Born in Danger

by Susan Kearney

  “Can you see the guy who is supposed to be here?” Devin whispered as they climbed a narrow flight of stairs.

  “No. Stay here.”

  The Doctor pursued the guard into the booth. The door shut behind the agents. What the hell was going on? The men disappeared into the lighting booth, but no one came out. Why hadn’t the Doctor signaled her?

  Uneasy, Devin looked ahead. She held her breath. Heard nothing. Saw nothing.

  Unwilling to make a sound and reveal her presence, she reached for her gun. Her heart raced. Ford would be furious if he found out she was up here. She should return to the auditorium.

  But suppose the Doctor needed help? Or didn’t recognize Yvonne?

  Devin would take only one peek. Ducking below the glass panel in the upper half of the door, she slowly and silently turned the knob. Pulled the door open.

  Gripping the gun, she crouched, then walked through the opening, her gaze sweeping the dim booth with a glance. Empty. Except for the Doctor.

  “You were supposed to wait downstairs,” he hissed.

  “You may need help,” she insisted.

  But this was one time her instincts were wrong. Still, she didn’t breathe with relief until she spotted a second door on the far side on the booth. The guard they had followed up here must be scouting ahead. Perhaps David had just needed a bathroom break. The Doctor reached to switch on the lights.

  Devin stopped him by tugging him to the front glass panel overlooking the stage. “I can see better in the dark,” she whispered. Her voice trembled, and she ignored how much she disliked dark, enclosed spaces by focusing on Ford.

  He was easy to pick out among his board of directors. For one thing, he towered over most of them. But even from up here, the confident way he moved was easily picked out in the crowd.

  She raised the binoculars and saw one of the agents hand Ford the note she’d left which said, “Good luck. I’ll be watching.” She hoped the note would allay his suspicions about her whereabouts.

  “Did you find David?” she murmured to the Doctor.

  “Why are you whispering?”

  “Something’s wrong.”

  “What?” He spun, searching the booth.

  “I’m not sure.”

  She glanced around the empty booth again. A desk stood in front of the window. There was nothing else in here, except a trash can in the corner, several magazines on the floor, a dirty ashtray and the dim lights from the stage switches.

  Something creaked, sounding stealthy rather than careless. She heard a squeaky noise, but there was only carpeting under their feet.

  A cold sweat trickled down her neck. Below, people took their seats. She should get the hell out of here before she was hurt—or worse. Let the Doctor’s team deal with her suspicions. Yet, if there was one chance she could make a difference . . .

  The Doctor motioned her back down the stairs. Heart pounding, she pretended not to see his gesture. Instead, she searched the tiny booth. Cool sweat slid clammily down her neck. Coming up here probably had been a mistake. If she hurried, she could remove the makeup and find Ford backstage.

  But if she made the wrong decision and lost Ford to the Black Rose’s bullet, she’d never forgive herself. Steeling her resolve, she inched into the darkest part of the booth toward a shadow that pricked her interest. Her searching fingers found a closet door set flush in the wall.

  Taking a step backward, she motioned the Doctor to cover her and reached for the handle. Her heart leaped into her throat.

  “Don’t!” He clamped a hand on her shoulder and pulled her back to the steps.

  Eerily, by its own accord, the door creaked open. A body tumbled out.

  Chapter Twelve

  DAVID! DEVIN swallowed back a scream. She fought down bone-icing fear. With his head cocked at a peculiar angle, the burly man had to be dead.

  The guard she and the Doctor had followed must have heard the commotion and stepped back into the dim booth, dismissing the area behind him with a wave of his hand. “This is a dead end.”

  The Doctor pointed his gun at the closet. “We’ve found David. But if the Black Rose isn’t using this booth to shoot from, why did she kill him?”

  The Black Rose was a professional. She didn’t kill out of spite. She needed this booth. But then why wasn’t she here? Where had she gone? Devin shivered, grateful for the bullet-proof vest that added warmth to her pantsuit, but then she forced herself forward.

