The scrape came again, then silence.
Corbin stood by the back door, listening. Vance waited beside him.
Corbin reached for the handle. Vance caught his forearm. "Wait."
"What?"
Vance pointed up. A dark shape crossed one of the second-floor windows.
"Mercer?"
"Maybe. Or a welcome committee."
Vance released his grip. "Gun's up top. You want me to take point?"
"You don't know his patterns."
"Neither do you."
"Enough."
Corbin turned the knob and pushed.
The hinges groaned in the dark alley. They stepped into a hallway that smelled of stale dust, rotting paper, and something sharp underneath.
"Smell that?" Vance whispered.
"Yes. Rust, mostly."
"Blood. Old blood."
They moved past stripped offices, broken exam tables, equipment under plastic sheeting. Corbin stopped in front of an examination room: a cot against the wall, a bottle of water half full, tins of food, a portable stove, a blanket folded with care.
"Someone's living here," Vance said.
"Recently, and carefully. He wanted to be found only if he chose to be."
A door slammed upstairs. They climbed the concrete stairwell without a sound.
At the top, a voice cut through the dark. "Don't move."
Corbin froze. Vance raised his hands.
"Hands where I can see them," the voice said.
"We're not here to—" Vance started.
"Let him talk," Corbin said quietly.
A man stepped out of a doorway, handgun steady. Thinner than his file photos, with a messy beard and rough clothes, eyes sharp and unblinking.
"I know you," Mercer said, the barrel on Corbin.
"Probably."
"You were hired to kill me, and you didn't. I want to know why before I decide whether to shoot you."
"Ask him." Corbin nodded toward Vance. "He's the reason I stopped."
Mercer's finger tightened on the trigger. "Then why are you standing here?"
"Because I'm standing between you and the stairs. Your move."
"And before he stopped you?"
"Before that," Corbin said evenly, "you were work."
Mercer shifted his eyes. "Who are you?"
"I had a contract on Corbin," Vance said evenly. "Vale's people hired me to kill the man sent to kill you."
Mercer let out a short laugh. "So he was hired to kill me, you were hired to kill him, and now you're both standing in my doorway like old friends."
"It makes sense if you know who paid," Corbin said. "The same man paid for all of it."
Mercer's gaze hardened. "Vale."
"You know him."
"I know more than his name." The gun lowered an inch.
"Then lower it another," Corbin said.
"Give me a reason."
"Because if I wanted you dead, you'd be dead."
Mercer stared at him for a long moment. Then he lowered the gun the rest of the way.
Footsteps pounded up the stairs behind them.
"They found me," Mercer muttered.
"How many?"
"Too many."
A gunshot shattered the air. Plaster exploded off the wall beside Mercer's head. He ducked into the doorway; glass broke somewhere below.
"Move!" Corbin hauled Vance down.
"Left's clear!" Corbin shouted.
"Right's hot!" Vance fired again.
More fire from the stairwell. Corbin drew his sidearm, leaned around the corner, and fired twice. The muzzle flash lit the hallway — two shooters on the stairs, one already down.
"How many?" Vance called.
"I'm down to eleven rounds."
"Make them count."
"East side exit!" Mercer shouted.
"Lead!"
"Through here!" Mercer pointed down the service corridor.
"You sure?"
"Run anyway!"
They ran a service corridor, bullets punching through the drywall behind them. At the end stood a heavy steel door.
"It's jammed."
"You said this was an exit!"
"It was! I haven't had time to maintain the building!"
"There's a fire door at the end of the hall!" Mercer shouted. "I think!"
"You think?"
"It's been a while!"
"Maintenance is not the issue here!" Vance shouted, firing behind them.
Corbin stepped up. "Get back."
He threw his shoulder against the frame. The deadbolt cracked. He hit it a second time and the door flew open.
They spilled into the alley and ran for Vance's car.
"Keys," Corbin said.
"I'm driving."
"You can't shoot and drive."
"I can drive."
Headlights flashed. A black SUV rounded the corner, blocking the street.
"Down!" Vance dragged Mercer behind a parked sedan.
Corbin fired through the SUV's windshield. The driver swerved. Return fire filled the alley — muzzle flashes, shattering glass.
"How many?" Vance called out.
"Four in the truck!" Mercer shouted.
"More at the back door," Corbin said. "Watch our six."
"I see them."
"On three."
"Plan?"
"Get to the car. I'll cover."
"My car's in the garage," Mercer said.
"Your car's gone," Corbin said. "They were waiting for you to run to it."
Corbin fired twice, dropping a shooter near the back door. Vance dropped another near the SUV. They ducked back as return fire chewed the sedan's hood.
The SUV lurched forward to pin them against the wall.
"Blocked!" Vance shouted.
"Tires." Corbin fired three times into the front left wheel. Vance fired at the right.
The tires blew. The SUV skidded sideways into the brick wall.
Vance slammed the gas. They shot past the wreck, fishtailed onto the main road, and merged into traffic.
Mercer twisted in his seat. "Still behind us?"
"Working on it." Vance checked the rearview. "The SUV is dead, but two sedans just turned onto the road."
"Neither are we," Corbin said.
They wove through three lanes, taking quick turns until the headlights behind them vanished.
Silence. Vance checked the mirror again. "Clean?"
"For now."
Then Mercer leaned forward between the seats. "You really have no idea what you just stepped into. If they found me at the clinic, they already knew my movements. Which means they know who you are now, both of you."
"We need a place they don't know about," Corbin said.
"That's going to be tough," Mercer said.
Corbin gave a faint smile. "I was getting bored anyway."
Mercer stared at him. "You're joking."
"No," Vance said from the front seat. "He isn't."