“Grace, there’s a keypad on the wall at the end of this corridor, under the flower print. Code…” He sucked in air, coughed. “Code 9076. Punch it in, door will open…” The gray was turning to black at the edges of his vision. “Elevator,” he gasped. “To basement. SUV in slot 58.” With a fumbling hand, he dug into his pants pocket. He always carried the key to a getaway car no one knew about, a secret cell phone and several credit cards. He’d spent his life ready to run at a second’s notice. “Key.” It dangled from his nerveless fingers.

They’d been shuffling forward as he talked, Grace bearing almost his entire weight, pulling the trolley behind them.

Finally, after what felt like a century, they were at the wall and Grace punched in the code. The pounding at the door to his quarters grew fiercer, the shouts louder. They would be debating amongst themselves whether to break down the door. They could try. It was built to bank-vault specifications. If and when they finally managed it, they would open the door to the charred remains of what had once been his home.

The sniper was still shooting at a steady pace, but had started to shoot into other rooms, hoping for a random hit.

A section of the wall slid open and Grace helped him into the elevator, still dragging the trolley. He found it almost impossible to pick up his feet and if it hadn’t been for Grace’s arm around his waist, he would have fallen.

He couldn’t fall. If he fell, he’d never get up again.

She didn’t need further instructions. Drake was blessed in having fallen in love with an intelligent woman. She didn’t tempest him with questions or idle comments. His strength was ebbing second to second, and he had to conserve it.

They were in deep trouble. She understood that and didn’t waste their resources.

If he’d had the strength, he would have kissed her.

The bottom dropped out of the world. The elevator was an emergency exit and had been designed to fall as fast as possible, faster than safety regulations allowed. In seconds they were in the basement.

Drake kept his fleet of vehicles in a walled-off section of the basement to the right that only he or his men had access to, but kept his secret getaway vehicle separate. Slot 58 was to the left.

He opened his mouth to croak out Go left, when he saw that Grace had already figured out the number system. The slot was close by. It was pointless having a quick getaway car far from the emergency elevator.

Even moving sluggishly, feet dragging, they were at the Tahoe in seconds, Grace unlocking the doors with the key fob from five feet away. Instead of heading for the driver’s side, she opened the passenger side door first.

Drake shook his head, resisting.

If enemies were coming after them, she had to get in first and, if necessary, pull away without him.

He tried to say it. “Get…in…first.” His lungs were heaving, his voice was hoarse. He was clinging to the doorframe with shaking fingers.

She didn’t pay any attention at all, simply pushed and prodded until he half fell in. She shoved his legs in, threw the trolley in, slammed the door behind him and ran to the driver’s side.

He kept the vehicle completely serviced, with a full tank of gas, at all times. It roared to life at the turn of the key in the ignition and Grace backed out of the slot immediately, wrenching the wheel and shooting for the exit.

After several tries, Drake managed to buckle his seat belt. Everything was dimming. He needed to do the next things fast.

As Grace shot up out of the underground garage onto the street, skidding wildly, barely missing an oncoming bus, Drake brought his cell phone up, squinting to make out the numbers. Shaking, he punched in a number he knew by heart. All the numbers he needed to know—cell-phone numbers, bank-account numbers—he had memorized. They were not written down anywhere—they only existed in his head.

The call was picked up immediately. “Boss,” said a deep voice.

The relief nearly wiped Drake out. Grigori, his best pilot.

It was snowing heavily and cell-phone reception wasn’t very good. Drake had about a minute or two of consciousness left, but what he had to say was very simple.

“Grigori—”

A heavy chunk of metal fell on the hood, bounced heavily, then rolled off, leaving the hood badly dented. Grace screamed and lost control of the vehicle for a moment. Another piece of red-hot metal fell from the sky, then another. A long steel rectangle clattered down. The blade of a helicopter rotor.

Someone had blown up the helicopter on the roof. Drake had instinctively made for the ground, and his instincts had once again proven sound.

Grace was weaving erratically down the street, wide-eyed and white faced. “What’s happening?” she cried.

Drake stretched out a hand to touch her arm, failed, tried again. She turned slightly at his touch, then turned her attention back to the white, icy street ahead of her. She was sitting forward in her seat, terrified, clutching the wheel with white-knuckled fingers. She wasn’t a very good driver, but she would have to do the driving. Drake was in no condition to take the wheel.

“It’s okay,” he said to Grace and squeezed her arm. She didn’t answer, just pressed her lips together and nodded, eyes on the dangerous street ahead.

Drake brought the cell phone back to his ear. It felt like it weighed ten tons. “Grigori, listen. Keep…the Gulfstream 4…ready to go. I’m coming down with a passenger. Don’t—don’t know when I will make it. Stay by the plane.”

“Yes, boss,” came Grigori’s deep voice and Drake was reassured. If it took him a year to make it down to the Tampa airfield, Grigori would be there, the plane serviced and ready for takeoff in a few minutes’ time.

Streaks of black crossed his field of vision.

His hand was still on Grace’s arm. “Grace. My love.”

She didn’t take her eyes off the road, trying to hold the wheel steady, but she nodded. She was listening.

“We need to make it as fast as we can to Tampa, Florida. Don’t stop unless you have to. I have a plane waiting for us there.”

“No! Are you crazy? You’re wounded, Drake. You’re losing blood. I’m sure the stitches in your shoulder have been torn and your back is ripped open. And you’re concussed, probably badly. I’m taking you to Ben, right now. Which hospital does he work in?”

He was fading, his voice so weak it could barely be heard over the noise of the engine. He had to make Grace understand how important it was to get out of New York as fast as she could. To linger was to invite death.

“Promise me.” His hoarse voice cracked as his fingers tightened on her arm. She chanced a glance at him, wide-eyed at the tone of his voice, then looked back at the street. “Promise me you won’t stop as long as you can stay awake. We must”—he coughed, something in his chest exploding with pain—“we must get out of New York and make it down to Tampa. Promise me you won’t stop unless you must.”

The darkness was almost complete. He could barely see, barely think.

His fingers tightened even more, the last dregs of his fading strength. “Promise me.”

“I promise,” she sobbed, risking another quick glance at him. He saw from her face that he looked bad.

“Won’t…die,” he promised, hoping he could keep it.

He fought the weakness, with everything in him, but it won.

The world turned black.

Pizdets! Shit!

Rutskoi looked at the message he’d just paid another fucking hundred thousand dollars for.

Drake and woman gone. Blood on floor, walls. Living room full of bullet holes, room completely burned.

It had been almost impossible to see anything in the thermal imager because of the fire that witch started. Against all the odds, Drake and his bitch were still alive.