I squeezed the trigger, laying down suppressive fire. It was inaccurate, desperate shooting, but it forced the sniper to duck.
Ryan reached the chain-link fence surrounding the tower base. He didn’t bother trying to climb it. He threw himself onto the ground, sliding underneath a gap where the wire had rusted out, tearing his dress whites to shreds.
Inside the corridor, Voss realized what was happening. “No!” he bellowed. He leaned out from behind his pillar to take a shot at Ryan’s retreating back.
My father—my terrified, corporate father who hadn’t held a weapon in thirty years—lunged out from behind his cover. He tackled Voss around the waist.
The two men crashed to the floor. Voss’s gun went off wildly, the bullet ricocheting off the ceiling. My father clawed at Voss’s face, fighting with the feral desperation of a man trying to buy back his soul.
