Sympathy tugs my heart as I watch Dax lock the bolt of his apartment door from the outside. He tries to act nonchalant about it. He even mutters a quiet "there we go" as he turns the key. But his voice shakes, and his eyes are sad and scared.

I understand exactly what he is going through. He's not the only one who has been ripped away from home.

"You'll come back, Dax," I say, softly, "when all of this is over." Door now locked, he bends down to haul his over-sized backpack onto his shoulders and flashes a feeble smile my way. I try to smile back. "Everything will work itself out."

He nods. "Of course."

We both pretend, for a moment, to think it's possible to go back to the lives we had before this mess. But judging by the way Dax's smile doesn't reach his eyes, he knows as well as I do there's no going back.

"We should go," I say. The corners of my lips tug up a little more, apologetically. "He's probably waiting."

"Right."

Adjusting my purse strap, I pluck my suitcase off the floor and start to truck it down the hall. Dax's footsteps, softened by the carpet, fall instep beside me.

"At least—" I bump my shoulder gently against his "—I'll no longer be the only prisoner he's collected. Maybe he'll tear even more people from their homes. Then we can start some sort of club."

Dax snorts, halfheartedly. His eyes brighten, just a bit. "Yeah, maybe."

We round the corner. The elevators and Trip—who pressed ahead while Dax fumbled around for his keys—pop into view. The moment we're in his sights, Trip shoots us an impatient side-ways glance.

"Done wasting time?"

I scowl at him. "It took all of two minutes."

"To lock a door," Trip says, "that will most likely be knocked down."

"He's leaving home. Because of you. Give him a break."

At the sharpness of my tone, Trip turns a dark glare on me.

"It's okay, Eve, really," Dax cuts in. He has his glasses off and is cleaning the lenses with his T-shirt. Head drooping, he takes a peek up at Trip. "Uh, so, we should probably discuss where we're going. Right, Triple?"

After a second or two of staring me down, Trip allows the change of subject. "I don't know where we're going yet." He looks away and watches the numbers change over the elevator. 12, 13, 14. "And I don't care. We just need to get out of this building."

The elevator's stainless-steel doors breeze open, and the usual voice hums over the intercom. "Floor Fifteen."

"You don't have any ideas?" Dax asks.

Trip steps into the elevator, giving an irritated look. "I'm making this up as I go, Dax."

"Well, that's worked out great so far." The words slip from my lips before I can catch them.

A drawn-out sigh presses from Trip, through his nose. He leans against the back wall of the elevator. Fist clenched at his side. Eyes straight ahead, refusing to look at me as I lug my suitcase into the elevator. Surprisingly, he doesn't fire back at me. But that's not necessarily a good thing. That grim silence is even more unnerving than his stare downs.

I clear my throat, deciding I've pushed my luck with him enough for one day.

Slipping his glasses back on, Dax stations himself next to the control panel and pokes at the ground floor button a few times. "But you've got some sort of plan, don't you? What about the Database? Have you come up with something?"

The muscle in Trip's jaw twitches. "No."

"You haven't come up with anything?"

"I said no." There's a dangerous edge to Trip's voice, and he notices it as well as we do. Teeth gritting, he glances away and tries to tone it down. "I haven't exactly had the time to think about it."

"Well... then... maybe..." Dax's face scrunches in hesitation, searching for the appropriate words. Then he just goes for it. "Well, maybe if you just forgot about your file. I mean, is it really that important to go through all the trouble of getting it? It's just—" He stops when he realizes Trip's hard, chilling eyes have bolted to him. Dax starts to backtrack. "It's just... if it is important to you, I mean, of course you'd want to get your file. Completely understandable. If I were you, I would definitely want to—"

"Floor Fifteen," a female voice drones, faintly. It takes a moment for me to realize it's not coming from our elevator, but from the elevator beside us. Strange, muffled voices spill into the hall. Then footsteps. A lot of footsteps. My eyes flicker, confused, towards the sounds.

