{"product_id":"phantom-instinct-isbn-9780451466099","title":"Phantom Instinct","description":"\u003cb\u003eFrom award-winning author Meg Gardiner, co-author of Michael Mann’s \u003ci\u003eHeat 2\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e One year ago, a shootout in a trendy L.A. club left bartender Harper Flynn’s boyfriend dead, Sheriff Deputy Aiden Garrison shattered, and two gunmen engulfed in flames. But if the case is closed, why is Harper still afraid?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Certain that a third gunman escaped and is targeting survivors, Harper pins her last hope on the only person willing to listen. But a traumatic brain injury has left Aiden with a rare and terrifying disorder: a delusion that random people are actually the same person in disguise.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e As Harper and Aiden delve deeper into the case, Harper fears that the attack might have been more personal than anyone believed. And now her only ally is unstable, paranoid, and mistrustful—because he’s seeing the same enemy everywhere he looks.\u003cb\u003ePraise for \u003ci\u003ePhantom Instinct \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAn \u003ci\u003eO, The Oprah Magazine\u003c\/i\u003e Best Book of the Summer \u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“A fantastic story, told at breakneck speed…One of this summer’s best reads.” —The Associated Press\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“A roller-coaster ride of thrills.”—\u003ci\u003eThe Florida Times-Union \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Buckle up for an exciting thrill ride of a novel.”—Bookreporter.com\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Characters as real as your friends and a plot as real as your nightmares.”—#1 \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e bestselling author Lee Child\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Fast-paced, sharp, and unforgettable.”—\u003ci\u003eNew York Times \u003c\/i\u003ebestselling author Don Winslow\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Should go to the top of your ‘to be read’ pile.”—\u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e bestselling author Karin Slaughter\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Plot twists and pacing that propels.”—\u003ci\u003eThe Austin Chronicle \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“A suspense-building unpredictability that thriller fans will love.”—\u003ci\u003eBooklist \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“This one will keep readers up all night.”—\u003ci\u003eSuspense Magazine\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Never less than breathtaking.”—\u003ci\u003eKirkus Reviews\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cb\u003eMeg Gardiner\u003c\/b\u003e is the Edgar® Award-winning author of the Evan Delaney series: \u003ci\u003eKill Chain\u003c\/i\u003e,\u003ci\u003e Crosscut\u003c\/i\u003e,\u003ci\u003e Jericho Point\u003c\/i\u003e,\u003ci\u003e Mission Canyon\u003c\/i\u003e, and \u003ci\u003eChina Lake\u003c\/i\u003e. Her other novels include \u003ci\u003eThe Shadow Tracer\u003c\/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003eRansom River\u003c\/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003eThe Nightmare Thief\u003c\/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003eThe Liar’s Lullaby\u003c\/i\u003e, and \u003ci\u003eThe Memory Collector.\u003c\/i\u003e Originally from Santa Barbara, California, she now lives in Austin, Texas.***This excerpt is from an advance uncorrected proof***\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eCopyright © 2014 Meg Gardiner\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e1                                     \u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eWhen it started, Harper Flynn had a fifth of vodka in her hand, six shot glasses lined up on the bar in front of her, and a stinging cut on her arm from a broken beer bottle. Music rained through the refurbished warehouse, a sheet of noise. Harper poured the martini into a chilled glass. Down the crowded bar, a banker waved his empty highball glass and a twenty. She nodded. Macallan, neat, with a Stella back—she’d get to him. She’d get to them all. Eleven p.m. and she was halfway through her shift.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eShe slid the martini glass toward the man in the suit. “Fourteen-fifty.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eHe frowned and shouted over the band. “For an ounce of vodka and an olive?”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eShe smiled. “For turning you into James Bond.” And for not spitting in it.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThe dance floor was a swerving mass of spangled people. On the walls, flat screens projected glossy music videos. In booths and at tables along the balcony, cooler customers leaned back, holding court over bottles of Bollinger. The stage lights skewed the space between white glare and murky corners. The warehouse windows were milky with moonlight, pierced by occasional Los Angeles headlights.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThe suit stroked the stem of the martini glass. “I’ll pay four bucks.” \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Fourteen-fifty,” Harper said, still smiling, but both hands on the bar now.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eShe wore a black cotton blouse, sleeves rolled to the elbows, and black jeans he couldn’t see, because he was too busy trying to Jedi mind-trick her buttons open. Next to him, a woman leaned back, laughing, hand to her chest.