“Separate!” I order. “Off!”
The two split off, both of them raising their hands in surrender, and I see my rescuer’s face.
“Brady?” He’s too out of breath to say anything. “Kick his gun over here,” I tell him.
Clumsily he climbs to his feet and kicks the pistol across the floor. All armed threats in the lobby neutralized, I crouch behind a stone bench and survey the room. Dozens of people still lie on the ground, terrified. Outside, the police are still rushing to fortify their perimeter. Shock troops armored in heavy mech armor and saddled with an arsenal of overpowered hi-tech weapons stand in formation, taking orders from a gray-haired police captain. Collections is here, too, with a small squad of heavies forming up. They must know who I am.
I’m done. There’s no escaping this.
“Dammit,” I whisper aloud.
Overwhelmed, I look around me, searching for some kind of answer as my heart thumps hard in my chest. I’ve got all these bank customers on the ground, but what use can I make of them? This is not a hostage situation.
Maybe the police are expecting it to be.
“Brady,” I say, “give me your jacket.”
“What?”
“Give me your jacket,” I repeat. “Now.”
Confused, he removes it and tosses it to me. It’s surprisingly big. Deciding it’s not enough, I take the tie out of my hair and shake my head, letting the dark locks settle loose around my ears and shoulders.
“What are you doing?” Brady asks, fearful.
Ignoring him, I fire a warning shot into the ceiling and scream at the top of my lungs, “Everyone up! On your fucking feet! Together!”
They hesitate, but I fire off another shot into the ceiling, and as the delicate dust wafts down, they hurry to stand, terrified and trembling.
“Taryn,” Brady says as though he has some idea what I’m about to do. He smartly holds a hand up to cover his mouth as he speaks. “I’ll be waiting tonight, if you still want to show up. Or need to.”
It takes me a second to realize what he’s talking about. I still don’t see what good it will do me, but I nod in thanks.
“Hey,” he says, hand still cupped over his mouth, “make it look good.”
Again, it takes me a second to realize what he’s telling me, but I get it. I put my bad guy face back on and turn back to the crowd of customers. “Listen to me, you sons of bitches,” I shout. “When I say go, you’re gonna run out of here, and you’re gonna rush the police line. Every last one of you, you hear me?”
No response comes. Turning back to Brady, who stands awkwardly with his hands out at his sides, I take a swing at him, cracking the butt of my gun into the side of his head.
My hostages cringe in fear at the sight of him toppling to the floor, and I ask again, “Do you hear me, dammit?” Some timid yeses come back, some nod their heads. Just to be sure they get it, I add, “Last one out that door gets a bullet in the kneecap.” I’m losing my patience with these people. If they screw this up, I swear I will shoot at least one of them out of spite before I get taken down. “I said are you ready, you bunch of assholes?”
They give louder, if more frightened responses. Some are crying now, distraught as I step in among them, near the back. I can’t afford to be as scared as they are. Taking a deep breath, I steel myself. It’s do or die now. If I don’t do, I die.
“Ready?” I call out. “Go! Go! Go!” I fire from the hip, into the air, and they rush forward in a terrified panic. “Go!” I scream. “Go!”
They hit the doors and flood through them, pushing, shoving, crying out. None of them seem to be watching what I’m doing. Good.
I holster my sidearm, hiding under Brady’s jacket. Moving with the panicked mass of people, I toss my hair over my face, keeping my arms up and my head low as I rush outside, into the bright, hot sunlight. The police react frantically, unprepared for the crush of the crowd. One of them barks commands through a megaphone, but the civilians ignore him, running through gaps in the barricade. I take an angle with a few others past the police shock troops, knowing that they’ll be the least mobile, least ready to act, and the least likely to know my face. Some cops try to get in our way, but there aren’t enough of them. I brush through with the others, past the parked police vehicles, into the parking lot of the SCAPE Bank with its broad, arched entrance.
I’m out of breath suddenly, maybe from terror, maybe from physical exertion, but I know I need to push on, so I force myself to keep running.
“Miss!” a voice calls behind me. I don’t stop but glance over my shoulder to see a policeman pursuing me. “Miss, stop!”
I can’t. I don’t.
“I need help here!” he calls out, “I’ve got a runner!”
Dammit. I lean into my stride, sprinting as hard and fast as I can for the street, my thighs and calves burning. A siren squawks behind me, and over the noise of the bedlam I’ve just run from, I hear an engine—or maybe two—rev and start.
I hit the sidewalk and keep going, even as I glance behind me again see a couple of police quickbikes screeching out of the parking lot, turning hard onto Safelydown and coming after me. There’s no way I’ll outrun them. In a denser part of the city I might be able to duck down a back alley or underground, but here, in the SCAPE part of town with its monolithic structures and broad streets, I’ve got nowhere to hide.
I hear the bikes close ground fast. Without looking back, I stop short and turn. Setting my feet, I lean in toward the first bike as it speeds by, throwing all of my weight into the side of the driver.
The impact jars me. Off balance, I stumble backward, shuffling my feet to keep from falling down. But the driver flies off his seat and hits the pavement hard, bouncing and rolling clumsily as his bike drives a few more meters before automatically powering down.
The other bike’s tires screech, and it slides to a stop just a few steps away. Its rider dismounts fast, drawing his sidearm and aiming at me. “Hands in the air!”
He’s got the advantage—if I go for my sidearm, he’ll shoot. I force myself to act quickly. Leaping forward, I barrel roll toward the cop. He fires off a shot, missing. I spring into a tackle, ramming my sore right shoulder into his stomach, knocking him back. He shoves me off and keeps his feet, raising his gun from waist level for a close-range kill shot.
I swipe my hands across each other, catching him across both sides of the forearm. His grip releases and the gun clatters to the pavement. Stunned, he reaches after it, but I grab him by the sleeves of his uniform and knee him hard in the gut, doubling him over. “Nothing personal,” I tell him, throwing him to the street.
I step on his pistol and draw my own gun. The other officer, the one I knocked off his bike, is struggling to his feet and bravely drawing his weapon even though it looks like one of his legs is broken. I take aim at him. “No,” I say simply, taking control. He freezes, uncertain. “Throw it,” I tell him, motioning with my head, “Over there.”
Reluctantly he obeys, chucking his gun across the street. A few civilian cars go by, avoiding us.
“Phones,” I order. “Both of you.”
They each pull their phones from their pockets and grudgingly toss them at my feet. I stomp down hard on each with the heel of my boot, smashing them to dust and shards. I mount the closer quickbike. Knowing I won’t be able to drive it, I brandish my gun. “Now. Start this ride up.”