Below us, the office sounds are muffled—footsteps, faint voices, the distant hum of HVAC. Everything is ordinary, which makes it worse, because somewhere in that ordinary space, there are men who don’t belong here.
Antonio stays close enough that I can feel him behind me. A comforting presence.
We reach a point where the ceiling opens slightly into a wider area—a junction where beams cross and the ductwork curves away.
Antonio’s hand touches my ankle once.
I still.
Footsteps echo below. Quick and brisk. Someone walking to the copy room or getting a cup of coffee. The steps fade away, and Antonio motions for me to continue.
My knees ache. My palms sting. My hair sticks to the back of my neck. Fear makes everything sharp and too bright even in the darkness.
“Almost.” Just that one word tells me that he can tell how I’m feeling because his voice is soft and reassuring.
We reach the end of the run, where the ceiling opens into a maintenance alcove above a side hallway.
Antonio slides past me, somehow managing to move his big body precisely. He reaches down and shifts a tile.
A rectangle of light appears.
He looks down, listens, then drops silently into the hallway below.
He turns immediately and reaches up for me. “Come.”
I lower myself, hands shaking, and he catches me—firm hands at my waist, guiding me down without letting me fall.
The hallway is empty.
Antonio grabs my wrist and moves us fast, keeping us close to the wall.
Not toward themain elevators.
Not toward the lobby.
We take a side corridor I’ve never used, past a locked utility door, past a stairwell that smells faintly of bleach.
He pushes the stairwell door open just enough to look, then pulls it closed again.
“Clear,” he murmurs, and drags me the other way.
My breath is coming too fast. “Are you sure the others—”
“They’re covered,” he says again, and his tone leaves no space for argument. “Move.”
We reach a door marked for service access. Antonio doesn’t slow. He punches the bar, swings it open, and ushers me through.
We’re suddenly in a section of the building that’s utilitarian—the kind of place no one but maintenance goes.
Almost out. My pulse is loud. My mouth is dry. My whole body feels like it’s vibrating.
Antonio’s grip on my arm suddenly tightens, almost painfully, and in one quick move, pulls open a door, fits us both into what looks like a storage closet, and shuts the door quietly.
Before I can think to ask what the hell we’re doing, his palm is over my mouth. He has me pressed back against him, and I realize that he’s holding a gun in hisother hand.
“Shh.” It’s a soft breath against my ear.
My pulse is so loud I’m sure it’s giving us away.