The ropes had no apparent opinion on the matter. But Mickey left the door open just in case—one less thing to do if the time came. She backed down the iron rungs that served for a ladder and into the tower’s fourth floor, a square little room filled with the impressive gears and motor of the elevator. Down the spiral metal stairs and into the vast third floor …she found herself looking at the space anew, falling into a mindset that seemed both fresh and familiar at the same time. Good cover over there behind that pillar, too much junk to trip over there, someone’s old half-finished wall over there. Their stuff was tucked away, as it had been from the start—she’d never left them exposed, but found a nook behind unused wallboard, buckets of spackling, tubs of nails …
This must be what Steve’s loft space looked like before he’d finished it. Once empty and echoing, now so obviously an apartment—a place he’d turned into home. A place the Irhaddanians had driven him from—
Just for now, she told herself.
“You there?” she said to the stairwell.
He didn’t answer.
Had she been up there that long? Long enough for something to go down out here? She headed for the wall, skimming alongside it to approach the stairwell; the Glock found its way to her hand, and she wasn’t even sure how. She held it low, staying unobtrusive as she took a quick peek and retreat into the stairwell, leaning against the wall to process what she’d seen.
Nothing, that’s what. No one.
But she heard voices. Steve’s voice, a woman’s voice. And the woman was scared …desperate. Her voice was a beautiful liquid tone nonetheless and—
Tell me about Naia.
Beautiful almond eyes fringed with darkest lashes—eyes wide with fear in dark olive skin, long swoop of a refined nose, mouth dropped open and about to protest—
Tell me about Naia.
“Get a grip,” Mickey muttered to herself, but by then her heart was pounding, adrenaline flushing through her system and beyond her control. Because this was it. She’d found Naia … or Naia had found her. And Naia would have her answers. Naia would be safe—somehow, Mickey would keep her safe—and then they could unravel this mess.
Except Naia’s voice had risen—was heading for ultimatum.
Mickey abandoned her stealth mode and ran down the stairs, leaping the last three to skid along painted wood flooring before righting herself and grabbing the door frame into the classroom. There she froze, taking an instant to assess the situation—Steve with his arms out, a placating gesture, his gun stuffed into his back pocket at his most excellent posterior. Naia, as wild as a trapped deer in an incongruous lilac lounging outfit, her back to the project shelves near the dead drop. Steve hadn’t closed on her, hadn’t come within striking range. Too much training for that. But whatever he’d said to her, she hadn’t bought it. Her hands groped behind her, feeling for the nearest project, ready to fling and run.
Brave girl, brought up protected and isolated and demure, ready to fight for her life.
“Naia,” she said quietly, and her voice cut through Steve’s desperate words, cut through Naia’s rejection of him. “Naia, I’m here.”
Naia jerked around to face the doorway, not quite believing—not until she saw Mickey standing there. Steve faded back, taking himself out of the equation as far as he could. “Anna!” Naia took a step forward as if she couldn’t quite allow herself to believe it. “Alhamdulillah! Anna! Where have you been!” But even with that she abandoned her defensive posture and ran to Mickey, embracing her with a fervor that betrayed the depth of her fear. Mickey—startled, devoid of any true context for Naia’s relationship with her, returned the embrace. But not, apparently, as Naia expected, for she pulled back and gave Mickey a searching look. “Anna? What is wrong?”
Of course, then the absurdity of what she’d said hit her, and before Mickey could respond she said, “Oh, I know—all this is wrong. There is serious trouble for us. But I can tell … there’s something else …” And then she glanced at Steve. “You told him—?”
Mickey shook her head, suddenly weary. “It’s a long story.”
“That’s the understatement of the year,” Steve muttered, not quite loudly enough to truly interrupt them, though Naia shot a look in his direction. She’d changed since Mickey had last seen her. Less trusting … less gentle. Up close, her clothes were hard used—otherwise lightly worn garments with tears and stains.
She broke away from Mickey and went to the dead drop, retrieving a tightly folded paper. “Here,” she said. “This is what it’s all about.”
