MirrorWorld by Jeremy Robinson Page B

security guards turn their heads, and guns, in my direction. I duck back as bullets punch into the backside of the metal door.
    The blind fire from the elevator continues until magazines run dry.
    In the moment of silence that follows, I heft Shiloh over one shoulder so I can run and fire at the same time. Holding her is a risk. She could get shot. But I’m willing to bet both our lives that the security guards won’t shoot at an unconscious woman. Me? I might. No, I would . But they’re not me.
    I lean against the corner wall of the T junction, poke my head around the corner, and fire two more missed shots into the elevator. A moment later, a second barrage tears up the hallway and the window at the end. When the firing stops, I step out into plain view, weapon raised, ready to charge into the elevator and finish things. But before I can, a door at the far end of the hall bursts open.
    Five soldiers in black armor, complete with helmets and face masks, storm into the hallway. They’re armed with laser-sighted MP5 submachine guns. I can’t beat them. Not now. But my gambit has paid off. They haven’t opened fire.
    Yet.
    That changes when the Documentum doors swing open and Katzman steps out. He points at me and shouts, “Kill him!”
    I turn and run.
    Bullets chase me, punching into the window ahead as they buzz past. Despite the order to kill me, the soldiers are obviously trying not to hit Shiloh. There’s a good chance she’s going to die anyway, but they haven’t left me with much choice. I put a few more holes in the now loose and sagging window, lower my shoulder, and slam into it like a hockey player against the boards.
    The abused pane bends outward, resists for a fraction of a second, and then gives way. Instead of punching through the glass, as planned, the window lifts up and falls beneath me as I leap out of the window. I land hard on my ass, feet forward, like a kid on the world’s biggest slide.
    Startled shouts pursue me but fade quickly as I begin my glass-on-glass carpet ride down a several-hundred-foot-long, forty-five-degree slope. The windows beneath shriek as we etch a path of scratches in our wake. Our escape is going to cost Neuro Inc. a lot of money, though I suspect the damage is a negligible expense compared to losing the contents of the syringe in my pocket.
    I lean forward, watching the ground quickly approach. Looks like a five-foot drop at the bottom, but the building is surrounded by a carpet of thick grass that should cushion our fall. Shiloh’s the lucky one. She’s as limp as a rag doll in my arms. Of course, I have no trouble staying loose, either. A lack of fear means that I’m free of the thirtysomething hormones dumped into the body when afraid. My muscles are relaxed. My heart rate is regular. There’s no tunnel vision, meaning I’m still able to focus on the larger picture, planning moves in advance, rather than just reacting.
    With five stories to go, an explosion blows out the third-floor window directly below us. I glance up. Katzman is above us, shouting into a two-way radio, no doubt directing the unit waiting for us below.
    When we reach the fourth-floor window, with just a moment to spare, I roll hard to the left, throwing myself over Shiloh and then yanking her back on top of me. We whip past the open window and the startled faces of the team waiting to put a bullet in my head.
    Our descent slows thanks to the friction created by my jeans and the soles of my feet. When we reach the bottom, I have time to sit up, get Shiloh into my arms, and inch over the edge. I land on the grass, bending at the knees to keep Shiloh from being jolted too hard—again. If she wakes up anytime soon, she’s going to hurt.
    Better than being held prisoner or kept in a tube.
    With the woman over my shoulder again, I glance up. No one in sight. Not a single man is willing to follow my escape route. I dig into my pocket, remove Winters’s keys, and push the lock button. A distant horn