Hidden Steel

by Doranna Durgin

  Then she lost her grip. Then she slid down against the ladder, hands scrabbling, rungs going bumpbumpbump like a washboard road against her body—until once more she jerked to a stop, saved by one precarious handhold. Then another … and then her toes, jammed up against the shaft wall.

  She didn’t realize she’d lost the gun until she heard it clatter to a landing against the top of the permanently stalled elevator. She looked down just in time to see it bounce and skid over the side of the car, the noise of its fall echoing forlornly up the shaft.

  “Well, that sucks,” she muttered, and only then discovered she had a fat lip. If that was the only price she paid for this little ploy, then she’d take it.

  Above, Steve and the Irhaddanians exchanged gunfire; Steve was being more careful with his shots now, conserving ammo.

  And no wonder. Mickey had the box of cartridges in the backpack.

  Not good planning. She jammed her feet against the outsides of the ladder and let herself slide in a barely controlled descent. One of them had the ammo; the other now had the only gun. “Do-over!” she yelled, reaching the second floor elevator doors.

  Then Steve’s gun stopped firing … didn’t start again. Naia made a noise of great dismay. Mickey clamped her jaw down on a thrill of fear, hanging tightly to the ladder as she brought up first one leg, then two, to shove against the barely open doors. Old doors, unused doors, sticky doors …horizontal with the effort, she worked against the world’s most wicked leg press. “Open, dammit,” she grunted, feeling the sweat pop on her face. She and Steve had worked together to gain even the few inches they’d had, never thinking to do more than observe from here. The doors creaked and Mickey creaked and one of the men upstairs gave a shout of surprise and the doors gave—

  Leaving her wrung out and gasping, clinging to the ladder with what was left of her strength while her legs scrabbled feebly at the narrow lip of space where the doors had been. Where the doors mostly still were, except for a space just wide enough that a nimble woman might slip through, driven by the noise of combat above.

  Too bad about those shelves still directly in her way.

  Mickey contemplated those shelves for only an instant. She’d seen them from the other side; she knew they were sturdy, heavy, and weighed down with giant cubes of clay. She’d used up her brute force strength for the moment.

  She let her feet swing back down to the ladder and re-approached the new opening from an upright position, stepping over to stand briefly in the narrow strip of floor before heaving herself up and over the chest-high shelves. She made no attempt to do it gracefully, sliding head-first down the other side to tuck and roll upon hitting the floor.

  Boy, she was gonna hurt in the morning.

  Just hurry, you fool.

  Back to her feet, minus the gun but still with the knives, Mickey ran lightly between the classroom tables, humming I Need a Hero under her breath. Thank you, Bonnie Tyler … Out the door and up the first flight of stairs, hesitating then for a quick please let them be clueless about where I went and she peered around the landing to find the two men plastered up against the wall, getting impatient. Brass lay scattered around their feet; they had to be running low on ammo just as Steve was.

  She saw, then, what had caused their recent surprise—the arrow sticking out the back of the stairwell, chest height and driven deep. No wonder they looked cautious.

  Not cautious enough. She took a quick calculation of distance and angle, and knew the knife throw was nearly impossible. Doesn’t matter. Draw them off, that’s what counts. She moved out, ran up three steps to turn impossible to the merely improbable, and let the first knife fly, aiming low.

  Yes! She pumped air in the world’s briefest celebration as the knife buried itself in one man’s calf. For a startled instant of time she met the other man’s gaze—and then the absurdity of the situation overtook her. CIA amnesiac taunting two men with guns. She made a little flutter-finger wave and ducked back, holding her breath so she could hear the moment they committed to chasing her.

  But they didn’t. They exchanged a few angry words in their own language and ignored her, taking the moment to shout more demands at Naia and Steve, giving Mickey the chance to peer back around at them in complete annoyance—and to see that they’d exposed themselves in reacting to Mickey, as one of Steve’s arrows thwapped into its target, pinning the man to the wall by a small margin of flesh in his upper arm and a large margin of suit coat.

