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  Hutch anticipated Page taking the most direct route to Logan. He moved his aim to a point along that path. If those archers he had told Dillon about could hit aspirins and dimes flying through the air, certainly Hutch could hit a running man. He hoped.

  He didn’t have to wait long for the answer.

  Page bolted out of the doorway, heading directly for Logan. With the police coming, Hutch had figured Page would take the direct route. The surprise—Page’s “unpredictability factor”—came in the form of a machine gun in Page’s hands. The man began firing at Hutch as soon as his feet hit the rooftop. Apparently he had spotted Hutch in the few seconds when the helmet had shown itself. Hutch had suspected the helmets were equipped with electronic optics that enhanced the wearer’s vision. This proved it.

  He gauged Page’s trajectory and let the arrow fly.

  Page ducked. The arrow glanced off his helmet. The hit, however ineffectual, got Page to stop his dash for Logan.

  His son was hanging lower than the parapet wall at the roof’s edge, out of Page’s line of fire. Page braced his legs and took careful aim at Hutch.

  His weapon appeared to be a machine pistol. Designed for close-quarter combat, its long-range accuracy was poor. Bullets shattered the Plexiglas panel beside Hutch, sparked off of the scaffold frame, and blew chunks of concrete from the building’s facade. Even before the last arrow had struck Page’s helmet, Hutch had begun the movements required to fire again: arrow from quiver to bowstring . . . fingers in place . . . aim . . . shoot.

  The arrow sailed over Page’s shoulder.

  . . . arrow from quiver to bowstring . . .

  Page yanked the magazine out of the bottom of his weapon.

  . . . fingers in place . . .

  Page retrieved another magazine from a pouch at his waist.

  . . . aim . . .

  Page fired. Starbursts flashed from the barrel. Bullets zipped past Hutch. A fist punched into his right calf. A branding iron seared into it. He gritted his teeth, concentrating on keeping all of his muscles and thoughts locked on one objective.

  Hutch shot.

  Page saw it coming. He twisted his body away. The arrow pierced his bicep and continued into his side. For a few moments, he stood, staring at his arm pinned to his torso. He dropped to his knees, then onto his helmeted face.

  Julian pounded on the control room door. He stared into the camera that transmitted his image to the people inside.

  The intercom crackled. Colonel Bryson’s voice came through. “Go away, Julian. I’m up to my eyeballs right now.”

  “But—”

  “Go away.”

  He pounded and pushed the buzzer, but the intercom had said everything it was going to.

  The door was at the top of a flight of stairs inside a building that housed the Void—the virtual reality room—and the facilities that serviced it: a locker room, briefing rooms, programming workstations, and a climate-controlled environment for servers and computers. The control room was windowless, except for the one that looked into the Void.

  Julian’s security badge granted him access to the building and some of the rooms, but not the control room. Whenever he wanted to observe, Colonel Bryson would let him in. Except tonight.

  Giving the camera one last glance, Julian stepped away from the door and started down the stairs.

  SIXTY-FIVE

  The bow nearly dropped out of Hutch’s hand. He leaned forward into a metal bar and gulped cold air into his lungs. He wasn’t sure how long he had been holding his breath. Before his first shot at Page, out of habit he would have released half the air in his lungs and held his breath. The procedure minimized the transference of movement from his body into the bow. He didn’t remember pulling in air between shots. The oxygen now quenched his aching lungs.

  He slipped the bow over his head and let it rest against his back. He raised his leg. His jeans were ripped, and a dark stain was spreading. He touched the wound. A white-hot wire of pain shot up his leg. Rotating his ankle caused less-intense shooting pains, like the wire wasn’t so hot, smaller in gauge. The bone wasn’t broken, no major arteries severed. He’d hurt himself worse falling out of trees.

  He glanced over at Logan, barely visible.

  I’m coming, son.

  On the street below him, another cruiser had parked at the corner by an entrance. Hutch had not noticed its arrival. He saw no one moving around in Larry’s office, peering out to find the source of the machine-gun fire. They had probably stopped in the stairwell to figure out what Michael was doing sitting next to an unconscious security guard. No doubt the kid was keeping their hands full.