At least ten men—ten soldiers with black full-faced helmets and black bulletproof uniforms—roar past the closing doors of our elevator.

I stop breathing.

And, suddenly, Trip is shoving me into a corner, out of sight. In my shock, I don't resist. I'm frozen—unable to move, unable to speak, barely able to even think. Hazily, I'm aware of our elevator doors easing closed and the voice humming over the intercom, informing us that we are "going down". My stomach drops as we start to descend—or is that just my nerves? I breathe a gasp, mind thawing, just a bit, trying to catch up with what I just saw.

They're here. The Force is here.

"Oh God," Dax voices my thoughts, sounding strangled. He's frozen, too, pressed against the control panel, mouth hanging wide open. "Oh dear God. We're dead. I told you right from the start, Triple, right from the very start, Ralston would figure it out and I was going to die. I freaking told you—"

"Shut-up, Dax," Trip says. Voice cool. Ice cold.

"What are we going to—?"

"Let me think."

Dazed, I look up at Trip, watching those gears turn in his mind again. His gaze darts around the elevator door, then the control panel.

"Hit the second floor," he says.

Dax stares. "Wha-what?"

Trip's eyes—two sparks, hot, scalding—flash at him. "Do it."

Spinning to face the control panel, Dax jabs the second floor button about eighty times in a frenzy.

Trip reaches behind him and pulls his gun. I'm close enough to catch a glimpse of a bullet as he double checks the chamber. "Listen. Both of you." He snaps the chamber back. "If I tell you to do something, do it. Don't hesitate. Don't ask questions. Don't make me repeat myself. Just do it." He looks across the elevator at Dax. "Understand?"

Dax nods. His bottom lip quivers. He's still pushing the second floor button.

Trip's pale eyes shift to me. My heart is thrashing so hard I can feel blood coursing in my throat, throbbing in my fingertips. My hands are shaking. And Trip's aren't. He looks calm. Fierce, yet calm. Where is all that anxiety now? What did he do with it?

"Ashford." Trip tilts his head, drawing me back from my thoughts. He's studying me, leaving frigid trails where his eyes trace over my face. "Trust me, at least until we get out of here. Then you can hate me again. Deal?"

Sounds fair enough. Breathing shallow, I give a nod. "Deal."

The elevator stops. The doors glide open. And Trip's arm snaps up, in an instant, aiming the pistol—I whip my head around—at nothing.

The hall is motionless.

Empty. Quiet.

"Floor Two."

Practically melting against the control panel, Dax moans. His hand splays over his chest. "For a second there... I really thought..."

"I don't think anyone is on the second floor," Trip says, lowering his pistol. He starts out. "But stay close. Just in case."

I follow, with Dax stumbling behind me. "You think they're on the first, though," I say, phrasing this as a statement. Not a question.

"If we're lucky there won't be many." Trip leads as if he knows where he's going—quick and certain, passing door after door, gold plate after gold plate.

To me, everything looks and feels and sounds surreal—a maze of lights and walls and voices of the occupants inside their apartments. Even the stale smell of the over-vacuumed carpet seems artificial. It's like a dream. The only thing keeping me grounded to reality is the suitcase stinging my fingers, the muscles burning in my arm. I'm not dreaming. This is real.

Trip halts at a door, so suddenly I have to throw a hand up against him to stop myself from smacking face-first into his back. Straightaway, a sting of questions race through my mind. But before I can utter a word, my eyes land on the long, rectangular window along the door Trip is peering into. There's a thin view of the stairwell on the other side.

"And, uh, Triple, what if we're not lucky?" Dax asks, close behind me.

Trip throws open the door, causing an echo to charge up and down the stairs. He steps into the stairwell. "I'll figure it out."

Dax expels a heavy, shaky breath, which doesn't help subdue the waves of panic pulsing through me. Turning my head, I find his fingers clasped, tight, around the straps of his backpack as he follows me into the stairwell. His face is pale.

"It's going to be okay, Dax." I'm surprised by how sure I sound. I start down the stairs after Trip, throwing glances over my shoulder. "Just relax."

