girlâs street smarts.
âI noticed it when I looked at the place,â she said. âThere was a wooden panel on the back wall of the hall closet. Servantsâ stairs! Behind the panel were long, narrow, steps. Once I saw it, I had to live there.â
Sadly, she couldnât live there any longer. And there were still nearly four hundred steep, wooden stairs between her and escape. Thankfully the houses that nestled alongside the stairs were all but enclosed by thick foliage, so it was unlikely that anyone would see or hear them.
While he tried to anticipate what the killers would do next, Jack marveled at his half brotherâs new friend. He was especially eager to understand how her gold-framed corneas could possibly withstand a flash grenade. There was more to this gal than Sammy knew. But there was no time for that now. He knew from the hit squadâs methods that they were on an organized mission. He also knew that every other resident of the apartment building were stabbing 911 buttons within seconds of the flash bombâs detonation. They should be hearing sirens in the distance any second.
âJack, about this âFirebirdâ thing,â his half brother said, half-winded.
âIâm listening.â
âThere was a Russian plane crash,â Sammy said. âA hacker was onboard. I saw it online. He reported that someone skyjacked and downed the plane before starting to kill everyone who tried to escape. His last message was something about a raft and a bazooka!â
Jack tried to figure out why an American general would be involved with a downed Russian aircraft. Morton was the real deal: en route, Jack had used his illegal password to access U.S. military records and read the manâs dossier. He lived in San Mateo, where many of the stateâs wealthiest families resided. Like many good officers who had been stationed at the Presidio, he had fallen in love with the city and decided to stay. He had a spotless record with no mention of black ops. Which made sense: they wouldnât be black ops if they were mentioned.
Yet there was something sloppy, makeshift about the way the hit on Anastasia had played out. But then the Filbert Steps were jolting his brain and he had a higher priority: find safety first.
âAll right,â he announced, still going down the steps and through gardens full of purple, pink, and red rhododendrons as fast as possible. âThereâs no way this hit squad doesnât come after us again. Sol, how long do you think we have?â
âDepends,â Sol replied, older yet less out-of-breath than the others. He probably had the time and vanity to work out. âAre they scared of their boss? They got any self-respect? They got instincts for self-preservation? Are those instincts good? Iâve had guys who came back from a contract, look me straight in the eye, and tell me they failed. Iâve had guys who would drive off a bridge rather than admit they screwed up.â
âWhich do you think these guys are?â Jack asked.
âA third kind,â Sol said. âThe kind whose horse gets tired so they light a fire under his belly to get him back on his feet. Theyâll keep coming. They gotta stop us for what she heard.â He pointed ahead at Ana.
âRight,â Jack nodded.
âHey, I got plenty of muscle, Jack,â Sol went on. âI can have people on this with a phone call.â
âThanks. Keep âem in the batterâs box.â
Jack was concerned about a firefight; he had been in several while he was with the 2nd Marine Division in Baghdad as a reporter. Firefights were surreal, chaotic, life-changing horrors, and he could imagine the effects that would have on Sammy and Anastasia. And that was only if they survived.
It was dusk, a time when light was dull and visibility was hazy. That worked in their favor. Sammy was ahead of them, protectively close to Ana. Both he and Jack were