Dante pulled me against the inner concrete pillar, shielding my body with his own.

The footsteps began to echo up the metal stairs.

They were coming up fast.

My pulse skyrocketed.

In my psychology classes, we studied the physiological response to extreme fear.

The tunnel vision, the loss of fine motor skills.

I forced myself to take deep, silent breaths through my nose.

“There’s an maintenance access door behind the trash chute on this level,” I whispered to Dante. “It leads to the laundry chute. It bypasses the lower landing.”

He nodded once.

He pointed his weapon down the stairwell and fired two quick shots to suppress the climbers.

The deafening roar of the gunshots shattered the enclosed space.

He grabbed my arm and pulled me through the tenth-floor door just as plaster chipped off the wall where we had been standing.

We scrambled down the narrow hallway.

The air smelled of laundry detergent and dust.

I found the small wooden utility hatch.

“It’s tight,” I said.

“Go first,” Dante ordered, keeping his weapon trained on the hallway we had just left.