Black Order by James Rollins Page B

strain.
    “I…I think so.”
    She hung a moment longer, not moving.
    The rough edges of the hole tore at his fingers. “Fiona…”
    She trembled against him, then worked her way around to his back. Once moving, she climbed quickly, planting a toe into his belt, then pushing off his shoulder. She was through the hole with all the agility of a spider monkey.
    Below, a bonfire of books and shelving raged.
    Gray gladly hauled himself up after her, worming through the hole and beaching himself on the floor. He was in the center of a hallway. Rooms spread out in either direction.
    “Fire’s up here, too,” Fiona whispered, as if afraid to attract the flames’ attention.
    Rolling to his feet, Gray saw the flickering glow from the back half of the apartment. Smoke choked these halls, even thicker than below.
    “C’mon,” he said. It was still a race.
    Gray hurried down the hall away from the fire. He ended at one of the boarded upper windows. He peeked between two slats. Sirens could be heard in the distance. People gathered in the street below: onlookers and gawkers. And surely hidden among them was a gunman or two.
    Gray and the girl would be exposed if they tried climbing out the window.
    Fiona studied the crowd, too. “They won’t let us leave, will they?”
    “Then we’ll get out on our own.”
    Gray backed away and searched up. He pictured the attic dormer window he’d spotted earlier from the street. They needed to reach the roof.
    Fiona understood his intention. “There’s a pull-down ladder in the next room.” She led the way. “I would come up here to read sometimes when Mutti…” Fiona’s voice cracked, and her words died.
    Gray knew the girl would be haunted by the death of her grandmother for a long time. He put his arm around her shoulder, but she shrugged out of it angrily and stepped away.
    “Over here,” she said and entered what once must have been a sitting room. Now it held only a few crates and a faded, ripped sofa.
    Fiona pointed to a frayed rope hanging from the ceiling, attached to a trapdoor in the roof.
    Gray tugged it down, and a collapsible wooden ladder slid to the floor. He climbed first, followed by Fiona.
    The attic was unfinished: just insulation, rafters, and rat droppings. The only light came from a pair of dormer windows. One faced the front street, the other toward the back. Thin smoke filled the space, but so far no flames.
    Gray decided to try the rear window. It faced west, leaving the roof in shadow this time of day. Also, that side of the row house was on fire. Their attackers might be less attentive to it.
    Gray hopped from rafter to rafter. He could feel the heat from below. One section of insulation was already smoldering, the fiberglass melting.
    Reaching the window, Gray checked below. The roof pitch was such that he could not see into the courtyard behind the shop. And if he couldn’t see them, they couldn’t see him. Additionally, smoke roiled up from the broken windows below, offering additional cover.
    For once, the fire was to their advantage.
    Still, Gray stood well to the side as he unhooked the window latch and pushed it open. He waited. No gunshots. Sirens could now be heard converging on the street outside.
    “Let me go first,” Gray whispered in Fiona’s ear. “If all’s clear—”
    A low roar erupted behind them.
    They both turned. A tongue of flame shot out of the heart of the burning insulation, licking high, cracking and smoking. They were out of time.
    “Follow me,” Gray said.
    He edged out the window, staying low. It was wonderfully cool out on the roof, the air crisp after the perpetual stifle.
    Buoyed by the escape, Gray tested the roof tiles. The pitch was steep, but he had good grip with his boots. With care, walking was manageable. He stepped away from the shelter of the window and aimed for the roofline to the north. Ahead, the gap between the row houses was less than three feet. They should be able to leap the