If he dwelt too long on all the factors working against him, he'd be tempted to give up. Instead, he plucked the string back and let the arrow fly.
Against the shadows' multihued grays and blacks, he lost sight of it. He saw it break against the bricks just below the lip of the parapet. It had dropped five feet and drifted right by the same amount. He had aimed for the door, but the arrow had not come anywhere close to it. Had the shot been directed at Page, the man likely would have been completely unaware of it.
Kentucky windage
was a term used to describe adjusting your aim to compensate for the weather's influence on an arrow. It usually worked for light breezes that stole a few inches of accuracy. Five feet? No way.
A shadow broke the thread of light outlining the roof's door.
Hutch nocked another arrow and set his aim high and to the leftâ
too
high and
too
left, he knew.
When the door didn't open, he wondered if the shadow had been a trick of his eyes, or if Page was waiting on the other side. Would he come out, running straight for Logan? Slip out and around the stairwell shelter, to approach Logan circuitously, denying Hutch a shot? Or was he marshaling more soldiers to storm the roof?
Risking his chance, but feeling that accuracy was more crucial than timing, Hutch disengaged the arrow from the string. He pressed the tip of the bow's lower limb into the top of his foot. He pulled the upper limb down, arcing the bow and loosening the string. He worked the loop of the string out of the notches that held it in place. He twisted the string between his fingertips, tightening it, then slipped the loop back into place. The length of the string from limb to limb was now just a little shorter. It was more taut, which would result in a heavier draw weight. And that, Hutch thought, with some hopeful satisfaction, meant more power.
In the span of seven seconds, he re-nocked the arrow and shot it at the door. It thunked into the door frame, waist-high. He looked at the back of his knuckles. They had been sliced open by the tip of the arrow. It was a broadhead, two triangular razors that fit together to form a lethal, pointed plus sign. Shortening the string made the bow arc more, which lengthened the distance between the draw point and the arrow rest. It required longer arrows, a luxury he didn't have.
As he pulled another arrow from the quiver, the light around the door darkened again. Hutch nocked the arrow and adjusted his aim. He pulled back on the string, just half an inch, enough to feel its tautness on his fingertips. The door opened, and Hutch stopped himself from pulling the string back and letting the arrow fly. It was like reversing a jump in midair. His muscles were ready. They were trained to shoot as habitually, as quickly, as the blink of an eye.
But the doorway was empty. Page's helmet broke into the lighted rectangle and disappeared again.
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 surpriseâPage's “unpredictability factor”âcame 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.”
“Butâ”
“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 Voidâthe virtual reality roomâand 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.
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 scaffoldâhow it was positioned above the tall first floor of the building and what he was going to do when he reached itâwhen 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 racedâhobbledâup the stairs, only vaguely aware of the doors he passed. He'd already witnessed one ambush through such a door tonightâMichael'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 arrow 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.
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.