Flee (8 page)

Unlike
some other city skyscrapers, there weren't any metal detectors, but I noted the
security cameras peering down from the ceiling. I wasn't too worried about the
authorities. I was sure they were looking for me, but by the time they noticed
the woman on the security footage was of interest, I'd be long gone.

If
they noticed at all.

I
worked my way deeper into the building. Planters would be too obvious, and
since many of the plants were real, the chance of pots being swapped out with
fresh greenery before I could retrieve the phone was too high. Not that I
wanted to ditch the phone on the main floor anyway. Lobbies had too much
traffic.

I
spied two women crossing the lobby. About twenty years apart in age, they had
the same long, narrow nose and brown eyes. I guessed mother and daughter out
for a day lunch or shopping. Neither one was paying much attention to anything
but their own conversation, a good sign they were exactly what they seemed.
Civilians. They strolled toward a bank of elevators. I fell in twenty paces
behind them, close enough to hear their voices but back far enough for my
eavesdropping to escape notice.

A
woman wearing dark pants and ill-fitting jacket stood near the elevator doors.
She stepped out, blocking the women's trajectory. "Can I help you find
something?"

The
one I'd pegged as the daughter took the lead. "We have lunch reservations
at the Signature Room."

"That's
on the 95th floor. It's accessed by a different bank of elevators." The
woman pointed the way.

Surmising
the elevators likely served the 49 residential floors in the building, I
followed the lunching women. A restaurant would work well. Not only was it
public, making it easy for me to come and go without attracting notice, the
more elaborate décor should provide many hiding spots. In addition, the high
floor offered a unique twist. Whoever was tracking my phone would see that I
was in the building, but triangulation didn't show on which floor the signal
was originating. I was a blip on a two dimensional map. It would take a bit of time
for my pursuers to cover ninety-five floors.

I
followed the two women through a narrow hall to another elevator bank. They
stepped into the lift. I hung back and waited for the next.

The
car I finally caught was smaller than many apartment closets. I punched the
button for the Signature Room, and the doors closed before anyone had the
chance to follow me inside.

The
elevator car lurched upward, then settled into a rumbling acceleration. The
door rattled. I opened the back of my throat as if in a closed-mouth yawn,
allowing my ears to equalize pressure. Forty seconds and the door slid open.

Rimmed
with walls of glass overlooking the city, the restaurant felt open and airy and
smelled of parsley and steak and garlic, with a hint of floral, coming from the
roses at the maître d’ stand. The low hum of voices mixed with clinking silver
and a background of easy listening music. A waiter passed by, dark pants, dark
gray shirt and a tie. The rest of the staff was dressed in similar shades of
black and gray.

"Do
you have a reservation?" A black-suited maître d’ asked, glancing down at
his seating chart.

"I'm
just looking for a friend." My theme for the day.

"No
one mentioned waiting for another in their party. Perhaps your friend is
upstairs in the lounge?" He gestured to the wide, carpeted staircase to
his left.

"Yes,
thanks."

I
gave the restaurant a quick scan while crossing to the steps. I noted wine
racks behind glass doors, planters filled with silk flowers, a heat register rimming
the room at shin level. All places I could stash a phone, although all might be
disturbed.

Or
a little too obvious for anyone searching.

I
climbed the steps, trying to focus on finding hiding spots and not the
breathtaking view of Chicago and Lake Michigan unfolding around me. Floor-to-ceiling
windows boxed the restaurant. I glanced east, toward the lake, and saw cables
trailing down the glass, a sign of window washers at work on floors below.

The
staircase doubled back and met another bank of elevators, another maître d’
stand, and a pair of private dining rooms flanking either side. I passed one of
the dining areas and started down a long hallway that opened into one of the
private dining areas. A spectacular panorama of the city stretched out to the south,
and if it hadn't been overcast I'm sure I could have seen Indiana. It was like
a view from an airplane.

Not
spotting any better hiding places than I had in the larger dining room a floor
below, I continued down the hall toward the main lounge. A short line of people
waited for a chance at a table. No time to join the wait, I ducked into the
women's bathroom.

Public
restrooms always offered a large variety of hiding places, and this one was no
different in that respect. What I didn't expect was the glass wall overlooking
the city, giving the ladies room a view equally jaw-dropping as those in the
dining areas. I pulled my attention from Navy Pier and the white-capped lake
and concentrated on the interior.

The
bathroom smelled of lemon disinfectant and eucalyptus from the floral
arrangement on the marble vanity. I logged possible hiding places with a
glance. Under the lip of the vanity. Behind the toilets. The recessed lighting
in the ceiling. But again, those spots felt too obvious. The people I was
dealing with had more than my face, they had my training as well. And if there
was a
Looking for Hidden Shit 101
, the spots I'd found so far would be
covered in the first lesson.

I
had to come up with something better. I checked my watch. Only a few minutes until
Cory would be expecting me out on the sidewalk.

I
left the restroom and continued down the hall to the lounge. The host was
leading the group I'd noticed to a table. I took the opportunity to breeze past,
as if I was a tourist just wanting a peak at the view to the building's east.  The
room presented the same assortment of hiding spots, planters, radiators and
recessed lighting, along with cocktail tables and some possibilities in the
lighting above the bar itself. Often people focused on everything eye level and
below when looking for something. They rarely thought to look up. But still…I
glanced back down the hall.

I
had a better idea.

"It's all about control," The Instructor said. "You
must keep as much control as possible, at all times. An agent should always
have choices, always do things on her terms. Sometimes, options will be taken
away from you. If that happens, make new options. An operative with no choices
is a dead operative."

