Money Run (11 page)

The security guard turned to face him as he approached. Not suspicious, but alert. “Can I help you?” he asked.

“I hope so,” Peachey said, smiling apologetically. “Can you tell me where—”

He slammed his gloved fist into the guard's face, and the guard's head thumped back against the wall. He slid to the floor, already losing consciousness as Peachey grabbed the gun with one hand and prepared to deal a fatal blow with the other.

A gentle scrape of shoes against expensive carpet. Peachey whirled around.

The girl was standing right there, mouth open, dripping wet. Like she'd just climbed out of a bathtub. And staring at him like
he
was the one who looked bizarre.

Peachey aimed the Beretta.

The girl sprinted around the corner, and his first shot missed, a puff of woodchips bursting from the wall.

“Ash! What the hell was that?”

Ash didn't have the breath to answer. She was running faster than she'd ever run before. The other thief, the one who'd told her he was going to kill her, was hot on her heels. Armed, dangerous and, by the look of things, really, really angry.

With a raspy snap, another bullet hit a wall as she raced past it. She pulled her head down as low as she could without sacrificing speed. A minute ago, she had thought she had only hours to live while a vicious strain of anthrax ate her from the inside out. Now, she might have only seconds.

She didn't look back. No doubt the thief would be there, and from her limited knowledge of guns she assumed he had at least six shots left. Probably eight, possibly ten. Plus whatever spare mags he was carrying. Although he didn't have a gun when I knocked him out, Ash thought. Therefore the gun he just stole from the security guard is probably his only firearm, and I didn't see him take the guard's spare ammo.

Ash didn't think she could keep dodging bullets until he ran out. And even if she could, without the element of surprise she couldn't take him in a fight. He looked as if he was capable of tearing her in half. Ash's thoughts flashed back to his outburst when he'd been handcuffed to Buckland's desk. I'll kill you, he had said. You hear me? You're dead!

So that left one plan. Outrun him. Keep sprinting until she was out of his sight. Find a hiding place, wait for him to go past, then double back.

Ash was a fast runner. She could do 100 metres in 13.3 seconds. There was the chance that the other thief was just as good, or maybe even better – but she weighed less. There was a difference of at least 30 kilograms, and that would give her more agility. So in these winding corridors, she had the advantage.

Snap!
A yelp escaped her lips as another bullet skidded across the wall. It must have nearly touched her. Her heart battered against her ribs, spurred by an even mix of fear and exertion.

“Ash! Are you okay?”

Ash didn't like keeping Benjamin in the dark, but that was the last thing she should be worried about right now. I'm dying either way, she rationalized. He doesn't need to know that someone is trying to speed up the process.

The stairwell door was coming up. Ash hoped the thief had lost ground rather than gained it, because the door would slow her down. It would be a perfect opportunity for him to take a shot. But it was worth the risk – the stairs would play to her strengths, and if she didn't take them, she'd run out of corridor very soon.

Ash slammed her hand against the door. It pushed open with a groan. She threw herself through the gap, bashing her shoulder painfully against the frame in her hurry to dodge a bullet that might or might not be coming.

She didn't hear a shot. She jumped down the first flight of stairs, pirouetted on the landing, and started running down the second flight.

The stairwell was gritty and rough. The grey-brown stone walls were almost craggy, like the inside of a mine shaft. The stairs themselves were thick metal slabs that rang like the lowest key on a grand piano with every step she took.

There was a crash from above as the man shoved the stairwell door against the wall. Ash heard the crack of his shoes against the landing, and kept moving. Jump, turn. Jump, turn.

There was a ping as a shot from above hit the railing, and Ash snatched her hand away from it mid-turn. The bullet ricocheted into the ceiling, cracking the concrete. Bad news and good news, Ash thought. The good news is that he probably slowed down, or even stopped, to take that shot. The bad news is that he's firing so regularly that he probably has ten more shots rather than four.

