by J. D. Robb
The lone human was a female, probably midtwenties, with closely cropped black hair, a tidy, conservative white jumpsuit, and an expression of utter terror on her face as she was held through the security port by the throat.
The man who gripped her was busy squeezing off her air and waving what was certainly a homemade explosive with his free hand.
“I’ll kill her. I’ll fucking stuff it down her throat.”
The threat didn’t worry Eve nearly as much as the calm, deliberate manner in which it was delivered. She discounted chemicals and a professional status. From the appearance of his threadbare jeans and shirt, the tired, unshaven face, she concluded she had one of the city’s desperately poor on her hands.
“She hasn’t done anything to you.” With the first mad rush already out the door, Eve approached slowly. “She’s not responsible. Why don’t you let her go?”
“Everyone’s done something to me. Everyone’s part of the system.” He yanked, pulling the hapless clerk a little farther through the security port. She was wedged now to the shoulders and turning faintly blue. “Keep back,” he said quietly. “I’ve got nothing to lose and nowhere to go.”
“You’re choking her. Snuff her and you’ve got no shield. Ease up a little. What’s your name?”
“Names don’t count for shit.” But he did loosen his grip enough to have the young clerk wheeze in a desperate breath. “Money’s what matters. I walk out with a bag of credits, nobody gets hurt. Hell, they’ll just make more.”
“It doesn’t work that way.” Cautious, Eve took another three steps, keeping her eyes on his. “You know you’re not going to get out of here. By now the street’s blocked, the security units are deployed. Jesus, pal, the area’s lousy with cops any time of the day or night. You could’ve picked better than this.”
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Peabody slide through the rear access and take up her position. Neither of them could risk firing while he had the clerk and the explosive in his hands.
“If you drop that thing, even sweat too much, it could blow. Then everybody dies here.”
“Then we’ll all die here. It doesn’t matter anymore.”
“Let the clerk go. She’s a civilian. She’s just trying to make a living.”
“So was I.”
She saw it in his eyes just an instant too late. The utter despair. In a blink he tossed the hand-held boomer high and right. Eve’s life flashed obscenely before her eyes as she sprinted forward and made the dive. She missed by a fingertip.
Even as she braced for the insult of the blast, the crudely made ball rolled into a corner, bobbled, then settled quietly.
“Dud.” The would-be thief let out a weak laugh. “Doesn’t it just figure?” Then, as Eve popped to her feet, he charged.
She didn’t have time to aim, much less fire her weapon. He hit her like a battering ram, driving her back hard into one of the self-service counters. The explosion came now, inside her head as her hip slammed painfully into the edge. Sheer luck had her holding onto her weapon as stars burst in her head. She hoped the crack she heard was the cheap laminate giving and not bone.
He had her gripped in a pathetically loverlike embrace that was surprisingly effective. It blocked her weapon and pinned against the counter, so she was forced to shift her body weight rather than pivot.
They hit the floor, and this time she was unlucky enough to land first so that his thin, panic-fueled body dropped heavily on hers. Her elbow cracked on the tile, her knee jarred and twisted viciously. With more enthusiasm than finesse, she rammed the side of her weapon against his temple.
The move proved to be as effective as a stun. His eyes rolled up white before she shoved him aside and got to her knees.
Panting, fighting back the nausea that was a result of taking some bony part of his body in the stomach, she blew the hair out of her eyes. Peabody was also on her knees, the boomer in one hand, her weapon in the other.
“I couldn’t get a clear shot. I went for the boomer first, thought you could take him.”
“Fine, that’s just dandy.” She hurt everywhere, and now her pulse began to hammer at the sight of her aide clutching a bomb. “Don’t move.”
“Not moving. Barely breathing.”
“I’ll call the goddamn bomb disposal unit. Get a safe box in here now.”
“I was just about—” Peabody broke off, went pale as death. “Oh hell, Dallas. It’s heating up.”