Mickey took it, unfolding it to discover a double-sided printout, tiny font crammed to the margins, impossible to skim. She didn’t even try. Naia said, “A man in my father’s cabinet has been using him—using our people.”
“Mounir Farooqi,” Steve said abruptly. “He’s storing weapons of mass destruction, isn’t he?”
Mickey felt her jaw drop. Naia looked at Steve as though a speaking fungus would have surprised her less.
He shrugged. “Hey. I did some research this morning. I meant to tell you,” he added, looking at Mickey, “but then … I got distracted.”
Right. By the gunplay. By killing people. By having Mosquito die in his arms. But she couldn’t stop herself from saying, “You found that information on the Web?”
“I inferred it,” he said. “From what’s on the Web and what’s going on here. You have to have both pieces.”
“Still. That’s …” She shook her head. “I’m damned impressed.”
“Anna,” Naia all but wailed, “what’s going on? Who is this man? What happened to … your hair?”
Right back to the long story situation. “His name is Steve,” Mickey said, for the first time really hearing how Naia addressed her. Not Anna, as Steve had said it. Ahna. But it still brought no instant flash of memory; no sudden revelation of her past.
“Mickey?” Steve took a step toward her, reaching—
But Naia wasn’t ready for that. She glared him off. Gentle Naia, glaring off a self-defense expert. It brought Mickey back to herself, even as Naia demanded, “And why does he call you Mickey?”
Just get it over fast, like ripping a band-aid. “You know we’re compromised, yes?” She barely waited for Naia’s nod. “They came after me. I don’t know all the details. I know they got me; they drugged me with something. It damaged my memory. I got away from them, but … I didn’t remember—I don’t remember—anything about myself. I’ve been trying to reconstruct it all. Steve has been helping.” Understatement. Steve had held her together, whether he knew it or not. “We had to call me something, so … Mickey.”
Naia gave her a dubious look. “As in the mouse?”
Mickey choked on a laugh. “I suppose so.”
“We’ve been trying to find you,” Steve said, and this time he did move closer. “We didn’t have a lot to go on. But Mickey knew you were in trouble, so …”
“Fill me in,” Mickey said. She gestured at Naia’s clothing. “What’s been happening? How did you get this intel?”
“Fill you in?”
“The big picture. We met … where?”
“A party,” Naia said. “You go to lots of parties. Everyone wants you there. You sell them fabulous antiques, and you entertain them. You told me once that’s why you’re so good at your real job. The CIA job. Because no one ever suspects you could be more than a light-hearted society girl.”
“Really?” Steve said. “Gee, do you think it’s the singing, or the dancing?”
Mickey gathered her dignity. “Never mind him. So we met at a party—not too long ago?”
“This spring. We … you have been a good friend. And then … this.” She gestured at the dead drop. “I went home before summer classes started. I saw things … differently. And I overheard Mounir Farooqi. I intended to tell you when I came home, but then Badra—my chaperone, you would call her—started acting differently. And I felt watched. I had to be careful. It took me a while to leave my first no
te. I think you found it.” She gestured at the dead drop. “Someone did.”
“That was us,” Mickey confirmed. And, unbidden and unexpected, “Hey, do I have a cat?”
Bemused, Naia nodded. Mickey bit back a spurt of glee that no one would understand. I remembered the cat!
“What about the editorial in the university paper?” Steve asked. “Sounds like someone put you on a short leash. You stopped going to classes.”
She nodded. “They confined me to my apartment. I had to break out—I climbed out a window and to the fire escape. By now they’ve discovered that I’m gone. I take long showers, but not this long.”
The words hit Mickey hard, cold steel trickling down her spine. “Dammit, I should have asked about that first thing. We’ve got to get out of here.”
Naia shook her head. “But they don’t know where I’ve gone.”
“They watched you for weeks,” Mickey said. “They’re going to have a pretty good damned idea where to look.”
