Page 79 of Don't Cross the Blue Line
He stops.
I grab the walkie, my fingers fumbling over the dial, trying to kill the volume. My heart ricochets through my chest as his flashlight arcs across the counter. There’s no time. I make a split-second decision. Run. Leap over the counter. Keep running.
His footsteps thunder behind me until he reaches the corner. Where I turn right, he goes left—toward Everly.
Just like we planned.
I head for the tunnels to cut him off.
My trip through the tunnel has me in the service corridor with a minute to spare.
“I really need to work on my cardio,” I mutter to myself as I climb once again, lungs burning, into the ceiling. It smells like concrete and old pipe insulation up here, but I’m getting used to it.
Everly’s already been here. My supplies sit waiting, ready for me. Her thin line of black hockey lace spreads almost invisibly across the hall below. Now I just need to wait.
I hear him coming. Those careful, measured steps. The flashlight pouring over the space.
He doesn’t look up.
Nobody looks up. That’s what I’ve learned tonight. The vertical axis is the blind spot. The man above you doesn’t exist until the bear spray hits your face.
This guy is no different. He passes below the open tile, and for the first time, I get a good look at him. Dark hair, close-cropped. A nice little bald spot on the top of his head. Stocky, but fit. I want to call him Al.
Actually, that is what I’m gonna call him.
“Hey, Al!”
He stops, spins. His eyes catch mine for exactly point two seconds and then: bear spray.
I let him have it.
Al screams, his palms coming up to cover his face as two million Scoville units wreak havoc on his eyes. The flashlight drops. He staggers—blind, disoriented—and his shin connects with the hockey lace.
“Down we go, Al.”
He hits the ground hard, the crash echoing through the whole building. He stumbles, trying to regain his feet, but I’m already on the ground, zip ties in hand.
He fights blind. His elbow connects with my ribs, and the back of his head gets me in the face. Pain snaps hot and quick across my nose. I feel blood. It doesn’t matter. I manage to wrestle a zip tie over his right wrist, wrench his arm up behind his back. Then the left. The plastic ratchets tight.
Cole appears at the end of the corridor—breathless and unharmed—bolt cutters raised like a flag of victory. “Is he?—”
“He’s down. Help me with the ankles.”
Two more zip ties and we roll the leader onto his back.
I stand, chest heaving. Hands shaking with the post-adrenaline tremor. Ribs aching. Eyes stinging from the residual spray in the air. Covered in dust and blood. I lean back against the wall, closing my eyes.
“Did we—did we just?—”
“Yeah,” I say, still catching my breath. “Everly is a certified genius.” Her name in my mouth tastes bittersweet. I look down the corridor, toward where she should be.
She should be here by now.
“Everly?” My voice echoes. The building returns it hollow.
No response.
“She’s already at the office. That was always the plan, grabbing the ev?—”