“Dump it. Dump it now! Take cover.” Swiping out one handed, Eve dragged the unconscious man with her behind the counter, draped herself over him, then locked her arms over the back of her head.
The explosion blasted the air, fumed out a fist of heat and had God knew what raining down on her. The auto fire control system whirled into action, spewing sprays of icy water, shrilling out a new alarm, warning employees and customers to vacate the building in a calm and orderly manner.
She sent up a quick thanks to whoever was listening that she felt no bright pain, and that all her body parts appeared to be attached.
Coughing against the thick wash of smoke, she crawled out from behind what was left of the counter. “Peabody. Christ.” She hacked, wiped her stinging eyes, and kept crawling over the wet, now filthy floor. Something hot burned the heel of her hand, made her swear again. “Come on, Peabody. Where the hell are you?”
“Here.” The answer was weak, followed by a fit of throaty coughing. “I’m okay. I think.”
They met on hands and knees through the curtain of smoke and water and eyed each other’s blackened faces. Casually, Eve reached out and rapped Peabody several times on the side of the head. “Your hair was on fire,” she said mildly.
“Oh. Thanks. How’s the asshole?”
“Still unconscious.” Eve sat back on her heels and took a quick self-inventory. She didn’t see any blood, which was no small relief. Most of her clothes were still there, which hardly mattered since they were ruined. “You know, Peabody, I think Roarke owns this building.”
“Then he’s probably going to be pissed. Smoke and water damage is a bitch.”
“You’re telling me. Let’s call it a goddamn day. The credit cops can handle this. I’m giving a party tonight.”
“Yeah.” Mouth twisted, Peabody tugged on the torn sleeve of her uniform. “I’m looking forward to it.” Then she swayed, squinted. “Dallas, how many pairs of eyes did you have when we came in here?”
“One. Just one.”
“Shit. Now you’ve got two. I think one of us has a problem.” With this, Peabody pitched forward into Eve’s arms.
There wasn’t time to clean up. After she’d hauled Peabody out of the wreckage and dumped her on the medical technicians, she had a report to relay to the officer in charge of the security team, then she fed the same data to the bomb disposal unit. Between reports she harassed the MTs about Peabody’s condition and blocked their attempts to treat her to an injury scan.
Roarke was already dressed for the evening when she rushed in the door. He cut off his conversation with Tokyo on his palm link, shifted away from the team of florists currently arranging pink and white hibiscus in the foyer.
“What the hell happened to you?”
“Don’t ask.” She raced past him and hit the stairs at a dead run.
She was out of what was left of her shirt by the time he came into the bedroom, closed the door. “I will ask.”
“The bomb wasn’t a dud after all.” Unwilling to sit down and smear whatever was on her slacks onto the furniture, she balanced on one foot and fought off a boot.
Roarke took a deep breath. “The bomb?”
“Well, a homemade boomer. Very unreliable.” She pried off the second boot, then began to peel off her torn and blackened slacks. “Guy hits a CEC two blocks from Cop Central. Idiot.” She dumped the tatters on the floor, swung around to head to the bath, only to come up short when Roarke took her arm.
“Name of God.” He turned her to get a closer look at the purpling bruis
e that spread over her hip. It was bigger than his spread hand. Her right knee was raw and there were more bruises blooming on her arms and shoulders. “You’re a mess, Eve.”
“You should see the other guy. Well, at least he’ll get three square and a roof for a few years, courtesy of the state. I’ve got to get cleaned up.”
He didn’t release her, only shifted his gaze to hers. “I don’t suppose you bothered to let the MTs work on you.”
“Those butchers?” She smiled. “I’m fine, just sore. I can get a quick treatment tomorrow.”
“You’ll be lucky if you can walk by tomorrow. Come on.”
“Roarke—” But she winced and hobbled, and he pulled her into the bath.
“Sit. Be quiet.”
“We don’t have time for this.” She sat, rolled her eyes. “It’s going to take me a couple hours to get the stink and soot off. Christ, those boomers smell.” She turned her head to sniff at her shoulder and grimaced. “Sulfur.” Then she eyed him warily. “What’s that?”
