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"Drop it."
Sienna's voice cuts through the beeping. Her hand's already on my wrist, nails digging in hard enough to leave marks.
"We need this," I say, but I don't let go of the box. The timer's still beeping, louder now, syncing with the countdown over her head. Nine minutes forty-three seconds. "Your partner put a tracker on it. He knows we're here."
"Then you should've left it alone." She twists my arm back. I drop the box and it hits concrete, beeping faster. "Everything you touch makes it worse."
"Mia's location is in there."
"Mia's dead."
The words land like a slap. I shove her back, hard, and she stumbles into the car behind her. The alarm doesn't go off. This whole garage is soundproofed. No one's coming.
"You don't know that," I say.
"I know Marcus doesn't leave loose ends." Sienna straightens, smoothing her jacket like I didn't just put my hands on her. "If your sister knew anything six years ago, she's gone. And if you keep asking, you'll be next."
Nine minutes twenty seconds.
"Then tell me what she knew."
"No."
"Why?"
"Because the second I do, you're worthless to me." She picks up the box. The beeping's constant now, no gaps between pulses. "And I need you alive long enough to get me out of this building."
She's moving toward the stairwell. I grab her elbow and spin her around. She's taller in heels but I've got reach. "You don't walk away from me with that."
"Watch me."
I step in close. Close enough to feel the heat coming off her, close enough to see the thin line of sweat at her temple. She smells like vetiver and something sharper, like burnt sugar. Her pupils are blown wide. Fear, maybe. Or adrenaline.
"You're scared," I say.
"I'm realistic."
"You're terrified." I lean in. Her breath catches. "You've been buying time since I walked in. You knew Marcus was coming. You knew the box was rigged. What else do you know?"
Her jaw tightens. For half a second I think she's going to answer. Then she drives her knee up. I twist just in time, take it on the thigh instead of the gut, and the box goes flying. It skids under a black sedan three cars down.
"Go get it," she says. "I'll wait."
Eight minutes fifty seconds.
I don't move. Neither does she. We're three feet apart, both breathing hard, and the beeping's coming from under the sedan like a metronome.
"I die in eight minutes," Sienna says. "You want to spend them fighting?"
"You won't tell me where Mia is."
"Not while you need me alive." She pulls a keycard from her jacket and holds it up. It's black, magnetic stripe on one side, no logo. "This opens the private elevator. It goes straight to the roof. Helicopter pad. Marcus doesn't have access."
"He has access to everything. He's your partner."
"He was my partner." She steps past me, heading for the stairwell door. "Now he's cleaning house. You want the drive, you carry it. I'm leaving."
I don't think. I just move. I'm under the sedan on my stomach, arm stretched out, fingers closing around the box. It's warm. Too warm. The beeping's loud enough to rattle my teeth.
When I slide back out, Sienna's gone.
Seven minutes forty seconds.
I run.
The stairwell door's still swinging when I hit it. She's two flights up, heels clicking on metal, and I take the stairs three at a time. My boots are quieter but she hears me coming. She speeds up.
"You can't outrun this," I shout.
"I can outrun you."
I catch her on the fourth-floor landing. Grab her wrist, spin her into the railing. The box is between us, beeping so fast it's almost a single tone.
"Let go," she says.
"Tell me where Mia is."
"No."
"Then we both die here."
Her eyes flick to the box. Back to me. She's doing the math. Seven minutes fifteen seconds. Not enough time to get to the roof if we keep fighting. Not enough time to negotiate.
"She was insurance," Sienna says. Quiet. Clipped. "Marcus and I moved a collection six years ago. High-value, low-profile. Your sister drove the truck. She saw the manifests. She saw the buyers."
"What buyers?"
"People who don't like their names in databases."
My stomach drops. "You used her."
"I paid her." Sienna pulls her wrist free, rubbing the red marks I left. "She was supposed to disappear after. New name, new city, clean credit. Marcus was supposed to set it up."
"But he didn't."
"I don't know. He told me she took the money and ran. I didn't ask questions." She starts climbing again. "I didn't want to know."
Six minutes thirty seconds.
I follow her. The box is hot now, almost burning through my jacket. "Where did he send her?"
"I don't know."
"You're lying."
"I'm not." She hits the next landing, breathing hard. Her heel catches and she stumbles. I grab her arm, steady her. She doesn't pull away. "Marcus handled transport. I handled buyers. That was the split."
"So the drive—"
"Has his records. Routes, safehouses, payments. Everything." She looks at me over her shoulder. Her lipstick's smudged. "If your sister's alive, it's in there."
