Free Hostage Taker by Stefanie Pintoff

roll of paper towels. Definitely no cellphone.
    He returned to the living room, scanning all the electrical outlets.
    Nothing.
    He stole a glance out the window. The rain was still teeming. Three Ford Explorers were lined up at the curb. The doors opened and six men wearing raincoats got out. Two from each car.
    Not good.
    He wondered if he should return to the bedroom. If it was possible he had missed seeing the phone there.
    No, I searched there when she was in the bathroom. I was quick, but thorough.
    He heard the slam of car doors closing. The six men gathered briefly in a circle. One of them looked up toward the window where Haddox stood.
    He shrank into the shadows.
    Definitely not good.
    They would be coming up now.
    Two seconds later, the intercom buzzed from the street. Haddox waited—then hit the button and ran his fingernails over the microphone. He said nothing—and the voice that answered was unintelligible.
    Bridget lived on the third floor of a walk-up. That meant four flights of stairs and two landings.
    He could count on sixty to ninety seconds. No more.
    What do I know about you, Bridget, darlin’?
    Everything with a place. And everything in its place.
    The purse had been in the kitchen.
    He turned back into the kitchen.
    Think,
he told himself.
    More noises. Voices. Coming this way.
    He slid open drawers. One for silverware. One for dish towels. And one for exactly the thing he needed.
    It was a charger drawer—equipped with its own electric outlet.
    Clever,
he thought.
    There was loud creaking from the stairs outside the apartment.
    He hadn’t wanted to steal her phone. It was the information on it he was after, nothing more. Problem was: He had to get out of here. Fast.
    He pocketed the phone and headed for the window. Flicked the lock clasp to the left. Tugged.
    Nothing.
    Looked down. Saw the window was painted shut.
    He still heard stairs creaking. Voices coming closer.
    He slid his pocketknife out of his jeans. Ran the blade around the perimeter of the window.
    The six men were heavy. The stairs and landings groaned under their weight. Their wet shoes made loud squeaking noises.
    He heard them make the turn. Reach the final landing.
    He pushed at the window—hard. It resisted—then gave.
    He slipped out onto the fire escape, into the downpour, at the exact moment they rang the bell.
    Shut the window behind him. They’d figure it out—but maybe beautiful Bridget would take a while to answer the door. And buy him a little more time.
    Most people would have gone down, made for the street. So Haddox went up. He practically tiptoed up the slick metal stairs—but they still clanged under his weight.
    A giveaway.
    He decided if he couldn’t be quiet, then he’d better be fast.
    He clambered up the escape, past the fourth and fifth floors, and onto the roof. He cleared it before he heard the sound of Bridget’s kitchen window being opened.
    He froze. Listened.
    Nothing.
    His shoes were full of water. His leather jacket was ruined.
    Better his clothes than his life.
    His eyes scanned the horizon. Five-to-six-foot brick walls separated this building from the three next to it. Nothing he couldn’t manage. But then he’d need to find a way down. The fourth building, with its slippery slanted roof, was beyond his skill level.
    Haddox was a Level One computer hacker—someone with expert coding skills, an intuitive understanding of how machines operated, and a unique ability to infiltrate impenetrable targets. He’d gotten where he was for one reason only: He always did the unexpected. It was the rule he’d lived by—so he applied it here, too.
    When they figured out that he’d gone to the roof, they’d expect him to run as far as he could—to Building 3—before finding a route back down to the street. Or to be so impatient as to risk Building 1. So he made a different choice: He picked Building 2.
    He swiftly scaled the first brick wall and crossed rapidly through someone’s private roof-deck