by Ruth Wind
She had no doubt he was headed for this office and her. She looked around for a weapon and prepared to take him down.
Chapter 6
With the light off and the door closed, Kim had at least a small advantage. She found a flashlight on top of a filing cabinet and tested it for heft and swing, then took a spot by the door. Poised. When he came through the door, she’d knock him down and make a run for the back exit.
The door opened slowly. Kim heard her heartbeat in her ears, and her breathing was too loud. She tried to make it more shallow, tried to imagine he was a horse, trying to find her by scent and sound, and raised the flashlight over her head. As he came into the room, she began to swing it downward.
The man anticipated her move and caught Kim’s wrist before she could bring the full weight of the flashlight onto his head. The grab was awkward but fierce. Kim centered herself in a split second and used her body weight to pull him off balance. Swinging her elbow hard in an arc, she whirled and managed to yank her arm free.
He flipped sideways and countered with a body slam, hurtling her into the wall behind her. Air whooshed out of her lungs and her shoulder took a hard blow from a picture frame. She shoved him, gaining enough space to lift her elbow and shove it into his solar plexus. She ducked down and started to spin away—
But not quite fast enough. The man whirled with her and caught a thick handful of hair. He yanked upward and Kim found her body airborne, with nothing to grab except his arms, and she clung there as hard as she could, but he was much larger. With what seemed to be little effort, he slammed her downward into the conference table. Her cheekbone smashed into the wood, and for a moment, she was stunned. He grabbed her throat with both hands.
Kim gasped and with a sharp gesture flung her hands upward between his, then slammed her arms against the insides of his. His grip on her throat was broken, and Kim turned to scramble away, but he slammed her head against the table again, and she felt something cut into her upper ear with a vicious bite.
With a roar, she kicked backward, connected with what seemed to be his hip or upper leg, but there was no purchase on the slippery wood of the conference table. Before she could get away, he’d grabbed her hair, and slammed her face down again. Her lip and tooth hit the edge of the table and she tasted hot blood.
With a rebel cry, Kim kicked again, holding on to his arms to keep him off balance. Her left heel connected with his knee, and she kicked again, this time catching him in the gut, sending him off center enough that she could slide in his grasp, turn over on her belly and scramble across the polished surface of the table. He grabbed her foot. She kicked with the other and felt—heard—her heel crack against bone. Nose? Cheekbone? Chin?
“Bitch!” He grabbed her again, one hand around her neck, the other on her arm. She slid like a skater across the table. His hand scratched her neck. If he managed to get a hold on her in this position, there would be little she could do to keep him from strangling her to death.
With a cry, she turned toward him, catching him off guard enough that she could rear backward and, bracing herself with his arms, she slammed her forehead into his face. Something in her eyebrow gave as she connected with his jaw.
It knocked him, hard, and she did it again, slammed her forehead as hard as she could into his face. She hurt him. With a low guttural grunt, he let her go, and she stumbled backward.
It gave her a second to spring free. She bolted for the door.
Footsteps and voices in the hallway made her swing back toward the table, leaping instinctively for the top of the table, then to the file cabinets she’d been working from. No Expression was behind her, recovered, grabbing her ankle. She kicked at him and at the same time, banged a fist into the acoustic tile overhead and sucked in a breath when it flew out of its grid.
With a single, hard leap, she scrambled into the opening, disappearing into the dark. The man caught her ankle, but she kicked free.
Arabic exploded into the room as she pulled herself out of sight into the space above the ceiling. A bullet pinged through the tile to the right of her body, and she swore silently. She’d have to move.
It was very dark, and the gridwork felt unsteady, swinging faintly under her weight. Kim braced herself and prayed the whole thing didn’t come down. If she stepped wrong, she’d put her foot through the ceiling tiles. The good thing was that none of her pursuers could follow her—the whole ceiling would come down. It was very dark. She gripped a single girder and inched along the length of it, feeling for the dividing wall she knew would have to be there. As silently as possible, she made her way through the darkness, feeling her way with feet and hands. Spiderwebs brushed her face. Light glowed over a wall to her left and she made her way toward it.
Two more bullets shattered the tiles behind her. One struck something close by and plaster dust scattered down on her. She winced instinctively. The movement made the metal beneath her foot give dangerously. Kim prayed that the metal would hold, that she was at least over another set of offices or in the hall.
A bullet whizzed through the air at her back. Shedding caution for speed, she hauled herself through the darkness, swinging from one set of girders to another.
She made it to what she assumed was the edge of the cavernous sets on the other side of the news desk. Crouching against a concrete support wall for a minute, she tried to get her bearings. Her eyes were adjusting to the dimness. Spears of light from bullet holes shot through the darkness, illuminating more than seemed possible.
She listened intently. The droning voice of the Arab at the news desk continued on, explaining terms and conditions of the hostages’ release. No other voices. No more bullets.
Easing to a standing position, she peered over the wall and saw the loafered foot of a male hostage. The pale khaki sock pierced her. She imagined him putting it on this morning in his ordinary, carpeted bedroom, thinking it was going to be an ordinary workday. She wondered if he had a child, or a wife who was waiting for him at home, her heart in her throat as the news of the hostage situation came in.