  She searched the closet for a hidden opening or secret passage. “There’s nothing here. Let’s search—”

  “Shh.” The agent put his finger to his lips. “I heard a noise in the ceiling.”

  Tilting back her head, she could just make out ceiling tiles in the dropped ceiling. Was the Black Rose above them?

  The agent must have had the same thought. Striding to the desk, he climbed to look and flipped on the light switch. A blue light zigzagged over the agent’s arm. With a stammering shriek, the agent collapsed to the floor, and the sickening odor of burnt flesh permeated the musty room.

  The Doctor yanked her against the wall. “She booby-trapped the light switch.”

  “How? When?”

  “Yesterday or the day before. No one got past our security today.” The Doctor advanced and kneeled over the agent, checking his injuries. “She probably activated a timer. There’s no way we could have spotted her trick without removing every electrical plate in the building.”

  Even Ford wouldn’t expect them to have taken the walls apart.

  The Doctor’s voice filled with relief. “He’s unconscious, pulse steady.” Below, the audience must be taking their seats. One of the board members blew softly into the microphone. The lights dimmed. And her flesh prickled from her neck all the way down her back.

  The Doctor spoke into his microphone. “I need an ambulance ASAP. We’ve got two men down in the lighting booth.”

  A horrible suspicion that had niggled in the back of her mind burst to the forefront of her thoughts. Her stomach tightened. “Listen to me!” She pointed at the ceiling. “Maintenance must have access to change the ceiling light bulbs. If an electrical access tunnel runs from this booth to behind the stage, Ford may be in danger.”

  The Doctor swore, leaped onto the desk and shoved aside the overhead panel. “Go get help. I’m after—” Devin rushed to the door. Since he could call for help on his microphone, she knew he was either sending her to safety or he didn’t want to pull another agent off his assigned task. Before she’d taken two steps, the sickening thunk of a solid object hit flesh. The Doctor groaned and crashed.

  She spun, watching, listening. The Doctor didn’t move. When she heard the soft shuffle of someone crawling away, Devin approached and fumbled over his chest to his neck but couldn’t find a pulse. Downstairs, the opening speaker welcomed the audience. Above, metal groaned, sounding as if the assassin worked her way down the tunnel.

  The Black Rose must be crawling above the stage and behind the protective panel. Devin had to stop her before she took a shot at Ford. But how?

  Ignoring the burning fear in her gut, the stabbing panic behind her eyes, the terror pounding at the base of her skull, she forced herself to think what to do. Beside her the Doctor moaned. He was alive, didn’t appear shot or stabbed. But she had no idea how badly he was injured.

  Blood roared in her ears. Should she go after the Black Rose alone?

  A snap decision was mandatory. Devin had only seconds to make the most important decision of her life. She considered the Black Rose’s head start and climbed onto the desk and stood.

  Devin stuck her head through the hole. A tunnel led into blackness. A shudder racked her, and she braced against overwhelming, mind-numbing horror. If she crawled into the vent and panicked, she couldn’t turn around, couldn’t retreat. But leaving
Ford to die was intolerable, and she hung on to that thought with a slippery grasp. If only she could scream out and warn him.

  The microphone.

  She scrambled to the floor and felt the Doctor’s neck for the wire that ran to his ear. Somehow in the fall, he’d torn the wire from the microphone. Damn. She turned to the burned agent. His headset had shorted out from the electrical shock.

  Oh, God!

  Don’t panic.

  Don’t panic.

  Don’t panic!

  Even as she estimated that the time to run down the stairs and across the auditorium would take too long, she edged to the black tunnel, forcing back terror. They’d planned for every contingency, protecting Ford’s back—but they’d never expected the Black Rose to penetrate their tight ring of security and come in from behind the bullet-proof screen for her shot.

  Below, on the stage, Martin stepped to the podium. Ford’s turn would be soon. And if she let Ford die because she was afraid of the dark, she’d never forgive herself.