  Mickey took the chance—she gave up another knife, taking one smooth step into the open to fling it upward. Her luck wasn’t nearly as good as last time. It bounced off the second man’s ankle and halfway back down the stairs—and as she hesitated, Steve let loose with another arrow, one that thwapped into the wall inches from the pinned man’s head. Mickey took the opportunity to stretch up, snatch the knife, and run. And just around the doorway, she said lightly in their own language, “We can do this all day. I’m doing fine, how about you?”

  It decided them. The pinned man tore away from the wall, cursing with pain, and snapped at his companion, “They’ve got nowhere to go. We can deal with them once she’s dead.”

  Zoicks. That would be her signal. Mickey sprinted on down the stairs and heard them clattering after her, and over her shoulder she shouted, “Go! All the way!”

  She could only hope they would.

  But it meant she had to keep things in play down here, had to keep the men from charging back upstairs to discover the exit, from reaching the ropes before Steve and Naia were on the ground. Steve the absolute greenhorn, shepherding Naia the terrified, four stories down.

  Definitely had to keep things in play.

  ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

  Chapter 20

  Mickey skidded on the welcome mat at the bottom of the stairs and then thoughtfully kicked it back in place for those who followed so hard on her heels. She slammed into the door to the co-op sales floor, a token door of half glass whose knob refused to turn in her grip. With only an instant of remorse, she rammed the butt end of her knife through the window and then reversed it to clear the glass, just enough room for her hand—

  Out of time. Their footsteps sounded heavily on the stairs and she threw herself against the small section of wall flanking the bottom step. Directly across from her was the outer door and escape—she had no doubt she could make it.

  But then their Irhaddan friends would just head back upstairs to take out Steve and Naia.

  They rounded the final landing—not moving quite as well as they might, one man distinctly behind the other and neither slowing—they must have heard the breaking glass, seen the door … and assumed she’d gone through. Their mistake. Mickey waited, crouching, weight shifted and ready … ready …

  She met him with a wicked high kick. His feet shot out from under him and he slammed back onto the stairs. She got a glimpse of him tangling with his buddy and then ducked behind the corner again, crouching down low. Hurry, she thought at Steve. Really hurry.

  It was a good game, but it wouldn’t last long.

  Short, harsh curses cut short to an ominous silence; she imagined them communicating in rapid-fire gestures. And then surprise, here came a gun, lightning fast exposure around the corner at chest level. She didn’t give the man a chance to fire it; she darted up with the knife, slashing at exposed knuckles.

  She had to give him credit—he didn’t drop the gun. He jerked back with a noise that would have been cursing if he’d only been able to get the words out fast enough.

  Soon enough they’d figure it out. They had only to rush her two at a time. The only thing holding them back—she rose from her crouch, slamming a roundhouse kick to a vulnerable knee still behind the corner, driving them back further and then dropping back into place—was the question of her gun. They didn’t know she’d dropped it.

  They’d figure it out soon enough.

  * * * * *

  Mickey, what have you done? He couldn’t believe it. Ushering Naia up to the fourth
floor, helping her fasten the Swiss seat, already realizing she was toned but not strong, not accustomed to using her body, he still couldn’t believe it. Instructing her on the basics of rappelling that he had only learned a few hours earlier, he couldn’t believe it.

  Looking at Naia’s expression, it was clear she couldn’t believe it either.

  And Mickey was at the mercy of two angry Irhaddan operatives. They’re here, she’d said. And they’re not planning to take prisoners. And what had she done but gone and pulled the tiger by the tail?

  Hard.

  Well, this was his chance, wasn’t it? She’d given that to him. The happy ending for Naia.

  Except it was Mickey’s happy ending that he’d been following. It was Mickey he wasn’t willing to let go.

  Best figure out how to do it all.

  And hurry.

  Steve looked over at Naia, poised at the edge of the roof as he was, her brake hand back around her hip as he’d just shown her, her weight leaning into it only tentatively. “I’m right beside you,” he said. “Just take it slow.”

