by C. S. Graham
Now it was late, the offices dark, the corridors deserted.
The silent bank of elevators rose before her but she realized she couldn’t afford to wait for one. Pushing open the heavy metal fire door to the nearby stairs, she pelted down the bare concrete steps.
Her breath was soughing in and out, her blood pumping so hard she was shaking. She hit the landing for the second floor and kept going, around and around. From up above came the sound of the fire door opening again.
“Oh, shit,” she whispered. She remembered seeing a security desk in the lobby, just inside the entrance. There’d been an armed security guard on duty when she arrived.
Please, please still be there, she prayed.
Slapping open the fire door to the ground floor with outstretched hands, she burst into a softly lit lobby of polished marble floors and mirrored walls. Behind a counter near the wide expanse of glass entrance doors sat a plump man in his late fifties, his shiny bald head ringed by tufts of graying hair. He had his feet propped up on the desk before him, an opened bag of potato chips in one hand, his gaze fixed on what looked a clip from The Colbert Report running on his laptop.
“There’s a man with a gun!” Tobie yelled as she pelted toward the entrance. “He’s already killed two people upstairs and he’s right behind me!”
“Huh?” The security guard dropped his feet off the desk with a plop, his jaw going slack as he swung toward her.
Tobie heard the fire door burst open behind her. “Either get out your gun or run!” she cried.
The guard lumbered to his feet, one hand groping toward the holster on his belt.
“Hurry!” Tobie shouted as she raced past him. Through the row of glass doors she could see wide steps and an access ramp that led down to the darkened parking lot. The vast expanse of asphalt lay nearly empty and gleaming wet beneath sulfurous floodlights. With a shock she realized that at some point during the last few hours the weak winter daylight had faded into night, and it had begun to rain.
She flung open the nearest door and catapulted out into the cold night air just as Kowalski fired off two shots. She heard the security guard make a hideous gurgling sound.
“Oh, God, no,” she whispered, then flinched as a pane of heavy safety glass exploded behind her.
“Shit!”
Flying down the concrete steps, she darted sideways into the shadows thrown by a row of shrubs along the building’s foundation. Cold raindrops stung her face, beat down on her shoulders as she tore through the night. Throwing a quick glance across the parking lot, she realized there were lights still burning in the windows of the far building.
For one desperate moment she considered running there for help. But then she realized she’d be a easy target crossing the open stretch of asphalt. And even if she made it, Mark Kowalski had already shown he was willing to kill anyone who got in his way. She couldn’t put more lives at risk. Her only hope, she realized, was to head for the rolling parklike grounds that stretched beyond the office complex and try to lose herself in the woods.
But when she reached the end of the building, she discovered she’d suddenly run out of shadows. An open expanse of floodlit lawn stretched between her and the trees.
Shit, she thought again.
She could hear Kowalski’s quick tread on the steps behind her. Sucking in a deep gasp of icy night air, she pelted across the wet, floodlit grass. With each step, she kept expecting to feel the shattering impact of a bullet ripping through her body. Arms pumping, legs reaching, she was five paces away from the wood. Three. She gave a desperate sprint and felt the dark shelter of the trees close in around her—
Just as a bullet thumped into the thick trunk of an elm beside her shoulder.
She caught her breath on a sob. Swerving first right, then left, she wove in and out of the trees, trying to avoid giving her pursuer an easy line of fire. A rock rolled beneath her foot and she slipped, wrenching her right knee. Wet branches slapped her face, tore at her hair and clothes. Trailing strands of ivy wrapped around her ankles, tripping her. She stumbled out of the underbrush onto a well-groomed jogging trail and had to fight down a nearly irresistible urge to follow it. But the open, predictable course would favor the faster runner, and Tobie knew she was hopelessly outclassed. Her right knee had turned into a white-hot agony, and her lungs ached with every breath.
And the nutcase behind her looked like he ran ten miles a day before breakfast.
