Without a doctor or an admin to command them, they hesitated. Any wrong move could get them killed.
If Ashur died—they died.
If Ashur killed the doctor—they died.
If Ashur survived—they still died.
So no one dared pull the trigger.
The elevator doors slid shut on their stunned faces.
The breath that had been stuck in my chest tore free. I sagged against the cold steel wall, panting. "What's your plan?"
Ashur rapped the ceiling, dumped the unconscious doctor in a corner, popped the rectangular hatch, and set it aside. I just stared. Calmly, he planted his hands on the opening and pulled himself up as if doing a pull-up.
Hanging there, he glanced down at me and said, hard and flat, "Stop it o… one floor before the top… or I get c… crushed."
I blinked at him, one hand pressed to my wrecked side. He hauled himself onto the roof and vanished. I glared at the doctor sprawled on the floor. If only we'd put a bullet in him sooner.
I locked onto the floor numbers. Ashur bent back over the hatch so I could hear him: "Draw them into the car. Surrender, step out—o… or you die."
I stared, breathing hard, chest hammering. My finger hovered over the panel. We had to halt before the top floor.
Give it two more minutes and I'd be sharper. Sweat slicked the back of my neck. I blinked through the dizziness. If Steven were still alive, this would all be easier. He was supposed to get us out of this cursed tower.
Numbers climbed. Hatch above. Button below. Heart in my mouth. Now. I slammed the halt button—
The elevator jolted viciously. My guts lurched into my throat. Dizzy, nauseous, I fixed on the doors. I knew there had to be dozens of armed men waiting on this level.
I raked a hand over my temple, shoved my hair back, forced myself upright.
The chime sounded—too bright, too calm—and the doors grated open.
I grabbed the doctor by the collar and hauled him up. His dead weight bent my spine; he was a corpse-heavy anchor that stole my breath. I craned my neck and peered through the crack. The doors finished opening.
More than ten giants in red tactical gear, visors down, rifles up, packed the hall behind shields.
My breath hitched. I dragged the doctor in front of me as a shield. Sweat trickled down my back; my knees shook; I burned inside and froze outside.
What was Ashur's play? Fight all of them? Odds: near zero.
I swallowed hard, eyes on the muzzles leveled at me, running scenarios. All of them failed—except one.
Ashur was right. I had to surrender. It was the only way to get out of the box.
I drew a deep breath, stared down the guns, and growled, "I surrender—and I hand him over. But if anyone fires, I snap his neck."
Sweat trickled down my temple. I locked onto the guard in front, the one crouched deepest behind his shield—he looked like the one in charge. He scanned the hall through his black glass visor, then motioned me out.
I let out a shaky breath. Looping my arms around the doctor's neck, I limped out of the elevator—slow, dragging him with me.