Instead of a weapon, the second cop was holding some equipment. It looked like a stripped-down rig hooked up to some sort of camera. Deck didn't know what it was, but he was guessing it was something to help them look for him. Perhaps a thermal camera. The rig was too primitive to be of use to him, so he left it there.
Deck's eyes stung and watered, and tears ran down his face. He kept rubbing them in a vain attempt to clear them, but his vision remained darkened and flickering.
He needed to get moving.
He sprinted full speed across the level, ignoring caution and stealth. By the time he reached the stairwell, his hip and shoulder had begun to throb, and his movements had become heavy and uneven. He knocked open the door and began a long spiraling trip downward. This time he kept count. He needed to cover at least forty floors before he could think of leaving the stairs.
After ten floors his hip was in agony and he had to slow his pace. He could feel his shoulder stiffening up as well. Ten floors later he needed to rest. He came to a stop at the landing for the thirtieth floor. He wiped the sweat and tears from his face with his left hand and then combed the sweat out of his hair with his fingers. He missed his shaved head.
Deck leaned against the wall, breathing in short, uneven gulps. Every time he expanded his chest, pain shot across his shoulder and up his neck. His need for air and his aversion to the pain played tug-of-war with his breathing patterns.
He realized that he wasn't getting out of there. He had come to this conclusion at some point during his run down the stairs. There was just no way he was going to escape though the net of police that was surely making its way up through the building. For him, it was no longer a question of how he would escape, but how far he would get before they brought him down. This gave him a kind of sick desperation that fueled him onward. He was no longer running for his life - he was already dead. Instead, he was running out of spite, out of sheer stubbornness and vengeance. They were going to get him, and he was going to make them work for it. He was going to see how far he could get before they stopped him. Nescio had been right after all.
He decided to shed some of the extra weight that had been dragging on his suit. He pulled out the UIU and tossed it. He dumped the useless TriOp vox he had been lugging all over the building for no apparent reason. He dumped the two police vox units he had picked up several minutes earlier. He dropped the few spare parts he always carried for his rig, his duct tape, and a couple of blank phones.
He looked at his reel of fiberline and and decided to keep it. Just in case. The same went for his knife. Both of them were fairly light anyway.
Deck considered the gun. It was heavier than anything else he had dumped, but it also had the potential to let him last a bit longer. He didn't have any spare ammunition for it. He decided he would keep it until it ran dry.
Deck looked at the pile of junk on the floor and realized he hadn't tried the police vox.. Shaking his head in disbelief, he picked one up and switched it on.
"Floors thirty-four and thirty-five clear. Starting our run on thirty-two and thirty-three."
"Roger that."
Deck smiled. He couldn't tell who was talking, but he would at least know what was going on. Somebody was obviously just a few floors above him. He wondered if he should try to double-back to floor thirty-four now that they thought it was clear.
He stood up straight and paced back and fourth. His hip was really stiffening up. He needed to get moving while he could still run. His breathing had almost returned to normal, and his vision had improved slightly.
He took the vox and clipped it to his shoulder.
"Floors thirty-two and thirty-three clear"
What the hell? How had they swept two entire levels that fast? Perhaps there were multiple teams of units on multiple floors...
"Beginning sweep of twenty-nine and thirty"
Deck hesitated. How were they "sweeping" the levels? The stairwell was empty and he hadn't heard anyone above or below him changing floors.
"Base?"
"Go ahead."
"You have anyone in the south stairway on thirty?"
"Negative."
Deck's eyes widened.
"Then I've got him."
"Acknowledged. We have a team en route. Which way is he heading?"
"He's not, the target is stationary."
Deck lunged down the stairs.
"Whoa! Target is moving now... heading down."
"Roger that."
Deck hit the landing for level twenty-nine.
"Passing twenty-nine... still going down. It looks like someone must have nailed him. He's limping badly. I'm still with him... passing twenty-eight... twenty-seven..."
Deck continued his descent while the voice continued to broadcast his every move. He had no idea who or what was watching him. There were clearly no cameras in the stairwell, so it must have been someone on the outside.
"Okay, our men are on level twenty. Heading for the south stairwell."
Deck hit the landing for floor twenty-three.
"Better hurry, he's moving fast."
Deck cursed the unseen voice. Who was it? Where were they? How were they watching him?
"Roger that. Almost there."
Deck hit twenty-two.
"Gonna be close. Target just passed twenty-two."
Screw it, Deck thought. If he was going to have a crowd bust in on him, he was going out with a bang. He slipped the grenade out of his pocket and held it in his right hand, ready to go. He was jumping most of the stairs now, despite the explosion of pain he experienced every time he landed. He passed the door for floor twenty-one.
"Here he comes."
He hit level twenty and kept going. His legs were in agony. His lungs burned. Tears streamed down his cheeks again.
As he rounded the corner, the door above slammed open and the stairwell filled with the sound of echoing footsteps.
"Your team just missed him, he's just above nineteen."
"We have units on the way up from ten."
Deck changed his mind and exchanged the grenade for his last flash. Doing so slowed him down a few steps. Above him he heard voices yelling and radio chatter from some channel he wasn't getting.
"Man, your guys are right on top of him."
Deck popped the flash and dropped it as he ran.
"Whoa! What just happened? Half your team just went down?"
"I can't tell, they're all yelling at us at once. Wait, it sounds like... Yeah, the target dropped another blinder on them."
"Roger that."
Deck was in too much pain to enjoy his little victory. The flash had gone off a level above him, probably in the middle of the pack of cops. The stairway was instantly filled with screams and profanity as they toppled over each other.
Deck heard footsteps coming up from below.
"The second team is on thirteen."
"I see them. Target is still descending."
