Kyle reached the knife first.

Then Doc's large hand landed on top of his, forcing Kyle's into a fist on the sharp side of the blade. Realizing what he had done, Doc's face contorted with worry.

Then, with an expression of pained resolution, he squeezed harder, releasing blood from Kyle's hand as if he were juicing a lemon.

Kyle cried out in pain. I lurched forward and sunk my long fingernails into Doc's arm until he withdrew his hand, then landed the most powerful kick I could muster square on his chest. He fell backward, the impact knocking the air out of his lungs.

I knelt down to Kyle, who was left crumpled and shuddering on the floor. The cut was deep. Hard-to-look-at deep, with wirelike tendons visible. "We need to go. Can you run?" I spoke in a whisper, unable to find my voice.

He didn't respond. He just stood up without a word, looking a bit unsteady.

I swiftly ripped the sleeve from my shirt and helped him secure it tightly around his injured hand. It didn't take long for the blood to begin to soak through the fabric, staining it dark red.

The handcuff was still latched onto his left wrist, the other end attached to the empty drawer. I spotted a harsh bruise forming on the inside of his wrist, under the metal cuff. The drawer he was handcuffed to had been locked, I realized. Kyle had merely pulled with such force that the lock broke.

He followed my gaze. "I decided I was going to go for it. Whether or not it was locked, that drawer was coming out." A smile broke onto his face, and I found myself mirroring it.

Doc groaned on the floor, so Kyle gave him another hard kick to the stomach, sending him curling into the fetal position. Despite what Doc had just done to him, it looked like he held back from using his full strength, and I thought I spotted a hint of guilt in his eyes.

The pounding of footsteps was growing louder. "What do we do?" I asked. It seemed like his military expertise might be useful at that moment, and I had no plan.

"They probably have the exits covered. Except..." He stared into space as if lost in thought.

"Except?"

He glanced at Doc, who appeared to be incapacitated but conscious. With his good hand, he searched Doc's pockets until he found the key to the handcuffs, then quickly freed his wrist. He dragged Doc by his shirt and handcuffed him to a thick metal pipe jutting out from the wall.

Doc showed no sign of fight but said, with a glare and a smile, "I'll remember this the next time I see you. Which, I have a feeling, may be sooner than you think."

His words were stuck in my head as we ran out of the room. Kyle led the way, apparently having hatched a plan.

"You still have that gun, don't you?" I asked in between labored breaths as we ran. "Where did you get it, anyway?"

"On our last mission. One of the soldiers at the complex where we got the files, uh . . . got in the way."

"You didn't—" I was going to say kill him.

"No."

He led me to a janitor's closet, which left me perplexed until I remembered that it contained a ladder to access the roof. However, foreign voices echoed from just down the hall.

We rushed inside and shut the door, which latched shut with a too-loud click that nearly stopped my heart. Even Kyle's face displayed a rare expression of panic.

I started up the ladder with Kyle behind me. When I reached the top, I burst open the hatch to the roof, momentarily blinded by the intense sunlight.

Almost simultaneously, I heard the door to the janitor's closet also burst open below, accompanied by the resonant shouting of deep voices. Now standing on the roof, I turned around and peered into the dim room.

Kyle faltered on the ladder, unable to hold onto the rungs with his injured hand. I saw a strong arm reach out and take hold of his ankle.

He looked up at me, his eyes filled with an unreadable mix of emotions.

With a pleading urgency, he mouthed, "Go."

Immediately, my eyes welled up with tears. I saw more arms grab at Kyle's clothes and tear him away from the ladder.

It was my fault.

My body seemed to act on its own out of some instinct for survival, taking off in a sprint across the roof before I had even consciously decided what to do.

I dropped the knife. It was all my fault.

I was alone on the roof—the soldiers hadn't ascended the ladder yet. I had no doubt Kyle was giving them the fight of his life.

I got down on my stomach as I approached the edge of the roof, not wanting to be spotted by any troops on the ground. Luckily, the side of the building I had run to appeared unguarded.

I swung my legs over the roof's edge, assessing the daunting gap between me and the ground. Then I turned around and allowed my body to drop until I was dangling by both hands, facing the building. Glancing down, I was still probably ten feet from the ground.

I didn't see another way out—I took a deep breath and unclenched my straining fingers, allowing myself to fall.

I attempted to transfer some of the impact into a somersault. My knees still took the brunt of it, and my shoulder slammed into the ground with astounding force as I rolled. Still, I forced myself upright, gritting my teeth and straining to walk with the unbearable pain radiating from my leg joints.

I was near the treeline when something prodded me in the back. I whirled around, only to be confronted by the barrel of a large gun in my face.