Page 48 of Don't Cross the Blue Line
We round the corner into the main atrium. The glass entrance doors are thirty feet ahead—chains on the outside being worked with bolt cutters by three silhouettes through the snow-crusted glass. The chains fall—metal hitting concrete, the sharp ring of cascading links. The doors push open under the weight of wind. Cold air rushes through before the doors even open.
Three men step through. Heavy boots, dark jackets, flashlight beams sweeping the atrium in practiced grid patterns.
“Hello? Anyone in here?”
Beckett steps forward. “Yeah—we got locked in during the evacuation. Two of us.”
Relief floods his voice. He starts toward them.
I don’t move.
Because something about them is off…
The gear is wrong. First responders wear department-issued gear—reflective striping, patches, ID badges, standardized equipment. I’ve interviewed firefighters for two novels. I know what a real emergency response looks like, and this ain’t it, baby.
These men are wearing nondescript dark jackets. No department markings. No reflective tape. No helmets, no radios, no insignia. The flashlights are tactical grade but civilian. And there’s something about the way they’re sweeping the building—it’s aggressive and methodical.
“Beckett.” I grab his sleeve. Tug. “Those aren’t first responders.”
“They just cut the chains?—”
“Look what they’re wearing,” I hiss. “No patches. No reflective gear. No radio or badges.” My fingers tighten on his sleeve. “I’ve got a bad feeling about these guys.”
He opens his mouth to argue when the leader’s flashlight beam swings toward us. “Hey—you two okay? Stuck in here?”
“Yeah,” Beckett says, although he sounds careful now, my warning working through his system, cracking the shell of relief. “Got stuck during the evacuation.”
“Rough night.” The leader walks toward us. Casual. Unhurried. The posture of a man who wants you to feel comfortable before he slits your throat. Where is a T. rex when I need one? “Anyone else in here? We got a report of people trapped.”
“Just us,” Beckett says.
“You sure?” the man says. Light. But underneath—the way a knife hides under a napkin—is something pointed. “We got information that someone else might have been here today. Cole Thompson? He’s one of the hockey players who was here today.”
Beckett’s face goes white.
The leader catches the change, and his expression shifts, eyes narrowing. “You know him?”
“Yeah. He’s on my team,” Beckett says. His voice has gone flat. “I saw him at the event. He left.”
“His car’s here. It’s buried under the snow.”
“Maybe he got a ride.”
The leader smiles. The kind that doesn’t reach the eyes—the kind I’ve written on a dozen or more villains and never wanted to see aimed in my direction.
“You mind if we look around?”
“Help yourself.”
The leader turns to call to his men?—
And Beckett’s hand closes around mine. Not gently. Not romantically. The hard, decisive grip of a man who has assessed and made a choice.
He flicks off the flashlight.
“Go,” he breathes. “Now.”
We take off. Not toward the entrance but back into the dark corridor behind us.
