other side of the open metal door and around the corner farther beyond it.
She glanced to her right into the darkened stairwell and saw Court take a lightning-fast right cross from the colossal attacker sending him back against the wall like a rag doll. Court slid to the ground and then called out through what sounded like a swollen mouth, “Z! Shoot this motherfucker! Now!”
She’d assumed Court could handle a hand-to-hand encounter, even with a much larger man, but all she’d witnessed in the quick glances she’d had time to steal was him taking blows, not delivering them.
She fired two more rounds at the door, then swung the Glock to her right towards the stairwell. She sighted on the chest of the man looming over Court and pulled the trigger.
Nothing happened. She looked at the weapon in her hands and saw that the slide was locked open on an empty magazine.
And she had no more ammunition.
Court had fallen sideways onto his left hip. She could tell he was beaten; his arms weren’t up to defend the blows that would come any moment. He crept back on his elbows out of the doorway and into the hall. By doing this he put himself in the line of fire from the men up the hall, but Zoya realized he was trying to get the hell away from the man currently beating him to death.
Zoya began to stand. Her plan was to attack the massive form head-on, try to knock him back into the stairwell to both get herself out of the line of fire up the hall and buy Court some time to get up and get moving himself.
But before she could do so, the doors opened at the other end of the hallway. High-lumen weapon lights shone up the entire space, illuminating Zoya and the men in the doorway beyond.
“Metropolitan Police!” came the repeated shouts of at least a half dozen men. “Get down!”
Zoya heard Court groan out, “Fuckin’ finally!”
The big man had entered the hallway and knelt over his crawling victim, and he held his fist perfectly still now above his head as he turned to look at the police. After a second, he lowered his hand, turned, and disappeared into the stairwell. Zoya heard him running up the stairs.
The police shouted for him to stop, but no one fired, so Zoya shot out of the hall and into the stairwell herself, but instead of taking the stairs, she found an unlocked door to the courtyard of the building, and she raced through it.
* * *
• • •
Court was racked with pain, but he knew he’d have to move now, because this was his one opportunity to stay out of police custody. He saw that these cops weren’t shooting, so he climbed to his feet while the men closed on him. He, too, took off into the stairwell, wincing and grunting with each movement.
He found a door that led to an emergency exit to the building. Court shot through the door, setting off the alarm. He could only hope Zoya had gotten away, as well.
* * *
• • •
Ten minutes later Court staggered along the sidewalk, pain in his face, his shoulders, his ribs, his abdomen; all of it encumbering his movement.
It felt like he’d been tossed down a flight of stairs, only to crawl back up to get tossed down again.
A white Mini Cooper pulled up beside him and stopped. He looked inside and was relieved to find Zoya behind the wheel.
For myriad reasons. He was glad she was alive, was free of the police, had come back for him, and he retained the operational focus to be pleased that the person who had infiltrated Cassidy’s safe, Court’s objective for the evening, was back within his field of view.
As quickly as he could he moved to the passenger side. He grunted and groaned with fresh pain as he sat down, and she immediately began driving off again.
After a few seconds he coughed out, “Nice ride.”
She looked at him. “It’s stolen. Please do your best not to bleed all over the upholstery.”
He put his hand to his nose and felt the blood there. It had worked its way around his mouth and onto his chin. He wiped it off, then gave her directions to his flat.
As they drove, Court put his earpiece back in his ear and placed a call to Brewer. She answered it after several rings.