  She turned the shoulder strap until her purse rested against her back. While she couldn’t easily reach her gun in the tiny crawl space, the arrangement left her hands free. Climbing onto the desk, she again peered into the tunnel. She couldn’t see far. The metal angled upward, above the auditorium’s ceiling and toward the stage. She broke into a sweat at the thought of crawling through pitch blackness.

  Her wig itched, and she tossed it to the floor. Below, on the stage, the speaker paused, the audience applauded, then the speaker picked up the pace.

  Go.

  She could breathe in the darkness, but that didn’t stop her from inhaling one deep breath before pulling herself into the dank, overhead crawl space. Leaving the open room and the murky light behind and dragging herself into blackness caused her palms to slicken with sweat.

  Without enough room to crawl, she slithered on her belly, soldier style. As she advanced, the feeble dimness behind her disappeared. Her breath sounded too loud, and to calm herself, she concentrated on inhaling through her nose and exhaling through her mouth.

  Ford’s bullet-proof glass would be useless if Yvonne shot him in the back. Devin had to stop the Black Rose, overcome the terror that paralyzed forward movement. Her breathing came in sharp, jagged gasps. She had to go on. The tunnel should end somewhere behind the stage.

  Move.

  Knowing the assassin held every advantage had her trembling. No matter how quietly she crawled, the metal vibrated. And when she reached the end of the tunnel, Yvonne would be waiting.

  There would be no place for Devin to hide.

  SOON NOW, VERY soon, the long chase would be over. The plan would come together. The Black Rose would succeed. Ford Braddack and Devin Ward would finally be dead. And Norton Industries would be in new hands, better-qualified hands.

  ONSTAGE, FORD wondered where Devin had wandered off to. The note she’d left had been in her handwriting. Although he’d assumed she’d watch from backstage, at first he hadn’t been too concerned with her disappearance. But with the speeches about to start, he’d asked one of the guards to find out if the Doctor had seen her.

  Moments ago, the guard informed him that the Doctor wasn’t responding to their calls. Neither were two other agents—one posted in the auditorium, the other upstairs in the lighting booth. The problem could be due to electronic interference, and the man assured him it was nothing to worry about. But an icy chill invaded Ford’s soul.

  Where was Devin? She should have remained backstage with him. He’d seen her slip off to the ladies’ room but hadn’t seen her come out. Could she be sick?

  He asked a guard to check and waited impatiently for an answer. The guard told him the restroom was empty, and she must have taken a seat in the audience to watch his speech.

  Just when Ford considered searching for her, Martin called the meeting to order.

  AHEAD, DEVIN spied a lighter grayness amid the inky black. The end of the tunnel! Tightening her grip on her weapon, she accelerated her pace.

  Again she heard the audience applaud and feared Ford was walking to the podium. She forced her aching thighs to move faster and wriggled ahead.

  The tunnel suddenly vibrated. Was someone behind her? She couldn’t wait for reinforcements. As Ford spoke his opening remarks, his voice filtered up to her and made her hurry. Every word he uttered was a countdown to his death.

  She pulled herself to the tunnel’s end and looked out at ceiling panels too thin to hold her weight. The metal tubing ended over the middle of the stage. She could see through cracks that Ford and the board members had congregated along the stage’s front and close to the audience. A curtain hung behind the board members and prevented the audience from seeing what happened on or above the stage.

  Far below her, wagons filled with hay bales for a western musical that would appear next week littered the stage. Still, from this height, a fall would be fatal. So where had the Black Rose gone? Directly below and to either side of Devin were lights. Peering through the ceiling panels, she spied metal I beams.

  Was the assassin waiting for her to emerge from the tunnel and onto the I beams before taking a shot? Or was it possible that Yvonne didn’t know Devin had followed her through the tunnel and would be looking ahead toward her target, not back toward Devin?

  From the position on her stomach, Devin couldn’t see Yvonne. Yvonne couldn’t see her. But as soon as she poked her head out to follow the assassin onto the I beams below, Devin would be an easy target.

  Would Yvonne shoot her the moment she was exposed? Risky or not, she had to do something. Fast.

