I craned my neck to look out the rear window, but of course we were on Airport Road. I could see at least three other taxis behind us, and there were probably dozens behind them.
Should I tell my driver to keep going? Take me somewhere else?
No, Ian would simply tell his cab to keep following me. And I could hardly instruct my driver to do evasive manoeuvres. Dammit.
I slipped my tranquilizer pistol out of my ankle holster and transferred it to my parka pocket.
We stopped in front of the Westjet entrance and the cabbie twisted to give me a smile. “That’ll be thirty-eight fifty, ma’am.”
I paid him and disembarked warily. And wearily. God, I felt as though I’d aged twenty years in the last hour.
Another cab pulled to the curb behind me and I shouldered my bags and strode away, keeping the corner of my vision trained backward. The dark-coated man who got out was too short to be Ian, and I let out a small breath of relief.
Okay, I’d just walk straight on up to the taxi queue and vanish for good…
The short man was hurrying up behind me. Pulling a dark something from his pocket…
I wheeled and fired.
Fortunately there was a brisk breeze to carry the aerosolized trank away, because I forgot to hold my breath when he toppled to the ground and I got a clear look at his face.
Dirk.
Dammit! I’d completely forgotten about the Nemesis Twins. Where was Grandin?
I flung a wild look around but I couldn’t spot him.
Stuffing my pistol back into my pocket, I dropped to my knees beside Dirk and shook him as if trying to rouse him, plucking the dart out of his coat at the same time.
“Help!” I yelled at the handful of people who were hurrying toward us. “He’s unconscious! Call 911!” Then I recoiled as though I’d just spotted the pistol lying on the pavement beside Dirk.
I lurched to my feet with a frantic shriek. “OHMIGOD, HE’S GOT A GUN!” Still screaming at the top of my lungs, I fled for the parking garage.
A few people coming out of the parkade gaped at me as I barrelled toward them, but their attention rapidly transferred to the chaos of shouts and screams unfolding behind me.
Inside the shelter of the garage, I shut up and ran. My pounding footfalls echoed off the concrete, but nobody gave me a second glance. Just another idiot late for her flight.
The machine gun inside the duffel bag banged against my back. The weight of my burdens seemed to increase with every step and my breath came in sharp gasps of effort.
I slowed my crazed dash to a more sustainable jog. My dart might not have penetrated Dirk’s thick coat, so he could be back on his feet in a few minutes. And there were security cameras everywhere. What if Grandin was simply tracking my progress so he and Dirk could corner me and arrest me?
No, he couldn’t have tapped into the airport security cameras that quickly and easily; and he wouldn’t be able to watch them while he circled around to head me off. And even if Dirk regained consciousness in minutes, he’d be surrounded by airport security guards by then. He was out of commission, at least temporarily.
I emerged from the far side of the garage and hurried toward the outdoor over-height parking lot. Slipping between two tall trucks, I halted at last, bending over to pant. The arctic air cut my throat like a knife, but at least I was invisible to any passersby or security cameras.
When I finally regained my breath I straightened, shaking with nerves and exhaustion.
Okay, this time I would disappear for good.
Stripping off my outerwear wasn’t a hardship. My sweat-damp clothing steamed in the frigid air while I unpacked my heavy parka, ski pants, and giant snowboots from my winter emergency backpack and transferred my trank pistol from my lighter jacket to the pocket of the warmer parka.
I took off my hiking boots, pulled my ski pants on over my jeans, and pushed my feet into the snowboots, then repacked my emergency backpack with my castoff outerwear. I stuffed my overnight backpack inside the larger one, too. No need to take a chance on someone recognizing my luggage.
Slinging a strap of the P90’s duffel around each shoulder, I snugged it against the front of my body like a baby in a sling and donned my heavy parka over top. The garment barely closed over the additional bulk, but I managed to work the zipper up to my neck. Shouldering my backpack was an exercise in contortionism since the P90 enforced a stiffly-upright posture, but I managed it.
