MirrorWorld

The Shiloh woman is still out, despite the blaring, high-pitched shriek of the building’s security alarm. She looks frail. I consider leaving her behind, but it would be like abandoning a wounded bird in the clutches of a house cat — death would only come after drawn-out torture. The bruising and fresh scars on the woman’s arms suggest that she’s been tormented long enough already.

But can I keep her safe during my escape? It seems unlikely, but I picture her floating in green liquid, just another face in the death gallery, and know I can’t leave her behind.

I lean over her, tapping her face. “Hey. Wake up.”

No reaction. Whatever they’ve been lacing her IVs with, it’s powerful stuff.

With time running short, I slip the IV needle from her arm, undo her restraints, and pull the blankets away. She’s dressed in a loose hospital johnny. I lean her up. Her head lulls, but I catch it against my chest. “I got you.” Moving carefully, I scoop her up behind her back and under the knees. She’s light. Maybe a hundred pounds.

I head for the door, leading with Katzman’s gun, which is poking out from under the woman’s knees. The hallway is empty. I head for the distant exit sign, passing the Documentum room. There are voices within — shouting. Sounds like Allenby and Lyons. Katzman is either still unconscious or heading my way. I look down at the woman’s face, soft and peaceful. She doesn’t know it, but she’s depending on me to save her.

Just beyond the Documentum room, on the opposite side of the hall, are the elevator doors. Red numbers above the doors scroll higher. Someone is already on the way up, most likely security of some kind.

I move on, toward the exit sign at the end of the hall, which ends at a T junction and a row of windows, slanted at a forty-five-degree angle. Turning left, I see the exit door ahead. I try the knob with my left hand, balancing Shiloh’s weight on my forearm. It’s locked. A key-card terminal is mounted next to the door.

I gently place the woman on the floor and swipe Winters’s card across the flat card reader, but the light flashes red. I try again with the same results. The security alarm triggered by Lyons must have put the building in a lockdown. But there might be a way to override it. I sprint back to the T junction. Halfway between the end of the hall and the elevators, I had spotted a bright red fire alarm.

I round the corner and run for the alarm. It’s encased in a plastic dome to prevent it from behind triggered accidentally, but it lifts up easily enough. I wrap my fingers around the small white handle and pull. The alarm ripping through the hallway becomes a whooping siren. Strobe lights flash.

It’s all enough to keep me from noticing the opening elevator doors — that is, until someone yells, “Don’t move!”

But I move.

And the guard, who probably has no idea what kind of situation he’s just run into, doesn’t see it coming. Because he’s a low-level employee and probably doesn’t know the full extent of what goes on here, I’m merciful. I fire two shots. The first strikes his hand and knocks his weapon — a stun gun — to the floor. The second hits his thigh, far from the femoral artery. With a shout, he drops to the floor, clutching his good hand over his wounded hand over the hole in his leg.

The attack took just over a second.

Geez, I have good aim.

“Switch to lethal response!” shouts a strong-sounding woman still inside the elevator. “This is Alpha Unit. Target is armed. All units switch to lethal response.” Through the wailing siren, I hear various teams confirming the news. I also hear the sound of readying weapons. I have successfully roused the hornet’s nest.

Running backward, I retreat — not out of fear, but the desire to free Shiloh. A shadow inside the elevator shifts, and I squeeze off a single round.

Someone yelps and ducks back inside.

I keep the security force at bay with two more equally spaced rounds. They saw how fast their man went down. When I reach the T junction, they finally get up the nerve to return fire. A barrage of bullets scorches the air where I stood a moment ago. The rounds punch into the slanted, tinted glass window, which spiderwebs but doesn’t shatter.

While the security team continues to fire blindly, I swipe the key card. The light shines green. Whatever lockdown was put in place by the first alarm has been undone by the fire alarm. The door is unlocked. I whip it open to find a stairwell. But it’s not empty. A team of five security guards turn their heads, and guns, in my direction. I duck back as bullets punch into the backside of the metal door.

The blind fire from the elevator continues until magazines run dry.

In the moment of silence that follows, I heft Shiloh over one shoulder so I can run and fire at the same time. Holding her is a risk. She could get shot. But I’m willing to bet both our lives that the security guards won’t shoot at an unconscious woman. Me? I might. No, I would. But they’re not me.