roaring through his body, he knew he would have told her everything and she would have skipped out, dancing because sheâd won.
She was dead; it was all over. She lay on her side, her white shirt covered with blood, her hair floating in it. He felt bile rise in his throat. No, no, heâd done the right thing, the only reasonable thing. Sheâd betrayed him. Who was she? Some sort of spy, an agent? He didnât know, and now it didnât matter. She would burn with Ian.
Matthew turned away from her and methodically poured gasoline all over the apartment, but he didnât pour any on her. He said her name aloud, one last time, âVanessa,â and tossed the gasoline can in the corner. He threw a lighted match in the hall beside the stairs, listened to it whoosh as it caught the carpet on fire. He ran down the stairs. He never looked back.
21
BISHOP TO G5
Brooklyn
V anessa floated.
Had she heard Matthewâs voice? She wasnât sure, but her brain knew enough to keep her still and silent. There was always danger when you spent half your life undercover, and tonight sheâd stepped right in it.
Being awake opened the floodgates and she was suddenly swamped in pain. She smelled her own blood, knew the pain would get worse and worse and she could die.
Matthew had shot her, after heâd shot Ian. Ian had tried to save her, despite the fact that he had to know it was her phone and she wasnât really one of them. No, she couldnât think about that now.
There was something elseâshe smelled smoke. Matthew had set the apartment on fire.
She didnât want to, but she touched her chest, felt all the hot sticky blood, her blood. It was bad, really bad. She managed to raise her head. She didnât see any flames, but she heard them in thehallway, whooshing along the threadbare carpet toward the living room. Smoke was creeping in; soon the room would be gray and she wouldnât be able to breathe.
If you donât get out of here now you will die. Tie up your chest and go.
Pain ripped through her when she sat up. She gritted her teeth and forced herself to move. She could barely breathe. She figured her lung had collapsed and her chest was filling with blood. The smoke was getting heavier now, the sound of the fire getting closer. She realized it was blocking the hallway to the stairs. No hope for it. She dragged herself to her feet, holding on to a chair for support. She looked down at Ian, then quickly away; there was nothing she could do for him.
She had to get to the hidden access to the roof, the only way out. It was their bolthole, one of the reasons Matthew had chosen this apartment.
The ladder to the roof was inside the closet in the master bedroom. She would make it, she had to, she had no choice. She dragged herself down the hallway, using the wall for support, to the bedroom, then into the small closet, with the ladder at the back.
She imagined she heard her dead fatherâs voice loud and clear as she climbed that ladder, each step so hard, nearly impossible, but there he was, saying over and over,
Be glad of the pain, it means youâre still alive. Now get out of there, Nessa, do you hear me?
And it comforted.
His words became a mantra her mind whispered again and again as she began her climb up the ladder in the closet. When she finally crawled out onto the pebbled roof, she collapsed to the ground, coughing. Blood spattered out of her mouth and she sucked in air, but never enough. Smoke was billowing up all around her.
She crawled to the fire escape, her only chance, since the building itself was now burning.
Her fatherâs voice kept at her, yelling now over the pain, pushing her, pushing her. She crawled to the ledge. The ground looked a mile away, but she knew it was only three stories down.
I canât make it, Dad, I canât make it.
And again his frantic urging:
Donât you let that crazy bastard win, do you hear me, Nessa? You move,
She was dead; it was all over. She lay on her side, her white shirt covered with blood, her hair floating in it. He felt bile rise in his throat. No, no, heâd done the right thing, the only reasonable thing. Sheâd betrayed him. Who was she? Some sort of spy, an agent? He didnât know, and now it didnât matter. She would burn with Ian.
Matthew turned away from her and methodically poured gasoline all over the apartment, but he didnât pour any on her. He said her name aloud, one last time, âVanessa,â and tossed the gasoline can in the corner. He threw a lighted match in the hall beside the stairs, listened to it whoosh as it caught the carpet on fire. He ran down the stairs. He never looked back.
21
BISHOP TO G5
Brooklyn
V anessa floated.
Had she heard Matthewâs voice? She wasnât sure, but her brain knew enough to keep her still and silent. There was always danger when you spent half your life undercover, and tonight sheâd stepped right in it.
Being awake opened the floodgates and she was suddenly swamped in pain. She smelled her own blood, knew the pain would get worse and worse and she could die.
Matthew had shot her, after heâd shot Ian. Ian had tried to save her, despite the fact that he had to know it was her phone and she wasnât really one of them. No, she couldnât think about that now.
There was something elseâshe smelled smoke. Matthew had set the apartment on fire.
She didnât want to, but she touched her chest, felt all the hot sticky blood, her blood. It was bad, really bad. She managed to raise her head. She didnât see any flames, but she heard them in thehallway, whooshing along the threadbare carpet toward the living room. Smoke was creeping in; soon the room would be gray and she wouldnât be able to breathe.
If you donât get out of here now you will die. Tie up your chest and go.
Pain ripped through her when she sat up. She gritted her teeth and forced herself to move. She could barely breathe. She figured her lung had collapsed and her chest was filling with blood. The smoke was getting heavier now, the sound of the fire getting closer. She realized it was blocking the hallway to the stairs. No hope for it. She dragged herself to her feet, holding on to a chair for support. She looked down at Ian, then quickly away; there was nothing she could do for him.
She had to get to the hidden access to the roof, the only way out. It was their bolthole, one of the reasons Matthew had chosen this apartment.
The ladder to the roof was inside the closet in the master bedroom. She would make it, she had to, she had no choice. She dragged herself down the hallway, using the wall for support, to the bedroom, then into the small closet, with the ladder at the back.
She imagined she heard her dead fatherâs voice loud and clear as she climbed that ladder, each step so hard, nearly impossible, but there he was, saying over and over,
Be glad of the pain, it means youâre still alive. Now get out of there, Nessa, do you hear me?
And it comforted.
His words became a mantra her mind whispered again and again as she began her climb up the ladder in the closet. When she finally crawled out onto the pebbled roof, she collapsed to the ground, coughing. Blood spattered out of her mouth and she sucked in air, but never enough. Smoke was billowing up all around her.
She crawled to the fire escape, her only chance, since the building itself was now burning.
Her fatherâs voice kept at her, yelling now over the pain, pushing her, pushing her. She crawled to the ledge. The ground looked a mile away, but she knew it was only three stories down.
I canât make it, Dad, I canât make it.
And again his frantic urging:
Donât you let that crazy bastard win, do you hear me, Nessa? You move,
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