He approached with a thick pad soaked in something pink. “The best we can do at the moment. Stop wiggling.” He laid the pad over her injured knee, holding it in place and ignoring her curses.
“That stings. Christ, are you crazy?”
“I’m beginning to think so.” With his free hand, he caught her chin, carefully examined her blackened face. “At the risk of repeating myself, you’re a mess. Hold that pad in place.” He squeezed lightly on her chin. “I mean it.”
“Okay, okay.” She huffed out a breath and kept the pad over her knee as he walked back to a wall cabinet. The sting was easing. She didn’t want to admit that the ripe ache in her knee was backing off. “What’s in this stuff?”
“This and that. It’ll ease the swelling and numb the injury for a few hours.” He came back with a small tube of liquid. “Drink it.”
“Uh-uh, no drugs.”
Very calmly, he laid a hand on her shoulder. “Eve, if you’re not in pain at the moment, it’s due to adrenaline. You’re going to hurt, and hurt big time, very shortly. I know what it feels like to be bruised and battered all over. Now drink it.”
“I’ll be fine. I don’t want—” She gasped when he pinched her nose, drew her head back, and poured the liquid down her throat. “Bastard,” she managed, choking and batting at him.
“That’s a good girl. Now, into the shower.” He walked to the glass-enclosed tube and ordered the spray at half force and a soothing eighty-six degrees.
“I’ll get you for that. I don’t know how, I don’t know when, but I’ll do it.” She limped into the shower, still muttering. “Son of a bitch pours drugs down my throat. Treats me like a goddamn imbecile.” The moan of relief came involuntarily as the soft water slid over her abused body.
He watched her, smiling as she braced both hands against the wall and ducked her head under the spray. “You’ll want to wear something loose and floor length. Try the blue ankle sweep Leonardo designed for you.”
“Oh, go to hell. I can dress myself. Why don’t you stop staring at me and go order some of your minions around?”
“Darling, they’re our minions now.”
She bit off a chuckle and rapped her hand against the shower panel to access the ’link recessed there. “Brightmore Health Center,” she ordered. “Fifth floor admissions.” She waited for the connection and managed to soap up her hair one-handed. “This is Lieutenant Eve Dallas. You have my aide, Officer Delia Peabody. I want status.” She listened to the standard line for approximately five seconds before she cut off the charge nurse. “Then find out, and find out now. I want her full status, and believe me, you don’t want me coming down there to get it.”
It took her an hour, a relatively painless hour, she was forced to admit. Whatever Roarke had made her drink didn’t leave her with that helpless, floaty feeling she detested. Instead, she felt alert and only slightly giddy.
It might have been the drug that made her admit, at least to herself, that he’d been right about the dress. It slid weightlessly over her skin, concealing the bruises stylishly with its high neck, long, tapering sleeves, and draping skirt. She added the diamond he’d given her as a symbolic apology for swearing at him—even though he’d deserved it.
With less resentment than usual, she fussed with her face, struggled with her hair. The result, she decided as she gave herself a study in the triple mirrors in the closet, wasn’t half bad. She supposed she looked as close to elegant as she was ever going to get.
When she walked onto the roof terrace where the performance session of the party was to take place, Roarke’s quick smile agreed with her. “There she is,” he murmured and walked over to take both of her hands, bringing them to his lips.
“I don’t think I’m talking to you.”
“All right.” He lowered his head and, mindful of bruises, kissed her lightly. “Feel better?”
“Maybe.” She sighed and didn’t bother to tug her hands away. “I guess I’ll have to tolerate you, since you’re doing all this for Mavis.”
“We’re doing it for Mavis.”
“I haven’t done anything.”
“You married me,” he pointed out. “How’s Peabody? I heard you calling the health center from the shower.”
