see them, it doesn’t mean they’re not there. Don’t lead them back to your place.”
I wait for him to crack a smile or tell me he’s kidding, but he’s dead serious. There’s something in his eye that says this is for real. And he’s not playing the hero, not offering to save my life. He’s telling me to save myself.
“Where will you be?”
“Same as you. Making a run for it. But we have to split up.”
“Doesn’t that just make you safe? If they think I have the money?”
“Nah. They’re pretty mad at me, too.”
“Why?”
He doesn’t have time to answer. There’s a shout, then a loud bang, then Chris is shoving me toward the closest set of doors. Angela was predictably useless. “Run!” he shouts. “And don’t stop!”
Despite all evidence to the contrary, I’m not an idiot. I run. I check over my shoulder as I pull open the heavy door, spotting the two bald guys reaching inside their jackets. I decide to assume they’re reaching for guns instead of waiting for them to prove it, and dart through the door just as something pings off the metal near my head, making me jump. I’m in a long service corridor with at least a dozen doors leading off either side. The concrete floors slap under my feet as I run for the door at the end, the one most likely leading to the back alley. I reach it just as it swings open, another man in a suit coming through. The way he’s looking around expectantly tells me he’s not an employee finishing up a smoke break, and I barrel into him with everything I have, knocking him back out. At the last second I see another man waiting behind him. I slam the door and twist the lock, trapping myself inside. My breath comes in desperate gasps, reminding me how unfit I am, how unreal this is.
Screams and bangs echo inside the casino, and it’s only a matter of time before Johan or Davor—or both—reach the hallway. I race back and try the first three doors on either side, but they’re all locked. The fourth one opens into a concrete staircase lit by flickering fluorescent lights. I jump inside and listen. Beyond the buzzing of the lights, it’s quiet. I peer up through the winding stair rails, but no one shoots me.
I hesitate. I’ve seen my share of horror movies. The dim-witted heroine always goes upstairs when she should go outside. But I can’t go out. I can’t go in. I can’t go down.
A hammering at the outer door cements my plan. I race up the first set of stairs, appalled at how quickly my thighs start to ache. I yank open the door to the first level and squeal and jump back inside when another bald man with a gun comes running down the hall. This door doesn’t have a lock, so I run up another flight, the pounding at the ground level door intensifying.
I make it another three floors, my lungs threatening to explode. My legs feel like water. It’s humiliating to think I might actually die from a heart attack before they shoot me.
There’s a loud crash somewhere below, and I assume it’s my friend from the alley bashing his way in. Footsteps thud up the stairs, and though my heart is pounding and my fingers are trembling, I inch open the door to the fourth floor and peek outside. It’s empty.
I ease into the hall. I’m at the end, the carpeted floor lined with apartment doors before turning the corner out of sight. There’s no way out at this end, so I run until I find a bank of elevators. I jab both the up and down buttons, figuring I’ll get in whichever one comes first. History tells me random selection is the least predictable option—that if I don’t know what I’m doing, how can anyone else—and I can’t think of anything better. When the first elevator arrives I hide around the corner out of sight. The doors open to the empty car and I dart inside and discover we’re going up.
I commit to the situation and press the button for the very top floor. The doors are easing shut when the elevator opposite me opens up to reveal either Johan or Davor, the name’s not important when they’re carrying a gun and pointing it at you.
I yelp and stab the button so hard my nail breaks, the doors closing just as he reaches in. I