At last I braided my hair and tucked the braid inside the neck of my sweatshirt, then pulled up my parka hood and plodded out from between the trucks.
Nobody should connect the hysterical redhead of a few minutes ago with this bulky figure in its heavy boots and bulging backpack. Just a labourer heading up north to a remote work camp. Nothing to see here.
Inside the parkade again, I angled in the direction of the taxi queue, emerging halfway between it and the flashing police and ambulance lights that marked where I’d left Dirk.
That whole area was cordoned off, and I gawked for a few moments like any other innocent bystander before turning toward the taxi queue with a glance at my watch.
Ten-thirty. Half an hour before the gym closed.
I might make it…
Safely inside the taxi a few minutes later, I gave the driver my destination and leaned stiffly against the back seat. With the barrel of the P90 jammed between my legs, the butt stayed barely below the neck of my parka. Thank God I was tall. A momentary mental image of petite Nichele attempting the same thing brought on a snort of inappropriate laughter.
Camouflaging the sound as a cough, I asked, “What’s going on back there? Bomb threat?”
“I don’t think so. I heard there was a gun, and I saw somebody lying on the ground.”
“That’s scary. I must have just missed it.”
“Yeah, it’s crazy these days…” The cab driver segued into a monologue about crime and guns, and I made encouraging noises and tuned him out.
At five to eleven we pulled up in front of the large recreation complex I’d chosen to house one of my caches. Thrusting a handful of bills at the driver, I levered myself and the P90 out of the back seat and jogged through the door.
The fresh-faced young employee at the desk frowned as I flashed my membership card at the prox reader. “We’re closing in five minutes,” she informed me disapprovingly.
“I know; lucky I made it here in time,” I panted. “I forgot some important stuff in my locker. I’ll only be a minute.”
“Oh, that’s okay, then.” She gave me a smile as I bounded through the security gates and hurried to the executive changing room that had cost me dearly for the privilege of renting a private locker.
I made a beeline for my locker and dialled in the combination with trembling fingers.
When I departed a few minutes later, my backpack was strained by its additional items, but my anxiety was diminishing.
Step one complete. So far, so good.
Striding out of the building, I went straight to the bus stop. The schedule I’d memorized a month ago returned reluctantly to my memory. Thank God I had selected a route that ran all night; but it was going to be a long cold wait for the next bus.
I hunkered down awkwardly on the bench and summoned all my patience.
By the time the bus arrived I was shivering, my hands and feet ice cold despite my heavy winter clothes. My tired legs protested the effort as I dragged myself up the steps of the bus, paid the fare, and fell into the nearest seat.
Getting off the bus was even worse. When I’d chosen the location for my second cache I hadn’t considered that I might be trying to get to it at midnight in the dead of winter, carrying twenty pounds of extra gear.
I groaned and trudged toward the storage units a quarter mile away.
At that hour there wasn’t another human being in sight. Only an occasional car swished past, and the streetlights were spaced so widely that I could barely see my footing on the dark snow-covered sidewalk. Despit
e the knowledge that any criminal I met out here would be much less dangerous than the enemies I had left behind, my heart thumped an anxious rhythm and I clutched the trank pistol inside my parka pocket.
At last I slogged up to the locked gate, trembling with cold and nerves. It took me two attempts to push the key into the padlock, and as I slid the gate closed behind me I momentarily considered just leaving it dummy-locked. I’d only be a few minutes.
But what if someone was watching? What if I inadvertently allowed a break-in?
I sighed and snapped the padlock shut. I was such a goody-two-shoes. Badass Jane Bond would have left the gate unlocked without a qualm in case she needed to make a quick escape…
“Hey, you!”
A challenging shout seared adrenaline through my veins as I spun to face the threat.
And I was cornered by the gate I’d just finished locking, dammit all to hell!
Chapter 28
Hand clenched around the trank pistol in my parka pocket, I raked a glance around me.
