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here,” someone says from across the room, out of my field of view. The man in the flannel shirt turns, striding back across the floor. I breathe out, long and slow.
    The voice is faint, but I can just make out the words. “Everybody just stay on the ground, and we all walk away.”
    I sneak another peek round the side of the vat, taking in the floor of the plant. I can see some of the hostage takers, their backs to me, and a few people lying face down on the floor, but I can’t get a clear look at the whole plant. Carver slips past me, placing a hand at the small of my back, moving silently to the next vat along.
    I hear another voice – one of the hostages, I think. There’s a muffled thump, followed by a groan of pain.
    “Ivan,” the first voice hisses.
    “Sorry, Mikhail.”
    Carver puts up a closed fist: Wait . He takes a look of his own, scanning the plant, then pulls back into the shadows.
    I catch his attention, pointing in the direction of the hostage takers, then hold up six fingers, three on each hand.
    He shakes his head, quick-quick, then holds up a fist and two fingers. Seven.
    I risk another look. There he is: he was out of my field of view, standing off to one side, over by the far wall. I can’t pick out his features from here, but he has a massive beard, falling all the way to his stomach.
    Carver taps his ear, looking at me questioningly. I nod, then key the transmit button on my wristband.
    “Captain Royo,” I say, keeping my voice to a low murmur. “This is Riley, come back.”
    “Copy, Hale. What do you see?”
    Carver has moved further along the back of the vat, and is peering round the far end. He looks back at me, flashes seven fingers again, then a thumbs-up.
    “We’ve got seven of them. They’re carrying stingers, homemade. I don’t see any other weapons.”
    “And the hostages?”
    “They look OK for now.”
    Mikhail speaks again. “We don’t want to hurt anyone. Not unless we have to,” he says. He’s just in my field of view. His accent is syrup-thick. The set of his shoulders and his posture speak of a man in his thirties or forties, but he has an ancient face, jagged with wrinkles and scars. His head is ringed with grey hair, long and greasy.
    “Confirm seven hostiles,” says Royo. “Can you—”
    As he speaks, the earpiece gives off a burst of static, so loud I almost tear the unit from my ear.
    My heart starts hammering. I slip around the back of the vat, praying the sound didn’t go further than my ringing eardrum. I flick the SPOCS to a dead channel.
    “You hear that?” someone says. Whoever it is starts walking towards my hiding place, his footsteps getting louder. Not good. I shrink back against the tank, willing myself to be as still as possible. Carver has dropped to one knee, so deep in the shadows that I can barely make him out.
    “What is it, Anton?” says the leader from the other side of the room.
    “Heard something,” Anton says. “Just checking it out.”
    “OK. Be careful.”
    The man is going to be on me in seconds – and this time I can’t count on him turning away. If I run, he’ll hear me. If we take him out, if the others don’t see him again in a minute or two, they’ll come looking for him. I hear his footsteps, getting closer, see his shadow growing larger on the wall.
    And then, all at once, the idea is there.
    I can see Carver getting ready to move, a shifting shape in the shadows. I signal him with a raised hand, then shake my head.
    The gap between the wall and the vat is maybe four feet. I push my back against the vat, facing the wall, then raise first one leg, then the other. When I’m locked into position, suspended a few feet off the ground, I start to push my upper body a little way up the side of the vat. One leg at time, I walk myself up the wall, always sliding my upper body first, always keeping my feet below waist level.
    Being a tracer teaches you about friction. Friction maintains grip. Friction keeps you defying