by J. D. Tyler
Fear tightened Fee’s throat like a noose. If these bastards had gotten into a shootout with the Secret Service, law enforcement would be rushing to lock down this building.
Nobody else was coming in, not even this woman they demanded, whoever she was. Fee swallowed hard. If the big guy was serious, she was doomed.
* * * * *
Greg watched the rear and his companion as they crept down the corridor toward the kitchen. He’d envisioned a different damn test for his return to duty.
He eyed his temporary partner. Jane—if that was really her name—moved like smoke, fast and quiet. Sexy.
A partner had a right to know he hadn’t range-qualified. That his right, dominant arm wasn’t a hundred percent. That the bank shooting had rattled him more than anyone knew.
But he couldn’t let his gonads lure him into trusting her too fast. Though it was a point in her favor that she was female. All the radio voices had been male.
“My locker has a combo lock,” she informed him softly. “I have something that’ll jam the camera feed if I can get to it without being spotted.”
“If it jams anything else, let’s pretend it doesn’t, so I don’t have to arrest you later.”
She tossed him a sour look. “At least one of us came prepared for trouble.”
“Semi-prepared. Your gear’s not on you.”
Ignoring that, she said, “The security center’s in the second basement. There’s an auxiliary near the roof for when VIPs come in by helo.”
“Let’s try the basement first, as soon as we have your gear.”
He needed to get back to Fee and make sure she was okay. The only way into that ballroom at the moment, though, was as a hostage, which would preclude helping anybody.
They reached a service elevator. The display over it was dark, nothing lit to indicate where the elevator was. “I’d bet money,” Greg said, “that they shut down the elevators.”
“I would if I were locking down the building. I’d have people guarding the stairwells, too.”
“Still, unless you have a drop key to open this elevator, we’re stuck with the stairs.”
“There’s a key in the security office, and I have one in my locker.”
At his stern look, she raised her eyebrows. “What? They’re not illegal.”
“That doesn’t mean they can’t be used for illegal purposes.”
Great, he thought, ignoring her eye roll. Just great. Awareness of her was buzzing through him pretty much all the time, and now he had more proof that she had a shady side, and that was the best-case scenario. Worst-case, she lived in the dark.
His old, stupid habit of being attracted to women with wild streaks was obviously alive and well. Despite his wretched divorce. Did he never fucking learn?
Trying for normal, he said, “What’s the layout down there?”
“The lower level has mechanicals, the phone room, and the security station as well as storage for holiday decorations and political bunting—you know, that red, white, and blue stuff that gets draped all over anytime a politician shows up. The upper basement has the kitchens and laundry as well as the locker rooms and some catering offices.”
Looking thoughtful, she paused. “There’s also an exit through the employee break room. If it’s not heavily guarded or wired, we can get out that way and maybe back in if need be.”
“We’ll check that out, then. Where does this stairwell come out?”
“On the opposite side from the kitchen, near the laundry. There shouldn’t be anybody in there this time of day.”
He grimaced. “Don’t say that too loudly, or you’ll jinx us.”
Jane shrugged. “If I were guarding a building and wanted to shut down access, especially if I were doing it with limited numbers—and let’s hope they are—I wouldn’t waste manpower on every doorway. I’d put someone at the first guest-room level above the ballrooms. Then you only need two. Or four if you want someone to escort scared people somewhere for lockup. Double that if you want to put people up at the top floor for some reason.”
“Logical.” In fact, it was solid analysis. So she was not only hot and fierce but smart.
Walks the line if she doesn’t actually cross it, though. Not for you, idiot. The reminder toned down his attraction to her not one whit. Hell.
He glanced at the stairwell door, a standard steel fire door with a push bar to open it. As law enforcement, he should go first.
Like at the bank.
His gut knotted, and a chill rippled through him. Greg swallowed hard. Focused on leveling his breathing.
“You okay?” Jane asked.
“Yeah.” He had to be. That was all there was to it. “I’ll go first,” he said. Sounded almost normal. Good for him. “You’re a civilian, so I take point.”
No matter how many prickles the thought raised on the back of his neck.
You can do this, Reed. You’ve done it before without ending up bleeding.
“You have a bum arm. I don’t.”
So she’d noticed more than he thought. “I’m fine.”
He might be less than full capacity, might be worried he’d lost the edge that sustained him in a dangerous situation, but he couldn’t let a civilian, a woman, walk first into a potential fire zone.
She studied him a moment and then shrugged. Raising her eyebrows, she said, “You know to be quiet in a stairwell, right?”
“Funny.”
Her grin shot a bolt of lust straight to his groin. To distract her from his reaction, he grumbled, “They actually do teach us how to sneak up on a scene.”
“Good to know. So let’s do this.”
Whatever she was, he had to give her credit for courage.
If she wasn’t leading him into a trap.
Slowly, listening carefully and standing to the side, he eased the door open. No sound came from within. The stairs were concrete, with standard round, metal railings. A perfect echo chamber.
When he looked back at her, she braced the door. He slid through it, the long gun trained up the stairs.
No one there.
He took a deep breath and nodded over his shoulder to his companion. Silently, she slipped in behind him, her Glock also trained on the flight going up.