Security cameras above me. Trained on the gate; and therefore, on me.
Muffled figure approaching fast through the gloom of the inadequately lit yard.
Something in his hand.
Gun?
I hesitated, my finger slipping onto the tranquilizer pistol’s trigger without pulling it out of my pocket.
He was probably just an innocent security guard. I couldn’t shoot him.
But if I tranked him, it would be recorded in the security footage. When he recovered he’d call the police; and it would be all over the news that he’d been shot with a tranquilizer instead of a bullet. Ian and Dirk and Grandin would know I’d been here. After that it wouldn’t be a stretch for them to discover the fake identity I’d used to rent the unit.
Shit, shit, shit!
“Hey!” the man repeated as he hurried over. “What are you doing here?”
As he stepped into the bright floodlights around the gate I spotted the security logo sewn to his parka. The object in his hand was a heavy flashlight.
No threat. Stay calm.
Giving silent thanks for the scarf that concealed everything but my eyes, I kept my head down so my hood would cast a heavy shadow and pitched my voice down to a male register. “Just picking up my car.” I held up my gate key as evidence.
“At this time of night?” The guard eyed me with justifiable suspicion.
“Yeah. Been working up in Resolute Bay and figured I’d be there for the winter so I told the wife to store our second car.” I shrugged. “And then they sent me home for Christmas. Just got in.”
The guard’s posture relaxed. “That far north, eh? So you must be used to the dark and cold.”
I grunted. “Feels colder here than in Resolute. I’m freezing my fucking bag off.”
“I hear you. Well, no point in standing here getting colder. Merry Christmas.” He turned back toward the warm light streaming from the windows of the office.
“Thanks. You, too.”
Grateful that the rigid support of the P90 prevented me from slumping in relief, I trudged toward my storage locker.
I unlocked the man-door and slipped through with my trank pistol at the ready. When I flipped on the lights and squinted through the sudden glare, nothing but silent stillness greeted me. A quick check under and inside the car confirmed that I was alone. I locked the storage unit’s door and propped myself against it, sucking in a gulp of air that was nearly a sob of relief.
Made it.
Thank God.
The temperature in the storage unit felt almost tropical, but I knew it was actually only a few degrees above freezing. Which was at least thirty degrees warmer than outside.
Unzipping my parka, I gratefully offloaded the P90 and flexed my aching shoulders. Bruises were already forming on my collarbones from the duffel straps, and my sternum felt like a drum after a particularly energetic rock concert.
I groaned and tottered over to fall into the driver’s seat of the car. Laying my head back, I closed my eyes and sank into the friendly embrace of a seat that had cradled my butt for well over a decade.
I let out a sigh and opened my eyes. Okay, so this particular seat hadn’t; but it was close enough. Dragging myself out of the car again, I allowed myself a moment of fond contemplation.
The shiny 1998 Saturn smiled back at me. It wasn’t exactly like my beloved original Saturn that Stemp had heartlessly wrecked. This was an SL2, a nondescript goldish colour instead of pristine white, but everything else was the same. And more to the point, it was cheap to operate, reliable, boring and therefore nearly invisible, and legally registered to Teresa Diaz, the fictitious fifty-five-year-old woman I had been when I’d bought the car and rented this unit.
I patted the car’s fender and cooed, “I love you, sweet baby.”
Then I loaded the P90 into the trunk and unpacked the goodies from my backpack that would turn me into Teresa Diaz.
Since I was going to be wearing a parka anyway, I didn’t bother putting on the padded chemise that would thicken my waist, but I used the template I’d created to carefully draw an irregular loonie-sized birthmark on my right cheek in dark purple-red lip pencil. Give people something to remember, and they’d forget the rest of my face.
After colouring in the birthmark, I applied foundation several shades darker than my normal skintone, being sure to pat it over the ‘birthmark’ to make it look as though Teresa Diaz wore makeup in an attempt to conceal it. Black mascara darkened my eyebrows, and I made up my eyes with dark kohl, thankful that I had brown eyes instead of a redhead’s usual blue or hazel.
