Severance Package

After Murphy was shot in the head, and everyone decided to split up, Nichole had taken Roxanne by the wrist. “This way.”

“But …”

“Trust me.”

Nichole told Amy they’d check the elevators to be sure, but that’s not where she led Roxanne. First they headed to Murphy’s office, because whatever was going down, a burn of his office was probably next. It was the tradecraft thing to do. Molly’s betrayal was something Nichole had not seen coming. Every theory Nichole had about the Illinois farm girl went spinning down the toilet the moment she pulled a Lee Harvey on the big boss man. Molly hadn’t been hired to cock-block Nichole. She had wormed her way into Murphy, Knox, and was in the process of her own little hostile takeover of the company and all its assets.

But whom did she work for?

David’s own bosses?

Another intelligence agency?

Another country?

It killed Nichole that she didn’t know the answer.

“Where are we going?” Roxanne asked.

“Toward the elevators,” Nichole said.

Sure, they were headed to the elevator bank, but only as a shortcut to Murphy’s office. Out one side entrance and in another, a quick left, and they’d be in. Nichole would bar the door—no, wait.

First she would recover the pistol she’d stashed here and moved periodically over the past five years. Her Heckler & Koch P7. Eight 9 mm rounds. Not the most desirable weapon in the world for a firefight, but it would do its job here.

Because she was going to give the HK P7 to Roxanne, and then barricade them in Murphy’s office.

Nichole would instruct Roxanne to shoot anything that tried to come through the door. Use all eight rounds if you have to. Then Nichole would rip apart the office, gather what she needed, then do a burn herself. She’d get Roxanne out of there, make it outside, call for Company extraction. Pray she wouldn’t lose her job for missing something this catastrophic.

What if, after three years of undercover investigation, it came out that David Murphy was working for foreign terrorists?

“Nichole, the elevators are this …”

“Never mind. I’ve changed my mind. There’s something …”

But when she opened the door, she saw a blur of Molly Lewis shooting down the hallway, headed right for Murphy’s office.

So much for mourning the boss.

Okay, change of plans. First, map out an escape plan. Then go back and deal with the Russian farm girl.

“Follow me, Rox.”

“What? What now?”

Poor Roxanne. She’d seemed so carefree last night at the Continental. Bummed out about having to report to work in the hot city in the wee hours of a Saturday morning—for members of Roxanne’s generation, 9:00 A.M. was indeed the wee hours—but still, able to separate herself from that and have a good time anyway. Cosmos and tapas. Flirting with boys. Laughing about people at work.

Now she woke up to have her boss threaten to kill her, a coworker die, and another coworker shoot her boss in the head, JFK-style.

And now her best friend (Nichole hoped, anyway) was leading her willy-nilly through the halls. She needed Rox to keep it together.

“You have to trust me,” Nichole said. “I know what’s going on here, and I know how to get us out of it.”

Rox, God love her, looked her in the eye, like a Girl Scout reciting an oath, and said, “I trust you.”

“We’re going to the other side.”

The half of Murphy, Knox that had lain fallow since 2003.

“First, the kitchen.”

For the past few weeks, Nichole had stashed her HK P7 in a white casserole dish in the kitchen on the other side of the office. Hardly anyone used the refrigerator over here. Even if someone did use this fridge, nobody was desperate enough to open up someone else’s casserole dish.

“You’re not seriously going to eat that, are you?” Roxanne asked.

Nichole pulled out the dish, peeled off the plastic top. A layer of cold peas was on top of a watertight Ziploc bag. Her fingers found the edge of the bag, and the cold peas went racing over the kitchen counter as Nichole unearthed the HK P7.

“Oh my God.”

Nichole removed the pistol from the plastic, yanked back on the slide, slapped a round in the chamber, tucked the pistol in the back of her waist. She wore her capris with just enough give for moments like these. It had been far too long since she’d had a moment like this. The adrenaline felt good cascading through her blood.

“Oh my God, you’re going to kill me.”

“No, darlin’,” Nichole said. “I’m one of the good guys, and we’re going to get ourselves out of here.”

Murphy had said he put the elevators on bypass, and rigged the fire tower with nerve agents. Murphy was certainly capable of such things. But what about the air-conditioning ducts?

Ah yes, air-conditioning ducts. Favorite of action movies everywhere across the land. When you’re trapped in a room and need to escape in a hurry, simply yank off the metal register—it wouldn’t be screwed in tight or anything—and shimmy on up in there, even though modern air ducts are designed to carry air, not adult human beings, so even if you were able to fit yourself into the duct, you’d probably fall right through the bottom at some inopportune point, probably land on a cubicle and impale yourself on a No. 2 pencil. But that’s why we love action movies, right?

Life isn’t an action movie, though.

And Nichole didn’t want to use the air ducts to escape.

She wanted to use them to call for help.

Nichole moved down the hallway until she found what she was looking for. The air-return vent, which was about the size of a hardcover novel turned on its side.

“Give me your purse.”

“Why?”

“Rox, please.”

“Okay, okay.”

Roxanne never went anywhere without her bag—even 9:00 A.M. Saturday morning meetings. And she never went without a full-size bottle of her signature scent: Euphoria for Women by Calvin Klein. Roxanne had been trying to convert Nichole for weeks now, offering her wrist for a sniff often and irritatingly. Nichole didn’t do perfume. She preferred a clean, freshly scrubbed scent. Irish Spring, if possible. Fancy scents make you easy to track.

But now, Nichole was glad for Roxanne’s perfume.

Because she was going to spray an ungodly amount of Euphoria into the air-return vent.

Nichole had read about a lawsuit years ago: In a nine-story law firm, a junior partner decided to play a prank on a coworker who had been caught going to a strip club. He bought a bottle of cheap perfume from a street vendor, then sprayed it all over his buddy’s office. On his seat. On his desk. On the carpet. In the corner. Enough to make the place smell like a lap-dancing stripper for at least a few days. Then the junior partner closed the door.

The problem was, the building’s HVAC system picked up the cheap perfume and redistributed it all over the building. The air-conditioning system wasn’t enough to strip away the scent, and soon, the building was overcome with eau de stripper.

A secretary was allergic. Her throat closed up on the way to the hospital.

The junior partner’s career ended with a one-two punch of criminal and civil lawsuits.

Nichole didn’t want to kill anybody with Euphoria, but if it attracted the attention of building security, they’d have a better shot of making it off this floor alive.

She uncapped the perfume and felt something brush up the base of her spine.