I know which door will lead us to safety.
I wave at Mere to stay close to the wall while I peek in on the master bedroom. It's impressive, and worth a more measured look, but behind me is the long and straight hallway back to the rec room. Standing here, gawking, is going to be bad for my health. I sense motion behind me, and I throw one of the billiard balls as I dart out of the doorway. The ball hits one of the strike team members and he goes down heavily, and the way he sprawls on the floor suggests he's not getting back up.
We're behind the elevator shaft now, on the opposite side of the floor, and there are four doors off this hallway. Two that will undoubtedly lead to guest rooms with good views, the one on the opposite side will mostly be a windowless—joyless—utility room of some kind. The last one is at the somewhat abrupt end of the hallway.
“They're behind us,” I hiss at Mere. “We can't go back. These rooms”—I gesture around me—“they're not going anywhere either. We have to go forward.”
She nods, still in shock. But she's still thinking. “It goes around, doesn't it? There's got to be a way through—a way back to the kitchen. He wouldn't build a place like this without a way to walk around, would he?”
“Let's hope not,” I say.
The doors are all closed, which doesn't surprise me terribly if they aren't in use, but the door at the end of the hall shouldn't be there. According to my mental map, I'm not even halfway across the floor. There should be another space—the same size as the master bedroom, these other rooms, and the rest—on the other side of that door. So why is there a door at all?
I step back to the turn in the hallway and risk a peek. The gunmen are alert, and all I get is a quick glimpse before someone starts shooting. A fusillade of bullets pepper the wall around the frame of the master bedroom door.
But I get a head count. Four. And I only have two billiard balls left. I'm going to run out of ammo before I run out of targets.
“There's no stairwell either,” Mere says. “What happens when the power goes out? Does Montoya stay up here until someone turns the power back on?”
“He's not that stupid,” I say, thinking about the number of men who are stalking us. Five doesn't seem like enough. “There's got to be another exit.” And then I realize why the number seems off. “They're coming up the stairs,” I say.
“Who is?”
“The other team.” I point at the way we came. “These guys are driving us toward this door. They haven't rushed us yet, and they haven't thrown any gas or flashbangs. They want us to go through that door first. Into a kill box.”
Mere nods that she understands what a kill box is.
“How many do you think are on the other side of that door?” I ask Mere, flashing her a quick smile.
“I don't know, Silas.”
“Guess.”
“Fifty,” she says.
I nod back in the other direction. “There are five back there. Which seems like better odds?”
“That way,” she says, pointing back the way we came.
“Then that's the way we'll go.” I take her hand and we start sidling along the wall. The door at the end of the hall is inset in the wall, and there's about a meter on either side. If I have to trust one or the other to be thick enough to stop bullets, I'm going to bet on the wall. As we approach the turn in the hallway, I stop and put my mouth close to her ear. “When I tell you to, start screaming,” I whisper. “Give it all you got, okay? Think of being skinned alive or something.”
“Or something?” she hisses back.
“Something that takes a little while. And is truly awful, okay?”
She looks at me.
“What?”
“Can I think of something pleasant first?”
“Sure,” I say, leaning over and brushing my lips across hers. They're warm and soft, and all I can think is that I'd rather keep doing this than kill five men. “But don't think about it too long, okay?” I say as I stop.
“Okay,” she says. A second later, before I've even had a chance to position myself to peek around the corner, she lets loose with an unholy blood-curdling shriek.
* * *
The penthouse is on the twelfth floor. The dance club is on the fourth. In