Chapter 12 · One Hour Left

"We're not going through the lobby."

Sienna's standing at the window, one hand pressed to the glass. Her timer's bleeding down—fifty-eight minutes. The bandage on her other hand is already soaked through, red creeping up to her wrist.

"Then where?" I ask.

"The gallery." She turns. Her face is pale, but her voice is steady. "Marcus owns the building next door. He'll have people in the street, the garage, every exit. But the gallery connects through the basement. He won't expect it."

"Why not?"

"Because I haven't used it in four years." She crosses to the desk, pulls open a drawer. "Not since the last time I had to run from him."

She takes out a gun.

Small. Black. The kind you hide in a purse or a boot. She checks the chamber, flips the safety, and holds it out to me.

"No," I say.

"Take it."

"I'm not shooting anyone."

"You might have to." She steps closer. The gun's still in her palm, barrel pointing at the floor. "If I turn into the trap, if Marcus gets to me before the timer runs out—don't try to save me. Just run."

"That's not the plan."

"The plan is you survive."