by Ritter Ames
"Thanks so much." I bundled everything back into its shopping bag.
In her normal, overly restorative mode, Cassie grabbed a tissue and cleaned the screens on the security monitors. "Always leave a place looking better than how you found it."
That made me smile, then gave me an idea. I pulled out my phone and scrolled to find the photo Gerry sent earlier. "One last thing. Have you ever seen this person before?"
She took the phone and stared for a moment at the screen. Then she pointed toward the middle monitor. "You mean that man?"
CHAPTER SIX
"How in the hell did he find me?" As frustrated as I was to see him again, I had to admire his tenacity just a little.
"He probably pinged your phone. Triangulated the location," Cassie said. "He knows you're inside this building, or maybe just this block, but he won't be able to determine exactly where you are."
"That sounds plausible, but doesn't solve my immediate problem." I rubbed my temple, trying to diminish the headache I felt coming. "I need to get away from here, and I need to be able to communicate. I obviously can't do either of those things with my cell."
"Here's a quick plan." Cassie pulled her phone from a pocket. "Mine may not have every bell and whistle yours sports, but it's no slacker. We'll trade. Key any numbers in you know you'll need."
She walked to the back wall and opened a small cabinet. "Leave your cell in here and make an escape. The phone will hold him to the building, and I'll keep him busy. Or at least keep eyes on him. Once the guard returns from break, your man won't be able to search for the phone in here, even if he does narrow down the area range. I'll pick it up before I leave this evening."
"I don't want him following you either."
"Never fear." Cassie flashed her best impish smile. "Whenever I'm carrying it, the phone stays off. I'll turn it on only to check your messages. I'll call you if anything is urgent."
Okay, the control freak in me worried about this plan, but it really did sound like a good option, except . . .
"He'll still know where you live, even if he has several floors to check out before he finds you."
"Public places will be the rule. Never call you or have the phone on in my flat. It will be like now—he'll know the general area, but he won't be able to pinpoint the spot or me."
"You'd make a good spy." I gave her a hug. "Thanks, Cassie."
"No sweat." She grinned and pulled open the office door. "See you later. Remember, bus twenty-three to Ladbroke—"
"Or the Hammersmith and City line," I finished. "I'll remember. You really are terrific, you know."
She gave me a wave goodbye and slipped out of the door. I tucked the ear bud back into my ear. Immediate road noise. The bug was outside, but I could tell from the monitors he was in the building.
Damn. It must have fallen off his lapel.
After I stashed the receiver into a pocket, I scrolled through contact numbers on my phone, and quickly keyed the necessary ones into Cassie's. It took longer than expected, but that could also have been because I felt panicked. I shoved the phone into the cabinet the moment the last number dinged as it entered, and slammed the door. Then I raced from the office before the guard came back.
I met the uniformed employee as I rounded a corner down the hall, and we shared a smile in the passing. Hoping Cassie had eyes on Hawkes, I looked for a way out, back option preferable. I should have asked Cassie before she left. There had to be a rear exit, but I couldn't risk standing out to any employee by asking for directions to the nearest escape hatch. Sigh.
Finally, what logic-based brain molecules I possessed that were not already consumed by stress, realized Cassie's restoration area needed nearby delivery access. The escape hatch I needed. Next stop, stairs to the lower level.
I stopped a second after the last step. The other side had to be the two-story pit, the area Cassie called the conservation room that showcased the restoration team with their projects du jour, while visitors gawked from a catwalk above.
"Can I help you?"
Of course, someone worked immediately nearby when I pulled open the heavy door that separated the stairs from the conservation room. The artist, a young man with paint and dust in his hair, straddled a three-legged stool and held a paintbrush with only a couple of bristles. Though stopped in mid-action, he appeared to be painstakingly transferring dots of paint from a color-riddled palate to an Old Master on the easel before him.
