Her first step caused her right ankle to give out beneath her. The injury might not be serious, but it was enough to slow her down and that made it serious enough. She started down the fourth staircase, relying on the bannister now, though careful not to lean against it.
If Shay and the hulk had followed by way of the roof, they would now have to negotiate past the hole left by her plunge through the staircase, and that would slow them down considerably. That thought fueled her resolve even as she heard the first sounds of footsteps from above. Sandy turned onto the third flight.
A burly monster reached out for her. One hand grasped her throat, and as the other joined it, Sandy realized she had forgotten about the man Shay had left in the lobby of the other building, a costly oversight, because now he had her.
Sandy used her nails as weapons, digging as deeply as she could into his eyes and flesh. The man screeched in pain but held tight and slammed her hard into a wall. She felt plaster crack behind her and tried to knock the man’s hands aside, but he was too strong for her. Her legs would have made able weapons, except with one rendered useless it took all her strength just to keep the other from collapsing. She moved sideways across the wall, trying to keep the man’s grip from shutting off her air totally. She went for his face again, but he extended her at arm’s distance and she couldn’t reach him.
His fingers closed tightly on her throat, his raw cheeks dripping blood. Sandy felt her breath choked off, felt the tremendous pressure in her head an instant before she began to grow numb. Her hands flailed frantically, finding nothing.
Sandy realized she was dying. Her eyes remained open, but her sight was dimming. Her ears heard only the raspy breathing of the man who was killing her.
Suddenly there was a crash and a scream from behind her. Distracted, her killer’s grasp slackened. Sandy found the strength to struggle, swinging her entire body around to break free. She didn’t understand what had happened, but she knew she had an opening, a chance to live, and she grabbed for it.
Sandy threw herself toward the staircase as the killer grasped for her again. When he shoved her toward the bannister, though, instead of resisting, Sandy just twisted into his motion so his force carried him by her. She pushed against him with all her strength while he was still off balance and heard his scream mix with the shattering of wood as he crashed through the railing and plunged three floors down.
She swung around and came face-to-face with the fat hulk’s body impaled on some of the boards her fall had splintered. He had fallen through the same hole to his death. His limbs were twitching. Blood poured from his mouth.
That left only Stephen Shay between her and escape. She limped down to the next level. Just one more staircase to go and she was free. Suddenly she stopped.
The staircase leading to the lobby was totally rotted out. She swung as quickly as she dared and limped down the hallway, past doors splintered or missing. Her eyes and ears were alert for Shay’s approach. She fought to imagine the layout of the building based on what she had seen of it. Part of the fire escape was still intact, accessible from rooms just a little farther on.
The floor gave way on her next step. She felt herself plunging downward and reached out with her hands, grabbing hold of what remained of the flooring. Her feet dangled in the black air beneath her. She looked down.
There was a wide, jagged hole below that went all the way to the cellar, a drop of almost thirty feet, with a pile of sharp, pointed wood and cement chunks waiting for her. Sandy felt panic seize her at the same time her grip on the rotting wood above began to slip. Somehow she had to find the strength to pull herself up with her throbbing fingers.
Sandy began to hoist herself upward, raising her upper body to take as much strain from her fingers as possible. It did little good. The pain was phenomenal and she had little power left in her arms and hands.
A shadow loomed above her. Sandy gazed up and saw Stephen Shay move emotionlessly to a position directly over her hands.
“Help me, Steve,” she said softly, not pleading. “Help me.
His initial expression had given her hope, but it evaporated before her words were finished. Saying nothing, he brought the soles of his scuffed and dusty European loafers in line with her fingers and raised the tips. He would crush the fingers and she would plunge to her death, or to a crippled agony in which she would linger for hours before death claimed her. Resistance was futile. The end had come.
The tips of Shay’s loafers had just reached her fingers when a muffled spit found Sandy’s ears. Above her, Shay’s face seemed to disintegrate into nothing as he rocked backward, freeing her fingers. One of her hands nonetheless lost its perch, and the second was sliding off, when a set of powerful hands locked onto her wrists and in one swift motion yanked her up through the cavern that had threatened to swallow her.
Breathless with relief, tears streaming down her cheeks to mix with the blood, Sandy found herself gazing at a man who looked somehow familiar. No, not the man, just his suit.
A cream-colored suit. It was the man who had followed her from the hotel!
He retrieved his silenced, still smoking pistol from the floor as he spoke.
“We’ve got to get out of here. More of them will be coming.”
His words emerged with measured concern, not panic. His cream-colored suit showed barely a stain or tatter from the rotted building. His eyes swept the corridor like a light-house beam guiding ships through the night.
He holstered his gun. “You’re hurt,” he said, moving toward Sandy. “Here, lean on my shoulder. There’s a fire escape that’ll get us out of here just up ahead.”
“Who are you?” she asked, finally finding her voice.
“Later,” the man said, and he led her off.
Chapter 24
MCCRACKEN HEADED THE cleaning van through the Atlanta darkness toward the headquarters of the People’s Voice of Revolution. Sahhan’s nonprofit institution owned a modern ten-story office building located on the outskirts of the Fairlie-Poplar District in the shadow of the famed Peachtree Center. An hour before, the heavy security outside and in the building’s lobby had convinced Blaine that Sahhan was inside. His problem then became how to gain access to the building.
The cleaning van had provided his answer. The real janitor was now unconscious in the back. His baggy overalls made a good enough fit on Blaine’s frame.
He had been met at the airport by a man contacted by Sal Belamo. There was nothing official about the arrangement. Just an agreement between friends. The man would not provide backup, his job being only to deliver a gun to McCracken and then take him to Sahhan’s headquarters.
Blaine swung the van around in a wide U-turn and brought it to a halt directly before the main entrance to the building.
“I’m new,” he shouted to one of the guards. “Can you tell me where the service entrance is?”
“Around to the side that way,” the guard shouted back, pointing.
“Thanks,” Blaine said, and drove off again.
The service entrance was located just past a ramp that led into a private parking garage. Two guards stood on either side of the door. Blaine climbed out of the van and without acknowledging them moved to the rear doors and hoisted a floor polisher out. The real janitor’s body lay under furniture covers.