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CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

PERRY

No way out sounds like a quitter’s attitude to me. Sure, I don’t have a solution to our apparent problem, but if there’s anything my lackluster life of hustle has taught me, it’s that there’s always a way.

“Perry, what kind of car was following you?”

“Like … a black sedan type of thing.”

“Fuck.”

“Let me guess, the car outside is a black sedan type of thing?”

“How did you know?” he asks dryly.

I scramble from the floor back into the bedroom I slept in last night and switch out my hoodie for the T-shirt, then shove my hoodie into my backpack, pull out my face mask, and hurry back into the kitchen, where I fill my backpack to the brim with all the food we bought.

“You’re not actually thinking about your stomach right now, are you?” Lars snaps.

“Where’s my gun?”

He looks like he’s about to argue over giving it to me, but one of those silent conversation thingies takes place between him and St. Clare before Lars disappears into his bedroom and comes back with the damn thing. For all I know, St. Clare was telling him to throw me out the window, but if Lars heard “get Perry his gun,” I’m not about to argue with their weird mind reading.

“Bullets?”

“You’re asking for a whole lot of trust right now,” Lars says. Then he pulls my bullet case from his pocket. I know it’s mine because it has a smiley face with crosses for eyes on the top.

“Thanks.” I load the gun, tuck it into my pants, and shrug my bag back on. “You guys ready?”

“To die?” St. Clare asks dryly, standing out of view of the window. “Don’t think I have much choice.”

“No one’s dying today. Well, nothing except for my faith in Luther. He said I had a week, and now he’s having me followed. Talk about a lack of trust.”

“The fact you’d trust a guy like that in the first place makes me question your judgment skills,” Lars says, checking the barrel of his own gun.

Meanwhile, St. Clare is distinctly gunless and looking less and less confident by the second.

“Hey.” I pull his attention to me. “We’ve got this.” Those wary blue eyes study me for a second.

“Do you know what you’re doing?”

I shrug. “Not a clue.”

“Maybe we should make a plan first?”

“We could, but the longer we spend here, the more time we’re giving whoever it is to set up.”

“What’s your plan, then?” Lars asks.

“To leave.”

“And?”

“And that’s the plan.”

I turn and head for the door, hoping they follow me but not wanting to fuck around and wait if they’re not. My phone is on the fritz again, so I bang it with my palm a few times until the screen comes alive, and then I flip it open. But who to call?

Arlie is the smartest person I know, but she’s also been expressly forbidden from helping me, so there’s a slim chance she might not pick up. I have no idea what Everett does, but he looks pretty badass, so I’d imagine he’d be able to help, but then he’s also been told not to help, and I get the impression he does what he’s told a whole lot more than Arlie does.

Which leaves Tommy. Who I think is a thief or a pickpocket or some kind of person who swindles others out of all their money. I’m not sure how the fuck he could help in this kind of situation, but beggars can’t be choosers. Maybe he’ll be like my Robin Hood. Stealing knowledge from people to help the needy.

And I’m very, very needy.

Tommy answers on the first ring, and I could kiss him, I swear. “We never spoke,” comes down the line instead of a hello.

“Ah … okay?”

“I’m serious,” he says. “What do you want?”

“A way out.”

His forcefully patient voice comes out. “What do you mean?”

“I’m currently in the penthouse of a building, and now there’s a car parked suspiciously out the front in a no-parking zone and blocking the road, and I thiiink I might have been followed here, and the owner of that car is waiting to kill us.”

“Huh. Yeah, you’re fucked.”

Well, thanks for the confidence. I huff. “Do you have a plan B for me?”

“Not my area of expertise.”

“Is there anyone with you who might be able to help me?”

There’s a long silence. “No?”

“Tommy!”

“Don’t use my name, Jesus. Okay, fine. So one car means five people, max. And I can’t see it being more than three from experience, and they’ve probably left the getaway driver near the car. You’re in an apartment building, which means a choice between the elevator and the stairs, and considering they’ve parked like a total fuckwit, they’re probably looking to get in and out as fast as possible.”

“Literally none of that is good news.”

“Just stating facts. If there’s one guy, he’s in the elevator. If there’s two, they probably split up. ”

So basically blocking off either of our options to escape this thing. And if they took the elevator, they’re already outside this apartment.

“Can you send me your location?” Tommy asks.

“I don’t think my phone does that. I’m in the New Maple complex.”

Tommy lets out a whistle. “That’s some fancy shit. How the hell did you wind up staying there?”

“Long story,” I mutter, and then a thought hits me. “Wait. They don’t know we’re here. Shit. Okay. Thanks, Tommy.”

“What do you?—”

I hang up before saying any more, then turn to St. Clare and Lars. “No one knows we’re here.”

“They’re parked right outside,” Lars reminds me.

I wave the logic away. “Outside, yes. Here, obviously. But here …” I stomp my foot and gesture either side of me. “No one in their right mind would think we’re in a fucking penthouse.”

“That’s a good point …” St. Clare says.

“But what if the doorman told them?”

“In that case, we’re fucked, but Walter didn’t seem like a snitch, so we’re going to have to take the chance.”

