MirrorWorld

12.

The horn guides me like the returning sound waves of a sonar ping, but I try not to cram the car’s lock button too many times lest I advertise my destination. I doubt anyone inside can hear the horn over the two alarms reverberating through Neuro Inc. Even outside, I can hear the blaring sirens. Hell, I can see the windows vibrating with each shrill whoop.

I round the corner to the front of the building. A massive parking lot stretches out before me. It’s full, but not just with cars. A steady stream of confused Neuro employees hurries out the front doors, filtering into the parking lot. They’re a blessing and a curse. They’ll help me disappear, but they’ll also slow me down, giving the security teams time to reach the parking lot. I slow my stride, shift Shiloh into both arms, and do my very best to look afraid.

The first person who sees me looks at Shiloh first, then at me. She reels back upon making eye contact and hurries away. She either recognized me or my attempt at fear went horribly awry. I give up trying to look afraid and calmly strut into the parking lot, which is swirling with more people than a football tailgate party.

Walking calmly with the woman in my arms while showing no fear garners far less attention. A few people look my way, concern in their eyes, until they see my rock-solid confidence. It’s like some voice in their heads is saying, “Don’t worry. He’s got it under control.” And they go right back to chatting about what could have caused the double alarms. It’s a far greater mystery to them than the fate of the unconscious stranger dressed in a johnny. It’s also possible that Shiloh isn’t the only unconscious patient being brought out of the building. I didn’t get a look in the other rooms. They might have all been occupied for all I know.

I push the lock button. The horn responds, pulling my eyes to the right. Winters’s orange SUV is easy to see. Unfortunately, so is the woman my worried face sent running. She’s got a man in tow, but a quick assessment of the man reveals he’s not a threat. For starters, he’s pudgy and soft. But it’s the medical kit he’s holding, along with the red cross on his white polo shirt, that reveals he’s a medic, which, if I’m honest—and I always am—could come in handy.

“There he is!” the woman shouts, pointing at me.

The people around us turn and stare, but my continuing calm and the medic’s arrival make us a nonevent compared to the continuing evacuation. It probably helps that no one seems to recognize Shiloh. Or me.

“What’s wrong with her?” the medic asks me. He’s out of breath. Hands on knees.

I motion to the back of the SUV and click the unlock button. The rear lights flash yellow. “Get the hatch so I can lay her down.”

He nods quickly and opens the hatch. “Good idea.” He climbs inside the SUV and puts down the back seats. He turns to me and waves me in.

This is going to be easier than I thought.

I gently place Shiloh into the back of the SUV and the medic, supporting her head in one hand, helps guide her inside. Once she’s settled, he puts his fingers on her wrist and stares at his watch, checking her heart rate.

A hand on my arm turns me around. I’m ready to deliver a number of attacks, but it’s the concerned young woman. “What happened to her?”

“I rescued her,” I say.

She turns to the Neuro building. “Is there really a fire?”

A quick glance around reveals that no one is watching us. In reply to the woman’s question, I quickly squeeze, tap, and slap the same three pressure points that knocked Winters out cold. But here’s the thing: a very small number of people are resistant to the technique. This woman is one of those people. Instead of falling unconscious into my arms, she reels around and says, “Oww! What the hell was that—”

The butt of my empty handgun against the side of her head does a much better job. I catch her in my left arm and lay her down in the empty space beside Winters’s SUV. When I stand back up, the medic is staring at me with wide eyes. Eyebrows turned up in the middle. Lips pulled tight to the sides.

Now that’s what fear looks like.

I point the gun at him. “She’s your patient now. You take care of her and you’ll be just fine. Understood?”

He nods furiously.

With one last look around to confirm we’ve gone unnoticed, I close the SUV’s hatch.

That’s when a gunshot rips through the air.

“Everybody down!” The amplified voice is followed by a loud three-round burst. “On the ground! Now!”

All around the parking lot, people drop in fear.

All but one.

Dammit.

I need to start watching people’s fear-based social cues and mimic them when appropriate. It’s too late now. Being the only person still standing in the parking lot, in front of a bright-orange SUV, has made me stick out like a—well, like a bright-orange SUV.

I duck down a fraction of a second before the first bullet comes my way. I dive to the unforgiving pavement along the driver’s-side door. The gunfire stops as I disappear from sight. They want to stop me something fierce, but they’ve got a lot of bystanders to worry about, too. I roll back to my feet, staying low, and open the driver’s door.

The tall seats hide me from view when I climb inside, but that won’t be much help when the security teams flank the vehicle. If they’re even remotely competent, they have two teams already moving up the sides of the lot. I’ve got just a few seconds.

