Then I was on my back, and she was on me, and I knew she’d had the same training I’d had, meaning I’d likely be dead within the next two seconds.
“Your body is a weapon,” The Instructor said. “Hands, feet, elbows, knees, head. In close combat, commit immediately and fully, aim for your opponent’s vital points and nerve points, and hit and stick to deliver maximum damage. Strike fast, strike hard, and try to strike first.”
I struck, going for her eyes. My fingers hit their target, jabbing the cheekbones and sliding upward into the soft tissue. I could feel her grunt of pain in my own chest. I thrust harder, trying to gouge her eyes out, or better yet, penetrate the thin bone behind the optic nerve and plunge into her brain.
I wasn’t so lucky.
She moved her head to the side and brought the edge of her hand hard against the front of my good shoulder, connecting with the large bundle of nerves that passes in front of the joint. My fingers buckled. My arm slumped, numb and useless.
She brought her hands to my throat, her thumbs pressing right below my larynx, aiming to crush my trachea. I clawed at her with my other hand, still tingly from the Demerol. My vision blurred. But through the motes I could see her eyes were half closed, tears and some blood glistening on her cheeks.
Flexing my stomach muscles, I lunged upward, smacking my forehead straight into her nose. She released her grip, stunned for a moment, reflex bringing her hands to her face.
A moment was all I needed. I bucked my body, tossing her to the sidewalk. One move and I was on my feet. My balance lagged behind and I had to pause half a second to adjust.
Too long. Barely a moment passed and she was up too, striking fast and hard with a cut to the jaw.
I blocked her blow and drove my elbow into the side of her head. Still unsteady on my feet, I couldn’t muster enough force to do real damage, and she came back at me with a palm-heel strike to my solar plexus.
Breath fled from my lungs. I gasped, sucking in air. I managed to block her next blow, still wheezing when she landed a knee jab to the stomach that doubled me over.
She grabbed my hair and yanked my head back, searing pain ripping along the cut in my scalp. I struggled to twist to the side, throw her off balance. No good. She shoved my head down, smacking my forehead hard against her knee.
Flashes of light exploded in front of my eyes. I staggered to the side, somehow keeping myself from going down.
My injuries were making me sluggish. After the morning I’d had, she was faster, fitter. If I hadn’t impaired her vision, there would be no way I could keep up. I wasn’t sure I could now. I needed to end this. Quickly.
Before she ended me.
She struck again, fast, as I knew she would, coming in too close, too certain of my defeat. She attacked from the right, trying for a strike to my carotid artery.
I managed to block with my left elbow then straighten, bringing my right elbow up under her jaw. I clipped her hard, driving her head back. I followed with a strike to her throat from the other side.
As she staggered back I grabbed her, my right arm over her chest, my left under her thighs. I straightened my legs, pressing her against my torso and lifting her like a barbell.
She wasn’t ready to give up yet. She found my face with her hand, trying to land a stunning blow to the sensitive spots behind my ear and the base of my skull, and failing that, jabbing for my eyes.
I tucked in my chin, keeping my balance. A grunt rasped in my throat, an aggressive and guttural sound. I managed a short lunge forward with my right foot. Using that momentum, I brought her body down hard and smashed her back against my knee.
I felt her spine break just as I collapsed forward, my legs crumbling, unable to hold her any longer. Both of us hit the sidewalk. For a second, I half expected her to throw another move at me, a move I wouldn’t be able to handle.
But she didn’t stir, didn’t even twitch.
Witnesses? I could feel people watching, no doubt calling 911. A guy across the street. A taxi parked on the corner. But no one was stupid enough to approach. Tuning into sounds, I heard traffic, a bus, the distant cry of a siren, the crackling of leaves blowing across the sidewalk.
I willed my mind clear. I had to move.
I struggled upright and started frisking my dead double. I didn’t find anything compromising, didn’t expect to, but the job took only seconds, since I knew precisely where to look. Like the woman at the health club, she had cash and wires sewn into her clothing precisely the way I did.