  Except they had no time. Mickey had no time.

  Steve sent Naia an encouraging smile. “Let’s go, then.”

  As if they had all the time in the world …

  * * * * *

  They figured it out.

  The air whooshed out of Mickey’s lungs as they double-teamed her, avoiding the knife in each hand, flipping her up in mid-air so she smacked down hard on the floor, bruised by the contents of the backpack as well as cold hardwood.

  Again.

  For an instant, just an instant, she had a clear run at the outer door. A little flip, a little roll, and she could bolt out between them. Neither of them were in perfect shape—scored by her knives, punctured by Steve’s arrow, bruised by her recent attentions.

  Sometimes, Steve had told his kids, it’s better to run.

  This was definitely one of those times.

  But running wasn’t an option. Not until she’d given Steve and Naia more time. She knew Naia; knew the young woman would have no natural knack with rappelling. She’d be slow; she’d be tentative. She’d be uncertain, wondering if she should take her chances with Mickey in spite of it all.

  So this definitely wasn’t one of those times.

  A little flip, a little roll—she scrambled to recover the knife she’d lost on impact, and when a big hand reached for it first, didn’t hesitate to pin it right to the floor with the knife she still had. The man screamed, then screamed again when his partner lifted her up like so much air, pulling the knife back out.

  He threw her against the wall, rattling her bones, rattling her thoughts. She had a brief giddy notion that he should do it again, and maybe she’d get her memory back just like on television—and then someone kicked her.

  Again.

  Deep fire exploded into life, burning strong inside her. They picked her up; she saw only flashes of movement, light and dark—unfocused and without meaning. Words without meaning slapped against her ears; between him, they shook her, demanding … something. She couldn’t quite get it.

  And abruptly, they dropped her. Dismissed her. Agreed to come back for her. Headed for the stairs. Too soon.

  Her eyes opened all the way at that. Focused sharply. Saw the glint of steel in the corner. Hidden, just like Anna Hutchinson.

  She went for it. Crawling—oozing—across the floor, she went for it. Fingers closed around cool metal, automatically shifting it into throwing position. She dug around inside, came up with the strength to make it up as far as her knees—far enough to free her throwing arm. No time to waste, they were climbing right out of range, no longer as speedy as they’d once been.

  She let fly, willing the knife to strike hard and deep between the shoulder blades of the nearest operative. And it struck hard and deep, all right. Hard and deep and low.

  Ow. That’s gotta hurt.

  The man whirled on her, yanking the knife free with a fury that told her she’d just made the whole thing personal. He threw the blade away with the abrupt force of that same fury, right through the glass she’d already broken. Uh-oh. A thin thread of true alarm made its way through the aches and pains and fuzzy thoughts, and she scrambled backwards, trying to get to her feet at the same time, reaching for the outside door and shoving it open, finally, so fresh air blew cool over drying blood.

  Hands yanked her back in. One set held her up … the other worked her over, one backhand blow after another, a stomach jab for variety—soon enough she wasn’t sure just where he was hitting her. One big pain with the world whirling around her.

  They dumped her on the floor and stood glaring down at her, and just as she allowed herself to think she’d surely bought Steve and Naia enough time, she heard the motorcycle start.

  She laughed. She spat blood, and she laughed.

  And damn them, they understood right away. They scooped her up, one on each arm, and they dragged her right out the door, shouting after the motorcycle.

  Mickey looked up just in time to see Steve bring the bike to a stop, horror painting stark lines on his face. Behind him on the bike, Naia twisted around to see them; her lips formed the word Anna! and she clutched at Steve. The motorcycle engine cut off.

  And one of the Irhaddan operatives got clever. Damned clever. He held Mickey up for display and he said to Steve, “You’re making a mistake, Mr. Spaneas. This woman has dragged you into her world of psychoses, just as she dragged Miss Mejjati. If you leave now, with Miss Mejjati, you’ll be wanted by every law agency in your own country—and all of those in our country, as well. And for no reason. For a mad woman’s games.”

