Closer! “Papai!”

Their rotor blades snarled. Turbines whined as the copters pitched toward this building. Toward this wall.

One was coming in nose first, the other tail first. “Look out!” I shoved Papai out of the way just before the impact—

Rotor blades hit; glass shattered in a deafening crash.

Shards of it plugged the walls. One spike shot past me, missing my throat by a hairbreadth.

“Zara!” Papai had gotten to the door.

I was trapped between live blades! One copter’s tail boom swung through the office, its smaller rotor like a mower. It chewed up anything in its path; paper and debris sailed in a vortex, my hair whipping my face and eyes. Can’t see!

Something nailed my side. “Ahh!” The force knocked me off my feet—onto my front, punching the air from my lungs. A sharp stake of wood clattered to the floor beside me.

I wasn’t gored? The wood had struck my gun! I flung myself over and scuttled backward till I met the wall.

All at once the air cleared—because that tail rotor was upon me! No time to make it to my feet. To run. Trapped.

As if in slow motion, the tail boom swept toward me.

“Zara, get down!” Papai yelled from the doorway.

I pressed myself flat on my back and turned my head a split second before the rotor blades floated above my face. Whirring metal skimmed my ear by millimeters. I screamed and screamed, my voice distorted by the rotation.

Then . . . clear. I stared in shock as the tail continued past me.

“Come, Zara! Run now!”

He held open the door with one arm, cradling his side with the other. Injured? Blood soaked the side of his button-down and streaked down his face.

I struggled to my feet, lungs heaving smoky air. The smell of aviation fuel reeked; the wasted blades still spun. I glanced at the bookcase, at our exit; blocked by the Dragão copter’s fuselage.

Survivors were trapped inside. They yelled, begging us for help. They should be afraid—what was left of the blades might catch the floor and lever them out the window, like a tire jack. Or the engine could ignite all that fuel.

I lurched toward Papai, following along the wall. Shards of glass jutted from it like a porcupine’s quills.

We limped away from the crash, heading toward the far side of the floor’s soaring atrium.

“Are you hurt?” he asked.

“I’m fine.” But he wasn’t. “What happened to you?”

“Splinters from the desk.” He looked me over. “How could you not have a scratch on you?”

I shook my head. “No idea.”

With a last thunk thunk! those rotors finally caught and stalled. The men were screaming and pounding on the doors. Had the copter shifted to the edge of the room? Maybe they dangled. If not, they’d been lucky.

The building’s power flickered; emergency lights blinked to life. The alarm stuttered, going to an intermittent buzz.

A scorching gust of wind rocked the building, filtering in through that missing wall to reach Papai and me. The glass ceilings and walls of the atrium groaned all around us.

Though the air was hot, I got chills across my nape. “Listen. What is that?”

“The alarm?”

“No. Louder.” I heard a . . . roar?

The sky grew lighter and lighter. Neighboring high-rises swayed in the wind. Beneath my feet, this floor trembled. Papai and I shared a look. We were at the very top of the tallest structure in the city—in a glass atrium.

As the focal point, we’d proudly staged our latest-model copter in the air; it swung above us.

Papai murmured, “Meu Deus,” yanking my attention from the copter.

What looked like a giant laser was coming for us. A shock wave blasted the windows of other buildings as it approached. “Papai?”

“It must be a bomb. We have to reach the ground! Head for the stairs!”

As we ran past the door to his office, I glanced over. The survivors frantically kicked at the copter’s door; just as we crossed, the wreckage was blown against the doorway. The fuselage crumpled like a tin can; blood splashed the windshield interior. The copter plugged the doorway hole, but the impact still rocked us, tossing Papai and me to the floor.

Behind us, the atrium shattered.

We crawled down the gallery toward the stairwell. “Keep going!” he said from ahead of me. “Do not slow! And do not look back at the light.”

The building quaked. Beside me, a bronze statue of Papai toppled over. I scrambled forward. Never make it. I braced for the impact—but the opposite wall had buckled, catching the statue’s head! Like a crumbly pillow. The length of bronze was suspended right above me, held aloft by that failing wall.

I scurried; the statue dropped. Boom!

I gazed back in shock. It’d landed centimeters from my feet. “Did you see that?” I asked Papai. The odds of dodging that must be a million to one.

“Keep going!”

We reached the stairwell door. He levered himself to his feet, then grabbed my hand to pull me up.

When our skin made contact, his eyes widened; mine narrowed. We’d both felt some kind of energy pass between us.

“What was that?” I asked.

He blinked, staring into my eyes. “I-I don’t know.” He helped me inside the stairwell. “We have to keep moving.”

“I’m waiting on you.” I took off.

We dashed down the stairs. He was in shape, keeping up with me despite his injuries. We’d made it down three flights when the building quaked again. The stairwell seemed to contract on itself, walls cracking.