Armand had been on the stairs when he’d heard the laze shot. He’d bounded through the mezzanine lobby in terror, following the sound. He’d been scanning the empty space, uncertain where to find his friend, when the second shot had been fired.
He’d seen the unmarked door then, slightly ajar, at the other end of the lobby and had raced toward it. A figure had erupted from it in the same instant and he had instinctively snatched at that individual.
He’d assumed it was a young boy, lithe and strong.
But it was a woman, a slight woman dressed in a patched pseudoskin. There could be no mistaking her gender when he caught her by the shoulders and saw the curves of her breasts.
Armand’s heart stopped cold when he saw Baruch on the floor behind her. Blood ran from Baruch’s body like a river, po
