A flat, dull crack rang out. The second came a beat later.
Gunshots from a pistol.
The lobby’s glass didn’t shatter. A small white star opened high in the right pane, the size of my thumbprint.
Patterson was down.
“Stay down,” I said into Wiley’s ear.
Patterson lay on his right side. His briefcase had skidded two feet and stopped. He held his left hand against his chest. His right was open against the pavement, palm up, fingers slack. The man in the charcoal coat was gone.
A motorcycle started up somewhere to the right of the building. The note was clean and high. It went south and faded within three seconds.
Eamon tapped his comm. “Patterson down. Outside. We need EMS now.”
The lobby door opened. The security guard was in the doorway, staring at Patterson on the sidewalk.
“Inside,” I said—loud. “Step back inside. Now.”
He looked at me, his mouth open.
“Inside.”
Wiley made a sound under me.
“You’re safe,” I said. “Stay down and don’t move.”
Eamon crossed the lobby toward the door in a crouch.
“Eamon—“
“Stay with Wiley,” he said.
Eamon landed on one knee beside Patterson, pushing his shoulder slightly to view the wound. Patterson lowered his left hand, and I saw his mouth move. I couldn’t hear the words.
I tapped my comm.
“Dane.”
“Shots? Chatter from Michael. Wiley?”
“Wiley’s not hit. He’s under me. Patterson took one in the chest. Eamon’s with him on the sidewalk. Shooter went south on a bike. Clean exit.”
“Christ.”
That was my vocabulary, not Dane’s.
“Get Wiley up,” Dane said. “Get him moving. There’s an unmarked door behind the elevator bank. It leads to a corridor and the service exit to the loading dock behind.”
“Copy.”
“Farrow.”
“Yeah?”
“Are you hit?”
I hadn’t, until that second, even thought about it.