Chapter 9: Fire Drill

Ray had Nico's wrist in his hand before the second ring.

"Shoes," he said. "Jacket. Bag."

"It's a drill," Nico said, even as he grabbed them. "Isn't it?"

"The building posted nothing about one."

The lights in the corridor were flashing white.

Doors opened up and down the hall.

People came out in socks and bathrobes, carrying dogs and laptops and one small child in a blanket.

A recorded voice said, "Please proceed to the nearest stairwell."

Ray did not like stairwells.

He liked them least of all with a hundred strangers in them and thirty-one floors to go.

But the elevators were locked, and he had no choice.

"Stay on my left," he said. "Keep your hand on my belt. If I say down, you drop."

"Okay."

"Nico."

"I'm listening." Nico's face was pale and steady. "I've got you."

They joined the stream on the stairs.

The air was warm and loud, full of coughing and complaints, and the concrete steps rang under a hundred pairs of feet.

Ray watched the people ahead and the people behind.

They passed the twenty-eighth floor, then the twenty-fifth.

At twenty-two, the line stopped.

Something at the front had jammed.

Ray pulled Nico flat against the wall and looked up and down the stairwell.

Above them, two flights up, a man in a long yellow fireman's coat was coming down against the traffic.

He pushed through the crowd with his shoulder, one hand on the rail, with a helmet pulled low over his eyes.

Real firemen came up the stairs, not down.

Ray saw that, and then he saw the boots.

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