He eased the door shut. It made only a very faint click when it closed.
The two of them stood still, listening. No sounds of voices, not even the rustle of cloth from people shifting positions, came from below.
He glanced at Jane. Bored sentries would probably talk. Maybe the way below was clear. Besides, why post a sentry inside an area if you controlled the approaches—say, by the sub-basement tunnel and in the security office near it?
They crept down the two flights to the first basement. At the door, they stopped again to listen.
“It’s too quiet,” Jane whispered in his ear. The stroke of her breath on his skin sent heat rolling through his blood.
Focus, dumbass.
“The kitchen should be loading replacement tubs for the hot food,” she added. “Replenishing hors d’oeuvres and drinks. I don’t like it.”
“Me neither,” he whispered back. “Ready?”
When she nodded, he slipped into the basement. The ceilings were about ten feet high, with a laundry area on the left, marked by big, industrial washers and dryers, and a long aisle leading straight ahead, past a white, cinder-block wall. Another aisle ran in front of the door, toward what must be the kitchen.
No one was in sight, so he wiggled the fingers of his free hand in a come-ahead signal for Jane.
The right side of the corridor held storage, as she’d said. She led him past the laundry and a door marked Men on the left. The next door on the left said Women.
Jane pushed the door open just far enough to stand by the first lockers and pointed up and to the right. Attached to the ten-foot ceiling, a camera pointed down and across the locker room. Best he could see, rows of green lockers lined the walls, most of them over-and-under.
Gre
g studied the angles. If she edged up directly under the camera, she might be able to disconnect it without being seen. If he could lift her with one bum arm.
He pantomimed panning with a camera and pointed to his ear.
“There’s no audio,” Jane said, keeping her voice low. “But there could be somebody around.”
“Is there a step stool?”
“Yeah, but in the area where the cameras are, near the pantry and freezers.”
“Okay, then. Hang on.” She had a trim, athletic figure with just the right curves…which had nothing to do with the job at hand. She likely wasn’t all that heavy, but lifting her would pretty much finish off his arm for the next few days. Unless…
“Climb on my shoulders,” he said. “That’ll be more stable than just boosting you.”
“Okay.”
They hurried back to the laundry. He backed up to a washing machine, and she climbed onto it and then onto his shoulders.
“Hang on.” She bent her knees so she could put her feet at his back, increasing her grip.
He held her thighs to steady her and tried not to think about the firm muscles under his hands or the warmth seeping through her polyester uniform pants.
“Ready?” he asked.
“Go.”
She weighed maybe 135 to 140, about what he’d figured, but his shoulder wasn’t happy. He set his jaw and walked carefully to the locker room doorway.
“This is good,” she said, her voice low. “Just one more step.”
It might be good for her, but their positions made him acutely aware of her trim, nicely curved butt pressed against his shoulders and her long legs wrapped around his torso. Gritting his teeth, he recited multiplication tables in his head. The thirteens were always a challenge.
Jane’s weight shifted—to his right, generating a stab of pain that had him biting back a curse—for a couple of seconds. “Got it,” she said.
They returned to the laundry, where he turned his back on a washer. Climbing off, Jane said softly, “I left the feed wire directly under the jack so it would look like it just slipped out. Let me get my stuff.”
He kept watch in the locker room doorway while she hurried around the next row of lockers. Only faint sounds reached him. The woman knew how to be quiet.
Cops did, of course, but her sneaking skills seemed beyond what the average law enforcement officer possessed. Chasing down perps and breaking up domestic disputes rarely required stealth.
Jane slipped silently back to him. “Got it,” she said. A small, black backpack hung from her shoulders and was anchored by a belt with a quick-release buckle at her waist.
“What do you have?”
“Snake scope, zip ties, minicam, suppressor for my Glock, pliers, spare mag, couple of flash/bangs, smoke grenade, and a small but powerful flashlight. And a drill kit with a scope designed to go through walls.”
“Interesting surveillance gear.” Especially the zip ties, flash/bangs, smoke grenade, and drill kit.
She frowned at him. “Adulterers are creative, so those of us chasing them have to be prepared.”
“Fair enough.” He let the issue go. They had more pressing matters to handle.
“I also have a recorder that’s being fed by a device in the ballroom. Or it was before the jamming started. We can hear what went on in there if we can find a place it’s safe to hunker down and listen.”
He gave her a stern You did not just say that look. “We’ll discuss the legality of your recording later. If we can get to the security station, which probably has phones on a separate circuit, we can call out. Barring that, we might be able to plug a phone into the main circuit board.”
“It’s worth a try. We can grab the office phone. There’s a supply closet by the laundry. It’s probably as safe a place to hole up and listen to this as any.”
“Let’s go. Once we know whether the phones work, we’ll check that break room exit.”
They went back up the aisle and turned left without seeing anyone. Silently, they walked to the kitchen’s stainless-steel double doors on the left. Greg pressed himself against the wall, with his companion on the other side of the doors.
He motioned for her to stay back, duty asserting itself when memories tried to make him balk. She nodded, watching the hallway, so he edged toward the round window in the middle of the door.
