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Using an escape chute feels like riding through a giant snake’s colon.
The synthetic fabric squeezes snugly, but not enough to keep gravity from sucking me through as irresistibly as peristalsis. I have my arms above my head, utility belt in a two-handed grip.
Even through my gas mask, the chute stinks of long-stored plastic.
I have about forty stories of slow falling.
A sniper could put me down, easy as tripping Granny.
Fortunately, I’m distracted.
Despite the throat mic I shout, “What the hell! Will?”
“f**k,” Deke says. “What is he—”
“Been trying to tell you since he moved,” Sister Silence says.
“You knew about this?” I snarl.
“He paid me,” Sister Silence says. “A hacker’s gotta eat.”
“He’s flat broke!” I say.
“He came into some cash a few days ago,” Sister Silence says.