"Um, looking for Cassie?" I extemporized, sweeping the area with an almost three-sixty look, as if trying to spot my friend. "I was supposed to walk with her to the freight door."
"Take a gander up, love."
He pointed the end of his brush at the catwalk, and I nearly swallowed my tongue. There was Cassie, biting a lip to keep from shouting at me, with Hawkes in plain sight, his back to me as they talked. My breath caught. His hands moved in that perpetual elegant style I already associated with him, but I had little doubt they wouldn't be so gentle if he caught me at that moment. I'd heard too much in my receiver before it fell free. He had his orders and I had mine, even if I was improvising on the fly. Instincts kicked in, and I shuffled back into the stairwell. My guide gaped. Hawkes turned. There wasn't time to hide behind the door
I jumped forward and grabbed the painter's arm, pulling him to his feet. Hawkes pivoted on the catwalk and ran back to the south hall. I dragged the painter toward a hallway on one of the long walls. "Where's the back door out of here?"
"But you said Cassie—"
Cassie screamed at me through the glass, and pointed toward the far wall. "Laurel, go that way!"
The painter almost fell, I let go of him so fast. "Get out, Cassie," I yelled and ran. "He'll be back when he doesn't catch me."
She smiled and nodded.
While my stiletto collection still winged its way to Tahoe, the short-heeled leather travel boots I wore were not really made for marathons either. The slick soles, while comfortable for plane rides, created a great sliding experience on slab floors, and when I found the exit door, my body crashed through more than actually pushing it open. After I picked myself up from the alley pavement, I was on the run again, dodging through the nearest couple of businesses and out the opposite doors, desperate to find a taxi or Tube station. South Kensington Station was closer, but with feet pounding some distance behind me, I decided Knightsbridge offered a better option. I wouldn't have to risk heading south toward my pursuer. I could mentally feel Hawkes's hot vulture breath on the back of my neck, but I charged ahead. I apologized to the first few people I banged into, then quit to save the time and oxygen, praying the same people would be upset enough to slow Hawkes down as they criticized my lack of manners.
The mental map in my head lost all reference points. I knew the underground station was close, but not close enough. I finally nabbed a cruising taxi.
"Drive!" I dove across the backseat, panting. I simply pointed toward the windshield when the cabbie tried to confirm my destination.
"So, north it is." He gave me a cheery salute with his cap and put the vehicle into gear, like it was every day a woman hid on the floorboard of his cab. Then again, maybe it was.
Keeping low, I sneaked peeks out the back glass, trying to catch a glimpse of Hawkes without giving up my position. He shot into view the second our cab pulled away from the curb. I watched his eyes categorize and dismiss all available options on the road, until the laser gaze landed on our vehicle. With a twist and fall, I flung my body back down to a prayerful position, and minimized myself as low as the human rib cage allowed. He was close but couldn't have seen me. At least he couldn't have been sure… right?
Wrong. A stormy male face filled the window glass as the cabbie slowed in traffic.
"Drive! Fast!"
A break opened in the next lane, and the cabbie floored the accelerator.
"The git after ya, is he?" The cabbie shifted into the next gear.
"Yeah, bad breakup." I shot up in the seat and watched Hawke
s lope a few steps toward us, then give up the obviously fruitless endeavor. He raised a hand toward a couple of taxis. One stopped, and Hawkes pulled a cell phone from his pocket.
"Probably calling re-enforcements," I murmured, then felt a chill at the thought. He could be on us in a moment or give out our cab's number to some nameless foe I had no hope of recognizing. Time to take precautionary measures. I called Nico.
"It's Laurel," I shouted when he picked up. The background noise was deafening. "Is this a bad line?"
"I'm on a helicopter," he yelled back. "What's going on?"
"A lot. Any chance you're close to London?"
"Within visuals of City Airport even as we speak."
"Good. I'm heading for the Docklands to make a rendezvous appointment written on Simon's calendar. Lock down this phone number so you can find me by GPS."
"Where's your cell?"