The floor 20 door swept past. Ash could hear more booms from up above as the other thief jumped down flight after flight of stairs. But he was falling behind. Her decision to take the stairs had been a good one.

Floor 16. Floor 15.

No more shots came from above. The other thief must have lost sight of her. But Ash figured she shouldn't leave the stairwell before he was at least five flights behind her. That way he wouldn't see the door swinging closed, and wouldn't know which floor she was on. She'd be safe, at least for a while.

If she tried to leave now, he would follow her out onto the floor. Too open, no cover. And there was always the chance that someone was working late – Ash didn't want to drag innocents into the line of fire.

Floor 6. Floor 5.

The crashing up above had stopped. Ash kept running, but the silence worried her. What was he doing?

Like the tuneless tolling of a misshapen bell, Ash heard the handrail sing through the well. It was the sound of the thief's shoes against the metal.

He was climbing down the inside of the stairwell, bypassing the stairs completely.

No. He was
jumping
down.

Ash looked up, and saw the thief's legs appear against the rail four landings above her. She jumped down another flight of stairs, and he dropped down another complete floor. Now only three landings separated them. She jumped again, and so did he. Now only two.

Her insides twisted up. Her vision seemed to scramble at the edges, like a fast-forwarded video. It was like being trapped inside a nightmare, one where she was running as fast as she could and looking for a place to hide but every time she looked over her shoulder the monster was a little closer…

Ash looked down into the well. She was only two floors above the basement, where the stairs ended.

The thief took another jump. He was one landing above her, and he could see her. He was still holding the gun, and he pointed it at her. His face was as expressionless as that of an artist choosing his next shade of paint, or a chef staring through the oven door. Like this was what he was best at, and he felt absolutely nothing when he was doing it.

There was no time to prepare herself. No spare second for a deep breath, or even a rethinking of what she was about to do. She reacted purely on instinct, her mind paralysed with fear but her body moving like a well-programmed machine. She dived sideways over the rail, and tumbled down through the centre of the stairwell as the bullet whizzed over her head.

Her organs lurched inside her. In the second before impact, she tried to relax all her joints so she wouldn't break or dislocate any of her bones.

She landed like a laundry bag filled with clothes – flat, hard, graceless. The pain smacked out across her skin like an electric shock. The air exploded out of her. But the adrenaline muted the worst of it, and there was no time to rest. With no more landings to run down, Ash ran for the basement door, ripped it open, and forced it shut behind her.

She looked around. A few dozen cars sat among hundreds of neat rows, mostly sedans, mostly white. Ash couldn't see anyone around. These cars were probably here for the night.

She balled her hands into fists. Where could she hide? He would look behind the support pillars. He would look underneath the cars. If he was a professional thief, he might even look behind the stairwell door as he came through.

Ash had only seconds to decide. Any moment now, he would crash through the door, see her standing there in plain sight, point his pistol at her skull and pull the trigger—

Ash ran. Towards the spots reserved for the company executives. The man might look under the cars, but he might not look inside every single one. She pulled Buckland's keys from her pocket, pushed a button, and heard the
chup-chup
of doors unlocking – the doors of a Bugatti Veyron.

Ash's knowledge of cars was limited, so the fact that she'd heard of the Bugatti Veyron was significant. She'd once tried to steal one from a media tycoon. Only three hundred were ever made, and they cost about $2 million each – if you were lucky enough to be invited to purchase one. The Veyron was a two-seater sports car, which could travel at speeds of more than 400 kilometres per hour, with acceleration exceeding that of any other land vehicle. It had a sleek spaceship-like profile, the strength of a light tank, and looked blurred with speed even when it was sitting still. Ash wondered why Buckland even owned one, given that he was chauffeured everywhere in a stretch limo. Probably trying to dispose of all that excess cash, she thought.

She jumped in, shut the door, and locked it. She lay down across the front seats, staying as still and silent as she could. She knew the odds of the man seeing or hearing her through the tinted windows were minimal, but her life was at stake. She wasn't taking any chances.

