No Exit by Taylor Adams 2

was rock-hard here, like sculpted cement. He was just a few
paces from the Wanapa visitor center.
He reached the front door, stepping under the saucershaped
lamp. Again, no further information from Dispatch
beyond the initial two-zero-seven text message, which was
frustrating.
He rapped the door with his Maglite. “Highway Patrol.”
He waited for an answer.
Then, a little huskier: “Police. Anyone here?”
It was still technically just a public building, but his right
hand moved to the heel of his Glock 17 as he gripped the
doorknob and sidestepped into the crunchy snow, using the
brick wall as cover.
In entry drills, doorways are called fatal funnels because
they’re the defender’s natural focal point. No way around it,
unless you blow down a wall — you’re literally walking into
the bad guy’s sights. If there really were a two-zero-seven
hunkered inside this rest stop, he’d be watching the door right
now down the barrel of a shotgun, perhaps crouched behind
his hostages for cover.
Or, just an empty, harmless room. Not that Dispatch knew.
A sharp wind tugged his Gore-Tex jacket, peppering dry
snowflakes against the door, and now Corporal Hill wasn’t
sure what he was waiting for. For Sara to finish packing her
goddamn suitcase? To hell with it.
He twisted the doorknob.
The door creaked open.
“Zero,” Ashley said.
* * *
But Darby wasn’t listening, because she’d just realized
something. She stared past Ashley now, at the Colorado map
on the wall behind Ed — and her heart sank with a heavy,
cloying dread. State Route Seven was a thick blue line on the