do. I went for broke. Emily was about to expire in my arms, so we had nothing to lose. “Hold on!” I yelled again, digging my middle fingers in beside my indexes. The additional tension drew blood from Emily’s throat, but it also changed the physics. Instead of pincers pressing a single point of contact, my thumbs were now like pliers braced against two pads. I squeezed them with everything I had, and then I squeezed more. I pictured them digging in, biting down, clamping on. No longer were my fingers instruments of flesh and bone. They were the hardened steel jaws of a metalworker’s vise. Then I engaged the hydraulic press. My forearms clenched, my biceps bunched, and my shoulders began to pull. Like oxen trying to wrench a stump from the ground, they tensed and tightened and pulled and strained until all at once something popped, and the clasp released. Emily was free.
I lay her down and checked her throat. Blood was streaming where the rays of the golden sun had dug in, but it wasn’t spurting. Her carotids weren’t sliced, but her windpipe was sucking air. I pressed my left thumb over the tiny hole, and slapped her face with the palm of my right hand. “Emily! Emily, wake up! Wake up!”
Her eyes sprang open and she began to cough, drawing deep ragged breaths, as she reflexively tried to push my hand from her throat.
“Don’t do that. You’ve got a small puncture in your windpipe. It’s not life-threatening, but you should keep the pressure on.” I guided her right hand into position. “Go straight to a hospital. They’ll fix you right up.”
“You’ve done all you can for her,” Rider boomed. “Get going after Ivan.”
This time, I agreed.
How long had it been? How much of a lead did he have? Was it closer to five seconds or five minutes? It felt like an eternity, and for Emily it nearly had been, but I knew that adrenaline did funny things with time.
“You’re going to be all right,” I said. Then I followed Ivan over the rail.
Chapter 23
BUTTERFLIES BEGAN TO dance in Jo’s stomach as Aspinwall’s face lost all composure. It looked as if a mask had been ripped from his face, and it happened right as he was about to speak. He just stood there staring toward Michael’s phone, his face awash in emotion, his gaze transfixed, the camera rolling. Sandra, sensing a train wreck, remained silent and kept filming.
After a few seconds, Michael appeared to understand that this wasn’t just the jitters. He pulled the phone back, glanced at the screen, and froze.
Jo couldn’t see the screen, but she knew it had to be Achilles. Had he hit Ivan with a hollow-point round? Without sound, Ivan’s head would appear to spontaneously explode. The sight of a talking head suddenly erupting from within, spewing forth blood and bone and gray matter, would give pause to even the most battle-hardened soul. Was her partner pressing the green button at that very moment, and setting Emily free?
Aspinwall said, “Forgive me, I need a minute.” Then he stepped toward Michael with menace in his eyes.
Michael turned and ran for the exit.
Aspinwall followed, as did Sandra, her cameraman, and Jo.
A second after Michael turned the corner, bells began to ring and lights began to flash. He’d pulled the fire alarm.
Rounding the corner at Aspinwall’s side, Jo heard the emergency exit door smacking closed a few feet ahead. The lock released as Aspinwall hit the crash-bar a second later, but the door barely moved.
Michael had blocked it with a wedge.
The fire alarm, the door jam, Jo recognized both as premeditated moves. Michael had activated a prearranged escape plan.
As Aspinwall threw himself against the bar a second time, she saw tears streaming down his cheeks, tears she recognized as anguish, not relief.
For the first time, Jo considered the possibility that something had gone wrong, that Achilles had failed and Emily was dead. Joining Aspinwall in his third attempt at the
I lay her down and checked her throat. Blood was streaming where the rays of the golden sun had dug in, but it wasn’t spurting. Her carotids weren’t sliced, but her windpipe was sucking air. I pressed my left thumb over the tiny hole, and slapped her face with the palm of my right hand. “Emily! Emily, wake up! Wake up!”
Her eyes sprang open and she began to cough, drawing deep ragged breaths, as she reflexively tried to push my hand from her throat.
“Don’t do that. You’ve got a small puncture in your windpipe. It’s not life-threatening, but you should keep the pressure on.” I guided her right hand into position. “Go straight to a hospital. They’ll fix you right up.”
“You’ve done all you can for her,” Rider boomed. “Get going after Ivan.”
This time, I agreed.
How long had it been? How much of a lead did he have? Was it closer to five seconds or five minutes? It felt like an eternity, and for Emily it nearly had been, but I knew that adrenaline did funny things with time.
“You’re going to be all right,” I said. Then I followed Ivan over the rail.
Chapter 23
BUTTERFLIES BEGAN TO dance in Jo’s stomach as Aspinwall’s face lost all composure. It looked as if a mask had been ripped from his face, and it happened right as he was about to speak. He just stood there staring toward Michael’s phone, his face awash in emotion, his gaze transfixed, the camera rolling. Sandra, sensing a train wreck, remained silent and kept filming.
After a few seconds, Michael appeared to understand that this wasn’t just the jitters. He pulled the phone back, glanced at the screen, and froze.
Jo couldn’t see the screen, but she knew it had to be Achilles. Had he hit Ivan with a hollow-point round? Without sound, Ivan’s head would appear to spontaneously explode. The sight of a talking head suddenly erupting from within, spewing forth blood and bone and gray matter, would give pause to even the most battle-hardened soul. Was her partner pressing the green button at that very moment, and setting Emily free?
Aspinwall said, “Forgive me, I need a minute.” Then he stepped toward Michael with menace in his eyes.
Michael turned and ran for the exit.
Aspinwall followed, as did Sandra, her cameraman, and Jo.
A second after Michael turned the corner, bells began to ring and lights began to flash. He’d pulled the fire alarm.
Rounding the corner at Aspinwall’s side, Jo heard the emergency exit door smacking closed a few feet ahead. The lock released as Aspinwall hit the crash-bar a second later, but the door barely moved.
Michael had blocked it with a wedge.
The fire alarm, the door jam, Jo recognized both as premeditated moves. Michael had activated a prearranged escape plan.
As Aspinwall threw himself against the bar a second time, she saw tears streaming down his cheeks, tears she recognized as anguish, not relief.
For the first time, Jo considered the possibility that something had gone wrong, that Achilles had failed and Emily was dead. Joining Aspinwall in his third attempt at the
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