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 ninety-fifth floor. It’s accessed by a different bank of elevators.” The woman pointed the way.
Surmising the elevators likely served the forty-nine 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.
Not spotting any better hiding places than I had in the larger dining room a floor below, I continued down the hall toward the main lounge. A short line of people waited for a chance at a table. No time to join the wait, I ducked into the women’s bathroom.
Public restrooms always offered a large variety of hiding places, and this one was no different in that respect. What I didn’t expect was the glass wall overlooking the city, giving the ladies’ room a view equally jaw-dropping as those in the dining areas. I pulled my attention from Navy Pier and the white-capped lake and concentrated on the interior.
The bathroom smelled of lemon disinfectant and eucalyptus from the floral arrangement on the marble vanity. I logged possible hiding places with a glance. Under the lip of the vanity. Behind the toilets. The recessed lighting in the ceiling. But again, those spots felt too obvious. The people I was dealing with had more than my face, they had my training as well. And if there was a Looking for Hidden Shit 101, the spots I’d found so far would be covered in the first lesson.
I had to come up with something better. I checked my watch. Only a few minutes until Cory would be expecting me out on the sidewalk.
I left the restroom and continued down the hall to the lounge. The host was leading the group I’d noticed to a table. I took the opportunity to breeze past, as if I was a tourist just wanting a peek at the view to the building’s east. The room presented the same assortment of hiding spots, planters, radiators, and recessed lighting, along with cocktail tables and some possibilities in the lighting above the bar itself. Often people focused on everything eye level and below when looking for something. They rarely thought to look up. But still…I glanced back down the hall.
I had a better idea.
“It’s all about control,” The Instructor said. “You must keep as much control as possible, at all times. An agent should always have choices, always do things on her terms. Sometimes, options will be taken away from you. If that happens, make new options. An operative with no choices is a dead operative.”
I took care of the cell phone and made it back to the street with sixty-three seconds to
spare. The John Hancock building itself sat back from Michigan Avenue. In front, the sidewalk opened up to display a half-moon-shaped array of shops one story below. Steps funneled to the lower level on both sides. Steel rail and glass rimmed the edge of the depression, stretching the length of the block parallel to the street. I stepped out on the bare stretch of sidewalk between guardrail and curb and tried to quell the nervous trill in my stomach. I felt exposed, no cover other than a light pole, a trash can, and a few spindly trees.
I scanned the street.
No sign of the black SUV.
No sign of Cory.
Wait.
Half a block away, a white four-door sat idling along the curb. Sun reflected off the windshield, making it difficult to see inside, but I managed to make out two silhouettes. The car’s passenger door opened, and Cory stepped out onto the street.
He was a little more buff, chest broader, arms straining the long sleeves of the T-shirt he wore. He’d been lifting, no doubt taking advantage of the weights in the prison yard. A jacket draped over his right arm, one sleeve flapping in the wind. He’d always had a habit of squinting his eyes, but now crow’s feet fanned out from their corners, and creases slashed his forehead and dug between his brows. Gray sparkled among the stubble on his head. But despite changes in his appearance, his walk was the same, half-amble, half-prowl, and for a second memory overwhelmed me.
My palms felt damp, my chest tight, and just like when I was fourteen, my vision seemed to narrow and all my senses focused on him. I knew exactly how he would smell. How his voice would sound. How his lips would thin when angry. I knew the feel of his skin, and the sounds he made, when fucking…when killing.
I wanted to run, to just get away. From the memories, from the past, from my own weakness. But I’d learned long ago that running didn’t change a damn thing. There was no way to undo all he’d done to me. Besides, I wasn’t that naive teenager anymore. I’d killed more men than Cory had.
I was better than he ever was.
Harnessing that thought, I pulled in a deep breath, car exhaust and a whiff of hot dogs from a nearby vendor. A car honked in the street behind me. People shuffled past; snips of their conversations swirled and scattered in the wind. The concrete was firm under my feet. My arms hung still by my sides, the yellow bag and duffel slung over my weak shoulder. My 9mm felt comfortable and familiar, pressed against the small of my back.
“Hiya, babe.” He stopped three feet away and scanned me up and down. “Time’s been good to you.”
His familiar scent reached me, a mix of cigarette smoke, leather, and sweat. I braced myself against the answering memories.
I was ice. Cold. Calculating. “Is Kaufmann in the car?”
“Maybe. And maybe he’s got a gun pointed at him right now. Just like you do.” He pulled a corner of the jacket back with his left hand to show me the handgun.
As if that was supposed to surprise me.
Tracking his hands with my peripheral vision, I kept my main focus on his eyes.
His brows shifted. His eyes searched mine, as if realizing he couldn’t read me the way he used to. “Before you go and do something stupid, I got one of those Bluetooth earpieces on. Anything happens to me, my partner ices Kaufmann.”
I hadn’t done anything truly stupid since the last time I’d believed a word Cory said. I held out my hands, palms up and nonthreatening. “I want to see him.”
Cory watched me for a moment, then nodded. “Make him sit up,” he muttered.
In the car, the driver’s silhouette moved. A second figure rose from the backseat.
“How do I know that’s him?”
“You’ll just have to trust me.” He nodded to the yellow book bag on my shoulder. “The money in there?”
I nodded. Not all the money he wanted, but I figured we’d get to that later.