I took her weapon, her sunglasses, her tablet computer and stuffed them into my duffle alongside the money. Hands shaking, I tugged out my cell phone, took a quick picture of her thumb print and sent it to a secure internet drop box where Jacob could access it, if he was still able.
I left her body on the sidewalk, not bothering to hide it. With the police on their way and with eyewitnesses peppering the street, the extra time and energy it would cost to conceal her corpse wouldn’t get me much.
My stomach roiling, I staggered away, taking fifteen steps before I was able to balance enough to break into a jog. I rounded the corner with my fist pressed to my stomach so I didn’t throw up—the nausea, as well as the almost uncontrollable trembling of nearly every muscle in my body, was a side-effect of too much adrenaline.
I’d put two blocks between me and my lifeless double before I was able to calm my jitters, settle my thoughts, and fully focus on what I had to do next. It took another two to locate a drugstore. The scream of a siren pierced the ambient traffic sounds just before I ducked inside the revolving door.
Inside I could still hear the cop car’s wail mixed with the hum of voices, the whir of the register printing out a receipt and background music, a bland rendition of a Simon and Garfunkel classic. Perfume tinged the air, something cheap that carried a harsh citrus note. A woman behind the cosmetics counter eyed me as if she thought I could desperately use the Shimmer Face Primer on display.
Fighting techniques were only one of my trained skills. I had also studied facial expressions and body language, and I could read the intentions of others as well as I could disguise my own. The woman seemed to be what she appeared, an employee trying to sell makeup, but after all the surprises I’d had, I couldn’t be too sure. And even a well-meaning employee could cause me problems if she noticed my injuries and decided it was her business to help.
I gave her a fleeting don’t-try-to-sell-me smile and hurried past like a normal busy woman doing errands on my lunch hour. She offered a polite nod and turned to an older woman in a track suit.
I scanned the rest of the store, including the wide angle mirrors positioned around the ceiling’s perimeter, keeping my head low so my face didn’t register on the cameras behind them. I didn’t see any other Walgreens shoppers who flagged my attention. And miraculously, for what seemed like the first time all day, I was the only one in the store bearing my exact features.
I made quick work of my shopping, picking up a yellow canvas book bag (which sat next to a display of ereaders—who really needed a book bag anymore?), a bottle of niacin, a utility knife, and a blue knit cap. Once out the door, I pulled on the cap and the sunglasses I’d taken off my double and continued down the street. The only sirens were distant now, their screams partially drowned by the rumble of the El several blocks away, the usual traffic noise, and the whoosh of wind. The breeze carried the snap of fall and scent of pizza—oregano and cooked sausage—from a nearby deep dish restaurant.
I turned my head to the side as I walked, as if simply taking in the day. Several people dotted the sidewalk behind me, the foot traffic picking up as people stepped out to get a bite to eat. I took a right turn, ducked into a doorway for a moment, transferring the cash from my duffle to the yellow bag, then stepped back out onto the street. After crossing the side street, I rejoined the first street I’d been walking and noted the traffic patterns of those behind. No one appeared to be following.
I stopped on the next corner and hai
led a cab. I collapsed into the back seat. “The Shedd Aquarium, please.”
The odor of stale menthol cigarettes hovered around the driver. “Sure thing.” He accelerated and blended into traffic.
We headed in the direction of the lake. I cracked the window and let exhaust dilute the smoke stench. A few minutes later we swung onto Michigan Avenue’s Magnificent Mile. I glanced out the window and pretended to take in the glitzy stores, the Tribune Tower, the ornate architecture of the Wrigley Building, all the while checking for tails. We crossed the Chicago River and moved south. By the time my cab had reached Millennium Park, I was as certain as I could be that I was alone.
We took Roosevelt Drive to Lake Shore, turned at Soldier Field, and wound past the Field Museum. As we approached the aquarium, I made a visual sweep of the area. School busses clogged the parking lot. A mother dragged two dawdling children up the steps to the main entrance. Wind whipped flags and raised whitecaps on the lake.
“We’re here,” the cabbie said, reaching for the meter.
“No, wait.”
His hand stopped mid air. “This is the Shedd Aquarium.”
“I know. I’m waiting for someone. Can you sit here and let the meter run for now?”
