Pain ripped through her when she sat up. She gritted her teeth and forced herself to move. She could barely breathe. She figured her lung had collapsed and her chest was filling with blood. The smoke was getting heavier now, the sound of the fire getting closer. She realized it was blocking the hallway to the stairs. No hope for it. She dragged herself to her feet, holding on to a chair for support. She looked down at Ian, then quickly away; there was nothing she could do for him.
She had to get to the hidden access to the roof, the only way out. It was their bolthole, one of the reasons Matthew had chosen this apartment.
The ladder to the roof was inside the closet in the master bedroom. She would make it, she had to, she had no choice. She dragged herself down the hallway, using the wall for support, to the bedroom, then into the small closet, with the ladder at the back.
She imagined she heard her dead father’s voice loud and clear as she climbed that ladder, each step so hard, nearly impossible, but there he was, saying over and over, Be glad of the pain, it means you’re still alive. Now get out of there, Nessa, do you hear me? And it comforted.
His words became a mantra her mind whispered again and again as she began her climb up the ladder in the closet. When she finally crawled out onto the pebbled roof, she collapsed to the ground, coughing. Blood spattered out of her mouth and she sucked in air, but never enough. Smoke was billowing up all around her.
She crawled to the fire escape, her only chance, since the building itself was now burning.
Her father’s voice kept at her, yelling now over the pain, pushing her, pushing her. She crawled to the ledge. The ground looked a mile away, but she knew it was only three stories down. I can’t make it, Dad, I can’t make it.
And again his frantic urging: Don’t you let that crazy bastard win, do you hear me, Nessa? You move, and you move now! Vanessa felt a bolt of fury and swung her legs onto the metal tread of the fire escape.
She heard sirens. She had to get away before they got here. She couldn’t be captured, it wasn’t an option.
She clutched the quickly heating side bars. Down, down, get moving.
Something tore inside her. The pain crashed over her, a tsunami. She felt blood running down her arms. The sweater she’d bound around herself was soaked with her blood. Her father’s voice died in her mind.
She was nearly down when she fainted and fell, boneless, to the hard asphalt.
22
KNIGHT TO A4
Upper East Side
Manhattan
Nicholas wasn’t surprised to find Nigel in the kitchen, reading a book, a lead crystal lowball of Talisker Storm, neat, sitting by his elbow.
“Waiting up for me?”
His butler raised an eyebrow, looked him up and down, and sighed. “I see you’ve ruined yet another pair of pants, that lovely Spanish leather jacket your father gave you for your birthday, not to mention the bespoke shirt from Gieves and Hawkes. And the shoes? My, Mr. Gunderson would weep to see them.” Another sigh, a shake of the head. “They go in the trash bin as well. Barneys rejoices. And Barneys’ children, since we’ll be paying their college tuition for years to come.”
“Ha bloody ha.”
“You and Agent Caine were at the Bayway Refinery, weren’t you?”
Nicholas nodded.
“And that means, then, that you two plunged into the flames and rescued workers? That explains the missing sleeves, the black face.”
Nicholas saw the carnage again in his mind and nodded again, numbly.
Nigel paused for a moment, saw what a tight rein Nicholas had on himself. He lightly laid his hand on Nicholas’s shoulder. “You did well. Now, what can I do?”
Nicholas snapped to. “There’s really nothing, but thank you. Please go to bed, Nigel. I’m fine. I think a drink might be a good idea, though.” He poured himself at least three fingers of Talisker and drained it in a single gulp. The liquor shuddered through his body, warmed him to his ruined shoes.
“Did that help?”
“Yes, yes, it did.” Nicholas eased into a chair, watched Nigel pour him another.
“Would you like to talk about it?”
“No.”