Throwing up one arm to protect her face, she crashed into the rain-soaked shrubbery on the far side of the trail. Despite the near freezing temperature, she was drenched with sweat. Each breath was a painful gasp. She could hear Kowalski plowing through the undergrowth behind her. He was gaining on her.
Over the pounding of her own heartbeat she caught the faint hum of traffic punctuated by an angry beeping of horns. She swerved toward the sound and almost missed the small rocky stream at her feet.
She launched into a leap at the last instant, barely clearing it. A few moments later she heard a splash, followed by a clatter and a loud curse. Her heart soared with triumph, but she knew the FBI man’s blunder had earned her no more than ten, maybe fifteen seconds of extra breathing space. Then she burst out of a stand of rhododendrons and practically slammed into a six-foot-high chain-link fence that ran along the top of a ten-foot high concrete wall. Below her, at the base of the retaining wall, stretched a six-lane expressway crowded with late rush hour traffic creeping along bumper to bumper. An endless sea of cars extended in both directions, headlights stabbing into the night, taillights reflecting red off the wet blacktop.
“Oh, my God,” she whispered, fighting to draw air into her aching lungs. Wiping the mingled sweat and rain from her face with her forearm, she swung first one way, then the other.
The fence continued unbroken as far as she could see.
Chapter 7
Tobie forced herself to draw a deep, steadying breath, her gaze raking the darkness. She obviously couldn’t go around the fence or through it. But maybe she could go over it.
Her gaze settled on a big oak growing close enough to the fence that one of its branches hung out over the drop-off. Could she reach that branch?
And even if she reached it, how was she going to get down on the other side without killing herself?
The sound of Kowalski crashing through the brush reminded her she had no choice. Leaping up, she grasped one of the oak’s lower branches and crabwalked her way up the rough trunk until she could lever her weight onto the limb. There, shaking with fear and exhaustion, she drew in a steadying breath and carefully brought her feet beneath her until she was crouched low on the limb.
She studied the branch that hung over the fence. It jutted out a good two feet higher and something like three feet to her left.
Bracing her weight against the trunk, she eased up into a standing position. Resisting the urge to look down, she leaped toward the next branch. Slipped. Almost fell. Caught her balance.
Shaking badly, she straddled the massive branch as if it were a horse. Then she scooted out until she was directly over the fence. Wrapping her arms around the limb, she eased her weight off the tree.
The rough bark scratched her face, snagged her sweater. She felt blindly with her feet for the top of the fence. The air here was thick with the exhaust fumes of the cars idling on the roadway below. She could feel the heat of their engines roiling up to her. Then the toe of one tennis shoe found the fence. Slid off. Found it again.
Letting go of the tree, she half scrambled, half slid to the top of the retaining wall. She hung there, her fingers twisting painfully in the metal links of the fence, the cement of the wall wet and cold against her body, her legs dangling in space.
Over the purr of an endless sea of idling engines she could hear running feet, approaching fast. She took a deep breath and let go.
She landed hard on the shoulder of the road. The jarring impact tore through her knee, stealing her breath in an explosion of fire. For a moment h
er leg buckled and she went down, catching herself on her out-flung hands.
She pushed up at once. The car beside her—a late model BMW two-door—was just starting to roll forward. She sprinted across in front of it, one splayed hand thrust out as if she could somehow will the driver not to hit her. She glimpsed a man’s pale, startled face staring back at her through a rain-speckled windshield. Then he flashed past.
The driver of the Porsche in the center lane laid on his horn in warning and hit the gas. She swerved to avoid him, running down between the first two lanes of traffic. She was limping badly, her hair hanging in wet, dirty clumps. Her hands were bleeding, her jeans torn. She scanned the slowly moving lines of vehicles, looking for a cop.
Nothing.
The cars around her were beginning to pick up more speed. A guy in a white pickup truck punched down his window and shouted at her, “Are you nuts? Get outta the road!”