There was something trickling down her neck, and Kim put a hand up to wipe it away. Her sleeve came away smeared with blood. She swore. The ear hurt, but the blood was going to make it tough to look normal when she tried to get into a Chicago FBI station without the ID that was lying in her pack back in the conference room.
No help for it. She had to get out.
It was impossible to know exactly what was planned for the airport, but if Kim didn’t get over there and at least try to figure it out, people would die. This diversion was meant to draw attention away from the planned bombing at the airport. If she didn’t get out of here, warn someone, a bomb would blow up a presidential candidate and anyone who happened to be in his realm. She wasn’t going to let that happen.
Against her right breast, her cell phone suddenly buzzed. She slammed a palm over it, trying to muffle the sound, but the noise burst out of her jean-jacket pocket like a beacon to the shooters below.
Without taking time to silence the phone, Kim leaped for a girder, and grabbed on, swinging her body around and up. There was just enough light reflected from the open room that she could make her way along the girder toward what she hoped would be the back of the studio—and an exit.
Blood from her ear dripped onto her neck. She wiped it away again. Shouting came from a distance. Below her, Kim heard scrambling, hissing directions. A bullet pierced her sleeve. She gasped, dropped back against the support wall. Lucky shot or could they see her?
She melted closer into the shadows, imagining herself to be a shadow, and waited. There was a sense of movement, but no more bullets. Suddenly, she realized she could see slightly through the hole the bullet had left. A sign on the wall, dimly lit. She moved her head slightly, brought it into focus—a tiny figure of a woman. The sign was for the restrooms.
Which meant she wasn’t at all where she thought. Breathing slowly, deeply, to keep herself calm, she waited until she saw the men
moving along below her, then began to ease along the wall. If she judged correctly, she could go into the area above the ceiling of the waiting room, then get out through the main doors instead of the back. It didn’t make any difference as long as she could get out.
From somewhere, she could hear a television playing. Absurdly, it was a television commercial for cleaning products. In her mind’s eye, she saw the dancing scrub brush transforming a dirty bathroom into a clean one. Too bad, she thought, that there were no scrub brushes for the world of wars and politics.
An unexpected and piercing pain caught her right through the middle of the chest. A flash of her brother, grinning.
With a jerk of her head, she shook the picture away. Later. Later she could do whatever screaming she’d like to be doing now. Right now, she had to get the hell out of this television station.
Feeling her way along the wall, she came to another break and eased herself upward to look over the edge again. It was very dark, which meant it was another room with acoustic tiles. How far down from the top of the concrete divider to the ceiling tiles on the other side? She’d have to land carefully or risk putting a foot through the soft material.
She pulled herself up and over the wall, putting all her weight on her arms, then lowering herself slowly, slowly until she felt the tiles against her toe. Hushed voices came up through the acoustic ceiling she stood over. She took a slow, quieting breath.
A flash of light blasted into her eye and she jerked her head in alarm. It was coming from a few feet to her left, a triangular break in the corner of a tile. Bracing herself on the girder, she eased herself down and stretched her body along the ceiling, careful to distribute her weight so an elbow or knee didn’t break through. She peered through the triangular break.
Directly below her were three men, one dark and bearded, with a checkered scarf around his neck and head. He carried an automatic rifle. Another man, older and more routinely dressed in an ordinary shirt and pair of gray slacks, stood to his left. Both of them faced John, the station manager, in his pastel orange shirt. He spoke in Arabic to the other two. It was he who’d been mangling the language.
“Did you find her?” he asked.
“No.”
“Keep someone at the doors. She has to come out sometime.”
One man headed to the back of the station.
Kim took a breath and quietly let it out.
“We’ve had an affirmation that Mustafa and Nuri are in place on the way to the airport,” John said.
“Very good.”
Kim wondered how far it was to the door. If she dropped silently out of the ceiling right by the door, she might be able to make a break for it. Thick sweat pooled over her forehead and dripped into her eye. She blinked hard and rubbed it away with the sleeve of her jacket.
John and the older man moved toward the doors that lead to the studio. The other one, the one who carried the gun, stayed behind, his body posture proclaiming loudly that he was a soldier, used to being a guard.
Perfect.
In the darkness above him, Kim counted to three hundred to allow the other men a chance to clear out completely. Then, noiselessly, she eased the tile out of its mooring, praying he wouldn’t suddenly feel a gust of wind or hear something to tip him off to look up.
He appeared to notice no difference. Kim pulled her body tight into a crouch. It would need exactly the right timing to take him down and avoid getting shot. She waited until he was directly below her. With a cry, she launched herself into the air and catapulted onto his shoulders, knocking the rifle out of his hands.
He fell. The gun flew toward a bank of easy chairs. Kim felt him rearing, grabbing for her legs. She gripped his back ribs with her knees and jabbed the point of her elbow into the long muscle at the base of his skull. Her aim was true: he cried out and collapsed.
A quick search produced a pistol tucked into the small of his back. Kim took it, checked the safety and tucked it under her own coat.
