The Sanctuary

Chapter 21

With rapierlike agility, Corben lunged at the man and grabbed him by the wrist, yanking him into the room while using his back to slam the door shut behind him.

He twisted on himself and used the man’s own momentum to spin him around and slam him into the back of the door, thereby blocking it. A wild round went off from the silenced gun, the spark from its muzzle lighting up the intruder’s twisted face, which was bloodied from his encounter with the door. Corben knew he didn’t have more than a second or two before the pockmarked man outside reacted and tried to barge through. He kept one hand gripped on the killer’s wrist, pinning the gun against the door, and used the other to drive a crushing punch to his lower back, striking him in the kidney.

The man gasped out heavily under the blow. His hand lost its hold of the gun, which clattered across the floor. Corben felt the man’s muscles slacken and grabbed his chance, sidestepping away from the door in the opposite direction while pulling the killer fully across the door just as several bursts of gunfire bit through the wood and raked through the intruder. He held on to the man’s arm and felt his body shudder and writhe from the bullets cutting through him, then let go. The man’s body collapsed onto the floor in a heavy thud and just lay there, motionless, emitting a wheezing gurgle, blocking the door.

Corben caught his breath and skulked by the door, listening intently in the deathly silence. The man outside called out, “Fawwaz?”

“He’s dead, asshole,” Corben shouted back, “and you’re next. I’ve got his gun.”

Which wasn’t exactly true. Not yet, anyway.

Corben scowled and waited tensely for an answer, but nothing came back. Thin shafts of light from the landing were streaming in through the bullet holes in the door, casting a soft, ethereal glow on the entrance hall and the dead body. Corben looked around, searching for the gun, his mind running through his options. None of them was particularly promising. Abruptly, the little light there was vanished. The timer in the landing had just kicked in, and the killer outside made no effort to switch it back on. Instead, Corben heard him yell out another name, “Wasseem,” followed by a barked order that echoed eerily down the stairwell. The pockmarked shooter outside was probably telling the third man to come up and join in.

The more, the merrier.

Not.

Corben urgently scoured the darkness for the dead man’s weapon. He couldn’t find it at first, then spotted it on the far side of the hallway from him, facing the door and anyone coming in. Getting it would be risky. Corben would be completely exposed if he attempted it.

As he mulled whether to go for it, he heard rapid footfalls echoing up the stairwell and knew it would be seconds before he’d again be facing the killers’ two-to-one advantage — with the two sporting automatics, as opposed to his meager kitchen knife. He realized he had to make a move. He bolted from the wall and dived for the gun just as the killer outside kicked the door in. The dead man’s body was blocking the door. The killer outside shoved the door inwards, pushing his friend’s corpse farther back into the room while reaching in and unleashing a barrage of gunfire that exploded all around Corben. Corben’s fingers reached the fallen gun just as several bullets bounced off the floor beside him. He managed to grab it and leapt out of the room, more shots splattering the jambs of the doorway inches from him.

He rushed through the darkened living room and ducked for cover behind Evelyn’s desk as several bullets crunched into its oak carcass. He peered out and unleashed a brief volley of his own, forcing the killer to duck behind the doorway. They were no more than fifteen feet apart. The living room was bathed in darkness, making it hard for either of them to get a clear shot at the other. Corben, at least, had the advantage of knowing the layout of the apartment. It would buy him a few extra seconds, which he needed if he was going to make it back to Mia.

Corben stole a glance at the gun he’d picked up. Even in the bare glimmer of light that was coming through from the edges of the curtains, he could tell that it was a SIG-Sauer, and more specifically a P226. Hardly the sleekest of designs, but a supremely accurate and reliable handgun. Corben processed the choice of weapon: These weren’t standard-issue Makarovs, which were a dime a dozen in the area. These guys — and whoever sent them — had access to, and funding for, some serious steel. He made a quick mental calculation of the shots he had left. Given that its double-column magazine held fifteen rounds, plus one in the chamber if one was really hell-bent on getting the maximum bang for one’s buck, and assuming the magazine was full before the corpse had shot up the door, which was a reasonably safe assumption, Corben guessed he could have maybe a half dozen rounds left.

At best.

He heard some clicks — the killer was trying the light switches, to no avail. The door scraped open and more footsteps entered the apartment. The third killer was here. Corben heard a brief, heated exchange between the two men — getting up to speed and planning their next move, no doubt — and decided to use that momentary distraction. Careful not to waste precious bullets, he loosed a couple of shots and rushed out from behind the desk, scurrying across the darkened room, and landing behind the large sofa that backed up to the balcony. Several muffled shots shattered the side table to his right and obliterated two picture frames that were on it. He didn’t return fire. He waited instead, straining his ears to hear if either of the intruders would step into his killing zone. They were too experienced for that and stayed tucked away behind the wall of the doorway. He could hear one of them reloading. Undeterred, he inched his way farther until he was facing the small hallway that led to the kitchen. He took a couple of deep breaths and sprinted across the open ground to it. Several shots cut through the air around him, but he kept going and ducked behind the wall as more shots bit into it. He returned fire and charged down the hallway to the kitchen, flinging the door open and slamming it shut behind him.

Mia had her back against the counter, riven with fear. Corben saw that she was clasping the file tightly across her chest. Her face lit up at the sight of him still in one piece and seemingly uninjured. She looked as if she had a mountain of questions for him, but now wasn’t the time for them and she knew it.

Corben stuffed the gun under his belt and grabbed hold of the large fridge. His face contorted and he grunted as he rattled it across the tiled floor, using it to block the kitchen door. He had it halfway across when bullets from the hallway tore through the door, either finding the back of the fridge or exploding against the back wall of the kitchen. Mia screamed as one of them hit the balcony door and punched a spiderweb of cracks through it. Corben yelled out to her, “Stay clear of the door,” and with a final grunt, he shoved the fridge into place. More shots came at them and pinged against it, but it held, shielded him and Mia from their onslaught.

The shooting paused, and heavy thuds came pounding the door from the hallway. The killers were trying to push it open, and the heavy fridge, though tough to budge, was giving way, inch by inch. Corben grabbed a chair and levered it between the edge of the fridge and a fat radiator, buying them some extra seconds, and without pausing for breath, he took the file from Mia and tucked it into the small of his back while shouting, “Come on.”

They dashed out onto the balcony. It was a small, narrow rectangle with clothes wires hanging across it lengthways. Corben knew from scoping it out that it backed up onto a mirror-image service balcony of the neighboring apartment. The two balconies were separated by a wall of thick glass blocks that went right up to the stuccoed parapet, which had a metal railing mounted on it.

He led Mia to the edge of the balcony. “Climb over,” he urged her, “I’ll give you a hand.”

She didn’t seem particularly thrilled by the prospect.

He darted a look back inside the kitchen. The fridge was teetering inwards with every loud shove of the door, the chair straining against the radiator. “Come on,” he insisted, “just climb over to the other side and don’t look down.” Advice that people in those situations always seemed to give, but that, of course, no one ever followed.

Not one to mess with tradition, Mia peered over the edge and glanced straight down. The courtyard at the rear of the building, a wasteland of crates and discarded building materials three floors below, seemed to drop even deeper.

Another jarring thud from inside convinced her.

She gritted her teeth and swung one leg over the parapet.