  Devin glanced down again, this time ignoring the height and the danger. She searched for a place to lower herself where she could remain hidden from Yvonne.

  There was none.

  She spied a bright light shining forward from the back of the stage. If she kept the light at her back, Yvonne might be blinded by it. Hoping the assassin would focus forward on her target, Devin removed a ceiling panel. Praying the thin steel would hold her weight, Devin lowered herself to the beam.

  Luckily, she had no abnormal fear of heights.

  She lurched and grabbed a handhold. Where was Yvonne?

  The curtains and the many I beams blocked a shot at Ford from here. Yvonne would have to move closer to him. Ahead, she spotted a figure in black clothing advancing across the I beams toward the podium, and her heart tripped.

  Yvonne!

  Devin decided against calling out to Ford. If he heard her voice, he’d come running and make the assassin’s job easier.

  Keeping the bright light behind her, Devin skirted a vertical beam and inched along the slippery metal. She had to stop the assassin before the woman squeezed off a shot. While the crisscrossing beams protected Ford, the cross-bracing also prevented Devin from a clear shot at the assassin. Ignoring the pounding of her heart and the sweat of her slick palms, she edged closer.

  Don’t look down. One mistake could lead to a fall and death.

  Her foot slipped. Her stomach plummeted to her knees. Her purse tilted, and the gun flew out. And Devin fell toward the stage.

  YVONNE GLANCED over her shoulder and squinted into the light. So the woman had followed her. Good.

  Yvonne enjoyed a challenge, but the P.I.’s meddling had caused more difficulties than she liked. She should have shot them outside Martin’s home while she was impersonating the cook. But her orders were specific. Ford was to die on the stage while he made his speech.

  This time, Yvonne wouldn’t fail. She’d collect payment in full. In the confusion after her shot, she’d take out the woman. She peered over her shoulder and grinned. An additional shot might not be necessary.

  The P.I. was off balance. Falling.

  Good.

  DEVIN SPREAD HER arms, twisted and grasped an I beam. G
ripping the metal tight, she swung back onto the brace. Sheesh, that had been close. But she didn’t have time to wait for her violently accelerated pulse to settle.

  Without her weapon, she had to sneak up on Yvonne, hoping the assassin did not spy her first. She peered through the I beams and noted that Yvonne, facing the other direction, had stopped in a crouch, bracing herself at a steel intersection.

  Yvonne removed her gun from a sling across her back. Devin risked larger steps and prayed for balance, prayed she could stop her in time.

  Yvonne lifted the weapon.

  Sighted her target.

  With less than a second to prevent Ford’s death, Devin lunged. Her elbow knocked the gun from Yvonne’s hands. The assassin cursed and teetered on the I beam.

  Devin spun and tumbled. She flung out her arms, desperate to grasp a handhold. But her hands clutched only air.

  With a thud, Devin’s body slammed into a crossbar. The wind knocked out of her lungs. Dizzily clutching hold, she tried to pull herself up.

  Like a cat, Yvonne regained her balance. She jumped onto the beam where Devin clung precariously. With an unruffled and detached expression, Yvonne raised her foot and stomped, aiming for Devin’s vulnerable fingers.

  Devin moved her hand, narrowly avoiding a fall. She looked right, left, over her shoulder in search of a safe perch to swing to.

  Only thirty feet of air lay between her and the hay bales below.

  Yvonne stomped again.

  At the excruciating pain in her fingers, Devin let go with one hand.

  Devin knew she was going to die. Would Ford mourn her? Would he realize how much she loved him? At least the assassin couldn’t shoot Ford without her weapon.

  Appealing for mercy to the assassin’s good side was useless. Yvonne didn’t have a good side. She had not one sympathetic glimmer in her eyes. Pulling a revolver from a pocket, she raised her foot again.

  At the sight of the gun, Devin knew she was about to die for nothing. She’d failed. The Black Rose would knock her to the floor, shoot and kill Ford, too. They would both die.