“Good girl. Now give it to me or he loses another finger.” Judging from his smile, he not only meant the threat, he enjoyed the prospect of cutting off body parts just as much as he always had.
I took the bag’s strap in one hand and held it out a few inches, as if I barely had the strength to offer it. “Don’t hurt him. Please.”
He stepped toward me and laughed, a derisive snort of a sound that used to make me feel small and stupid. “I always liked it when you begged. Let’s hear it again, babe.”
“Please, Cory.” I let a tremor seep into my voice, a tremor that wasn’t entirely acting. “Please.”
He took another step closer. Reaching out his left hand, he grasped the bag. His right hand snaked out from under the jacket, the pistol aimed at my chest.
I released the strap. In the same motion, I swung my right hand down hard and seized his wrist above the gun. I pivoted my body sideways, out of the way of a bullet.
He didn’t have a chance to fire.
Holding his arm, I grabbed the pistol with my left hand and forced the weapon backward. At the same time, I thrust my knee hard into his groin.
He grunted and pitched forward. His hand released the gun.
I heard a shuffle of feet and surprised voices. I sensed people’s heads snap around, looking for the source of the commotion, but at this point, I was beyond caring what they saw. I fitted the pistol into my right hand and dropped the barrel in line with his crotch. “Tell your partner to let Kaufmann go, now, or I shoot off your pitiful little dick.”
Tires screeched on pavement.
I glanced up, expecting to see Cory’s ride taking off. But the white car sat in the same spot.
The black SUV that had followed me earlier had whipped around the corner and was barreling up the street toward us. The passenger window lowered.
Shit shit shit.
I released Cory and spun away, the book bag hooked in my elbow. Automatic weapon fire peppered the sidewalk behind me. People screamed. Three strides and I leaped for the rail. My hands hit the top, and I vaulted the barrier. My feet landed on two different steps, and I lurched forward into the far rail before I could regain my balance.
Glass shattered above under a rain of lead.
Holding Cory’s pistol at the ready, I started up the staircase. People cascaded down, screaming and stumbling, threatening to sweep me with them. Glass crunched under my shoes. Finally I shoved my way back to street level. I slipped behind a sign for the self park ramp. The SUV rounded the corner. I trained Cory’s gun on it, but it was too far away and moving too fast. A stray shot would be more likely to strike a panicked civilian than my intended target. But they had to know there was a good probability they’d missed me. In just a few seconds, I’d get another chance.
I spotted the white car. It had pulled away from the curb and was moving toward me, still half in the parking lane. I wasn’t sure where Cory had gone, but I was dead sure of one thing: I wouldn’t let his partner get away with Kaufmann. I leveled my barrel and took my shot, going for the tires.
The car skidded to the side then overcorrected and bounced up on the curb. The driver’s door flew open.
I lined up my next shot, ready to take out Cory’s partner before he could retaliate against Kaufmann.
Wait. Not he.
She.
A girl jumped from the driver’s seat, tall and slim and so young she’d probably only sprouted breasts in the last week. Long brown hair hung in her eyes. She took a few steps in my direction, then skidded to a stop and stared at my gun, her mouth forming an O and her eyes going wide. Her hands hung empty at her sides.
Just a kid…
Like I had been.
Another scream of rubber on pavement. The SUV roared around the corner, coming back the way it had gone.
It would be on us in seconds.
I grabbed a glance at the car, noted the engine was still running, and looked back at the girl. “Run.”
She did, and so did I.
I reached the open driver’s door of the white car just as the shooting resumed. Slamming it into drive, I gunned the engine. The car shot forward on the
sidewalk, bucking on the deflating tire. The SUV roared straight at me, bearing down in a game of chicken I’d never survive. “Kaufmann. Keep your head down.”
I heard a mumble from the backseat. It was Kaufmann’s voice, all right, but I couldn’t make out the words.
In front of me, the SUV jumped the curb as smoothly as running over a seam in the highway. Up ahead, a truck idled in the parking lane, the driver either gone or dead or paralyzed with fear.
I spun the wheel toward the street. The car flew over the curb and hit hard, the impact jarring up my spine. I swerved around the idling truck and glanced off the back bumper. Metal screamed against metal. I skidded onto Michigan Avenue, just missing oncoming traffic.
The SUV was still on the sidewalk, blocked by the truck, but that would buy me no more than a few seconds. If Kaufmann and I stayed out on the street, we were dead. I had to get out of the line of fire. And I had to do it now. I spied the self park sign and pushed the pedal to the floor. “Hold on.”
The car skidded around the corner, the tire I’d shot flopping. I spotted the ramp’s entrance and the two security guards manning it. One hunkered in the booth, a phone to his ear. The other stood at the entrance.
I drove straight for him.
He stared at me for a second, as if he couldn’t believe what he was seeing, as if he couldn’t comprehend what I was about to do. Finally self-preservation kicked in. He half-dashed, half-leaped to the side. I crashed through the flimsy wooden gate and kept going. The parking ramp corkscrewed upward, a tight curlicue of poured cement. I followed, pushing the car as fast as I could negotiate the turn. My passenger side mirror kissed the edge of the half-wall and broke off with a crunch. The tire I’d shot was useless now. The bare rim shrieked against concrete. Sparks flashed in the dim light.
The SUV would follow, of that I had little doubt. But for a few seconds, the barrage of bullets had stopped.
Flee, Spree, Three (Codename: Chandler Trilogy - Three Complete Novels) Page 6