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eFrom the crowd, Drew appeared behind the suit. Eyes on Harper, shoulders square, as though he was lining up to head-butt the man.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eDrew leaned toward the guy’s ear. “How’s your drink?”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThe man looked up at him, several inches. Noticed the black shirt, the chilly eyes, the cornerback’s body.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eHarper said, “His drink’s about to be paid for.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eMaybe half a second the guy held on, wanting to yank her chain again. Then he slapped fifteen bucks on the bar and skulked off.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eDrew smiled. “He thought I was your boss.” \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThat smile was wicked, and overtly pleased.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Never,” she said. “Not even when we play dress-up later on.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eHe didn’t work there. He only worked his way under her skin, into her thoughts, her days, her nights. Now he was laughing. She nodded at the far end of the bar and walked down. He followed.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eHe slid her employee swipe card into her hand. “Thanks.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eShe clipped the card to her belt, quietly, her back turned to the club’s CCTV camera. “What’s it like outside?”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Zoo. Line around the block, Security’s wanding guys and carding teenage girls.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“But they’re still letting people in?”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eHe raised his eyebrows. The walls seemed to bulge under the press of the crowd. Fire limit was twelve hundred. That many seemed to be clamoring for drinks.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eHarper said, “Your sister’s not out there, is she?”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eHe laughed. “Piper might be able to fake her way past security, but she knows you’re working. You’re scarier than any bouncer.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“That’s my motto. Now buy a drink. And tip me big.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eDrew had borrowed her swipe card so he could avoid the hassle of security at the front entrance when he came back in. He eyed the bottles arrayed behind her.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eShe added, “And no, you may not challenge me to mix the worst drink possible. I will not serve you an Antifreeze. Or a Brain Tumor.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“An Old-Fashioned,” he said.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eShe wiped her hands on her apron. “Bourbon or rye?” \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“What’s the most old-fashioned?”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eShe set a glass on the bar. “You stir it for eighteen minutes to muddle the drink.” She dropped in a sugar cube, added Angostura bitters and water, and stirred with a spoon. “That’s how Al Capone demanded it.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eShe filled the glass with Wild Turkey, shoveled in ice cubes, and nudged the glass at him.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThe band hit a final chord. Definitely Arson was the hot ticket that had drawn this whooping crowd to the Valley on a Saturday night. In a booth near the stage, a glass broke. A woman squealed. An ice bucket tipped over.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eOne of the other bartenders, Sanita, said, “High roller. Vegas millionaire, I heard.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eHarper glanced at the booth. Everything seemed brilliant and shadowed.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eAcross the dance floor, at the main entrance, a man came up the stairs. He stopped in the doorway. Hands at his sides, jacket open. For a second, he struck Harper as a gunslinger, readying himself to draw, waiting for an opponent to rise up from the swirl in front of him. A woman came in the door beside him, a blonde, same urgency, same eyes.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThe band launched into a new song. Down the bar, a man whistled and shouted, “Cuervo.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eAt the door, the harsh-eyed man and woman surveyed the room in slow tandem, like twin Terminators. Drew leaned on the bar, rattling the ice in his glass. Harper took the Cuervo Gold from the shelf.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThe first sound was a muffled pop. The man and woman with the gunslinger eyes turned toward the high roller’s booth. Harper’s skin prickled.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eA second report hammered beneath the drumbeat. It was unmistakable, a noise she knew from the firing range and a thousand TV shows, a sound it seemed she had been expecting all her life: gunfire.