As he shot toward the roof of the shaft, Jack crouched and peered into the shadows above, trying to make out the details. And then he spotted the main support beam running across the top of the shaft. It was aligned with the sling beam atop the car. As he got closer, Jack saw the multitrack wheel fixed in the center of the support beam, spinning wildly as it guided the racing hoist cables.

And then the car stopped. Twenty-sixth floor. End of the line.

Jack let out the breath he’d been holding. Milkdud hadn’t been exaggerating about the extra space at the top. The car had stopped well short of the support beam and the roof. In fact, the shaft continued up a good twenty feet above him.

Jack knew Dud was leaning on the door open button to give him some extra time, but he couldn’t hold it forever. Jack looked around and spotted a metal ladder embedded in the left wall of the shaft, running up to a door—just where Dud had said it would be.

He grabbed a rung, stepped off the top of the car, and climbed to the door. Dud had said it was unalarmed and that he’d left it unlocked, so Jack pushed through.

He shut the door behind him and stood a moment in the rumbling darkness, reveling in the feel of solid floor beneath his feet as his pounding heart slowed.

What a hell ride. Only a few minutes in real time, but a good aeon or two subjectively.

But he’d survived. The worst was over. He’d be more in control from here on in.

Until he had to get out.

He’d worry about that later.

He fumbled his hand along the wall and found the light switch. A row of naked fluorescents flickered to life overhead.

He was in what Milkdud called the HVAC area—heating, ventilation, and air-conditioning. Straight ahead sat the system’s air filters, each the size of a panel truck. Eight-foot ducts ran to and from them.

Jack stepped over to the nearest and freed the briefcase from his belt. He opened it and removed a one-piece coverall—let Dud wear pantyhose; Jack preferred coveralls. He stripped off his suit jacket, pants, and tie, then stepped into the coverall and zipped it to his neck. He traded his wing tips for sneakers. He slipped the slim little cell phone into the inside breast pocket. He strapped the headlamp around his head and slipped its battery pack into his right hip pocket. He adjusted the headphones to his ears, then turned on the Walkman and dropped it into the left hip pocket.

Milkdud’s voice spoke softly in his ears.

“Okay, Jack. If you’re listening to this, I guess it means you’re not lying in a broken heap at the bottom of the shaft.” And then he chuckled.

“Ha ha,” Jack said.