He took her by the waist, lifted her onto the counter, followed, then hoisted her so that she could grasp on to the lower crossbeam in the rafters.

What she couldn’t do was pull herself up beyond hanging there with the beam beneath her armpits, and then she heard that voice from the office. “Look for the girl upstairs. I’ll look down here.”

“Right.”

Her rescuer was unfazed. He gave a hop, grasped the lower beam, pulled himself up, swung one leg over so that he was straddling it, reached down and pulled her up the rest of the way. And then, as if he did this all the time, he stood, held on to the rafter, and reached out to help her to her feet.

She looked down, her heart racing as she heard the heavy footfalls of someone on the stairs. A moment later, the gunman was there in the loft, a flashlight beam bouncing around as he searched the walls. She kept waiting for it to aim upward, reveal them, and she glanced at her rescuer, surprised to see a gun in his hand. Was he a cop? The two men who shot Bo obviously weren’t. Or if they were, they sure as hell weren’t on the side of the law.

What had Bo gotten into?

The gunman’s flashlight swung up and she gripped the wood tighter, certain he was going to shoot them, but then heard a soft click as he turned on the light in the main living area.

He shoved the flashlight in his pocket, and gun in one hand, he walked toward the kitchen. She glanced down, saw her reflection in the mirrored tray right beneath her where Bo’s wallet sat, and she prayed the intruder wouldn’t notice.

“Find anything?” the other called from below.

“Nope.”

“You see any computers up there?”

The man stopped, looked around. “Not a one. The window’s open. She musta gotten out that way.”

“Let’s go. We’ve spent enough time here.”

He moved to the window, looked out, then returned the way he came, shutting off the light before heading downstairs. She didn’t dare move, barely dared to breathe, until she heard the swoosh of the warehouse door as the intruders left.

Suddenly she felt sick, the adrenaline starting to flush from her system, and she barely had the strength to hang on to the rafter. She looked at the man standing in the shadows across from her, his gun still pointed toward the stairwell.

“Who are you?” she asked softly.

He held up a finger, waited several seconds before answering, as though listening for something. “Let’s get down from here.”

She wasn’t sure if she could, her knees were starting to shake.

“Sit on the crossbeam, then turn,” he instructed her. She did, and he holstered his gun, hopped down first, his agility confirming in her mind that he was used to this. She was not, and her effort would have been comical, if not for the circumstances. Once they were on the floor, he held out his hand, saying, “Griffin. Department of Justice.”

“Why didn’t you shoot them, Griffin, Department of Justice? And how do I know you’re really who you say you are?”

“First, I’m here by myself, and I don’t know if there were only two. I didn’t like the odds. Second, you’re going to have to trust me on this, since I’m all that stands between you and probable death.”

“But they’re gone.”

“For now. What’s your name?”

“Piper.”

He motioned her to follow him to the stairs, and as they descended, he asked, “Do you know anything about this list of numbers those men were asking about?”

She stopped, crossed her arms. “Maybe trust is too big a first step. Do you have ID?”

He gave her a slightly annoyed look over his shoulder, dug a billfold out of his back pocket, then handed it to her as he continued down the stairs.

She opened it, could just make out the seal of the United States Department of Justice, and then his photo and name, Zachary Griffin. It seemed legit—­and unfortunately devoid of money and credit cards. “Your wallet.”

He took it from her, and returned it to his pocket. “About those numbers?”

“He found them on a hard drive.”

“Where’d he get the computer?”

“Not a computer. A copy machine.”

“A what?”

She pointed into the depths of the darkened warehouse, where just visible in the light spilling out of the office sat the copy machines Bo was in the process of rebuilding. “He bought them at a government auction. The one with the numbers came from the San Francisco FBI office.”

He stopped suddenly, turned toward her. “You’re sure?”

“Very. There were other reports on it. But he didn’t look at those. I swear.”

He glanced toward the machines, then started toward the exit once more. But as they approached the office, he said, “Wait here.”

He walked into the open door, was gone no longer than thirty seconds before stepping out and walking back to her. “Was he a friend of yours?”

­People didn’t say “was” unless the outcome was death, and she nodded. Tears clouded her vision.

He took her hand, saying, “When we walk past, try not to look in. Maybe even close your eyes. You don’t want that to be the way you remember him.”

“Okay.” It came out more of a croak, her throat having closed up, and she was grateful when he didn’t let go. As they approached the office, she caught a glimpse of black and white on the floor before she looked away. Bo’s Converse tennis shoes, she realized, then squeezed her eyes shut, not opening them again until he led her outside and the cold misty air hit her face. Only then did she say, “Shouldn’t we call the police?”

“No.”

“But—­”

“The last thing you want is your name in that report. The men who killed your friend? They won’t think twice about coming back for you. They have his computer, which means if your friend communicated with you through it, you’re at risk anyway.”

“What am I supposed to do?”

He looked toward the end of the drive, saw a vehicle slowly cruising toward them. Headlights suddenly turned on, blinded them, and the vehicle sped up. “Right now?” he said, grasping her hand tight and pulling her in the opposite direction. “We run.”

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

ROBIN BURCELL is an FBI-­trained forensic artist who has worked in law enforcement for over two decades as a police officer, detective, and hostage negotiator. A two-­time Anthony Award winner, she is the author of four previous Sydney Fitzpatrick novels, Face of a Killer, The Bone Chamber, The Dark Hour, and The Black List, as well as four novels featuring SFPD Homicide detective Kate Gillespie: Every Move She Makes, Fatal Truth, Deadly Legacy, and Cold Case.

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Also by Robin Burcell

When Midnight Comes

Every Move She Makes

Fatal Truth

Deadly Legacy

Cold Case

Face of a Killer

The Bone Chamber

The Dark Hour

The Black List

The Kill Order

COPYRIGHT

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are drawn from the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.