"A friend is minding it. Keep an eye on the GPS on my phone, too. I want the cavalry to be able to find my friend if someone tracks her instead of me."
"Roger that. Identify Docklands area now. Will be in contact again soon."
"Roger that? Enjoying the chopper experience, Nico?"
"You know me, boss. I'm a chameleon."
I rang off just as the cab entered a crossing and the light turned. The area behind us filled with traffic running interference across Hawkes's path. Before I could sigh in relief, however, the vehicles around us slowed to a crawl and flashing lights ahead promised a bottleneck.
I looked back. The taxi Hawkes rode in was not at the front. If I stayed low and between cars . . .
"Where's the nearest underground station from here?" I asked.
"Next block and one, then right. Can't miss it."
"Thank you." I tossed double the fare to the cabbie and cracked open the door. I scooted across the seat and moved low again, clutching my Prada tight to my chest as I exited the cab. A couple of red double-decker buses offered the best cover nearby, but I ran hunched over to minimize the risk of Hawkes spotting my maneuver.
The cabbie's directions were spot on. I turned the corner and struck off at strong pace toward the Tube stop, my bag heavy on my shoulder. The professional in me reminded that I needed to consider ditching the bag before the rendezvous at the docks at night. Better maneuverability could never be discounted. Female superiority, however, overrode all conflicting data, reminding me the Prada wasn't just my emergency touchstone but my bottomless bag of gizmos and gadgets. In the end, picks and perks won every time.
Now that the bug was truly off Hawkes's person, I had no intel. But with buildings and the bottleneck of London traffic shielding me from his reconnaissance, I had a much clearer and, hopefully, safer path ahead. Within minutes, my Oyster pass in hand, I was through the turnstiles and heading for the crowded platform. The train was right on time.
I joined the masses joggling in the busy train car at the tail end of rush hour in the London Underground. The next crush would come as the dinner and theatre crowd made their way toward an evening's entertainment. I planned to use both times to my advantage.
Everyone carried a daypack or backpack that weighed their shoulders down like mine. Signs everywhere told riders to report any unattended bags. I clamped a tighter hold on my precious designer carryall.
I felt my heart jump before even realizing I had noticed the men. A short guy with long hair and a taller man in a brown coat. It was pure instinct. I hadn't heard anything. All in an instant, I realized they were there because of me. I couldn't be sure who they were working for, but I was positive the pair watched me in that sideways "not looking" way.
It took total control to not show in any way I'd spotted them. Instinct told me—the internal radar we all employed to warn when someone expressed more interest in us than we wished. Even two men trying hard not to show they were watching me. I didn't even consider calling authorities, they would just deny it, and I couldn't point to anything overt they'd done to prove bad intentions. I only knew I was right to feel menaced. No doubts.
I also knew when I got off the subway they would be inches behind me. Maybe even in step beside me.
The hairy one in the ugly plaid jacket had a bulge in his pocket. Back home in the States, I would have immediately thought 'gun'. Here in the U.K., I more readily expected something heavy to knock me unconscious, or worse, with one blow. The weasely one beside him in the brown duffle coat undoubtedly was the knife guy. He had that look about the eyes, a kind of wariness saying all bets went to him in a fight. He wouldn't play fair by any means but would be the one who walked away in one piece.
And I was trapped in a sealed subway car with them.
CHAPTER SEVEN
The subway car sped through the tunnel, and I reviewed every available option. Nothing. Nada. Zip. My only chance lay in trying to extemporize an escape at the station. This Jubilee Line ended at the London Docklands, the now pseudo-official term for the area in the southeastern part of the city, transformed from what was once the world's largest port to redevelopment comprised chiefly of condos and commercial real estate. My original plan, such as it was while concocted on the fly, meant jumping off right before the targeted stop and finding a place to lie low until I could keep the evening appointment. I hoped to finally locate Simon, too, or at least the Welshman who was mentioned in our phone call. If I couldn't find the person I truly wanted, talking to the last person I assumed met with him at least seemed a positive direction to pursue. Regardless, I had more than a few questions for either man.