“Who are you?” the medic asks.

I glance back, reassessing the man. Most people would have bolted when I came under fire, but he stayed by Shiloh’s side. He’s got a blanket over her and a blood pressure cuff on her arm.

“And what happened to this woman?” He lifts her arm, revealing the string of bruises.

“Wish I knew,” I tell him, answering both questions. “Better hold on tight.”

He nods and lies down, draping an arm, a leg, and a portion of his torso over Shiloh’s body. It’s as secure as they’re going to get.

The engine growls to life. I yank the gear shift into drive and crush the gas pedal. Tires screech as I punch forward, shoving aside the small hybrid car parked in front of us. People run for cover as the SUV roars through the parking lot, hitting thirty miles per hour. I hammer the brakes at the end of the row, twisting the wheel. All four tires squeal as we spin. A gray cloud of burning rubber billows around the vehicle. When our turn hits the ninety-degree mark, I hit the gas again and race toward the back of the lot.

Rows flash by. Five to go, then it’s an empty lot and a clear shot to the long winding drive through the woods.

“Look out!” the medic shouts. He’s still lying down, but he’s leaning up, looking out the passenger’s-side window. I follow his line of sight and see what has him concerned—a black Humvee complete with a mounted machine gun races up the parking lot’s center aisle.

The big gun turns toward us and opens fire.

A row of cars flash between us, absorbing the high-caliber ammunition that would have shredded the SUV.

I hit the brakes and turn hard to the right, into the next row. The Humvee races ahead into the empty lot, turning in a wide circle. The SUV’s throaty engine shakes my seat as the big vehicle accelerates to fifty miles per hour. We quickly reach the center aisle, and I turn hard to the left, just missing a car but careening over a concrete wheel stop at the end of an empty parking space. The right side of the SUV bounces into the air and slams back down with a jolt.

“I’ve got her!” the medic shouts, reassuring me that he’s doing his job.

While the Humvee rounds toward us, I aim for the drive at the back of the lot and keep the gas pedal pegged.

Asphalt explodes from the parking lot ahead of us as a line of heavy machine-gun fire, lit by bright-orange tracer rounds, cuts across. Chunks of tar bounce off the windshield, but the gunfire stops as the gunner adjusts his aim.

A second volley of bullets shatters the rear side window, but we’re quickly beyond the line of fire. Whoever is shooting at us hasn’t had a lot of practice with a moving target. Even if the security team is ex-military with real-world experience, a lack of practice can dull reaction times.

Not for me, though. All of this seems to just come naturally.

The empty lot around us morphs into a wall of trees. Tall pines line the road, their scent washing through the shattered window and overwhelming the stench of burnt rubber.

Gunfire erupts behind us, but the trees get the worst of it, and continue to as the Humvee gunner spews lead. The winding path through the woods slows our flight, but it also keeps the Humvee from getting more than a brief glimpse of the SUV.

We round the final bend and race toward the security gate. A public road is just twenty feet beyond the solid-looking guardhouse. Four men in security uniforms stand in front of the gate, handguns raised. One of them shakes an open palm at me. These men have clearly not been warned yet. If they had been, they wouldn’t have wasted time trying to request me to stop; they would have simply opened fire.

They get the idea when I accelerate toward them. The bravest of the four squeezes off two rounds. Both miss. Probably because the man was already running when he fired. They dive away, two to a side, narrowly missing being added to the long list of New Hampshire’s daily roadkill. The gate, however, doesn’t move for me. But it’s not nearly as robust as it looks. The metal pole bends with a shriek and allows us passage.

I glance in the rearview.

The Humvee skids to a stop. The guards pick themselves up.

No one pursues us.

The chase, it seems, ended at the gate.

I turn onto the road and tear away from Neuro Inc. I’d like to say it’s the last time I’ll see the place, but I know it’s not. Once Shiloh is safe, I’ll be back. What they’re doing is wrong, and that’s something I can’t let go. Not because I’m a bleeding-heart vigilante, but because they thought they could add me to their collection of tortured souls, and I take that personally.

I look back at my passenger. He looks shaken. Frightened. But he’s still tending to Shiloh. “How is she?”

“Hell if I know,” the medic says. “What happened to her? Is she in a coma?”

Hadn’t considered that. “I assumed she’d been sedated, but I honestly don’t know.”

“Was this done to her at Neuro?” he asks.

I nod. “I’m guessing your security clearance is pretty low.”

“I started a month ago.” He looks back at Shiloh, then to me. He extends his hand toward me. “I’m Jim. Jim Cobb.”

I twist my hand back and give his a firm shake. “I’m Crazy.”

He gives a lopsided nervous smile. “I noticed.”