The way I see it, they know I’m in the building, but to find me, they’re going to have to check out every fucking room in this place to narrow down where I could be. They want to get in and out fast, and that is not a fast way to get through things.

Which means Walter is their key to figuring out where we are, so they’re either in the lobby, scaring the hell out of that sweet old man, or they’re already right outside the door.

We won’t figure out which one unless we get going.

“Okay. Plan.”

Lars has the audacity to look shocked, but I keep talking before he can waste more time.

“I’ll go out first. If I’m shot, you know they’re out there. If I’m not, we’re in the clear. We’ll all get in a separate elevator, go down to the first floor, find a window or an apartment that opens onto the back streets, and jump out from there. ”

“From a first-floor window?” St. Clare’s eyes go wide.

“Of course.” I cuff his shoulder. “You’ve got this.”

I don’t actually know that any of us got this or if I’ll even be alive long enough to find out that answer, but here we fucking go. Shitty shitty, bang bang and all that.

I pull out my gun, puff out a quick exhale, and take off the safety. Once we’re out of here, we can work out what’s next, but I can’t lie, I’m going to miss the penthouse. I didn’t know beds could be so comfortable or that kissing a man could be so hot.

For one stalling second, I want to ask Lars if our horoscopes say we’ll survive this, but if that answer is no, I don’t want it.

I’m gonna manifest myself one more day.

“P-Perry,” St. Clare starts from behind me.

I shush him, grab the handle, and yank the front door open. The hallway is deserted, just one long stretch of bare wall with fancy lights that opens to the elevator bank at the end. I can’t make out anyone lurking down there, but my heart is thadum-ping heavy and loud as I grip the gun harder.

I give myself a second to scan the area before stepping out into clear range.

My guts don’t immediately end up on the floor.

So that’s a relief.

It doesn’t do much to settle the rage of adrenaline overriding my system, and I jog the length of the hallway to the elevators. A moment later, St. Clare and Lars bolt after me.

“There’s only one,” Lars points out.

“There are more a few floors down. You two can get out there and find another one. Then we meet down there.”

“Okay.”

“What if there’s no one actually after us?” St. Clare asks.

“There’s someone after us.”

“How do you know?”

“Because I’d prefer to believe it than sit around waiting for them to get a clear shot.”

“Fair point,” he mutters .

Lars laughs. “I think that’s the first time we’ve agreed on something.”

The elevator dings a second before it opens, and I have enough forethought to quickly wrench St. Clare out of the way in case someone is inside.

They aren’t.

I return his amused look with an apologetic one of my own. “Just in case.”

“I appreciate it.”

Our nerves are all on edge, and as much as he tries to play it cool, I can tell this is the kind of situation he never would have thought he’d land in. We’re twinsies like that, I guess, and the only one who willingly put themself in this position is Lars, so I’d like one hundred percent fewer complaints from him moving forward.

I jab at the number nineteen randomly, and we ride the elevator the whole way down. When it comes to a stop, Lars and I make sure the coast is clear, and then the two of them leave.

“Back alley?” Lars checks.

I quickly nod before the doors shut me out of view, and then I turn to hit the first floor. Before my finger can make contact though, I pause. I was obviously followed here. Me . They might suspect St. Clare is with me, but they can’t know that for sure, and they definitely wouldn’t know about Lars.

Then I think of sweet Walter and the pictures of his grandkids he was showing me before I left this morning, and before I can press the fancy number one, I redirect, and my finger jabs at the G button instead.

I try not to fucking cry or change my mind as I drop like a stone toward people who very likely want me dead.

At the very least, it will give St. Clare and Lars a head start and stop them from scaring Walter.

Margot would fucking kill me.

I push her from my mind as the elevator slows and pulls to a stop. Then I duck beside the bank of buttons and wait as the doors slide open.

Silence .

Creepy silence.

Very creepy silence inside that’s blasted open only by the constant horns outside. I scan the portion of the lobby I can see, and when it still comes up deserted, I inch further out.

The loud bang echoes in my ears as a bullet flies right by my face, close enough to feel the heat before it lodges into the wall of the elevator.

I scream and duck back as someone shouts, “Wait! It’s the other one.”

The other one?

“We know you’re there, Perry!”

Ah. Great. We’re already acquainted.

The doors go to close, and I quickly reach around to wave them open again. “I think I’m changing my name,” I inform whoever it is. “There’s no Perry here. Just a … Brock.” Brock is good. Manly. Strong. The type of guy who won’t take a bullet to the head without avenging himself.

“Whatever the fuck your name is, you’ll want to see this.”

I’m about to ask what this is when the voice that comes next gives me chills.

“Don’t listen to them. Get out of here.”

Margot .

I choke on my next breath, brain short-circuiting.

All I can focus on is no, no, no, no this isn’t happening , and wild theories jump out at me like maybe they have her voice recorded or some shit.

“Yeah, listen to your sister,” the man says. “Get out of here. Her and her girlfriend would make pretty corpses.”

The thought of that rolls my stomach. “What do you want?”