  He leaned, getting his foot on the brace under the one he was sitting on. He swung his other leg over and slipped the bow bag’s strap over his shoulder. Standing, he tested his injured leg. An invisible knife jabbed at his calf, but the leg functioned. He started to descend the balconies.

  Movement caught his eye, and he stopped. He pulled himself up again, and there . . . Page was moving. He had crawled several feet toward the edge of the roof, where the wall concealed the upper half of his body. As Hutch watched, Page’s legs pulled in, and he was completely gone. He would be able to crawl like that, safely out of reach from Hutch’s arrows, all the way to Logan. Leave it to Page to make killing a child his last act on this earth. He would do it to have the last word in his struggle with Hutch.

  Hutch gripped the vertical brace that formed the outside corner of the scaffold structure. He began sliding down it. His feet and arms knocked into and over each brace. Where he encountered tinted panels, he plunged down, slowing himself again under them. He was thinking about the bottom of the scaffold—how it was positioned above the tall first floor of the building and what he was going to do when he reached it—when the scaffold ended and he fell. He landed in grass. The jabs in his injured leg became a sledgehammer blow. He tumbled. The upper limb of the bow cracked into the back of his head.

  But before he had fully stopped, he was up, limping over the sidewalk into the street. A kaleidoscope of red and blue lights from cruisers streaked over his face and the building in front of him. Sirens heralded the approach of more cops. He picked up his pace but didn’t want to be seen running.

  As if the bow and arrows strung over my back aren’t enough to make them stop me, he thought. Or chase him. Nothing would stop him from getting to that roof.

  He examined his fingers, where the broadheads had sliced them. One fingernail was split in half, from cuticle to tip. Blood oozed from it and from several other cuts. He shook it off.

  The glass door of the building had been kept from locking shut with a security guard’s hat. No one sat behind the security desk. Hutch didn’t look behind it. Ignoring the pain in his leg as much as he could, he ran through the lobby and down a corridor to the stairway door. He did not know how many soldiers Page had brought with him, and he wasn’t taking precautions to avoid an ambush. If they were lying in wait, he hoped his speed would throw them off. He realized it was naive thinking, but all he wanted to do was save Logan.

  Can’t do that if you’re dead, he heard Laura say in his head.

  Shhh.

  He pulled the door open and raced—hobbled—up the stairs, only vaguely aware of the doors he passed. He’d already witnessed one ambush through such a door tonight—Michael’s attack on the guard. It would be his own stupid fault if one of Page’s men nailed him.

  Inexplicably, he recalled a scene from a Charles Bronson movie. The way he remembered it, Bronson had some bad guy boss by the neck, and he was pinned down by a horde of the guy’s minions. Bronson, being Bronson, put a bullet in the boss’s head. He tossed the body where the minions could see it and said, “Your boss is dead. Go home.” And they did. They just walked away.

  He doubted it would work with Outis soldiers, but he still felt the compulsion to yell Go home! Your boss is dead!

  Or will be soon enough, Hutch thought. As he climbed, he pulled the bow off his back, plucked the ar
row from the quiver, and nocked it onto the string. Passing a door marked 6, he thought of the ballistic vest in the bag. No time. He pulled the bag around to his front and yanked on the strap so the bag hung over his chest. He reached the roof door and burst through it.

  Page was at the window cleaner’s rig. He had pulled himself up and was leaning over the parapet, reaching out for the rope with his uninjured arm. He held a knife.

  “Page! Stop!” Hutch yelled.

  Page’s helmet swiveled around. He held the machine pistol in his other hand. His upper arm was skewered to his body, but he managed to bend it at the elbow and fire. Bullets marched along the roof toward Hutch, kicking up gravel. Page corrected his aim. Holes opened up in the roof door, the wall behind Hutch.

  Hutch shot the arrow. It struck the roof at Page’s feet, skipped, and pinged off the window-cleaning equipment.

  Page’s gun jammed or ran out of bullets. He dropped it, turned, and lunged for the rope with his knife. His feet kicked and pushed. He was inches from cutting away Logan’s life.