We hit the eighth floor. The elevator lobby's marble and glass, art deco fixtures, a single black door with a card reader.
"That's it," Sienna says, pointing. "Roof access."
Five minutes fifty seconds.
She swipes the keycard. The reader blinks red. She swipes again. Still red.
"He locked me out," she says. Flat. No panic. Just certainty.
I shove past her, try the handle. It doesn't move. "There's another way up."
"There isn't."
"Fire escape."
"Sealed. This is a historical building. One stairwell, one elevator."
Five minutes twenty seconds.
I look around. The lobby's empty. Floor-to-ceiling windows on three sides, marble columns, a single security camera in the corner. Its red light is off.
"He's watching," I say.
"He's been watching since we left the garage." Sienna walks to the window, looks down at the street. Eight floors. No ledge. "You should go. You've got time."
"I'm not leaving you."
"Why?" She turns. Her face is unreadable. "You don't know me. You don't owe me anything."
"You know where Mia is."
"I told you what I know."
"Not all of it." I set the box down. It's beeping so fast it's almost a whine. Four minutes forty seconds. "You're holding something back."
She smiles. It doesn't reach her eyes. "You're persistent."
"It's my job."
"Debt collector."
"Something like that."
She crosses the lobby. Stops in front of me. We're the same height now, her heels gone, kicked off somewhere on the stairs. Her stockings are torn. There's a smudge of dust on her cheek. I want to wipe it off. I don't.
"If I tell you," she says, "Marcus burns the evidence. He's got a remote trigger. The drive, the files, everything. I kept copies. He knows where."
"Then we stop him."
"With what? You've got a boxcutter and I've got ten-thousand-dollar lawsuit heels." She laughs. It sounds broken. "We're not stopping anyone."
Four minutes.
I look at the ceiling. Standard drop tiles, commercial grid. "The vent."
"What?"
"Air system." I point up. There's a return vent six feet away, screwed into the tile frame. "It connects to the roof mechanicals. We go up through there."
Sienna looks at the vent. Back at me. "That's insane."
"You have a better idea?"
She doesn't answer. Just walks to the column under the vent and holds out her hand. "Lift me."
I lock my fingers together. She steps into my palms and I boost her up. She's lighter than I expected. Her hand braces on my shoulder, nails pressing in, and then she's reaching for the vent cover, prying at the screws with her fingernails.
"I need a tool," she says.
"Use your key."
She pulls the keycard from her pocket, jams the corner into the screw head, and twists. It takes three tries but the first screw comes loose. Then the second.
Three minutes thirty seconds.
The third screw's stripped. She swears, drops the keycard, and grabs the vent cover with both hands. Pulls. It bends but doesn't come free.
"Again," I say.
She pulls. The cover tears away from the frame with a screech of metal. I lower her down and she stumbles, catches herself on my arm. Her breathing's ragged.
"You first," I say.
"I can't—"
"Yes you can." I boost her again, higher this time, and she grabs the edge of the vent opening. Her arms shake but she pulls herself up, disappearing into the dark.
I grab the box—still beeping, still hot—and jump. My fingers catch the frame and I haul myself up, box tucked under one arm.
The vent shaft is tight. Galvanized steel, rivets every two feet, barely wide enough for shoulders. Sienna's ahead of me, crawling. I can hear her breathing, fast and shallow.
Three minutes.
"Keep moving," I say.
She doesn't answer. The shaft turns upward. Ladder rungs welded to the side. She climbs. I follow.
My arms are burning. The box is slipping. I wedge it against my chest and keep climbing.
Two minutes forty seconds.
Sienna hits a hatch. Shoves it open. Light floods in, gray and cold. She pulls herself through and I'm right behind her.
We're on the roof. Gravel and tar paper, mechanical housings, a helicopter pad twenty feet away. Empty.
Sienna's on her knees, gasping. I drop the box and look at her timer.
Two minutes ten seconds.
"We're not done," I say.
She looks up. "What?"
I point at the vent we just climbed out of. It's open. And there's a shadow moving below.
Someone's climbing up behind us.
Sienna sees it. Goes pale. "No."
The shadow resolves into a hand. Then a head. Marcus pulls himself onto the roof, slow and easy, like he's got all the time in the world. He's wearing a tailored suit, no tie, and his gun's already drawn.
"Sienna," he says. Calm. Almost friendly. "You should've stayed in the garage."
He aims at her.
One minute fifty-five seconds.