“Where’s your mark? He’s here, isn’t he?”

“Define here ,” I try weakly. “Exactly.”

“Don’t fucking test me.”

My eyes shutter closed for a second. I thought I was scared in Luther’s office, but it’s nothing on this. My vision is fucking all over the place, and when the elevator doors try to close again, I only just stop them in time .

“Oh,” I say, like I’ve caught on, but I’m not at all selling it. “St. Clare? That guy. By my guess, he’s probably a long, long way away by now.”

“That’s not good news for you.”

I risk my fucking life by leaning out a little to see what’s going on.

My eyes immediately find Margot and Elle. Elle’s face is bleeding, Margot is snarling like a wild animal, and both of them have their hands pulled tight behind them. I know that feeling. One man has his gun pointed at the two of them, while the other stands behind the desk, gun on Walter.

“We’re not going to shoot you,” the guy behind the desk says. It takes me a second to recognize him.

“ Danvers ?” My voice breaks with betrayal. “I thought we were friends.”

“We’re friendly . Which is why I don’t want to kill you or your sister. I just need to know where he is.”

Maybe I’m too trusting, but I swallow thickly, grip my gun tight, and step into clear view. The doors try to close a-fucking-gain , but I wave my leg between them until they reopen.

The guy I don’t recognize lifts his gun my way. But he doesn’t shoot, so that’s a positive.

“Let them both go and I’ll help you,” I say.

“Yeah, it doesn’t work like that.” Danvers leaves Walter and moves closer. His gun isn’t pointing at anyone, but he’s holding it in a way that makes it clear he’s ready if he needs it.

These guys know what they’re doing.

But I’ve always found knowing what you’re doing to be overrated.

I don’t think, just shoot. I’m not aiming for anyone or anything—just want to give them a bit of a scare—and while my first bullet skims Danvers’s leg, the second hits the unknown guy’s foot.

I’d be sorry about that if it wasn’t the very thing that sends his bullet intended for me wide. The guy cries out and goes to shoot me again, but my third bullet makes them both duck.

Another one sent my way has me diving back behind the elevator doors, and I’m freaking out about how to get to Margot and Elle when Danvers shouts, “Go after them!”

“I’ve been shot in the fucking foot!”

I send another shot back through the lobby and chance a glimpse at what’s going on. Walter, Margot, and Elle have thankfully disappeared, the rando guy is sitting on the ground, and?—

Fuck.

Danvers is running my way.

I jab at the close-doors button over and over and over. I’m gripping my gun tight, hoping I don’t have to use it because I already feel bad enough about getting the other guy, but as Danvers draws closer and the stupid elevator refuses to listen, the awareness is setting in. I’m going to have to shoot him. Hopefully just enough to get him to stop chasing me and not enough to kill him, but how do I guarantee that? How do I?—

The doors finally move.

They’re sliding closed at the rate of slug flopping over a garden path, and I’m so fucking sweaty with panic I’m not sure how I haven’t dropped my gun already.

Danvers isn’t close enough, and he lifts his gun and gets off a shot right before the doors seal between us.

So he doesn’t catch the way I wail in pain.

A fiery burn rips through my shoulder, and I glance down to find red quickly bleeding out across the white T-shirt.

My friends fur-ever T-shirt.

That bastard.

Before he can get the doors open again, I drag my good hand down every button and finally suck in an inhale as the elevator moves. Good luck to him guessing which floor I’m getting out on.

My shoulder is in goddamn agony, and as soon as the doors open on the first floor, I run. I tear down one corridor to the next, and as I spot a window to head for, movement on my left makes me stop.

Lars is holding open the door to the stairwell as St. Clare steps inside.

“Close that! ”

Lars hurries to do it even as St. Clare’s jaw drops.

“What the fuck happened to you?”

I ignore him, grab the potted plant right by the window, and throw it as hard as my injured shoulder will allow. The glass gives way easily—and it’s lucky we’re not on a higher level where this wouldn’t have been possible.

“Out. Now.”

Thankfully, neither of them questions me.

Lars goes first. Jumping from the first floor onto the cement like some fucking terminator, he then turns, and when I shove St. Clare ahead, Lars is ready to break his fall.

I’m not at all feeling woozy as I set the safety on my gun, tuck it into my jeans, and then give a quick plea to the universe that I’m not about to go splat.

Before I can do much more than that, I hear the door to the stairwell open behind me, and I jump.

There’s a second of weightlessness, and then my feet slam into the pavement, and I pitch forward, just able to catch myself before I go face-first into cement.

My shoulder gives out a second later as squealing tires fill my ears, and Lars hauls me to my feet before I’m run over. There are snatches of everything happening around me—a shout, St. Clare swearing, the car horns louder out here—that when the door to the car flies open, I don’t realize at first that it’s my car and Tommy’s sitting behind the wheel.

“Right on time, Perry.” He grins, and I shove St. Clare into the back seat ahead of me while Lars jumps into the front.

A shot hits the back windshield of my baby, shattering the glass into pieces.

“Might be a good time to drive,” I say weakly.

Tommy steps on the gas.