I
took care of the cell phone and made it back to the street with sixty-three
seconds to spare. The John Hancock building itself sat back from Michigan
Avenue. In front, the sidewalk opened up to display a half-moon shaped array of
shops one story below. Steps funneled to the lower level on both sides. Steel
rail and glass rimmed the edge of the depression, stretching the length of the
block parallel to the street. I stepped out on the bare stretch of sidewalk
between guard rail and curb and tried to quell the nervous trill in my stomach.
I felt exposed, no cover other than a light pole, a trash can and a few spindly
trees.

I
scanned the street.

No
sign of the black SUV.

No
sign of Cory.

Wait.

Half
a block away, a white four door sat idling along the curb. Sun reflected off
the windshield, making it difficult to see inside, but I managed to make out
two silhouettes. The car's passenger door opened, and Cory stepped out onto the
street.

He
was a little more buff, chest broader, arms straining the long sleeves of the
tee shirt he wore. He'd been lifting, no doubt taking advantage of the weights
in the prison yard. A jacket draped over his right arm, one sleeve flapping in
the wind. He'd always had a habit of squinting his eyes, but now crow's feet
fanned out from their corners, and creases slashed his forehead and dug between
his brows. Gray sparkled among the stubble on his head. But despite changes in
his appearance, his walk was the same, half-amble, half-prowl, and for a second
memory overwhelmed me.

My
palms felt damp, my chest tight, and just like when I was fourteen, my vision
seemed to narrow and all my senses focused on him. I knew exactly how he would
smell. How his voice would sound. How his lips would thin when angry. I knew
the feel of his skin, and the sounds he made, when fucking…when killing.

I
wanted to run, to just get away. From the memories, from the past, from my own
weakness. But I'd learned long ago that running didn't change a damn thing.
There was no way to undo all he'd done to me. Besides, I wasn't that naive
teenager anymore. I'd killed more men than Cory had.

I
was better than he ever was.

Harnessing
that thought, I pulled in a deep breath, car exhaust and a whiff of hot dogs
from a nearby vendor. A car honked in the street behind me. People shuffled
past, snips of their conversations swirled and scattered in the wind. The
concrete was firm under my feet. My arms hung still by my sides, the yellow bag
and duffle slung over my weak shoulder. My 9mm felt comfortable and familiar,
pressed against the small of my back.

"Hiya,
babe." He stopped three feet away and scanned me up and down. "Time's
been good to you."

His
familiar scent reached me, a mix of cigarette smoke, leather and sweat. I
braced myself against the answering memories.

I
was ice. Cold. Calculating. "Is Kaufmann in the car?"

"Maybe.
And maybe he's got a gun pointed at him right now. Just like you do." He
pulled a corner of the jacket back with his left hand to show me the handgun.

As
if that was supposed to surprise me.

Tracking
his hands with my peripheral vision, I kept my main focus on his eyes.

His
brows shifted. His eyes searched mine, as if realizing he couldn't read me the
way he used to. "Before you go and do something stupid, I got one of those
Bluetooth earpieces on. Anything happens to me, my partner ices Kaufmann."

I
hadn't done anything truly stupid since the last time I believed a word Cory
said. I held out my hands, palms up and non-threatening. "I want to see
him."

Cory
watched me for a moment, then nodded. "Make him sit up," he muttered.

In
the car, the driver's silhouette moved. A second figure rose from the back
seat.

"How
do I know that's him?"

"You'll
just have to trust me." He nodded to the yellow book bag on my shoulder. "The
money in there?"

I
nodded. Not all the money he wanted, but I figured we'd get to that later.

"Good
girl. Now give it to me, or he loses another finger." Judging from his
smile, he not only meant the threat, he enjoyed the prospect of cutting off
body parts just as much as he always had.

I
took the bag's strap in one hand and held it out a few inches, as if I barely
had the strength to offer it. "Don't hurt him. Please."

He
stepped toward me and laughed, a derisive snort of a sound that used to make me
feel small and stupid. "I always liked it when you begged. Let's hear it
again, babe."

"Please,
Cory." I let a tremor seep into my voice, a tremor that wasn't entirely
acting. "Please."

He
took another step closer. Reaching out his left hand, he grasped the bag. His
right hand snaked out from under the jacket, the pistol aimed at my chest.

I
released the strap. In the same motion, I swung my right hand down hard and
seized his wrist above the gun. I pivoted my body sideways, out of the way of a
bullet.

He
didn't have a chance to fire.

Holding
his arm, I grabbed the pistol with my left hand and forced the weapon
backwards. At the same time, I thrust my knee hard into his groin.

He
grunted and pitched forward. His hand released the gun.

I
heard a shuffle of feet and surprised voices. I sensed people's heads snap
around, looking for the source of the commotion, but at this point, I was
beyond caring what they saw. I fitted the pistol into my right hand and dropped
the barrel in line with his crotch. "Tell your partner to let Kaufmann go,
now, or I shoot off your pitiful little dick."

Tires
screeched on pavement.

I
glanced up, expecting to see Cory's ride taking off. But the white car sat in
the same spot.

The
black SUV that had followed me earlier had whipped around the corner and was
barreling up the street toward us. The passenger window lowered.

Shit shit shit
.

I
released Cory and spun away, the book bag hooked in my elbow. Automatic weapon
fire peppered the sidewalk behind me. People screamed. Three strides and I
leapt for the rail. My hands hit the top, and I vaulted the barrier. My feet
landed on two different steps and I lurched forward into the far rail before I
could regain my balance.