"Yeah, yeah." Dax nods, quickly. "I know, I know. I just get a little antsy when my life is in peril, that's all."

His sense of humor is still intact. Good.

We reach the first floor of the stairwell, and my eyes flit between two doors. One leads to a hallway and the rest of the apartments. And the other—a fire exit. Surprise numbly pricks my mind. Following Trip towards the red light of the exit sign, I wonder fleetingly if he does know where he's going. If so, how? The other night, when he'd left me and Dax alone, did he go searching for exits? Did he prepare for this?

Mind whirling, I watch Trip approach the door, take a quick look through the meshed window. And then he is backing against the wall, throwing his arm out over my chest to drag me with him. With a big heave of air, Dax quickly follows suit and presses against the wall, as best he can with his backpack in the way.

"What? What is it?" Dax asks. "Is someone out there?"

After a swift scan of the area, Trip flicks his pistol towards a corner of the stairwell. "Stay over there."

Without hesitation, Dax and I slide down the wall, huddling into the corner.

A twitch of his shoulder. A breath. Trip looks over at us. "Don't move."

We don't.

In one quick motion, Trip smacks the crash-handle of the door, letting it pop open and fall shut again. Then, silence. It seems to last years, eons, forever. Until the door opens.

Every muscle in my body freezes as a gun—something big—appears, raised, aimed into the stairwell. The black gloves gripping it creep into view. Trip waits, letting them easing further, further, further still—

Trip snatches the door, yanking it closed. A pained, muffled cry rips from the Force soldier. And Trip slams his good shoulder into the door, throwing it open, seizing the barrel of the gun, jerking it up, ramming it into the soldier's helmet. A crack echoes through the stairwell, making me jump.

Stunned, fingers broken, the man struggles to gain a hold of his gun. He swings a fist, awkwardly, uselessly, hitting Trip's side. Simultaneously, my eyes trace Trip as his head snaps up, eyes ablaze as he looks through the meshed window. And abruptly, he twists and leans back, turning his head away.

A blast.

Glass shatters as a bullet smashes through the window—the sound echoing, almost deafening. With it, my involuntary scream bounds up the stairs. But Trip isn't fazed. One moment he has his head turned away, the next he's turned back—pistol raised, aimed at the soldier's helmet. He fires, and another deafening blast rings in my ears. Then another and another as Trip aims out the window. While the soldier with his head blown open is still crumpling, there is a shout from the other side of the door. And, after, only silence. Again.

Trip stays pressed against the door. Head cocked. Listening.

Still nothing. Only the distant sounds of the city. Seemingly satisfied, Trip crouches and tears the helmet off of the soldier collapsed in the doorway.

Sometime during the chaos, Dax must have grabbed my arm. Because, now, he slowly pries his stiff fingers from my coat. He swallows several times. "Are... are there anymore?"

"For now—" wincing, rolling his shoulder "—no." Trip rips something out from inside the helmet.

My legs feel weak as Dax and I slowly approach him. I use the wall, sliding against it to keep myself on my feet. My suitcase drags over the concrete floor.

"They had to hear those shots," Dax says, as if in a trance. He's staring down at the soldier wedged between the frame and door. Though I see blood starting to pool the floor in my periphery, I won't allow myself to follow his gaze. Instead, I watch Trip stand and hold a wireless earpiece—a radio—close to his ear.

It's funny. He still looks the same—other than the small cut, no doubt from the window glass, flecked across his cheek. His eyes are still chilling, expression still solemn, both completely unaffected by the men he's just killed. And I feel sick.

Noticing my analysis of him, Trip meets my gaze, holds it for a moment as he listens to the earpiece.

"Nauseous?" he asks finally.

"A little."

And like a switch is flipped, a faint cunning glint enters Trip's eyes. "The more I'm around you," he says, "the less I think you're a nurse."

My expression turns sour. "What's that supposed to mean?"