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003cb\u003e \u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003cb\u003e \u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003cb\u003e \u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003cb\u003e \u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003cb\u003e \u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003cb\u003e \u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003cb\u003e \u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003cb\u003e \u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003cb\u003e \u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003cb\u003e2\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e                                     \u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eAiden Garrison turned at the noise. “Shots fired.” \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eFrom the doorway, he scanned the club. With its heaving swirl of dancers and the thunder of the band, it might as well have been a riot. Beside him, Erika Sorenstam drew her weapon. The stage lights flashed against her blond hair and the badge hooked on her belt.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Where?” she said.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ePeople continued dancing, arms upraised. It was a jungle, swaying as though under the force of the beat, and he couldn’t see the snakes.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eAcross the club, the man in the booth by the stage—heavyset, young, and sweating into his two-thousand-dollar suit—pointed at the crowd. Arliss Bale, Vegas hotshot, known meth wholesaler. His body- guards rose and stormed into the crowd.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“They’re going for Bale.” Garrison shouldered his way onto the dance floor. His weapon was already in his hands.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eBeneath the crash of cymbals, a third shot reached his ears. So did the first scream.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e---\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThe scream barely cut through the blare of the singer and guitars. Harper’s palms went clammy. Drew turned toward the sound.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eIn the booth by the stage, bodyguards lunged to their feet. They dragged Mr. High Roller from his seat. Another shot echoed.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eHarper shouted, “Gunshots. Everybody get down.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThe band kept playing. The crowd kept dancing. Then screams came like a rock slide, pebbles at first, rolling, escalating, until noise and fear cut through the center of the floor, an avalanche. The music dribbled to a stop.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Go,” Harper shouted. “Get out. Now.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eWithout music, the screams took over. The customers at the bar scattered. People spilled out in all directions, frantic, eyes round. The booth near the stage had emptied, bodyguards rushing into the crowd, Mr. Big on his knees, reaching into his suit jacket for a weapon or his valet parking ticket, something to transport him out of there.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eOn the dance floor, a woman tripped and fell. Three feet from Harper, Sanita swiped her card to lock out the register. She was punching the screen when the shot hit her in the chest.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eShe keeled back against the bottles behind her, and dropped. \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Sanita,” Harper cried.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eDrew leaned across the bar and grabbed Harper’s hand. “This way.” \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eHarper resisted. “Sanita’s hurt.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eSanita sat, legs splayed, hand pressed to her chest. She stared astonished at the blood seeping between her fingers.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eTwo people dived across the bar and rolled to the floor, taking cover. Drew pulled on Harper’s arm. Behind him, a man huffed as if he’d been hit with a sledgehammer. Blood erupted from his shoulder.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ePeople were stampeding, hands out, some looking back. For a moment, the dance floor cleared and gave Harper a clean view of the room.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eA man in a hoodie, wearing gloves and a gas mask, was advancing toward the high roller’s bodyguards, arm extended, firing a pistol. He seemed unhurried.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eDrew tightened his grip on her arm. “Come on.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThe gunshot took him high in the back and knocked him against the bar.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e---\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eAiden Garrison and Erika Sorenstam forged through the crowd, shoving against the tide. Garrison held his weapon with both hands. The lights flipped blue, strobing, women in iridescent dresses racing past. One shied and screamed at the sight of his gun.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Sheriff ’s department. Move,” he said.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eSorenstam’s face was washed blue beneath the lights. She spoke into her shoulder-mounted radio. “Shots fired at Xenon.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eShe held her weapon aimed at the hardwood floor. The strobes flashed in her eyes. Garrison continued to scan the room.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eTwo bodyguards from the booth headed into the melee—suits, glass stares, earpieces, shoving people aside.