Unfortunately, I now had these other two thugs in tow. They needed to either lose interest in me or get sidetracked so I could get away. I couldn't let them get wind of my plan, or lack of one, and they weren't my preferred escorts either. Equally worrisome was the thought they might enlist the help of cohorts along the way. I passed the Bermodsey stop, itching to jump off, so I was in the Docklands area, but not near enough to tip off my potential abductors. Since I had time to spare, my plan was to go to Canary Wharf, where the crowds there offered more protection. We approached Canada Water, the stop prior to my goal. Time to make a decision. If I jumped off here, the larger street crowd might allow better cover and then—
The mechanical voice came on. "Welcome to the Jubilee Line. Canary Wharf stop is currently closed for repairs. For our travelers wanting to depart, please chose the Canada Water stop, or stay on to the North Greenwich and connect with the DLR to loop back. We apologize for any inconvenience."
Damn! Close downs and diversions. Why here? Why now? This common occurrence was the only thing I didn't appreciate about the London subway system. The Tube not only laid claim to being the historic first of its kind, but many of the same tracks and stops from a hundred years ago still moved the masses today. Which meant stoppages and premature disembarking whenever and wherever a line was being upgraded to try to meet twenty-first century requirements. I had no desire to change lines at North Greenwich. The above ground options offered many more opportunities to dodge my shadows.
Leaving me no option other than to jump at Canada Water and run.
The crowd surged, readying itself to depart the car. I felt more than saw the two men separate and get on either side of me. I could smell them. Or possibly it was my own fear I detected. Adrenalin surged through my system, and my nerves quivered in anticipation.
The first move came right as the train ground to a halt. That moment when it feels like the car holds its breath before the doors open. In my peripheral vision, I saw a plaid arm come up, the respective hand holding a chloroform soaked pad.
I pretended to trip, fell against the innocent business suit standing a bit in front of me, and ground my heel into his black wing-tipped instep.
"Oh, I am so sorry." Everyone separated a little to give the poor man room to do an irritated hop-limp and glare at me.
"What the bloody—"
"I truly am sorry." The doors whooshed open, and I grabbed an arm of my dark-haired victim and took his briefcase, as anoth
er man, who appeared to be his bookend in a Savile Row suit, braced him on the other side and said, "Here, mate, let's get you moving a bit."
Weasel and Werewolf remained visible in my peripheral vision, and I caught an alarmed look pass between the pair. My instincts had saved me again. But my victim-cum-salvation suddenly turned uncooperative.
"I'm fine. Just give me my briefcase and I—"
"Please, let me pay for a cab. You can't walk the rest of the way." I wanted to panic. This guy was my safety net. Once I lost him, the dastardly duo had a clear shot at me.
"No bother, I just have to—"
"I'm getting a cab anyway. I can drop you."
"I'm fine."
As I wound up to try a new line of attack, his buddy said, "Got it. Ta," and punched a button on his Bluetooth. I realized he had been talking on the phone, not to us, so it surprised me when he turned his brown eyes my way and backed me on my crippled-acquaintance issue. "Ah, Jeremy, don't make her feel even guiltier. Let her take you home. You still have ten blocks."
"Oh, I can't let you walk ten long blocks. And look how gray the sky is. It could start raining on you partway." My peripheral vision caught a glimpse of my two shadows in a huddle, obviously formulating their next plan of attack. The Docklands weren't as wild and woolly as the area's history implied. Over the past couple of decades, developers called in markers to get public transport extended, and changed the footprint of the place to include Canary Wharf, a battalion of skyscrapers giving the old inner-City business district a run for its title to financial dominance. A number of the old warehouses were saved and converted to flats. People made their way to work, play and live there, and I was grateful for all the bodies to hide us.