The kitchen looked empty. Shifting from side to side, he checked as much as he could see. There were a couple of rows of steel prep tables, with stoves, ovens and sinks lining the walls. Partially loaded platters of crackers and various spreads, little sandwiches, and egg rolls sat out on the tables.
Pots stood unattended on the stove—not smoking, at least. The stoves appeared to be off.
He pushed through the door with Jane behind him. Once inside, she stepped up beside him, covering that side.
Softly he said, “Looks like they left in a hurry.”
She shook her head. “There should be thirty people in here right now.”
A smear of something, a dark, ominous red, stained the floor near one of the tables. By it lay a young man’s crumpled form. Greg was about to nudge her and point when she stiffened.
“Shit,” she muttered, hurrying to kneel by the victim. Despite looking a little green around the gills, she pressed two fingers to his carotid artery.
“Dead,” she muttered.
Her throat moved in a hard swallow. Now she’d gone chalk white. Before he could ask what was wrong, she closed her eyes and took three deep, audible breaths.
When she opened her eyes, they were bright with fury. She pushed to her feet. “This is Eddie, ex-Army. I guess it figures they’d shoot one of the guys with a military background. We need to see what happened to everyone else.”
Pointing the little device in her hand upward at something he couldn’t see, she told him, “We have two minutes of clear vision. We have to keep going on two-minute cycles. If people are in there, we’ll have to repeat that. But it’ll show as flickery on the security feed after a few times.”
“We’ll deal with that if we have to.”
“Right. The pantry’s just there on the left, with the freezers beyond,” she said, pointing to a door set in a cinderblock wall. “And look.”
A heavy cord circled the door handle and led to the next one and the next with no slack in between.
“Why tie the door shut if there’s just food in there?” She hurried toward it. “If the staff are still here, they’ll be locked in there. Or in the freezers.”
Greg kept watch while she untied the rope and punched in the numerical code. “I’ll go first,” she said, shoving her Glock into her back waistband, “since they know me.”
He nodded.
Standing to the side, she pushed the door open. “It’s me, Jane,” she called. “Everybody okay?”
* * * * *
Marcel Petain, the head cook, came to the door, his gray hair sticking out at odd angles and his face furrowed with worry. “Jane? Thank God! What’s going on?”
“I don’t know.” She pushed the door open farther, scanning the anxious faces looking back at her. The kitchen staff was here.
“Everyone okay?” she asked.
“Mostly,” Marcel replied. “Jane, they killed Eddie and shot Roy. They were the only waiters who came back until you arrived.”
“I saw Eddie.” Fear tightened Kelsey’s throat, but she pushed words past it. “How bad is Roy? Where is he?”
“Back here. It was his shoulder. It bled bad.”
“Shit.” Kelsey handed the G-man her jammer. “When the light starts blinking, point it at that camera up there again and push the black button.”
Shouldering through the crowd, she asked, “Did they say why?”
“He moved at the wrong time,” Marcel answered, the words acid. “They said if we cooperated, no one would be hurt.”
Luis, a dishwasher, knelt by Roy, who sat slouched against the shelving. Luis held a wad of kitchen towels against the top
of the younger man’s left shoulder.
Zinnia, the slender, salt-and-pepper-haired executive chef, stood behind Luis with a wiry prep cook and the other two dishwashers. In her dark brown face, her eyes were red-rimmed, as though she’d been crying.
Luis scowled up at Kelsey. “Eddie’s dead, Jane, and Roy’s hurt.”
“I know, Luis. I know. They’re going to pay for that.” Kelsey knelt by the two men. Roy was breathing hard, his teeth clenched and his face pale below its brown buzz cut.
“Roy, it’s Jane. Can you hear me?”
He nodded. Pain-fogged blue eyes opened. “It’s just a graze,” he muttered.
Coming from a guy who’d survived Fallujah, that was probably accurate, but it was best to check.
“Let me see.” This wasn’t the time to confess that the sight of blood made her light-headed.
Bearing down mentally, she gently moved Luis’s hand. Roy had a gash across the stop of his shoulder. “It’s mostly stopped bleeding. Roy, I think it’s not too bad.”
“I tried to tell ’em.” But the glance he flicked toward Luis held gratitude.
“We should bandage it, though,” she continued. “Is the first-aid kit in here?”
“It’s in the office,” Zinnia said. She edged closer, hovering. “What are you going to do? Who’s that man with you?”
Reed answered, “I’m an FBI agent. We’re trying to get to a phone and call for help.”
A wiry guy in the back—Todd, one of the prep cooks—spoke up, his voice shaky. “They said they’d disabled the phones. Jammed everyone’s cells, too.”
“Figures,” Reed said behind Kelsey as the others in the room nodded.
“I’ll be right back.” Kelsey dug lock picks out of her bag and hurried to the office.
Opening the door, one of the few requiring a key, took only a moment. The first-aid kit sat on a shelf that also held manuals and cookbooks. Kelsey snagged the kit before picking up the receiver on the desk phone.
Of course it was dead, but Reed could come grab the phone while she worked on Roy.
He readily agreed, so she shrugged out of her pack and handed it to him. He could put the phone in that.
