Diamond White: A Red Riley Adventure #2 (Red Riley Adventures)

by Stephanie Andrews

  The lights in the stairwell were on, but I figured they were on all the time in a building like this. I put my tools in the backpack, and slipped it back on. Entering the stairwell, I eased the door shut behind me. It was the kind with a crash bar and a sign that said, “Emergency Exit Only: Alarm Will Sound.” Goes to show what you know, buddy.

  From a holster on my hip I drew my new tranquilizer gun. I was pretty proud of it, though I had yet to try it on a real person. It’s amazingly hard to find volunteers.

  Inside my boot was a switchblade, just in case. My cap was the kind that doubled as a ski mask, and I rolled it down over my face before starting silently down the stairs.

  It was 11:30 p.m. My primary concerns were security guards and cleaning crew. I wasn’t really expecting anyone to still be working in Dexter’s offices, but you never know, so it was best to be overly cautious. Prowling the halls of an office building in the middle of the night gave me unpleasant flashbacks to that eventful night in the Farnham Building, when Carter Blalock exploded in front of me, changing my life forever. It made my skin crawl and I wanted to run, but I took a deep breath and forced myself to take it slowly and carefully.

  As a result, it was 11:42 before I made it down to the fifteenth floor, the floor that held the offices of Jared Dexter and one of his companies, Good Policy, Inc. I looked at the name plate on the door and snorted. Good Policy. I already hated this guy and I hadn’t even met him.

  The office door had a keypad, but Marty’s gizmo made short work of that. I entered, then rearmed the door behind me.

  I moved quickly through the open floor plan of the darkened room until I found the door to Dexter’s private office. It had its own keypad, which was soon rendered inert as well. I’m not sure how it worked, but the machine managed to disable the part of the alarm that recognized a breach, without showing the unit as malfunctioning. I had acquired some excellent technology from that boy.

  While I was tempted to do some searching in Dexter’s office, to see if I could find anything good for Uncle Elgort, I was already behind schedule, so I headed straight for the statue on the back credenza. I swung my backpack off and pulled out the copy. It was a perfect match.

  Nicky, you are a sexy genius.

  I made the switch and then looked around for the bathroom. Seems Dexter didn’t have a private one in his office—man of the people—so I exited the room, closing the door and reactivating the alarm.

  On the other side of the cubicle farm I spotted two doors, spaced about ten feet apart. Maybe offices, maybe restrooms. I made my way quickly to the other side of the vast space.

  Yup, two dark wooden doors, one marked with an M and one with a W. I was tempted to use the men’s room, just because I was all alone and I could, but I chose the women’s instead. Guess I’m not as daring as I like to think I am.

  I went to the sink and pulled off my ski mask. Oof, that felt good. I took off my backpack again, and from the front compartment I retrieved my Georgette Wrigley black wig and a crumpled grey suit coat and skirt. The skirt looked pretty good over the tights and boots. It would do.

  Two minutes later, I was looking at my alter ego in the mirror. Not bad. I liked the dark hair; it was a nice change from my usual red. I reached out and was just about to turn on the faucet to splash some cold water on my face when I heard a toilet flush through the wall.

  Damn! Someone was in the men’s room! Or was it somewhere else in the building?

  Through the wall I heard a forced-air hand dryer kick on. Yep, I had company.

  I slung the pack onto my back and quietly exited the bathroom, dropping to a crouch and working my way back across the cubicles toward the entrance. As I approached the door I heard the hand dryer quit and the squeak of the men’s room door.

  I dropped to my knees in front of the keypad, hurrying to pull the gizmo from the backpack. Damn, there wasn’t going to be time! I rolled to the side and into a cubicle, squirming behind the chair and under the desk as the man approached the office door. From my contorted position, I could see shiny black shoes and black pantlegs with piping down the side. Security.

  I eased the tranq gun from its holster, but I would have to show myself to get a clear shot, and the whole point of the job was to be unnoticed. Reports of a breakin would likely cause a search of the entire office. Who knows, they might even sweep for bugs and then the game would be up before we ever got started.

