Chapter 3 - The Alley Search
Alara dropped to her knees behind the sofa, reaching into the laundry basket to press her palm gently against Stella’s chest, soothing the infant before she could wake and cry. Across the room, Jack rolled off the sofa with fluid, terrifying grace, dropping low to the floorboards like a hunting cat despite his severe injury.
He gestured for her to stay down, racking the slide of his handgun with a quiet, lethal clack.
Downstairs, the heavy metal door of the diner kitchen groaned on its hinges.
"He hid the mop," a voice drifted up through the floorboards—thin, nasal, and dripping with malicious confidence. "Bleach smell is strong enough to burn your nostrils. He was here, boss."
"Search the perimeter," a second voice replied. This one was deeper, smoother, carrying the quiet menace of a man who never had to raise his voice to order an execution. "Check the alley dumpsters, check the meat locker. And look up."
Alara’s heart hammered against her ribs like a trapped bird. The floorboards of her apartment were old, squeaky oak. A single shifted foot, a single dropped item, and the men downstairs would know someone was above them.
She looked at Jack. He was standing near the window, peering through a millimeter gap in the blinds. The rain was pounding against the glass now, a steady, deafening roar that mercifully drowned out the soft rustle of their movements.
"How many?" Alara mouthed.
Jack held up three fingers. Then he tapped his own ear, pointing downward.
The heavy footsteps moved through the diner kitchen below. They heard the clatter of metal pans, the tearing open of storage boxes. Then, the distinct, agonizing sound of boots moving toward the stairwell door.
"Lock's broken on the staircase," the nasal voice reported from right below them. "Looks like living quarters upstairs."
"Go up," the smooth voice ordered. "Leave no stone unturned. If the girl who works here saw him, put a bullet in her head and burn the building."
Panic, cold and sharp, seized Alara. They weren't just searching; they were cleaning up witnesses. She looked around her small apartment—there was no fire escape, no back door. The only way out was down that narrow staircase.
Jack crept across the room, stopping directly beside the apartment door. He motioned for Alara to cover her ears. He raised the pistol, aiming it directly through the thin wood of the door frame at shoulder height.
He was going to shoot them as they stepped off the top stair.
No, Alara thought wildly. The noise. The babies.
She caught Jack's eye and vigorously shook her head. She pointed to the ceiling—to the small, square access hatch that led to the building's crawlspace attic. It was an old maintenance access point, barely wide enough for an adult, but it ran the length of the building block.
Jack assessed the hatch, then nodded once.
Moving with absolute stealth, Alara stood up and lifted the laundry basket containing Leo and Stella. She handed the basket up to Jack, who had silently pulled himself onto the edge of a tall bookshelf, effortlessly lifting his massive frame despite his bleeding side. He slid the basket into the dark crawlspace above.
Next, he reached down, extending a hand to Alara. She took it, and with a single, smooth pull, he hoisted her up into the dusty, insulation-filled darkness.
They pulled the wooden hatch cover back into place just as the apartment door down below was kicked off its hinges with a splintering crash.
Through the crack in the hatch, Alara watched through the dust motes as two men stepped into her living room. Both wore dark tactical raincoats and held silenced submachine guns. One of them had a distinct, jagged scar running from his lip to his ear.
"Clear!" the scarred man shouted, kicking over her coffee table. He walked over to the sofa, running a gloved hand over the fabric. He brought his fingers to his face, sniffing them. "Warm. And wet. Crimson on the fabric."
"He was here," the second man said, pulling out a walkie-talkie. "Boss, we got blood in the upstairs apartment. But the place is empty. They slipped out."
"Check the windows! Check the roof!" the voice from the walkie-talkie barked.
Up in the crawlspace, Alara pressed her hand tightly over her own mouth. The dust was thick, tickling her throat, forcing a terrifying urge to cough. Beside her, Jack was pressed against the beams, his hand resting gently over the baby basket.
Suddenly, Leo shifted. The infant let out a soft, sharp squeak—a pre-cry sound that sounded like a squeaky toy in the silent attic.
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Down below, the scarred man froze. He slowly lifted his head, his eyes scanning the ceiling boards.
He pointed his submachine gun straight up, stepping directly beneath the hatch.