Trip doesn't answer me. His eyes, instead, flicker towards the shattered window. The cunning glint disappears, and he shoves open the fire exit door. "Come on."

Staggering behind him, I fix my attention, grudgingly, on his back. Not the dead soldier I step over.

Sunlight beams over the windshields of the cars and trucks scattering the parking lot. I squint and shield my eyes, trying to get my bearings. We're at the very back of the parking lot. Police sirens whoop from the front. From here, I can just make out the police cruisers blocking off one lane of the traffic clogged—

I catch sight of the other soldier sprawled over the pavement a few paces away. Just a dark form. Just a flash of twinkling red. And, stomach churning, I advert my head.

Trip is scanning the parking lot, searching—for what, I don't know—until his eyes snap to the sleek black car sitting between two lanes of parked cars, about twenty parking spots ahead. He starts for it.

Dax and I follow behind like ducklings.

"Is somebody in that?" Dax asks.

There is. The closer we get, the clearer the crackling of a radio becomes. The idling engine purrs. A voice—"East, I guess. I don't know, from the back fire exit! I repeat, the back fire exit, damn it! Get over here!" We round the back of the car, and a short, skinny man in a suit slides into view. He's hovering over the outside of the car, beside a suited leg dangling out of open passenger's side door.

Our footsteps draw the skinny man's attention. He turns his head. Too slow.

Trip lashes out, seizing his arm, twisting—breaking bone. And with a jerk, he cracks the butt of his gun over the man's throat. There's a disgusting gurgle.

Face contorted in shock, the fat, bald man in the car scrabbles to his feet, pulls a pistol. But Trip turns, fast—like lightning—grabbing the man's wrist, snapping it back. The pistol clatters over the pavement, and Trip smashes his fist into the man's nose. Blinking violently through the pain and blood, the man still surges forward, uses his weight, and slams Trip against the side of the car. Against his shoulder.

The sharp gasp that escapes Trip causes my heart to skip a beat. Terror jets through my veins. Then Trip is moving rapidly. A jab at the man's gut. A blow to his jaw. A hard kick to his knee, causing the man's leg to bow outward, causing him to drop. Trip grabs the back of the man's head. Pulling, wrenching. Hard. Something snaps. I hear it—bone scraping, crunching against bone.

He drops, like a lead weight.

The other, crumpled over the pavement, isn't moving either.

Staring down at the men, breathing hard, Trip lifts his shoulder, lets it drop again.

"Holy shit," Dax breathes from beside me.

A shot is fired. The back windshield breaks into a spider web of cracks. The bullet whizzes past us, missing Dax by only inches. He shrieks, and I spin around, looking through the dark tint of the car window. Four or five soldiers have come out of the fire exit door.

More shots are fired. Shattering a taillight. Tinging off the license plate. And before I know it, Trip is snagging my arm, dragging me towards the passenger's side door. "Get in."

Without thought, I climb into the car, stuffing my suitcase between my feet on the floorboard. My door slams shut, and I hear Dax open the back door, scrambling into the car and shouting the obvious. "They're shooting at us!"

My gaze catches Trip as he rounds the front of the car—a memory of him rounding the front of my car, in the dark—and then he is sliding into the driver's seat, cursing and slamming his door.

"—cease fire! I said cease fire!" a voice crackles over the radio in the dashboard.

The shooting stops. Suddenly. And movement draws my eyes, straight ahead, out the windshield. Two black SUVs are speeding, slamming on brakes, blocking the exit of the apartment parking lot. Force soldiers scatter around the SUVs like ants.

"Triple Threat."

Trip's eyes snap up at the radio.

"Come in. Over."

His eyes flash up at the rearview mirror, and quickly I turn my head, peeking around my seat at the back windshield. The soldiers have moved closer—about twenty feet away. But they've stopped now, guns aimed at the car.

"Triple Threat?"

Breathing quick and shallow, I look up at Trip. He's working his jaw, mulling, thinking. "What do we do?" I ask.

He glances at me.

"Come in, Triple Threat. Can you read me? Over."