She heard the stairwell door open, and swing slowly shut. Then there was a painfully long silence.

Why is he still hunting me? she thought. Why not go back to searching for the loot?

She tried not to imagine bullets smashing the windows, outstretched hands pushing inside the car, gripping her ankles, dragging her out, squeezing tight around her throat so she couldn't breathe.

It didn't work.

A crash echoed out across the car park. It could have been a door slamming or a gun firing or the hard rubber sole of a loafer kicking against one of the pillars. The vast space stretched out the sound until it was completely alien.

Ash held her breath, listening for more sounds, but couldn't hear anything over her own heartbeat. She hoped the thief wasn't a car nut. If he was, he might be drawn to the Veyron like a moth to a floodlight. And if he pressed his face against the windscreen, tinted or not, he might see her lying flat across the seats.

“Ash?”

Ash jumped. Benjamin's voice was surprisingly loud in her ear, and it stripped at her already frayed nerves.

“Yes,” she whispered. “I'm here.”

“What's happening?”

“The other thief got loose. He got a gun from a security guard and chased me down to the basement. I'm hiding in Hammond Buckland's car.”

“Holy crap! Are you hurt?”

“No,” Ash said. “Not yet. Tell me about anthrax.”

“You think now's the best moment for that?”

“I could be dead before there's a better one,” Ash whispered. “I'm running out of time, Benjamin. Tell me what you know.”

Benjamin sounded hesitant. “I've been researching it. But there's not a lot of good news.”

“Tell me anyway. I need to know what I'm up against.”

“Okay,” Benjamin said. “Anthrax is a virus that gestates in rotten meat. It's weaponized by a process I can't find out much about. It isn't transmitted from person to person, so you're not contagious. It presents in normal flu symptoms at first, and then kills you fairly quickly. Mild exposure to weak strains can be successfully treated with antibiotics if you get them right away. But you've probably suffered a fatal dose.”

“What antibiotics do I need?”

“Lots. Large doses of several different kinds. But if you can get out of the building, you'll be able to get them.”

“How?” Ash asked. “Where?”

“Well, I've been watching the news, and there's a TRA van parked outside HBS. They've sealed off the block, and there are people in hazard suits walking around.”

“You didn't call TRA, did you?”

“Of course not. Someone else must have found the anthrax upstairs.”

Ash shut her eyes. Someone else had been exposed.

“So you think that they might have the drugs I need?” she asked.

“It's unlikely that they already know what the threat is. And the chances are minimal that the strain is so mild that such exposure as severe as yours is treatable. But I think it's your best shot. Except…”

“Except what?”

Benjamin paused. Ash could picture his furrowed brow, his white knuckles. I might never see him again, she thought.

“Except that they're not letting anyone out of the building,” he said finally. “They've sealed the surrounding area, and they're telling everyone in HBS to lock themselves in the offices and switch off the air-conditioning to reduce air circulation. Once the quarantine is complete, they're going to come in, find the threat, analyse it, and then start processing everyone for treatment.”

Ash took a deep breath. “So you're saying that I'll be dead, or beyond help, by the time they're dispensing drugs.”

“Well…yes.”

“But…” Ash drummed her fingers against her leg. “But if I can get out of the building somehow, they might have the right drugs in the van, and I could steal them.”

“They've blocked off every exit,” Benjamin said. “The building itself is surrounded by news cameras. How are you going to get out?”

“You'll see,” Ash said. She didn't know herself, yet. But she would think of something. She had to think of something.

Ash didn't notice the moisture welling up in her eyes until her breathing became constricted. Her nose was running and her chest was tight and then suddenly she was gripping the handbrake so fiercely that her knuckles were white and the tears were flooding down her face. She tried to hold it in, but succeeded only in muffling it, so her sobs were only silent shuddering breaths.

There was no way out of this. The odds were insurmountable. And there was no one else to blame. I made my own bed, she thought, and now I have to die in it.