He crouched, looked beneath the car, and saw a pair of feet. He grabbed the ankles and pulled out a very frightened Chris. Frightened and unwell. Spencer wondered how he’d missed the pallid skin and dark circles under the watery eyes. Chris’s arms were crossed protectively over his chest, as if he’d been laid to rest already. There was no time for words, but when their eyes met, Chris saw that Spencer knew.

A police bullhorn echoed down the staircase, advising everyone to give up.

As Spencer jumped in and started the Buick, he acted flustered and panicked, keeping the ignition key turned, even though the engine had fired, causing the starter motor to grate loudly in the confined space. He glanced in the rearview and saw the trunk lid lift up. He revved the engine, seemed to struggle with the shift, grinding the gears, giving Chris more time. When he saw the trunk lid go down, he gave it another beat and then chugged slowly out of the building. Soon they were driving among the hills of gravel and salt that supplied Detroit’s Department of Public Works. Just working men doing their rounds.

Chris lay on the ground for a moment, eyes closed, the duffel bag heavy on his chest, still praying, praying that the Buick didn’t stop, praying he didn’t feel a gun against his head. When neither happened, his brain told him to get moving. He sprang from the ground and ran through a doorway, along passageways, and up and down stairs. The route had been preplanned, committed to memory and replayed time and again in his head since he and Spencer had left the Buick there and scoped out the area in the rain and thunder.

His heart pounded, its capacity falsely bettered by a near overdose of Thermo Booster Burn. His lungs struggled to keep up. He dropped the bag and leaned against the dirty, graffiti-laden wall, gasping. He couldn’t believe he’d been fearful of a life too quiet.

The chopper had gotten clearance. Being coast guard and not so familiar with the airspace, they’d wanted to be sure. The cops on the ground had reported it was now a foot pursuit anyway. All they had to do was make sure no suspects ran out of the building while it was being locked down. Shots fired had been reported, so the air asset had to stay high. They swept over the derelict factory but didn’t pay any mind to a nondescript sedan going about its business half a mile to the north, making for McNichols, where it would head west and then south on Livernois.

And they didn’t even notice a Prius, bumbling eastward.

Spencer hadn’t expected any gratitude, so he wasn’t disappointed when none came.