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Red Jacket replaced the radio in the duffel on the desk, then went to the server room and stood in the doorway. After a short conversation Red Jacket turned around, scanning the office space. Jimmy ducked back. He waited a second, runnels of sweat crawling down from his pits over his ribs. He dared to look back out and saw Red Jacket heading into the artists’ bullpen.

He’s searching the place to make sure no one’s here.

Jimmy eyed the bag on the cubicle desk. That was where the radio was. If he could get the radio, sneak out the back exit, and hide somewhere, wouldn’t he be able to use the radio to call the cops? He couldn’t run to his car because of the guy from the van…

His thoughts were cut off by the sudden sound of heavy machinery. It was the wet saw powering up. They were starting to cut. That noise should cover the sound of him opening the exit door…

Red Jacket walked out of the artists’ bullpen and into the next office on that side, a programmer’s office. There were three more of those offices and then Red Jacket would be on this side of the floor space. Jimmy’s side.

Whatever you’re going to do, do it now.

Jimmy crawled through the doorway and to the cubicle adjacent to the one with the desk and bag. There was less than an inch of clearance between the carpet and the bottom of the cubicle wall, but Jimmy was able to scrunch down and flatten his cheek against the carpet so he could see Red Jacket’s shoes as he walked out of the programmer’s office and into the next one.

Two offices left.

Sweat running down his face, Jimmy crawled over to the next cubicle and reached up, feeling for the bag. He reached inside but couldn’t feel the radio.

You’re gonna be seen, shit head!

He groped frantically, felt something large and metal…

Screw it, just grab the whole bag.

Jimmy scrunched the bag’s fabric together, pulled it off the table, and scooted back to the opposite cubicle.

He’s going to notice the bag’s missing when he comes out.

Once again Jimmy pressed his face to the floor. He saw the shoes again as Red Jacket walked into the last programmer’s office.

It’s now or never.

The bag was heavy and cumbersome as Jimmy snuck over to the short hallway at the rear corner opposite the server room. Once he reached the small passage, he ran, and as he pushed against the metal bar to open the door he glanced back, expecting for a heart-stopping second to see Red Jacket running toward him, gun drawn…

But there was no one. Jimmy slipped through the door and eased it closed behind him.

He turned so that he was facing the door and collapsed against the short wall that overlooked the second set of stairs, dropping the duffel on the ground. He sat quickly, still catching his breath, and looked into the open bag. His eyes grew wide and his breath caught.

So
that’s
why it was so heavy.

Inside the bag was a rifle. A really heavy, really real rifle. Jimmy had memorized every weapon used in
RECOIL!
, though they were all future-tech. Plus, he had played a ton of other first-person shooters. The rifle looked a little like what the mercenaries used in the game
Cold War
. He lifted the weapon out, almost reverently. He had never held a real gun of any kind before. The barrel was pretty short, and the butt part that went against his shoulder didn’t stick out like other rifles. He turned it over, and stamped on the left side was
G3K A4 HK
followed by some numbers.

HK
…yeah that was what the mercs used in the game. When you killed them, you could take their gun and use it.

For an instant he almost forgot about the Russians, the cutting (still loud enough to be heard through the walls and closed door), the police cruiser, all of it. He was mesmerized by the killing machine in his hands.

There was a short burst of static from inside the bag, enough of a distraction to jolt him back to reality.

But when he reached into the bag, the radio wasn’t the first thing his fingers brushed against. There was something much smaller. He grabbed it, withdrew, and opened his hand to see a red-and-black thumb drive. Multiple thoughts streamed through his mind at once: What was on it? Why did they need it? Did it have something to do with TechniCom? A few ideas took shape, one in particular that seemed most plausible given what little he knew. He filed these away for now, stuffed the thumb drive in his front jeans pocket, and reached back in for the walkie-talkie.

It was in the corner, a shiny black handheld device roughly the size of an iPhone but a good bit thicker. There were several buttons, a dial on top, a display screen…Jimmy had never used one before, and the whole thing looked intimidating at first glance. Still, how hard could it be?