“Sure thing.” He sounded less than enthused.
I pulled the tablet computer I took from my most recent dead doppelganger out of the duffle. If there was anything on the woman that might give me a clue who she was and what was going on, this was it. The problem was getting past whatever security measures were in place.
Three minutes later, I hadn’t made much progress. The computer was encrypted. I would need more time to work on it. Time I didn’t have. “I’ve changed my mind. Take me to Macy’s on State Street.”
The cabbie glanced in the rear view and arched his brows. “Whatever you want.” He was an older guy with a square face, salt-and-pepper hair, an expression that plainly said he didn’t care about anything. He wove his way out of the parking area and started retracing the route we’d just traveled. I looked down at my watch.
Soon I would be face-to-face with Cory again.
I spotted the black SUV a block from Macy’s. It turned out from Pearson, and fell into traffic four cars behind my cab. It was a slick move. One executed by someone with experience, and at first I wasn’t sure why it drew my attention. But I’d been taught to trust my instincts, and right now they were jumping. “Can you drive around the block? I’d like to see if my friend is here.”
A disinterested grunt from the front seat, but the driver took the next right.
Four cars behind us, the SUV did the same. The next turn brought similar results. By the time my cabbie had orbited the entire block, I’d long since gotten the confirmation I needed and was working on figuring out who was behind the wheel.
It wasn’t Cory. I couldn’t see the driver well, but I could see enough to know it wasn’t a face I knew. So who was it? And how did they find me?
No one had followed me from the drugstore. No one had tailed my cab to the aquarium. And except for the last few blocks, no one had picked us up on the drive to Macy’s. That left only one explanation.
I was being tracked.
I felt for the slight bulge at my waist. A cell phone signal could be tracked by different service towers and then triangulated to find its location. I’d turned my encrypted phone off. No one should be able to pick up a signal that wasn’t there, but maybe with this phone, on or off didn’t matter. Jacob was compromised. Maybe that meant my phone had been compromised as well.
I fought the urge to toss the damn thing out the window. The phone was vital. Jacob had stressed that more times than I could remember. I couldn’t simply ditch the thing. I had to figure out some other solution.
And whatever it was, I had to come up with it fast.
“Take me to 875 North Michigan.”
“You sure about that? Or you gonna change your mind again?”
“The meter is running, right?”
He held up a hand. “Yeah, yeah, I get it. Shut up and drive.”
I twisted in my seat and looked straight at the SUV.
It took the next right turn, as I guessed it would. The driver realized I’d gone around the block for a reason, and knew he’d been made. Not that it really mattered. If they were tracking my cell phone, and that was the only thing that made sense, the SUV didn’t have to be riding the cab’s bumper in order to keep tabs on me. He’d catch up soon enough.
But maybe I could use this opportunity to make his job a little more complicated.
A few blocks later, the cab came to a stop at the curb. This time the driver made no move to turn off the meter, as if waiting for the next destination. “Here you go. 875 North Michigan Avenue. Hancock Center.”
I peeled some cash off the stack in the yellow bag and thrust it at the cabbie. “Keep the change. Maybe buy yourself some cigarettes.”
I stepped out onto the curb and looked up at the hundred-story building. Black and slightly tapered, with the two iconic white antennas on its roof forking into the sky, and the crisscross pattern of girders running up all four sides. It was so tall that it seemed to sway and tilt, and I felt my stomach do a little dip.
I glanced at my Casio and checked the time.
Eleven minutes before my meeting with Cory.
And not a second to waste.
“Often, you’ll have to ditch items. Garbage cans are best. A mailbox can work in a pinch. But if you want to return for the item later, you need to be able to hide things in public places where they won’t be easily found. That requires a bit more thought, and an understanding of human behavior.”
The lobby of the John Hancock Center smelled like marble, a vaguely dusty scent that reminded me of the halls of government. People passed me, heels clicking on hard floors, emerging from their condominiums or shopping at one of the retail spots in the center. It was a beautiful building, a Chicago landmark, but it was a wasteland when it came to hiding places.
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.
Jack Kilborn & Ann Voss Peterson & J. A. Konrath Page 5