  Hutch tossed aside the bow and ran. The knife tip touched the rope, and Hutch hit Page full force and shoved. The man went over. He plunged without a sound, clutching the knife all the way down. The helmet hit the sidewalk first. It made the sound of a gunshot and shattered. Hutch was pretty sure all the debris that flew away wasn’t only pieces of helmet.

  SIXTY-SIX

  Hutch reached out for his son, touched the top of his head. He said, “Logan, Logan, it’s me, it’s Dad. I’m here, son. It’s okay.”

  Logan twisted, his eyes rolling to see Hutch. His feet slipped off the ledge and he swung away. He squealed through the tape over his mouth.

  “You’re okay,” Hutch said. “I’ll get you.”

  The rope was frayed where the knife had cut it. It was made of black nylon and appeared strong, even at the fray. Hutch tracked the rope to where it was attached to the platform. Steps led from the platform to the roof. He pushed back from the parapet and stood. He surveyed the roof, as much of it as he could see in the darkness. He listened for noises. As far as he could tell, no one waited to catch him off guard. He slipped the bag over his head and dropped it on the roof. He mounted the platform, sprawled on his stomach, and grabbed the rope. He pulled it up, hand over hand. He groaned with the strain, and was glad the bullet had hit his leg and not an arm.

  “You’re getting heavy, kid,” he said between breaths. “No more Big Macs for you.”

  He got hold of Logan’s arms and tugged him up onto the platform. He resisted the urge to squeeze and hold and cry over his boy. Instead he took him in his arms and carried him to the roof.

  Okay, he thought. Now I can squeeze and hold and cry over him.

  He set Logan down. Their eyes locked. Tears streamed out of Logan’s.

  Hutch cupped Logan’s face in his hand. “I know, I know. I got you. You’re safe.” He got a finger under the tape and yanked it off.

  “Daddy!” Logan said. “Oh, Daddy . . . Daddy!”

  Hutch kissed him on his cheeks, his nose, his chin, his forehead. He squeezed him in his arms. He had to force himself to break away.

  “Hey, you know,” he said, “it’s kind of cool, you tied up like this. I get to kiss you all I want.” He smiled and wiped tears out of his own eyes. “But I guess that’s kind of unfair, huh? Hold on a sec.” He started to stand.

  Logan grabbed his arm. “No, Daddy, don’t go!”

  “Look, my arrow’s right there, on the roof. I’m going to cut you free with it. Okay?”

  Logan looked. He tried to say something, but could only hitch in short breaths. He moaned and released Hutch’s arm.

  Hutch ran his hand over Logan’s hair, pressed it against the side of his face. “I’m so sorry, Logan. I am. I . . .” He stood, retrieved the arrow, and returned. He sat in front of Logan and sawed at the rope with the broadhead.

  “You’re . . . you’re bleeding,” Logan said. He was looking at Hutch’s knuckles.

  “That’s nothing. Look at this.” He shifted his leg to show Logan the bloody pant leg. “It’s not too bad either, really. You’re bleeding too.”

  The rope had fallen away, revealing torn, bleeding wrists. The skin around them was red and bruised. Hutch held one of Logan’s hands and gently fingered the flesh surrounding the wound. “Can you move your wrists?”

  Logan did. He tried to lift an arm. His face twisted up. “My arms and shoulders,” he cried out.

  “No kidding,” Hutch said. “Hanging like that, I can just . . .” He rocked up onto his knees, leaned into Logan, and hugged him. He ran his hands over the boy’s back and head.

  Logan felt so good, so alive. He pressed his palm into his son’s shoulder blade until he felt Logan’s heart beating under it.

  Logan encircled his arm around Hutch and pressed his face into his chest. “I thought I was going to die,” he said. “Then I saw you on that thing across the street, getting shot at. I thought you were going to die too.” He started crying again, deep sobs.

  Hutch didn’t have anything to say that his embrace couldn’t say better. After a while, they released each other. Hutch stood, then sat down again. “I just want to look at you a minute longer, that okay?”

  Logan nodded. He used his fingers to wipe his eyes and nose. He rubbed his fingers on his pants. He prodded his lips gingerly. “I can’t feel them,” he said.

  Hutch nodded. “You’re a handsome boy, you know that?”