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eOne of them went down in the crowd as though he’d been nailed by a shark. Garrison eyed the trajectory the shot had taken. He saw the fleeting profile of a man in a hoodie, wearing a mask. And behind that man, another. Heading toward the bar. Guns in their hands.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eGarrison plunged after them. “Sorenstam.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eShe didn’t respond. Alarm jacked through him. He fought against the stampede and passed a man who’d been shot. The man lay face-down, motionless, getting kicked like a rugby ball. Garrison knelt briefly, trying to form a barrier. He put two fingers to the man’s neck. No pulse.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eHe stood. Between fleeing people, two gray hoodies wove their way across the floor, a counterflow, methodical. Another gunshot boomed out. He turned. Who had fired? Where was Erika?\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eA woman bumped into him, hands out. Beyond her was a shooter, dark hoodie, face covered by a gas mask. The shooter raised a silver pistol. The hoodie rode up his back. Chones hanging out over sagging jeans. Pale white rind of skin visible around his waist. He stalked toward the bar.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eWhere a young guy in a black shirt had been hit and lay splayed across the counter. And Garrison saw the young bartender.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e---\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Drew,” Harper said.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eShe could barely hear herself. Her field of vision had collapsed into a bright shriek. Drew lay crashed across the bar, gasping. His fingers clawed the wood. Blood spread from the exit wound in his chest. Behind him came the reflected flash of silver, from the handgun pointing directly at him.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eDark figures moved against the turbulent flow of the crowd. Shadows, golems, men in masks. One turned her way. The plastic eyeholes of his gas mask glittered under the stage strobes.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eDrew tried to straighten, but slid backward toward the floor. \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eHarper grabbed his wrist. “No.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eHe looked at her, distantly, seemingly surprised by pain.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eA bullet shattered the mirror behind her. Harper flinched. Glass waterfalled to the floor. Sanita cried out and curled into a ball. The man in the gas mask was closer.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eDrew slipped another inch. Harper’s system flooded with adrenaline. Hanging tight to his wrist, she scrambled onto the bar and across.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eSanita cried, “Harper—no.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eHarper jumped down on the far side of the bar. Drew slid to the floor.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eShe dropped to his side, heart thundering. “Come on.” \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eHe swiped a hand in her direction. “Can’t breathe.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Hold on.” She worked her arms around him and labored to her feet.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eCover, she needed cover. The main door was a hundred fifty feet across the dance floor. The staff entrance—the door Drew had used earlier—was closer. She turned toward it. A shooter stood in front of it, aiming at the high roller’s booth. Dammit. Groaning with effort, she turned again and hauled Drew toward the end of the bar. She had to get behind it. His heels dragged on the wood. His shirt gleamed wetly.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eHundreds of people were still trying to get out of the club. The shooter turned in her direction. The eyeholes of his gas mask looked black and void. Harper’s skin, her bones, the air around her, felt electric.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eShe lugged Drew backward, arms aching. He didn’t rise, didn’t help her, sank lower in her arms. “Westerman, come on, man. Come on.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThe man in the gas mask reached inside his sweatshirt. When he pulled his hand out again, Harper stumbled.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eHe held the worst drink ever invented. The Molotov cocktail.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eHe jammed his pistol into the waistband of his sagging jeans, took out a lighter, and lit the rag in the bottle. Hell, Harper thought. Oh, hell. Chaotic flames illuminated a crawling black tattoo on his hand and reflected in the eyeholes of his mask.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThen, deep in the crowd behind him, another figure became visible: the man with the Terminator stare. He raised a gun. He was shouting. Maybe Don’t move. Maybe Freeze.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eGas Mask turned his head sharply. Turning back, he pitched the bottle against the wall above the bar. It burst with a clattering chime. Gasoline bloomed into flame like a sightless orange eye.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eHarper staggered. “Jesus.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eLiquid flames spilled and flared. Gas Mask tipped his head up as they climbed the wall. Insect-quick, he lobbed something else into the fire, ducked, and disappeared back into the crowd.