Cole pressed his ear to the wall next to him. Nothing. But if Riggs was dead from his wounds, that’s exactly what he’d expect. And anyway, with the way people were blurred into motion while he was with Byrne—there was no telling how much time had passed during their conversation. Perhaps they’d already disposed of his body, or taken him someplace else.

He considered all these possibilities as he made his way around the side of the building. Shouts could be heard in the distance, growing closer. Cole stole around to the front of the small structure and pulled open the door he found there.

Bingo.

He immediately recognized the inclined racks with their dangling restraints, even though they seemed to have been rearranged. What’s more, he knew that tangy scent of blood, a hint of which remained in the air. He looked to the floor for signs of it, expecting to find a wide streak heading toward the drain along with dotted trails spurting off in one direction, but they had already cleaned it up. There was no sign of Riggs. Not even a part of him.

Cole turned to leave. Surely they would eventually look for him in the only room he’d been inside of. He wondered which direction he should head: aft into the unknown, or forward and toward the Firehawk. He was about to set foot outside and let fate decide for him, when loud footsteps began approaching from the side of the shack. Cole jumped back into the room and shut the door as quickly and quietly as he could.

The thunder of several running men passed, and a sense of panic crept up in Cole’s chest. What good is running? He thought. Where would I go?

The severity of his situation began to sink in: he was trapped in hyperspace with a collection of ancient Earth bandits, and the things Byrne had told him about the universe—the utter scale of time and space and destruction—it made all his petty concerns of self-preservation seem ridiculously small. Temporary, at best. The sane course of action, he began to suspect, had been to stay put. He should probably just step out with his hands up and turn himself in.

The sound of someone running up to the door ended that internal debate. The natural tendency to run—to protect himself—surged through his body, surfing a second wave of adrenaline. Cole grabbed the door handle and held it tight just as someone outside tried to operate it.

The bar twisted in his hands. He tried to grip it hard enough to make it seem locked, but it moved just enough—with the tension of tendons rather than steel—that he knew the person outside wouldn’t be fooled.

“Hey!”

The shout came through the door muffled but audible. Something thumped against the door, a hand or a lowered shoulder.

Again, with a dull thump.

Cole listened to two more before getting the timing down. He turned the handle the other direction, using the man’s pressure against him, and pulled the door open right before the next blow came.