Tracing my own wrinkles with an eyebrow pencil slightly darker than the foundation aged me rather horrifyingly, but I persevered. My look was finished with a couple of swipes of purplish-brown matte eyeshadow under my eyes for a hollow, tired look, and a coat of matte lipstick that faded my lips to almost the same colour as my sallow skin.
I tied a kerchief over my hair and consulted the mirror. Teresa Diaz looked as worn out as I felt.
Next I loaded a wad of cash along with Teresa’s driver’s license and credit cards into my wallet. Aydan Kelly’s and Arlene Widdenback’s documents went into the pocket of my ski pants, which I rolled into a ball and stowed along with the sleeping bag in my winter emergency backpack. That went into the trunk, too, leaving me with only my backpack of clothing and essentials.
I hesitated for a moment over the parka. Teresa would wear my lighter jacket, not the arctic-hero suit I’d worn here. But if the guard stopped me on my way out, I would still need to look and sound like Teresa’s husband.
I sighed and donned the heavy parka again, pulled up the hood, and drove out of the unit.
There was no sign of the guard. Either he was patrolling on the other side of the yard, or else he was tucked snugly away in the office watching the surveillance cameras.
After relocking my unit I drove back to the main gate, tossing a wave in the direction of the office as I passed in case the guard was watching. He made no appearance, and I padlocked the gate behind me and made my escape.
At the low-budget motel I’d selected, a sleepy desk clerk accepted my registration for the week without a second glance.
At last I staggered into the old but clean motel room and locked the door behind me. Taking time only to remove my boots and draw the faded draperies, I fell onto one of the beds.
I had expected to fall asleep in my clothes as I’d done the night before, but no such luck. With no immediate threats in the offing, I had time to reconsider Nora’s terrifying revelations.
Staring wide-eyed at the ceiling, I fought back the urge to hyperventilate. She was lying. She had to be lying.
What if she wasn’t lying?
No. She had to be lying…
I thumped my forehead with the heels of my hands, breaking the panicky cycle.
Think it through. Nora was the head of weapons research for the United Kingdom’s clandestine operations. If the progr
amming in my brain was truly as dangerous as she said, why wouldn’t she have reported the threat to MI6, or to Stemp?
My throat constricted as I followed that thought to its logical conclusion. What would happen to me if she did? Instant incarceration, that’s what. And she would know that.
What she couldn’t know was that if Stemp believed I’d been compromised, he would execute me as soon as he could figure out how to make it look like an accident.
Or… hell. He probably wouldn’t even have to make it look like an accident. He could issue a legitimate kill order, fully backed by the chain of command.
So maybe Nora… Nola… really had been trying to protect me all those years ago; and maybe she was still trying to protect me now.
If anybody had asked me to swallow that story two years ago, I’d have laughed in their faces. Or punched them.
But now… it was horribly plausible.
What should I do?
If Nora knew what Sam’s embedded instructions had been, I needed to talk to her as soon as possible. But how could she know what evil Sam had buried in my brain all those years ago? And what if he hadn’t told her everything?
Or…
What if she knew exactly what the instructions were?
My heart chilled.
What if she had been with Sam when he planted them? Or what if they were her idea? That would mean she had been ruthlessly using her own child…
No.
I couldn’t believe that. Wouldn’t believe it.
Nobody could be that cold.
My mind dredged up all the unwelcome memories of the evil I had encountered in my life; particularly in the past two years. No matter how much I wanted to deny it, I knew it was possible.
But she had to be lying…
I didn’t sleep well.
At seven A.M. I gave up on tossing and turning, and dragged myself out of bed. My stomach growled ravenously, bringing back Nora’s words once again: “…you collapse when you run out of calories. You’re a high-performance machine…”
I shuddered and pressed both hands over my traitorous belly.
A moment later I straightened.
Once Burned, Twice Spy Page 22