  “What the hell have you done to her?” Steve’s voice held a gritty pain that Mickey hadn’t heard before; she stiffened against the grip on her arms, looking for any sign that he’d been hurt.

  No, fool, it’syou.

  Dammit, Steve, you shouldn’t have stopped. “Get her out of here,” is what she said out loud, but not very loudly at that. Not loudly enough to be heard by anyone but the men at her sides. She tried again, managed to make it louder. “Get her out of here.”

  “Your friend is good,” the man said, his English comfortable and smooth. “Very good. She’s been sick a long time, and she knows how to deceive—it is how she lives her life. But now we have put a stop to her games, and this, my friend, is the moment you decide if you’re going down with her.”

  “You didn’t have to—” He didn’t finish, his voice going hoarse, and tried again. “You didn’t—”

  “We subdued her,” the man said, talking fast. He’d have to; his story didn’t fit what had happened—not the killings, not the way they’d been shooting at Naia along with the rest of them. “She wasn’t cooperative. You’ve dealt with this before—you should know. They have amazing strength when they’re delusional.”

  “No,” Steve said, but doubt laced that one short word.

  “Steve …” Naia said, horrified. “Steve, no, you can’t—”

  “You know how convincing some of them can be. How good they are, the ones who learn to justify their delusions to others. That’s all this has been. But things have gotten out of hand. We’ve lost our patience. Our president’s daughter sits behind you and we’ll stop at nothing to take her to safety. You can go down with this woman, or you can step aside and go back to your own life. Just like that. Over.”

  They’d done their research, dammit to hell, they’d sure done their research. And even if it couldn’t and wouldn’t stand up to scrutiny, they’d pushed Steve’s biggest emotional button. The look on his face …he looked as staggered as she felt. Suddenly doubting it all—trying not to, but faced with too many years of lost causes to do anything but let that doubt in. Naia saw it too, closed her eyes and murmured, “Astaghfirullah, Astaghfirullah.” I seek refuge in God.

  And enough was enough. Mickey found her feet, clumsy though they were, and propped herself up on her own power, swaying between the two men. She ignored their painfully ti
ghtened grip; it was nothing compared to the shards of pain in her ribs, over one eye, deep within …

  She said, “Now, Steve. Now you call the cops. So long as you take Naia with you.”

  “Mickey,” he said, looking at her with those deeply troubled eyes, agony of another sort. “Mickey, I—”

  “It doesn’t matter what you think of me. Take her there. Get the CIA.” She winced as one of the men shook her, realizing the impact of her words yet unable to hit her again without losing Steve completely. But she saw Steve’s face, and she knew he was already lost to them. After a steady refusal to call on authorities, she had what she always said she’d wanted—Naia’s safety—and her demand that Steve find help undercut their entire scenario of Mickey the Mad.

  And Steve knew it. “Mickey,” he said again.

  “There is no need to involve—” one of the men started.

  Steve turned on him. “You killed Anthony. You killed Mosquito. You shot at us all—you shot at Naia. No. It’s time to run away now.” And Steve started the bike. He gave Mickey an impossibly agonized look and turned away.

  Good. Go for it. Go make it happen.

  The men cursed; they dropped her as the bike skidded out across the parking lot, running a few futile steps after it. Mickey had made it to hands and knees when they looked back at her, and she found herself too bleary to do so much as quail before their mounting anger. “We can finish this later,” she suggested indistinctly. “You look like you could use some aspirin. Some nice band-aids. Would you like to hear a song? It’s the hey Mickey song. I’m pretty good at it—” But she broke off her babble as they headed for her.

  The rising engine noise in the background didn’t catch her attention until the men were only a step or two away in spite of her floundering attempts to back away from them. Didn’t catch her attention until the motorcycle shot around the end of the building carrying only Steve—Steve, who came strafing past to grab their attention from Mickey.