  I heard four beeps on the keypad as the guard opened the door and let himself out. Phew.

  I lay on my back and contemplated the meaning of life for a count of sixty before I crawled out from under the desk and made my way carefully out of the office. I smoothed my suit jacket and made sure it covered the holster on my hip. I heard a door close at the end of the hall. I guessed that my unexpected friend was taking the stairs either up a floor or down a floor. When I was certain he was out of earshot, I pulled my phone from my backpack and pressed a preprogrammed number. It rang.

  “Good evening, Department of Homeland Security, how may I direct your call?”

  The voice was that of a chipper young woman.

  “Can I have two orders of hotteok for delivery?”

  “I’m sorry,” the voice said, “but I believe you have the wrong number.”

  “That’s too bad, because I’m really ready for some Korean takeout.”

  I hung up, and made my way down the hall to the elevator. The security guard was possibly several floors away by now, but I still bobbed nervously on the balls of my feet while I waited for the elevator to arrive. The décor here was expensive, with wall sconces and some nicely framed Manet prints on the walls.

  Finally, the elevator arrived. The ding made me wince, but no one else was around to hear it. I stepped on and pushed the button for the lobby. I noticed there were no buttons for floors two through five—Homeland Security. It went from six straight to the lobby. Looks like my hunch about the lower stairwells being off limits was probably true.

  As I descended, I caught sight of myself in the mirrored wall. It was startling to see the raven-haired Georgette looking back at me. It had been a while since she had been out and about. I winked at myself, then took my backpack off and held it down by my side, so as not to interrupt the businesswoman vibe I was trying to give off.

  I reached the lobby and the doors opened with a ding. I took a deep breath and strode out confidently, making a beeline for the metal detector and the street exit beyond it. I chanced a look to my left as I crossed the space, and there, seated at the guard’s station, was Ellery Park in her dress blues. Instead of a Chicago Police badge, she wore a silver name tag and had a Homeland Security patch on the shoulder of her uniform. I raised my eyebrows at her and she nodded imperceptibly, motioning toward the floor with her eyes. I glanced down as I was passing her, and could see the legs and feet of a security guard sticking out from under her desk, but out of view of anyone on the street. I wondered if it would make the news tomorrow. Would Homeland Security admit one of their guards had been incapacitated? They would probably spend days quietly trying to figure out what the intruder had been after. No one would suspect Dexter as that target.

  I walked through the metal detector and it shrieked to life. I knew this was coming, but I still jumped a foot.

  “What’s going on down there!” a voice barked from above.

  I looked up and could see a large, florid-faced security guard leaning over the atrium railing. Walrus mustache, big gut. Clearly retired police. I waved up at him.

  “Sorry, working late!”

  “Don’t move,” he barked, but Park was already moving toward me with one of those metal detector wands in her hand. She kept her head down, so the guard up above couldn’t see her face, and said in a loud voice, “Pardon me, ma’am, but I’ve got to check you out. Can you step over here please?” She took me by the elbow and pulled me closer to the door.

  I looked up at the scowling man and shrugged, smiling. He grimaced and turned away.

&nb
sp; Park kept moving me along until at the last minute she dropped the wand to the floor with a clatter and we both stepped out the front door and into the night. We sprinted across the street to where Grom was parked and threw on the helmets waiting on the seat, I pulled off the grey skirt, shoved it in the backpack, and hopped on the bike.

  It was a tight fit with two, even though Park was quite small. I handed her the backpack and she put it on, then leaned close and grabbed my waist as the bike roared to life.

  And then we were off, into the night.

  Nine

  No sign of pursuit from Homeland, but we’d only gone about three blocks when suddenly we were broadsided by another motorcycle. The driver, all in black leather, with a black helmet and mirrored visor, had come out of nowhere and actually swerved into us, shoulder first, to try and make me lose control of the bike. And I very nearly had. With the extra weight on the back, I over compensated and would have dumped it if Park hadn’t leaned hard back toward the other cyclist. She grabbed the tranq gun out of my waistband but as she turned to use it the attacker sideswiped us. Park lost her grip and the gun clattered away into the dark. As the other bike began to pull ahead of us, Park lashed out with her foot and kicked the back of their seat. The girl had a ton of moxie. The driver had to adjust to regain his own balance, and in that instant I hit the gas and we were away. However, we had barely gotten up to speed when the assailant was back, suddenly level with us, the black motorcycle glinting under the streetlights. Where? How?