The fight had taken only seconds, and in spite of her yell, the sound of their struggle, it appeared to have drawn no attention.
She bolted out the front doors.
Chapter 7
Snow had begun to fall more heavily in the time Kim had been in the station. How long had it been? She glanced at her watch, found the face cracked, but the display still appeared to be working. She’d been in the station for less than an hour. Snow was already piling up in corners.
In the distance, she heard sirens begin to wail, and realized they were no doubt headed for the station. In no time, the place would be surrounded. She had to get out of there or face getting stuck in the bureaucracy of police questions. The hostages were in danger, there was no question about that, but there was more danger if she didn’t get to the airport.
She dashed through the parking lot, checking for an old-model car that she could hot-wire quickly. In the back row, she found what she sought: a 1971 Buick, an old yacht of a car. The door was locked, but Kim pulled out the pistol and used the butt to break the window. She was in.
Three minutes was her record. It took three and a half to hot-wire this one. The sirens whooped closer, into the neighborhood, but not the parking lot. Kim drove the yacht out onto a dark side street that appeared to loop into a residential neighborhood. The vision in her right eye was smeary, and she rubbed it again, trying to clear the viscous fluid.
Now, how the hell would she get to FBI headquarters?
The first order of business was obviously to get herself out of the general area of the station. The chop-chop-chop of a helicopter broke the night, and a cordon of police cars screamed into the parking lot of the UBC station. Their lights turned the sky the pink and blue of cotton candy. Snow glittered down, magically.
As always, Kim thought, Nature was oblivious to the concerns of humans. On Christmas Eve, when this sparkly little snow would be appropriate, she’d bet money it would be dry and sunny.
Kim glided down the street without her lights until she came to an apartment complex on a hill, just a block from the station. She pulled in and parked facing the station, so she could keep an eye on what was going on while she made her calls. A river of police flowed in and surrounded the station like a moat of red lights.
From her jean-jacket pocket, she took her cell phone. The screen showed a waiting message coded from Scott at his desk; the call that had come in while she’d been up in the ceiling. It had only been ten or fifteen minutes. She hoped he was still there and punched in the numbers.
He answered immediately. “Shepherd.”
“Thank God you’re still there.”
“Where are you, Valenti? Chicago is crawling with terrorists. Have you seen the news from the UBC station?”
“Uh…yeah.” She wouldn’t bother to explain right now. “Scott, there’s trouble and I need your help.”
“Got it.”
“First, I need you to alert the FBI and Chicago security that there is a bomb in the airport somewhere. It’s unclear which candidate is targeted, but it’s one or the other. They won’t believe you, but at least its worth a try. Ask for Lex Tanner. Tell him I said it.”
“All right. What else?”
Snow drifted in through the broken window, piling in little tufts on her thigh. Kim brushed it off and turned the heater on a little higher. “I need directions from the UBC office to the FBI office downtown.”
“Holy shit, Kim—”
“No time, Shepherd. Just need the information.”
“All right, give me a second.” She heard him keyboarding in the background.
Her eyebrow stung suddenly, and she scratched it gingerly. With a scowl, she turned the rearview mirror down to look at herself.
Good grief. Blood was smeared all the way down the side of her face and neck. The ear was a mess. The immediate bleeding appeared to have halted, but it was crusty and black with blood, and it was swelling rather impressively, along with her left eye. The cheekbone was going to be downright ugly. Dirt
clung to her hair in wisps, and there were scratches and smears and marks all over her.
It was the ear that hurt. And made her look like a refugee from a boxing match. With the fingers of her free hand, she touched it lightly, and even the slightest pressure hurt like crazy. “Ow,” she whispered.
“Here’s the directions,” Scott said. “You ready?”
“Yes.” She absorbed the directions by repeating each one. She thanked him.
“Kim,” he said in a serious voice. “Please be careful.”
“I will, Scott. I promise.” She hung up.
Leaving the engine running, she opened the car door and scooped up a small, thin handful of snow. It melted against her hot face, feeling good. In the back seat was a tumble of odds and ends. Kim grabbed a discarded T-shirt. “Sorry, dude,” she said aloud to the owner of the car, and used it to wipe away the blood and snow water. When her face looked relatively clean, she grabbed one more handful and rubbed her neck and face one more time.
“Showtime,” she said, and put the car in gear.
It was night and snowing when Kim parked at FBI headquarters in Chicago. Snow came in through the window of the stolen car—a 1971 gold Buick Skylark.
Before she got out, she checked her face in the rearview mirror. If there was blood showing, she would draw attention to herself.
There was a bomb, ticking away at the airport. Somewhere. Due to detonate in exactly—she checked her watch—seventy-nine minutes.
In the mirror, she saw that her lip was swollen. She’d have a black eye tomorrow. A few scrapes, but no damage that would make her stand out too much in a law enforcement agency.
She got out of the car and hid the gun she’d stolen in the small of her back, tucked into the waistband of her jeans. The weight of it was comforting and cold. Her cell phone was in her hand, the cord around her wrist.