“I’m sorry, I—”
“No,” Mickey cut her off, more sharply than she’d meant to. “It’s not your fault. You shouldn’t have been alone in this.” She folded the paper and tucked it inside her sport top, the closest thing she had to a bra. Not the best option—it was sure to be damp before all was said and done. But right now, the only option. “Let’s go. We need to grab the ammo and gear and get out of here.”
“Where?” Steve said. He didn’t add, as he could have, how? Because all three of them wouldn’t fit on the bike.
“Just get out of here first,” Mickey told him. She touched the gun, touched the knives she wore—just because. She saw Steve’s hand hesitate over the butt of the Glock before he realized what he was doing and snatched it away.
“But—” Naia said. “What will happen to me now?”
“Later for that, too,” Mickey told her. She took the younger woman’s arm and nudged her toward the stairs, suppressing her impulse to bolt up them—but a nod at Steve sent him on ahead, and he took those stairs two and three at a time, the usual bounce in his movement magnified. His urgency caught; Naia ran after him—swift little one-at-a-time steps that put Mickey right on her heels.
At the top of the stairs, Mickey moved Naia aside so she could run in and help Steve gather the things they’d deliberately left out for easy access, stuffing them into Steve’s backpack and Mickey’s newly bought duffel. Only a matter of moments, and then Mickey slung the duffel over her shoulders and took the lead back downstairs, tugging Naia into position behind her so Steve brought up the rear. She ran down the stairs—lightly this time, single-stepping it and listening hard, for she meant what she’d said to Naia—the Irhaddanians would be here, and sooner rather than later. There weren’t that many places that Naia habitually spent her time outside of classes, and of those, this building was the most remote, the most separated from the rest of her life.
They’d come here sooner.
Halfway down the final flight of stairs, she heard the noise—heard the voices. She stopped short, holding up a hand—giving the others time to hear without creating noise of their own.
Naia whispered desperately, “Is there not another class? Maybe they’re students—”
Deep, male voices. A few distinct words—recognizable Irhaddanian words. Bitch and foolish girl and put an end to this and authorize to use final measures and even Naia understood what that last phrase truly meant. For Steve’s benefit, Mickey said simply, “They’re here. They’re not planning to take prisoners.”
“Here?” Steve repeated. “What does that mean, here? Can we still get out—”
Below them, shadows blocked the light from the door. The door knob turned.
Mickey reversed course, shooing Naia up the stairs—pushing her and shushing her at the same time. Steve took the hint and led the way, his single glance back revealing a tight, tense jaw and complete determination.
And they would have made it. They would have been up on the third floor, out of sight, able to slink out the tower roof—able to rappel down the side of the building and away to freedom.
If Naia hadn’t tripped.
If she hadn’t cried out in fear when she tripped.
Shouts of discovery echoed up the stairwell.
Mickey dropped any attempt at silence, hauling Naia to her feet. Steve had turned back to help and she waved him onward. “Go!” she said. “Find cover!” She turned around long enough to unload a round into the stairwell, giving the Irhaddanians something to think about. It’s more than just one frightened young woman. At the blast of the gun, Naia shrieked again, cowering. “Go,” Mickey told her. “I’ve got your back. You’re okay.”
Not exactly reassuring, not with shouted demands following them through the third floor. Mickey pushed Naia at Steve, clipping out, “Stay with her—find cover!”
“Anna!” Naia reached out to her even as Steve moved in, terrified and pleading all at once. And Mickey got it. She got that Naia wasn’t used to physical effort; she got that Naia had used all her bold, all her brave, just to get here.
And she still didn’t have time to deal with it. “Trust him, Naia,” she said, already heading toward the nearest bucket of nails. “He’ll take care of you.” And winced inwardly. Sorry, Steve. Naia’s happy ending shouldn’t be his burden to share. And then to Steve, “If we get separated, take her to the FBI.” Words that would horrify her CIA compatriots—but he could find the FBI in the phone book, and she had no idea where to find the local CIA station. Some discreet somewhere in San Francisco, no doubt.
“We’re not—” he started.