  “Ruby!” I screamed into the headset built into my helmet. “I need you now!”

  I banked the Grom hard onto North Fairbanks, heading south. It was midnight in downtown Chicago; the streets were still full of people and cars, though not quite as many as during the day.

  I cut it too close and jumped the curb, Park hanging on to my waist for dear life. In my mirror I saw the pursuing motorcycle, a Harley, corner smoothly, arc out around a taxi cab, and pull back in behind us. I opened the throttle all the way, but the other bike was faster and was soon pulling up on my left flank. It was hard to drive and watch at the same time but when I felt Elle pulling hard on my waist I chanced a look over my shoulder.

  The attacker was steering one-handed. With the other hand, he brandished a long sharp knife. Park kicked out with her foot to keep the biker at bay, but it was precarious. I tried to move to the other lane, but just then the traffic was keeping us boxed in. Our assailant had perfectly chosen the time to make his move.

  Two more quick slashes from the biker. I winced, thinking surely they had done damage, but had to keep my attention on driving. A huge tug on my shoulder threw the entire bike off balance. Elle had a hold of the back of my jacket with one hand, with the other she was clinging to the backpack by a broken strap. No, not broken! Cut! The assailant, rather than stabbing Park, had sliced deftly through the two straps of the backpack, and was now trying to pull it away.

  But Park wasn’t letting go without a fight, though her left hand was surely going to lose its grip eventually. The biker had dropped the knife in order to grab the bag with his right hand. At least the danger of a stabbing was gone. Bright side!

  Why didn’t Park just let go of the backpack? It was just a statue. Let it go! I tried to shout to her, but she didn’t have a radio in her helmet and the roar of the engine was too loud.

  “Ruby!” I shouted again in panic.

  I turned hard onto Grand, gunning straight for a mailbox standing on the corner. The old pick and roll; my Dad would have been proud. The other driver, unable to wrench the pack out of Elle’s hand, was forced to let go and swerve, over the sidewalk and around a planter, sending people leaping out of the way. I pulled a hard left across oncoming traffic and raced down a side alley, trying to lose them.

  I rounded the next corner, and couldn’t hear over the roar of my own bike to know if we’d been followed. The alley twisted to the right, got thinner, then thinner still, until finally it spit us out onto a thoroughfare. I shot straight across, miraculously avoiding impact with a green Honda Element, and continued down an even smaller alley on the other side that took us right past the Tribune building and onto Michigan Ave.

  I screeched to a halt on the sidewalk, nearly hyperventilating with adrenaline. I could feel sweat trickling down my ribs under my turtleneck. I turned and grabbed the backpack from Elle, who was reaching up to take her helmet off when I spotted our adversary heading up the sidewalk after us. He must have come all the way up Grand and then spotted us exiting the alley.

  I made a split-second decision and pushed Elle backward off the bike and onto her ass on the sidewalk. I snugged the backpack in front of me, between my thighs, and hit the throttle hard, still on the sidewalk and heading south.

  It was possible that the assailant would stop and kill Ellery Park, but I didn’t think so. They seemed intent on the backpack. A minute ago, I was urging Elle to let them have it, but now that they wanted it so bad my natural stubbornness kicked in, and I wasn’t going to give it up without a fight. There had to be some important reason for him to want it so badly.

  And so I was hurtling down the sidewalk of the busiest street in Chicago, even at this time of night. As I approached the river, I spotted a gap in the oncoming traffic and turned hard across the lanes, over the divider, and fishtailed onto the southbound lane. I chanced a look back to see if I was being followed—I was—and then I opened it up full as I hit the DuSable Bridge and crossed the river.