He was all set to try using it when he smelled the smoke.

Cigarette smoke, coming from the stairwell. Jimmy’s blood ran cold. He wasn’t alone.
What if someone’s coming up? One of
them
?
Jimmy set the radio down and lifted the gun.
Shit, how do you cock this thing?
He thought about
Cold War
…There was some metal piece on the side of the gun that his player character’s hand would pull on and then slap down…There! He found the short handle and pulled. Nothing happened.
If one of them comes up now, you’re dead.
He pulled harder and managed to move the handle back until it could go no farther.

He pushed the handle down, cringing at the sharp clicking noise. Praying the other person or persons hadn’t heard it, he swung the weapon to his left, where the landing ended at a wall and a set of stairs lead down.

Nothing.

Whoever was down there either took off or was staying put. What if it’s just a janitor?
Yeah, how would the Russians have gotten into the stairwell? Because the security guard unlocked the exit door for them, dummy.

Jimmy maneuvered to his left side, to his knees, and slowly pulled himself up to peek over the short wall and down onto the first and then second turn of carpeted steps. Nobody on the stairs, but there was a foot poking out from the landing at the bottom, one floor below. Smoke puffed out and wafted up into Jimmy’s face and for a split second he thought he might cough and give himself away, but he held it in.

Jimmy couldn’t use the radio with that guy hanging out down there. He’d have to talk loud to be heard over the saw. What if that guy just stays down there, watching the door? Jimmy couldn’t go back the way he came. Who knew how far away that cop was by now.

You have to do
something
!
Three bad guys in the office, possibly one downstairs, and another outside.
Okay…so I point the gun at him, and tell him to…put his hands on his head and walk downstairs. If it’s just a janitor, we both get the hell out of here. If it’s one of them, we go out to the bottom of the stairs and I hold the gun on him while I radio for help.
That could work, right?

What choice do you have?
Maybe just sit here and hope no one comes?
If that thumb drive is what you think it is, they’ll know it’s missing soon. And they’ll come looking. You’re running out of time.

Jimmy’s heart drummed against his chest. He left the bag behind, crouch-walking to the corner of the short wall, peeking around to look at the first, empty set of stairs. He positioned himself against the stair wall, his back against the handrail, and began descending one step at a time.

The weapon was suddenly slick in his hands as he reached the next turn. The smoker was at the bottom of these next stairs, just around this corner.

Okay, look tough, authoritative. Go!

Jimmy’s knees were quaking as he turned the corner. The smoker wore a blue Windbreaker over a black T-shirt. His hair was shaved close to his head and he had eyes like a bloodhound. He was in the midst of coming up the stairs, was about halfway when he looked up to see Jimmy, three steps away. Those bloodhound eyes widened.

“Hands on your head! Now!” Jimmy blurted. His voice broke. The smoker mumbled something in Russian, tossed his cigarette down, and reached behind his back…

Shoot!

Jimmy pulled the trigger. Nothing happened.

Idiot! Safety!

He remembered seeing a lever on the left side, above the trigger. As Jimmy turned the rifle and flipped the lever down to “F,” Smoker pulled a silencer-equipped pistol from the small of his back.

Jimmy pointed the weapon, closed his eyes, and pulled the trigger.

The rifle roared and bolted, kicking upward into Jimmy’s chin. The impact knocked him back and into the wall, putting a nice crack in it with his skull. His ears were ringing. He shook his head to try to stop the world from spinning. He had barely held on to the gun, but lifted it now and held it out, repositioning himself to see down the stairs…

Smoker was lying in an awkward position at the landing for floor five. His handgun was lying on the stairs by the dropped cigarette, where the guy had been before Jimmy had…

Shot him.

Holy shit, I shot somebody.

Jimmy descended the stairs quickly, concerns over whether the others heard the gunfire set aside for the moment, because all he could think about was the human being whose existence he might have just ended.

The man was breathing, which was good, but he was also breathing so fast Jimmy thought he might hyperventilate…if he didn’t bleed out first.