She thought about hammering her fists on someone’s window and asking for help. But then she threw a quick glance over her shoulder and spotted Kowalski jogging along the side of the road toward her, his gaze sweeping over the traffic. Would he risk shooting her in front of a hundred witnesses?
Are you crazy? she told herself. He’s an FBI agent. He’ll just say you’re a terrorist.
She glanced around in despair, hemmed in on both sides. She was as trapped by the lanes of moving traffic as she’d been by the fence.
Narrowing her gaze against the rain, she focused on the silver SUV headed toward her in the center lane. A dozen or so feet separated it from the semi coming up behind it. She tensed, ready. The instant the SUV splashed past, Tobie sprinted across the lane. The semi’s massive grill bore down on her, its horn blaring as it thundered past in a sucking whoosh of hot air.
She paused, her hands braced on her knees as she bent over, trembling. She now had two lanes of traffic between herself and the killer. But the traffic was moving faster. She had to get out of there.
Her heart pounding, she eyed the laden car carrier lumbering toward her in the center lane. Loaded with Volkswagens that gleamed white and red and silver in the rain, it had a steel ladder riveted right behind the cab.
As the transport rumbled past, Tobie grabbed the rungs of the ladder. Her feet slipped off the wet bottom rung and for a moment she dangled painfully from her outstretched arms, the pavement rushing dizzily beneath her, the truck’s gears grinding as the driver accelerated. Gritting her teeth, she managed to pull herself up and squeezed her body into the narrow space between the back of the cab and the first car.
She crouched there, her breath rasping painfully in her throat as the transport whizzed past the FBI agent. She’d have sworn he stared right at her. But she must have been hidden by the shadows, because he simply turned away, his gaze scanning the lines of cars as they picked up speed.
Gingerly, she eased back on her haunches and squeezed her eyes shut. She was safe.
For now.
Jax Alexander hunkered down in front of his fireplace, a poker in one hand and a glass of fine, aged cognac in the other. He’d just finished a really, really bad week that included being shot at by both Somali pirates and U.S. Special Forces guys, and then almost getting his ass fired by Gordon Chandler, the new head of the CIA, who just happened to hate Jax’s guts.
But all was now good. He had a few well-earned days off. The row of candles on the mantel above flickered softly. A vintage recording of Edith Piaf played over the sound system. On the comfortably scuffed brown leather sofa behind him, Kelly Yardley stretched out her impossibly long legs and let out a satisfied sigh. Jax’s erratic, secretive lifestyle had a way of destroying his relationships with women. But for a change, things seemed to be working out with Kelly.
“This is just the kind of nasty, cold night for a fire,” she said. “A real one, I mean.” She drew in a deep breath. “I love the smell of wood smoke. Reminds me of camping as a kid.”
Jax shifted the logs, sending a whoosh of flames up the chimney. “You went camping as a kid? I didn’t know that.”
She laughed. “There’s a lot you don’t know about me. Not as much as I don’t know about you, mind. But—”
She broke off as a loud knock sounded on the front door. Her head turned toward the sound.
Jax ignored it.
The knock came again, then turned into a pounding.
“Aren’t you going to answer it?” asked Kelly.
He set aside the poker and pushed to his feet. “No.”
The thundering continued.
“I think you ought to answer it.”
He bent to give her a long, lingering kiss. “If you insist. I’ll be right back.”
Still carrying his brandy snifter, Jax wandered into the entry and put one eye to the peephole.
October Guinness stood on his front porch, her hair hanging in wet clumps around her dirty, scratched face. She wasn’t wearing a coat. Her jeans and pullover sweater were torn and muddy, and she had her arms wrapped across her chest as if she were cold—or else barely holding herself together. A taxi idled at the curb, its exhaust billowing up in a white cloud of condensation in the misty night.
Jax thrust back the deadbolt and jerked open the door. “October? Jesus Christ! Come in.”