After a second more of consideration, Trip's jaw sets. He snatches the car radio. "Loud and clear, Ralston." His voice sounds more animal than human—sinister, callous. No more than a growl. It's followed by a momentary pause.

"There's no way out," Ralston says finally, "if you haven't noticed. I've got five men behind you, more on their way. I've got the parking lot exit blocked, and a whole lot more men up here. You're not getting out of this. Give it up. Over."

Another pause. Trip only glares through the windshield, elbow poised on the armrest, radio still raised. His other hand flexes on the steering wheel. His knuckles are starting to bruise.

"I repeat: give it up. Step out of the car. That's an order. Over."

"I haven't been following orders lately," Trip says, and then more gratingly adds, "if you haven't noticed."

"And look where that's gotten you now. You're not very good on your own, are you?" Trip's grip tightens dangerously on the steering wheel. "Besides, I'd really like this to end quietly. I made a promise to bring you in alive, but you're going to make that difficult if you don't follow directions. Over."

"I'd really hate to make you break your promise to Braxton."

"I don't think you realize how far over your head you've buried yourself, Triple Threat. You've pissed off a lot more people than just Braxton."

My eyes dart to Trip, but he doesn't seem concerned. He just listens.

"But," Ralston goes on, "maybe if you come quietly, maybe humble yourself a shade or two, they'll go easy on you. So, step out of the car, with your hands up. Now. I'm not going to ask you again. Over."

There's a long pause.

The engine purrs.

A siren, somewhere, wails.

Trip tosses the radio down and looks over at me. "Alright. Put your seat belts on—" a glance at Dax "—both of you."

At once, I strap on my seat belt.

"Oh God," Dax whispers. Bug-eyes trained on Trip, he pulls his seat belt over his chest, slowly, like it's the last thing he'll ever do. "What are you thinking? What are you going to do?"

Trip ignores him, but judging by the lightning in his eyes, I already know what he's thinking. He's going to do exactly what everyone thinks he can't do.

Ralston crackles over the radio again. "You've only got one reasonable option, Triple Threat. What's it going to be? Over."

"Keep your heads down," Trip says, ramming the gear shift into drive.

Another voice comes over the radio. "Unit three to Mother Bird. He's shifted into—"

Trip slams down on the gas, drowning the voice out with the screech of burning rubber. The car jolts forward, throwing me back against the seat. The SUVs grow and grow. The engine roars. Quickly, I sink down. Closer. Closer. The detective's voice—shouting furiously. Gun shots. Glass cracking. Pings of metal. I throw my arms over my head, closing my eyes.

Trip jerks the wheel.

The front tires hitch right, and the back end of the car whips, tires screaming. A loud smash, and I'm thrown forward, seat belt snagging my chest. My eyes open briefly to see the tail end of one of the SUVs—mangled and dented—skidding by, squealing against the side of the car.

I blink, and we're on the sidewalk. Bystanders, who all seemed to be watching the police in wonder, now scream and jump out of the way. Shots blow through the back windshield, soon dying out as we speed down the sidewalk, away from the apartments—past the bystanders, past the vehicle clogged street. Traffic races through an intersection ahead.

"Red light," Dax gasps.

Trip doesn't slow down.

"Red light. Red light!"

Grabbing hold of the door handle, I brace myself, hold my breath.

And the car flies off the sidewalk, into the intersection. The front bumper smacks against the road. Dax gives an audible huh. Horns blare. Brakes shriek. Something clips the back end of the car, causing it to swing—causing me to cry out. But Trip wrenches the steering wheel, snapping the car back into control. We speed through the intersection. And with one quick flip of a switch, Trip has the police lights flashing in the windshield. The siren blares.

He snatches the radio back up.

"Keep underestimating me," he says with a force that makes my ears ring. He swerves around a truck that is pulling off to the side in reaction to the siren. He barely misses it. "Do you read me, Ralston? All of you. Keep underestimating me. Because every time you underestimate me, I'll fucking enjoy proving you wrong."