There was blood, a lot of it. Jimmy laid down his weapon on the stairs and got the larger man into a better position. It looked like there were three wounds: one high in the chest on the right side, one that punctured the muscle at the top of the shoulder, and one that clipped an almost perfect half circle shape out of his right ear. There were a couple more holes at the top of the entry door to floor five, and the wall just above.

Jimmy looked back down at the man and did the only thing he could think of: he removed his own T-shirt and pushed it against the hole in the man’s chest.

“You’re gonna be okay. Keep pressure on this.”

The man’s eyes were wide, and though he was looking at Jimmy, it didn’t seem like he was
seeing
him.

Dude’s in shock.

A Russian voice sounded over the radio. Jimmy could hear it both from his walkie-talkie and from the one on Smoker’s belt. He couldn’t understand what was being said but he could tell a question was being asked.

They heard it. They must have.

Jimmy took the man’s radio and attached it next to the first on his own belt.

Hurry.

He grabbed the pistol, switched it to his left hand, and swept up the HK in his right. “I’m going to call for help. I’ll make sure an ambulance gets here, okay?”

The man didn’t respond, but Jimmy had no time to wait. He stepped over Smoker’s waist and rushed down the next set of stairs, and the next…

He was breathing heavy, racing down the steps to floor three when he heard a door open somewhere below, followed by a voice. Russian.

Think, think…

Jimmy tried the access door to floor three. Locked. The voice was coming up the stairs. Heart pounding, he scrunched his shoulders and fired a burst point-blank at the door’s lock. With a kick, the door flew open and Jimmy was inside, sprinting down a short hallway. Voices continued coming through the radios on his belt, and he could have sworn one said “Jimmy,” but he was too freaked out to pay it much attention. He turned left into a much longer hallway with offices to either side, which came to a T. He turned right, fled down another short hall.

Dead end.

After a quick survey of his surroundings, Jimmy ran into a large office on one side. He slammed the pistol on the desk, ripped both radios from his belt and tossed them into the reclining office chair, then snatched the pistol back up and ran across to the room on the other side of the hall.

A conference room. One large table dominated the center of the space, surrounded by several chairs. The far wall was a series of floor-to-ceiling windows. Jimmy put his back to one of these and slid down, keeping the barrels of both weapons pointed at the office across from him, trying his best to slow his breathing, sweat running from his head down onto his neck and bare chest.

The last thing he wanted to do was shoot anyone else. In fact, his mind kept drifting back to the wide, unseeing, bloodhound eyes of the man he’d shot. Jimmy found himself wondering if the man would survive.

Right now you need to worry about your own ass.

There were no sounds coming from the hall, or beyond. Jimmy looked up at the conference table, where a cord trailed down to a jack in the wall. There was a phone up there. He set down the pistol, got to his knees, shuffled over, and looked. The display on the phone was lit. He grabbed it from the tabletop and as quietly as possible sat back where he had an unobstructed view of the hallway, setting the phone on the floor beside him. While keeping the HK pointed in that direction he flipped the receiver off onto the carpet, happy to hear a dial tone, and with his pointer finger he hit 9, 1—

“Jimmy.”

He stopped. That voice had come from the radio in the office across the hall.

“Jimmy,” the voice repeated. “I hope you are listening…” It was husky and thickly accented. “Your girlfriend was worried about you…”

Ice spread through Jimmy’s veins. The voice continued:

“One of my men was nice enough to let her in.”

No no no no no…

Jimmy turned and looked out the window. His Festiva was there, along with the white van…and Kim’s yellow VW. A long, defeated sigh gushed from Jimmy’s lungs as he thumped his head against the glass.

Dammit, Kim.

“She is on her way here now. Why don’t you join us? We monitor police channels, so we’ll know if you call.”

A kaleidoscope of emotions swirled within Jimmy: anger, frustration, hopelessness, and most especially fear. But there was something else as well, something indistinct and just barely taking shape…

The beginnings of a crazy, desperate plan.