tell the police that a hostage has been left in the parking garage, right where you dropped us off earlier. Can you do that?”
“Sure, but—”
“Can’t talk more. Thank you! Bye.”
“Angel, wait! What are you going to do?”
What am I going to do?
I rub Mikey on the top of his ridiculously irritating, mistreated, Brooklyn-born head, and say, “What people usually do in these situations—go out in a blaze of glory.”
Chapter 28
As soon as I get back in the stairway, the power shuts off in the building. Standard operating procedure in a hostage scenario, but it’s interesting that this didn’t happen sooner. Must be the result of so many law enforcement cooks in the kitchen—local authorities, FBI, et cetera—losing track of what’s happening and what needs to be done.
I guess they think it’ll be easier to flush me out now that I can’t watch television or blow-dry my hair.
I take the stairs as fast as I can. It’s not like I haven’t been in this situation before.
Mikey’s phone rings in my pocket. At first I think Tai is calling me back, but it’s a blocked number. Which means it can only be one of Claymore’s men, if not Claymore himself, calling to give further instructions.
Still sprinting up the steps, I answer. “ ’Sup.”
“What are you doing with this phone?” a male voice asks. I’m not sure who it belongs to, but I know it’s not Claymore.
“Mikey had a seizure, okay? He just collapsed. I know the deal, so just tell me where you wanted him to take me and I’ll be there. No games. I don’t want anything to happen to Thomas.”
There’s a pause. The guy is probably covering the phone while he relays this information.
/> I’m now at the third floor.
Henchman dude speaks again. “Bring Mrs. Claymore to the roof.”
Fat chance. “Why? What do you need her for?”
“That’s not your concern.”
“Well, she’s not very keen on coming with me, so is there something I should say to convince her?”
“Tell her that her husband wants to make certain she’s safe.”
Sure. More likely, Claymore belatedly realized that if he just sails off in his FBI helicopter without her, people might start to suspect that he actually doesn’t care what happens to her. This way he gets to play the white knight, rescuing her from her deranged would-be kidnapper and then sweeping her off to a safer location.
Well, that’s not going to happen. The more distance between my grandmother and her creep of a husband, the better. Of course, henchman dude doesn’t need to know that yet. “Okay, we’re on our way.”
“Be here in two minutes.”
“Mrs. Claymore is elderly and can barely walk. I’m not going to be able to get her up three flights of stairs to the roof in two minutes. Give me more like ten.”
“Four.”
Before I can object to this stinginess, he hangs up.
Two floors later, I can hear the sound of a helicopter descending. The sound makes me tense. Helicopters bring mayhem and death. They can also be your salvation.
I guess I’m about to find out which it’s going to be.
At the fourth floor landing, I pause to put on the cuffs I took off Mikey, careful not to push them closed all the way so that the clasp doesn’t catch. They look like they’re on but they’re not locked. I keep heading up and up until I’m mounting the final set of stairs to the roof. Near the top of the steps, I see Claymore, his two hired guns, and a very pale, weak-looking Thomas, all waiting for me. My eyes zero in on Thomas. He can barely stand up, but he gives me the merest smile, full of admiration. He knows I’m going to try something.
“Where’s Sarah?” Claymore demands sharply.
“She refused to come. I don’t think she understood what was happening.”
Claymore looks very annoyed, but the limo driver says, “The police will make their way in once we’re gone. They’ll find her and make sure she’s safe.”
Claymore nods, apparently placated.
Outside, up on the roof, the noise of the helicopter is deafening. It must have landed by now. I see impatience flash in Claymore’s eyes. This whole night has turned into a string of contingency plans for him and, at this point, he clearly just wants to get it over with.
He gestures toward the final set of steps. “The helicopter’s almost here. We’re going. Now.”
Claymore’s men put their guns away. This all has to be staged perfectly. Once we get up there in the open, it won’t look very sporting of them to shoot an unarmed, seemingly already-bleeding teenage girl. Some of the cameras are set up on rooftops almost two blocks away, but I have confidence in those telephoto lenses. Knowing how much my grandfather must hate conducting his business out in the public eye, recorded for all to see, with no filter and no opportunity to manipulate the truth, is a small consolation right now.
Claymore pushes open the door to the roof and one of his men steps out into the open with Thomas at his side. He’s got to support Thomas’s weight a little, but I can tell by the way he’s holding Thomas’s arm that he’s also restraining him. To my surprise, the helicopter hasn’t landed. It’s still circling. I guess that makes sense. The roof of this building wasn’t really designed for helicopters to land. There’s not nearly enough clearance on either side for the helicopter’s rotors. I’m guessing the pilot will have to lower a ladder.
Claymore takes a swipe at his hair to muss it up and even undoes the top two buttons on his shirt. This is what he believes passes for rumpled, I guess. He wants to seem like he’s been roughed up. He steps out of the shelter of the stairwell onto the roof and take his place next to Thomas.
Now it’s just me and my friend the limo driver, and the limo driver’s gun is pressed against my back.
