The sweet, sickly stench of vaporized aerosol coated the back of her throat before the vents even finished hissing.
It didn't smell like fire. It smelled like raw, unlit gasoline and crushed orchids.
Jane’s eyes watered instantly. The heavy steel blast doors at the end of the corridor had sealed with a hollow, final thud that vibrated up through the soles of her shoes. The sprinkler system above them was dead. Ryan had overridden the entire grid.
Michael didn't panic. The emotional withdrawal, the guilt that had just been suffocating him seconds ago, vanished. It was entirely eclipsed by the cold, surgical precision of the predator.
He moved.
He didn't grab her hand. He grabbed the back of her neck, his large palm wrapping around her nape, forcing her head down as he dragged her away