Deck exited the stairwell onto floor fifteen.
"Base, target has exited the stairway onto level.... looks like level fifteen."
Deck burst though the door and found himself in a carbon copy of the first floor office area. There were cameras everywhere.
"Use caution, you don't want to get hit with another blinder."
"Roger that. Our team is ready for it."
He stumbled over to a nearby desk and fell across it, gasping from both the lack of oxygen and the pain his injury inflicted on him for each breath. His hip was a nexus of pain and every step felt like he was tearing something new. He needed some distance between himself and the team on its way up the stairs.
On a whim, Deck grabbed a chair and jammed it under the breaker bar of the door. He didn't have any idea if that would hold them or not.
Deck knew he was almost done. His lungs had never, ever burned this bad. He wondered if he was going to vomit. He headed for the closest doorway he could find, anxious to escape the open area.
"He's heading deeper into the structure now. I'm losing him... I'm gonna change position and see if I can get him back."
Deck had to slow down, his body was giving out on him. He paused at a nearby desk, leaning on it as he panted. He drew in sporadic gulps of air as he wrestled with his burning thirst for oxygen and the stabbing pain in his shoulder. Suddenly the screen on the desk lit up.
He blinked. The monitor wasn't even connected to a local machine.
He glanced up to the nearby elevator. It was on its way up.
He drew his pistol. The elevator may or may not be empty, but someone definitely knew where he was. As the elevator came to a stop, he crouched behind the desk and leveled the pistol at the door. He tried to steady his breathing. His hands were shaking.
The elevator chimed and he fired six shots through the doors, trying to cover all the corners where someone might be hiding.
The doors slid open to reveal the perforated back wall of the elevator.
Deck had no desire to trust the anonymous messenger who seemed to be sending him elevators. There was nobody in the world that would be both willing and able to provide this sort of assistance to him. He could only assume it was some strange tactic the police were employing. Nothing would make their job easier than for him to just jump into an elevator. Anyone in the security station could then override the controls and send him wherever they wanted.
As he knelt by the desk, he thought for a moment that he might feel better if he threw up, but he didn't have time to wait for it to happen.
He could only assume jamming the breaker bar on the fire door had held them, otherwise he would have been overrun by now.
He picked himself up and got moving again. The corridors were a homogenous blur of identical offices and clusters of cubicle spaces. Nothing had any identity, any distinctive markings. There was nothing to even let him know he was really progressing from one side of the building to the other.
He rounded a corner and found himself in a corridor walled on one side with windows and offices on the other. At the midpoint of the hallway was another pair of elevators. As he ran out in front of the window, a light shone though and pointed directly at him.
"Base, I have reacquired the target."
Deck stopped and turned to see a helicopter hanging in the air, just outside the window. The thundering of the blades was slightly muted though the windows.
"You got him?"
"He's on the west side, looking right at me through the windows."
"Roger that. I don't know how he got past our cameras."
Deck sneered into the blinding floodlight as he finally beheld his tormentor.
The voice returned, "He looks bad. You really ran this guy down."
"Acknowledged. What's he doing?"
"Target is not active," there was a brief pause before the pilot added, "He's just staring at us like a moron."
"My team will be there soon. I think we've got control of the elevators again."
Deck glanced over his shoulder to see that one of the elevators was on its way up.
Deck whipped out the pistol and leveled it at the cockpit. He squeezed off two shots. The window in front of him cracked and bent under the force of the bullets, but held firm.
The helicopter broke onto the channel in a fit of laughter, "Base, target is firing on us."
"Say again?"
The was more uncontrolled snickering, "Target has initiated hostilities with an attack helicopter."
"We have him boxed in. You are cleared to pull out."
"Negative. A sidearm is not a serious threat to us." There was a short pause before the pilot added, "It can't even shoot through the structure windows."
"Roger that."
Deck gave him the finger and was answered with more laughter.
Deck was gasping for breath. He felt defeated, humiliated, exhausted. He found himself wishing they would get their act together and finish the job.
"I've got units coming up the north stairs and the elevator. The rest are trying to pull the hinges on the south doorway to gain access. We got him."
Deck considered hitting the north stairs and heading up, since there didn't seem to be anyone in that direction, but he decided he would rather shoot himself than run any more stairs. Besides, even if he was up for the run, he needed to go down, not up.
Deck looked out the window to the city below. He could make his stand here and see how much damage he could do before they stopped him, or he could pretend he was on the tenth floor and execute his escape plan anyway. He was five stories too high and the drop would probably kill him, but the idea appealed to him a lot more than a bloody gunfight.
He pulled out the grenade, armed it, and dumped it on the floor in front of the window he had just shot. He turned and ran.
The helicopter cut in, "looks like he's heading back the way he came."
The grenade detonated and blew out the window in front of it, along with its neighbor.
The climate-controlled air of the office exhaled out into the night. The cold, humid outside air rushed through the office, propelled by the blades of the helicopter The wind drove through the corridor, stirring papers and debris already thrown by the explosion.
The vox barked out more chatter, but Deck couldn't understand it over the wind, the helicopter, and the ringing in his ears from the explosion. The rush of displaced air died down as the sound of the thumping rotors grew distant. This was as good a chance as he was ever going to get.
The fiberline was actually a ribbon of high-strength cable only a few centimeters wide. Fiberline was strong enough to support an adult with only a few dozen strands, but the extra width was needed to provide a good braking surface. He hooked one end of the fiberline to the pockmarked window frame. The fiberline was already threaded though his suit. He just grabbed the brake and dove out the window. He didn't even look down.
He repelled downward in large, sweeping strokes. Each time he touched down on the side of the building, the impact created a spear of pain that shot from his right hip, traveling up his spine.