“Just so you know,” he whispers, “they’d ideally like you to cooperate, but they told me that if I have to shoot you, not to shoot you in the head. I guess they want your brain for research.” He presses the gun into my back as if he’s trying to stab me with the barrel. “I promised I’d shoot you in the heart if it came to it. Hands up behind your head.”
I carefully put my cuffed hands behind my head and lace my fingers together. We step up onto the roof. The lights are everywhere. Searchlights and emergency lights, all of them swirling and pulsing. It’s like a party.
Actually, it is a party. My farewell party.
I close my eyes.
My mother’s name was Blanca.
I remember that moment back at the hospital when I finally recalled her name, and for once, a memory brings me strength rather than pain. Because in this moment of anger, I can remember her love.
I think about a lot of things. Not anyone else’s triggers, my triggers.
I think about my mother.
And how much I love this city.
And Thomas.
I think of the people who’ve risked so much for me—Larry, Mrs. Claymore, Tai, even Mrs. Fitzgerald.
I think about all the things that give me strength.
And the switch flips. Velocius becomes a kitten purring under my hand. I can master it just like that.
I open my eyes and stop cold.
Does it register with Claymore that a calm is settling over me? Has he noticed that my breathing is slowing and the fear is draining away from my body? Maybe he does. I can sense the minute changes in his body language. It’s like I’ve transfused all my nervous tension and fear into his body.
Good.
The limo driver tries to push me forward, but in one swift motion, I pull my hands free from the handcuffs and duck. Whatever brute-force tackling maneuver he just tried to pull has backfired in a huge way. He tumbles forward over me, flipping a somersault and landing on his face. This roof is studded with rocks in the roof tar, and it warms my heart to think about how much that must have hurt.
Before he can get to his feet, I’ve stepped on his wrist, forcing him to release his gun. I grab the weapon and move back out of his reach, grabbing the stairwell door before it closes.
Advantage: me.
But not for long. Right now the open door to the stairwell shields me from the sharpshooters on the roof across the street. The only thing keeping them from firing at me is the fact that they don’t have a clear shot.
“Back up,” I say, leveling the pistol at Claymore’s heart. “Move over to the other side of the roof.”
They do as I direct. I stay where I am, right next to the still-open door leading down from the rooftop, while they shuffle to the opposite side of the roof.
Claymore says through clenched teeth, “You’ve just ensured that your boyfriend is going to die. Shall we shoot him right now, so you can watch? Is that what you want?” It must be hard for him to talk like that—almost as if he’s trying to throw his voice, so that no one watching the news footage will be able to read his lips.
“I don’t think you’re going to do that,” I say. “How would you explain it? One of your men shooting a hostage? That would definitely be a hard one to spin.”
The limo driver staggers to a standing position. I see him plant his feet like he’s getting ready to charge at me. “Ah-ah-ah,” I say, pointing the gun at him. “Not smart to try to rush the girl who can summon lightning-fast reflexes.”
I lower the gun and step forward, away from the stairwell door. I’m now fully exposed. No more barrier between me and those men nearby with long-range rifles. Suddenly Claymore breaks out into a smile that makes my stomach turn.
“Look down for just a moment, Angel. Look down and then rethink this plan.”
I glance down briefly. On my chest, my neck, and my shoulder are an array of red laser dots, the kind that rifles u
se to show where their bullets will strike when fired.
“It’s over,” he says. “You’re not fast enough to dodge bullets, Angel. Know when you’re beaten. Just put the gun down and we can still proceed as planned.”
I take a deep breath. “Okay. You win.”
I look at Thomas. Time to get this over with.
My vision blurs as the tears begin to burn my eyes. I didn’t think it was going to be so hard, looking right at him while I say this. “Thomas.”
“Angel.”
“It would probably be better if you forget me.”
“Not gonna happen—”
“You don’t really get a say in that, thanks to Snowball.”
Thomas’s eyes are pleading now. He doesn’t know what I’m going to do but he’s probably starting to suspect. He’s a good hacker, after all. I glance at Claymore. He’s glaring at me now, not because he still thinks he has anything to fear from me, but just because he’s irked that I’m dragging this out.
I look back at Thomas, knowing this might be the last time I see him. “Pick one thing to remember, okay? Focus on it. Even if it seems small and insignificant. Let it be the anchor for all the feelings you have for me. Feelings are harder to wipe out than the memories they’re attached to.”
“Okay,” he says, gazing steadily into my eyes. “I’ve picked one thing.”
“Good. Just hang onto that, whatever happens.”
“What are you doing?” Claymore says to me. “We had an understanding.”
“What am I doing? I believe it’s called ‘suicide by cop.’ ”
Thomas yells something, but the words sound mangled as time slows for me. My brain is fizzing, working at lightning speed to pick a target that will cause the fastest, most lethal response. My mind tells me to aim at the circling helicopter.
I look up and raise the pistol and as I pull the trigger—just as the sparks indicate that I’ve struck the underside of the helicopter—I get what I was asking for.
Time, so slow for me, suddenly speeds up. I hear the distant pop of a rifle going off, and Thomas’s voice becomes clear again.
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