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eSmoke boiled onto the ceiling and curled over on itself. Sanita crawled from behind the bar, aided by another bartender.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eHarper called to them. “The door—gotta get out.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eWith a percussive crack, the bar exploded. Red-white flames starburst and shrapnel flew. Harper cringed against Drew, gasping. She inhaled caustic smoke. Choking at the smell and taste and fearful heat of it, she coughed and inhaled even more.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eLock it down. Basic training came back to her. Hold your shit together, and get out.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThe fire inflated. It boiled up the walls, engulfed the bar, and streaked along the floor. The smoke alarm tripped, a solid high-pitched shriek. Drew hung heavy in her shaking arms. She looked over her shoulder. The main door was one hundred twenty feet away. Beyond it, the stairs were jammed. A cry lodged in her throat. The stairs were packed so solid with people that none of them could move. They were yelling, writhing like worms.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThe CO2 fire suppression system activated. But across the club, a man smashed a window with a chair. Oxygen gushed in. The flames welled and roared across the ceiling. The heat swelled appallingly.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eA fleeing woman tripped into Drew. He blinked but didn’t move. Harper checked the other direction, the staff door at the back of the club. Black smoke nearly obscured it. Dozens of people were trying to shove through it. But gliding her way were three hooded figures. Amidst the panic, they seemed impervious. The blaze seemed to burn from within their gas masks. Smoke enveloped them, then cleared around the one in the center. Under the light of the flames, the crawly black tattoo seemed to writhe. The silver pistol in his hand swept slowly across the room, gradually closing on her and Drew.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e---\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eGarrison tracked the shooters through rushing people and flashes of white flame and lowering black smoke. Hoods, masks, strutting across the dance floor. One raised his gun and aimed at the young brunette bartender. The pistol straight out, shoulder hunching, almost a parody of a gangsta pose, sweatshirt riding up, stalking across the floor, ignoring the fire he’d started.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eGarrison barged toward him, coughing, trying to get a clear shot through the crowd and smoke. The shooters progressed in a straight line across the club, maybe sweeping the room for their original targets. They neared the wounded young man and the bartender, a slight woman who was straining to drag him to safety. Her hair was falling in front of her face. Her eyes were huge and desperate, but not craven— they glinted with firelight. She meant to save the young man even as the shooters and the fire bore down on her.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eGarrison took aim. “Sheriff ’s department. Drop your weapons,” he yelled.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThe shooter didn’t respond. Garrison kept advancing. The gunman had a clear shot. He himself didn’t. The smoke billowed, obscuring all three shooters. Then, with a gust, it cleared. Garrison had an unobstructed field of fire. He squeezed the trigger. One of the gunmen went down. Garrison held his breath and swept his weapon right, and a second shooter was spinning in his direction, gun coming up. Garrison fired again.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThen, with a loud crack and a slithering shift in the floor, the world ended.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e---\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThe wall of heat seemed to radiate through Harper. The fire bellowed, yellow, sliding around the room. Sparks and glass and the floor creaking. She turned frantically toward the staff exit. The door was nearly obscured by smoke, but scurrying feet ran through it, to the back hall, and it snapped shut.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eShe wrestled Drew toward the exit, groaning. The floor shifted beneath her. In front of the flaming bar, two shooters were down. From out of the smoke emerged the man with a gun and a badge.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eShe kept moving, even as the noise in the room turned to apocalypse, even as she knew the door was close, but too far. The cop was coming for her.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThe floor opened up beneath him. With a firework of sparks and tearing wood, it collapsed. The wall came down with it. The club, the shooters, the night, her life, all disappeared into it. For a second, she caught the cop’s eye, until smoke and flame and the falling floor swallowed him. She felt Drew slipping and thought: I’m only a minute behind you into death.\u003c\/p\u003e","brand":"Dutton","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46300161016037,"sku":"NP9780451466099","price":8.99,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9780451466099.jpg?v=1767734710","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/products\/phantom-instinct-isbn-9780451466099","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}