But she’d already turned away, snatching up the nails with a grunt of effort, and sparing the breath only to say, “Take cover!” Already she heard the Irhaddanians on the stairs, barely deterred by her warning shot. She heaved the nails down the stairs, aiming high so they bounced off the wall; the men’s cries of dismay brought grim satisfaction.
And by then Steve had guided Naia to cover across the room—not nearly close enough to the tower exit, not at a great angle from the doorway, but it was too late to change that now. Mickey found herself scantier cover, closer to the tower, a more direct line with the doorway. If she had to scoot for the tower, she could—but not without leaving Naia and Steve.
Best to get them out while she could. “Get her to the roof,” she told Steve. “I’ll cover—”
Too late for that. A dark shape peeked around the doorway—then retreated just as fast, encouraged by the wooden shrapnel from Mickey’s bullet. She hissed a half-formed curse and took better stock of her immediate surroundings—found Steve’s bow. “Just in case!” she said, and skidded it across the wooden floor to him. As low-tech as it seemed, he excelled at using it … and had no experience with guns. And especially none with this particular model, which took a significant number of practice rounds to master. Boy, I wish I didn’t know that.
“You have nowhere to go,” one of the men said. “You can’t escape from this. Surrender is your best chance.”
“Yeah, and that was dripping with sincerity,” Mickey responded, all the while measuring the distance Naia and Steve would have to run, calculating how exposed they’d be.
Too far. And too much. With this six-cartridge magazine, she couldn’t provide enough cover. Maybe if Steve slid his gun—
One man stuck his gun around the corner, just far enough to unload a few rounds at her, eliciting another faint shriek of dismay from Naia. Mickey tucked herself away—and damned if the other man didn’t use the cover to target her more carefully. His very first shot proved the inadequate nature of her cover—wallboard, just wallboard—and she squinched herself against the brick even more tightly. Damn, they sent the smart team. She flattened on the dusty floor, flat as she could ever get, crooking her gun around the end of the wallboard to return fire without looking.
From there, she could clearly see Steve and Naia. Naia crouched against the opposite wall of the giant space; Steve returned her look with a gr
ave expression that made it clear he knew exactly how bad the situation was. He and Naia were trapped; the men could easily pick away at Mickey until they took her down, and then close in on Steve and Naia. Being hell on wheels in a street fight meant nothing here.
And Mickey was the only one who had a clear run for the way out.
She flinched down as another bullet hit way too close, returning a rapid succession of shots until the slide locked back, already reaching for another magazine. Releasing the first, slamming the second home, she said low and fast, “I’m going out, going to come up on them from behind. Cover me.”
And Naia, overwhelmed, following the exchange in a second language, understood only that Mickey was leaving them. “Anna!” she cried. “Anna, no, don’t—”
Oh, great, just tell them the whole thing why don’t you—
And Steve saw the look on her face, understood it. He imitated the Irhaddan technique, peeking out just long enough to get the angle, then unloading his gun into the stairwell right over Naia’s protests.
Mickey ran for it. Low and fast, straight for the back tower, jamming her gun into her pants along the way. Steve ran out of ammo and rounds instantly clipped at her heels, far too—ow! Splinters drove up into her calf, making the muscle spasm in response. The leg went out from beneath her and she flung herself into the tower.
Not at the stairs at all. At the elevator shaft. Still propped open, still nothing but empty air. Her upper body slid right over the lip of the shaft; cool air hit her face.
And then she began to tip, to fall. Behind her, Steve had reloaded—he blasted out six more rounds of cover as she desperately snatched for the ladder directly below her. Momentum carried her out into the shaft as her hands closed around the first wooden rung and she cart-wheeled awkwardly out into the open space, so glad for the climbing gloves as she twisted around the wooden rung, losing skin even so. But not her grip.
Not even when she jerked to a stop, hung in mid-air as though she were a gravity-defying gymnast on the bars, and then slammed down against the shaft wall with all the force of a cracked whip.
Hidden Steel Page 21