  Logan shrugged, grimacing as he did. “I heard Abbie Walters told one of her friends I was.”

  “She did? Who’s this Abbie girl? Do you like her?”

  Another shrug, another grimace.

  Hutch slapped Logan’s knee. “Hey, I was just kidding. About Big Macs, I mean. You can have anything you want. Really, you name it.”

  “Okay,” Logan said. He blinked slowly.

  “Tired?”

  “Dead . . .” He frowned. “I mean, really tired.”

  Hutch hoisted himself up. He walked behind Logan, put his hands under his son’s arms, and helped him up. “Can you walk?”

  Logan appeared a bit shaky, but he began walking slowly toward the roof door. “I’m all right,” he said.

  Hutch picked up the bow bag and caught up with Logan. He put the arrow inside and slipped the strap over his head.

  “Hey,” Logan said, pointing.

  The bag had a perfectly round hole in it, the size of a dime. Hutch reached in and pulled out the ballistic vest. He held it up, turned it around. Near the edge was a larger circle where the covering material had been torn away, exposing wire mesh.

  “Wow,” Logan said.

  “I guess these things work.” Hutch felt around the inside the bag and held up a flattened slug.

  “Keep it,” Logan said. “It’s cool.”

  Hutch nodded. He dropped the slug into his pocket. He replaced the vest, picked up the bow, and pushed it into the bag. At the door, he gripped the arrow that was sticking out of the frame and worked it loose. It went into the bag. He played his eyes over the rooftop, not sure what he thought he’d find.

  More to himself, he said, “Leave it to Brendan Page to come alone.”

  “There were two of them,” Logan said.

  Hutch’s stomach tightened. He willed himself to relax. If the other soldier were around and wanted to hurt them, he’d had plenty of chance to do it by now. He said, “I guess the cops scared him off.”

  “His name was Emile,” Logan said. “He picked up the older guy earlier today. I was in . . .” He started to cry again.

  It was all so right there, so fresh, Hutch thought. He rubbed his son’s back and said, “It’s okay. You don’t have to talk about it.”

  “They tied me up in the back of a van, with dead bodies.” Logan dropped his head, covered his face.

  Hutch held him. He had hoped to bring a little normality back to Logan with the casual chitchat about Big Macs and how handsome the young ladies thought he was. If only things
were that easy.

  Naive me, he thought. I have a lot to learn about so many things. Two of them were his kids. For their father, he didn’t know nearly enough about them. Laura’s and Dillon’s smiling faces appeared on the screen of his mind, fading in like in a Hallmark commercial. Yeah, them too. This time it was Page who left a void in his obsessed personality. Hutch wouldn’t mind at all if these four people filled it. That was an obsession he could handle.

  “Do we have to talk to the cops?” Logan said.

  Hutch thought about it. He heard Ricky Ricardo’s voice in his head: You gotta lotta ’splainin’ to do! But nothing was going to help Larry, and his killer was dead.

  He said, “We will, but not right now. Let’s go get your sister, and Laura and Dillon. They gotta be going crazy about now.”

  “Can’t we just go home?”

  “As soon as we pick up the others, okay?” Hutch said. “They’re not too far. And if the cops want to talk, they can come to us, can’t they?”

  Logan hugged him.

  They left the building through a back door.

  SIXTY-SEVEN

  In the locker room, Julian pulled handfuls of paper towels from the dispenser. He soaked them in one of the sinks, then covered the floor drains with them. The clumps appeared too flimsy to withstand much water. He pulled off his shirt, pants, and socks, and added them to the plugs. He stuffed more paper towels into each of the sink drains. Five faucets: three sinks and two showers. He turned them all on, full blast.

  Then he backed into the short hallway that led to the Void.

  He leaned his shoulder against the wall, crossed his arms, and waited.

  Hutch and Logan walked west on Colfax Avenue, staying close to the buildings and turning away whenever a vehicle passed. Hutch thought they must have looked like the poster family for Denver’s homeless and destitute: father and son, limping along, supporting one another; their clothes stained and tattered; carrying a duffel-like bag stuffed, undoubtedly, with all their worldly possessions; shielding themselves from prying eyes.