  Without Park on the back, I was going much faster, but I couldn’t shake my mysterious pursuer. Where the hell had they come from? After our walk-off play from Homeland Security, Park and I had gotten out of there quickly, who could have followed us?

  “Kay, where are you!”

  It was Ruby, at last, in my ear.

  “Thank God, Rube. I need help. Some maniac is trying to take me down and steal the backpack!”

  “That doesn’t make any sense!”

  “And yet…”

  “Where are you?”

  “I’m south on Michigan, where the heck are you?”

  “I’m on Wacker.”

  “Damn it, I’m already past you.”

  “I’m coming!”

  “No, stay there, meet me at the end, under Lake Shore Drive.”

  “Got it. Out.” And she was gone.

  A flash in my rearview caught my attention as the other rider pulled in right behind me. Damn, I was never going to outrun them, and we would start attracting the cops any minute.

  I feinted right like I was going to turn onto Washington, then swerved back left, timing my move between a bus and a bright yellow car, crossing the oncoming lane and then downshifting quickly as I jumped the curb and entered the plaza in front of the giant mirrored bean sculpture. If you’ve never been to Chicago, you have no idea what I’m talking about, but trust me, it’s real.

  I glanced briefly at my funhouse reflection in the side of the bean, then hit the brakes harder, putting my left foot down for balance as the back wheel swung around. I throttled hard again and headed off across Millennium Park, tooting my horn and willing people to get out of the way.

  I finally attracted the attention of the police as I sped across the Great Lawn in front of the amphitheater. When I looked over my shoulder to see if I was still being followed—I was—I could see red and blue lights flashing back by the bean.

  I cut my engine and lights and glided off the lawn and up onto the pedestrian bridge, hoping Mr. DaftPunk would lose me in the dark.

  No such luck, and now I was slowing down from the bridge’s incline. I popped the engine back on, the headlight terrifying a couple making out against the railing, and drove as fast as I dared along the winding bridge until it brought me back down to ground level and into Maggie Daley Park.

  I seemed to have opened up a little lead with my bridge trick. When I looked behind me I couldn’t see the other bike. I grinned as I approached the corner of Lake Shore Drive and Monroe, only to look right and see t
he cyclops headlight coming straight up the street.

  Okay, this was getting exhausting, but I was almost at my endgame. I sped across Lake Shore Drive and onto the Lakefront Pedestrian Trail that started in front of the yacht club, turning left and heading north again.

  There weren’t a lot of people walking, but the roar of Gromet’s engine was all the warning they needed to get out of the way.

  DaftPunk make a smart move and cut across the grass to my left, catching up to me as we reached the docks stretching out to our right, into the lake. I hunched over the handlebars, which had the added benefit of better protecting the backpack between my legs.

  He pulled to within five feet of me as Lake Shore Drive began to rise on cement pillars beside us, readying to cross the Chicago River. I swerved under the elevated road and ducked as something hurtled past my head.

  It was the drone, and it hit DaftPunk straight in the face! He never saw it coming. I swerved to the right and back onto the grassway as the other motorcycle fishtailed wildly before falling, the driver pulling his leg out and up to his chest just before the machine would have crushed it. Driver and bike slid wildly across the grass, separating as the rider hit a stand of thick bushes. The bike missed the bushes and continued forward, finally scraping across the cement walkway and stopping right on the edge of the river.

  I pulled to a stop, panting, as Ruby’s Subaru pulled up on the breakwater access road and she lowered her window.

  “Nice flying,” I gasped as I pulled my helmet off and hung it on the handlebar. I threw the backpack into the back of her car.

  “Sakra! Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine,” I said, climbing off my bike and putting down the kickstand. “But you better get out of here, I don’t want you seen.

  “What are you going to do?”

  “I’m going to get some answers,” I said, and started toward the bushes.

  “Be careful,” Ruby called as she drove away, doing what I asked her to do for once.

  I approached the other biker cautiously, to see the leather-clad figure crawling slowly out of the bushes. I took a running start and kicked him hard in the stomach, the upward force flipping him over onto his back. I straddled him, a knee on each bicep, ensuring his arms were immobile. Then I pulled off the black helmet.