She stayed where she was, her voice a low, harsh whisper. “Are you alone?”
“No, but that doesn’t matter. What the hell happened? You’re soaked.”
“I’m sorry, but I didn’t know where else to go. They killed Peter and Elaine, too.”
Jax didn’t have a clue who Peter and Elaine were. He said calmly, “I’ll call the police,” and tried again to draw her inside.
Still she hung back. “No! No police. Not until I get sorted out in my head what’s going on.”
“October, you’re freezing and in shock. For God’s sake, come in.”
“I don’t want anyone to know I’m here. Do you have a side door?”
“Off the carport. It opens to the kitchen. But—”
“I’ll meet you there. Can you pay off the cab? I had to leave my wallet and everything else.”
Jax met her wide, frightened brown eyes, and nodded.
Chapter 8
Duane Davenport stood at the window of his office in the J. Edgar Hoover building, his gaze on the rain-washed expanse of Pennsylvania Avenue below. Night had long since fallen, the streetlamps and traffic lights reflecting off the wet pavement in a frosty blur of white and red and green.
He loved standing here. It was as if he could feel the power and energy of the city pulsating around him. A power that he was helping to shape and control.
Still faintly smiling, he reached for his phone and called his wife, Sarah. She picked up on the second ring.
“Hi, honey,” he said, glancing around as Special Agent Laura Brockman came into the room. Brockman paused just inside the door, a file tucked under one arm, her gaze politely averted. Davenport turned back toward the window and said to his wife. “Looks like I’m going to be a while yet. Why don’t you go ahead and feed the kids?”
Sarah said, “You want me to wait for you?”
“Nah. I might be late. I’ll give you a call when I’m on my way home. Love you.”
He put away his phone and turned back to Brockman. “What you got for me?”
She held out the file. “Here’s everything we have on Noah Bosch.” Brockman was a delicately featured young woman in her early thirties, with long, fine blond hair, killer legs, and gray eyes. In addition to being a crack shot, she had a black belt in judo and a ruthless ambition that scared the hell out of most men. Davenport could think of few worse fates than being married to a woman like her. But there wasn’t anyone he’d rather have at his side in an operation. She was without a doubt the finest agent he’d ever worked with—smart, efficient, and relentless.
“Any luck yet finding the asshole?” he asked, leafing through Bosch’s file. He paused to study a photo of the journalist’s narrow, effete face, and felt his li
ps purse with distaste. Typical anti-American sonofabitch, he thought; the guy probably kept a copy of Thus Spoke Zarathustra beside his bed.
“Not yet, sir. It would help if we could involve Interpol.”
Davenport looked up. “Negative. The last thing we want is our fingerprints anywhere near the case when Mr. Bosch suffers a fatal accident.”
“At least we know he’s still someplace in Europe.”
Davenport nodded. They’d been watching all the transatlantic flights. “You’re monitoring his cell phone?”
“He’s obviously pulled the battery. We can’t get a signal on him.”
“He’ll turn up. And when he does, we nail him.” Davenport tossed the file on his desk in disgust. “Taking care of Bosch is going to be the easy part. What I want to know is, where the hell did he get his information? Who’s his source? We obviously have a leak, and I want it plugged.”
“We’re working on it, sir. I’ve got a few leads.”
“How hard can it be to—” Davenport broke off as his phone began to ring. He reached for it. “Davenport here.”
Mark Kowalski’s voice was tight. “The girl got away.”
Warren Patterson braced his hands against the pulpit, his gaze scanning the crowd before him as the strobe lights played over their upturned faces.
The lights were timed to pulse at fifty-five to sixty cycles per minute, which was the rhythm of a slowly beating human heart. The music, likewise, was tied into the same repetitive, carefully calculated beat so that the sound and light worked together to generate a calm, altered state of consciousness. It didn’t work on everyone, of course; generally only about 20 to 25 percent of the population. But that was still sixty million people in the U.S. of A. alone.