“We’ll find out our own answers. Come on, Pulaski. We’re out of here.” She turned back toward the door, unable to give Peter’s corpse even one last look. Three days ago he had been golden, handsome, and regretful in the New York airport. And now he was lying in a pool of his own blood, past regrets, and she didn’t even have the time to mourn for him. Her energies had to be spent on the living, on Pulaski and herself. Later, when some of this began to make sense, she’d grieve for him.
“What about the gun?” He’d followed her example and tried to wipe some of the blood onto the carpet around his feet.
“Bring it,” she said grimly. “It looks like we’re going to need it.”
The corridor was still deserted when they stepped out into it, closing the door on the office and its grisly occupant. Maggie gave him a cursory glance. The blood could have been anything—it was drying to a rusty brown, and if they both looked a little the worse for wear someone would have to look twice to notice.
“Where are we going?” Mack murmured as she started off.
“Stairway. They’ll be watching the elevators.”
“Who will be?”
“Whoever killed Peter.”
“I thought you weren’t sure whether I killed him or not?”
“It was only a temporary thought. You didn’t kill him. If you had, you would have been long gone. And you’re right, you didn’t have any reason to kill him. At least none that I know of.”
“So I’m not completely exonerated?”
“I don’t trust anyone completely,” she shot back over her shoulder. “Come on.” She kept moving until she heard the ominous sound of the arriving elevator pinging in the distance. “Damn.” She grabbed his wrist, the bulky bags still under her arm. “Let’s move it.”
She raced back down the hallway, with Mack keeping up with her. They rounded a corner, and she could hear the noise, the voices, the ominously official sound of what was very likely a large group of Houston police heading in their direction. They hadn’t seen them, but they were moving rapidly toward Peter’s office. By the time they reached it, Maggie and Mack would be in plain sight.
“I hate to interfere,” he wheezed behind her, “but do you want to get caught?” He suddenly stopped, and she was jerked back against him.
“Let go of me, you cretin,” she railed at him in a barely audible whisper.
“Sure thing. But you just raced past the fire exit.”
“Why the hell didn’t you say so?” She wheeled around, diving through the door with Mack on her heels, and moments later they were clattering down the stairs. Three flights down, she flung her body against the wall, gesturing Mack to do the same, and they stayed there, listening, for what seemed an eternity.
“They didn’t see us,” she gasped. “So far so good. Let’s go.”
“Won’t I look a little odd carrying this?” Mack gestured with the gun.
Maggie opened one of the bags. “Toss it in here.”
“And then what?”
“We find a way out of here without tripping an alarm. Then we find a car, a motel, and we find a way out of the country.”
“You want to tell me where we’re heading?”
She pushed herself away from the wall. “Honduras.”
“Honduras?” He managed the semblance of a shriek.
“That’s where we’re most likely to find Van Zandt. He spends far too much of his time as a military adviser for various rebel groups. Last I heard he was stationed in Honduras. So that’s where we’re going. Any objections?”
“No. As long as we get there in one piece.”
“I expect we will. We’ve been damned lucky so far.” She started down the next flight of stairs at a more reasonable pace.
“Luck has a habit of changing,” Mack said from above her.
She paused long enough to meet his troubled gaze fearlessly. “And some people make their own luck. Come on. I promised I’d get you out of this mess, and I’m going to. It’s just going to take a little longer than I expected.”