“Mild concussion, bumps, and bruises. She was a little shocky, but she’s stabilized. She went after the boomer.” Remembering that moment, Eve blew out a slow breath. “It started to heat up right in her hand. No way I could get to her.” She closed her eyes, shook her head. “Scared the hell out of me. I thought I’d find pieces of her everywhere.”
“She’s tough and smart, and she’s learning from the best.”
Eve opened her eyes, narrowed them. “Flattery isn’t going to make me forgive you for drugging me.”
“I’ll find something else that will.”
She surprised him by reaching up, framing his face with her hands. “We’re going to talk about that, ace.”
“Anytime. Lieutenant.”
But she didn’t smile. Her eyes only went more intense. “There’s another thing we have to talk about. It’s serious.”
“I can see that.” Concerned, he glanced around at the bustling caterers, the wait staff already lined up for their final briefing. “Summerset can handle the last of this. We can use the library.”
“It’s bad timing, I know, but it can’t be helped.” She took his hand, an instinctive gesture of support, as they headed out of the room and down the wide corridor toward the library.
Inside, he closed the door, ordered lights, then poured drinks. Mineral water for Eve. “You’ll have to forgo alcohol for a few hours,” he told her. “The painkiller doesn’t mix well with it.”
“I think I can restrain myself.”
“Tell me.”
“Okay.” She set the glass aside without drinking, pushed both hands through her hair. “You’ve got a new VR unit on the market.”
“I do.” He sat on the arm of a leather sofa, took out a cigarette, and lighted it. “It hit a month, six weeks ago, depending on region. We’ve improved a number of the options and programs.”
“With subliminals.”
He blew out smoke thoughtfully. It wasn’t difficult to read her, he thought, when you understood her. She was worried, stressed, and the soothing power of the drug couldn’t overtake her in that area. “Naturally. Several of the option packages include a variety of subliminals. They’re very popular.” Still watching her, he nodded. “I take it Cerise had one of the new units and was using it before she jumped.”
“Yeah. The lab hasn’t yet been able to identify the subliminal. May turn out to be nothing, but—”
“You don’t think so,” he finished.
“Something triggered her. Something triggered all of them. I’m working on confiscating the VR units owned by the other subjects. If it turns out they all owned that new model . . . the investigation’s going to circle around your company. On you.”
“I had a sudden urge to
encourage self-termination?”
“I know you had nothing to do with it,” she said quickly and fiercely. “I’m going to do everything I can to keep you out of it. I want—”
“Eve,” he interrupted quietly, shifted to crush out his cigarette, “you don’t have to explain yourself to me.” He reached in his pocket, took out his memo card, and tapped in a code. “The R and D on that model was done in two locations. In Chicago and on Travis II. Manufacturing was handled by one of my subsidiaries, again on Travis II. The distribution and shipping, on and off planet, by Fleet. The packaging through Trillium, marketing by Top Drawer here in New York. I can have all the data sent to your office unit, if that’s most convenient.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Stop.” He tucked the card away and rose. “There are literally hundreds, perhaps thousands of employees in these companies. I can certainly get you a list, for whatever good that would do.” Then he paused, reached down, and rubbed a thumb over the diamond she wore. “You should know I personally worked on and approved the design, initialed the schematics. The unit’s been in development for more than a year, and I spot-checked every stage at one time or another through that period. My hands are all over it.”
She’d been sure of that, afraid of that. “It could come to nothing. Dickhead claims my theory of subliminal coercion to self-termination is over the edge of unlikely into the impossible.”
Roarke smiled a little. “How can one trust a man called Dickhead? Eve, you used the unit yourself.”
“Yeah, which also put a big wrench in my pet theory. All I got out of it was an orgasm.” She couldn’t quite bring off a smile herself. “I want to be wrong, Roarke. I want to be wrong and close these cases as voluntary self-terminations. But if I’m not—”
“We’ll deal with it. First thing tomorrow, I’ll look into it myself.” She started to shake her head, but he took her hand. “Eve, I know the drill; you don’t. I know my people, at least the department heads in each stage. You and I have worked together before.”
“I don’t like it.”