Midwest.
Mainline Protestants. Way too trusting.
Once inside, she dragged Ethan’s body into the office, closed the door behind her. Locked it, just in case, even though there was nobody left on the floor to check on her. Unless Jamie had regained consciousness.
Even if he had, that would be fine. This could be part of his education.
Ania walked over to the window. No point in arranging Ethan’s body if Amy had already died of fright. She gripped the leather belt. It lifted far too easily.
Ania peered over the edge of the window.
Amy was gone.
The conference room door slammed open. Amy Felton staggered inside and dropped to her knees.
“Where is she?”
“Amy?” Nichole said, lowering her pistol. “Where were
Jamie was just as surprised. For a moment, he forgot about his throbbing hand and considered this new development. Good God—Amy was still alive. Had anyone else made it, too? Like Ethan?
“Who?”
“That bitch.”
“She got to you, too, huh?”
“We need to kill her.
Amy was pale and trembling, but also looking like she could tear a person in half—the long way. She leaned against the conference room wall and allowed herself to ease down it, gently touching down and placing her palms against the floor. Her fingers clutched at the carpet.
Nichole left David and, pistol still in hand, approached Amy.
“We need to show our cards,” Nichole said. “We all know what this place is, but I’m not sure whose side we’re playing on.”
“You know who we work for,” Amy said.
“No,” Nichole said, then swallowed. “I’m CIA.”
If Nichole was expecting a look of surprise, she didn’t get it.
“Well,” Amy said, “I’m not.”
“I know. You’re CI-6.”
“There is no CI-6.”
“You’re right,” Nichole said. “After today.”
“Look, forget this for now. What we have is a homicidal she-bitch out there, trying to kill us all.”
“One of yours, no doubt,” Nichole said.
“There are only two sides here. Hers and ours. Help me take care of her, we’ll sort this out later.”
“Either you’re against the terrorist, or you’re with her.”
“That’s funny.”
Nichole thought it over. “What do you have in mind?”
“There are at least two guns in here, right?”
“Three. David’s, Molly’s, and my own.”
“Ammo?”
“Mine’s almost spent. I used two bullets on David’s hand. But Molly only used one, as far as I can tell.”
“Then we go out there, flank her, then kill her. Jamie here can guard David.”
Jamie, who had been listening to this exchange and trying to exact a single shred of sense from it, cleared his throat. “You know, um, this Jamie guy? He’s still in the room.”
Nichole ignored him, and asked Amy, “Is he one of yours, too?”
“What do you mean?”
“He claims to be a civilian. Is he?”
Amy looked at Jamie. “Yes. As far as I know.”
“Wonderful.”
On the floor, David started to place another food order. Burger King this time.
“What’s wrong with him?” Amy asked.
“You were there when he was shot in the head, weren’t you?”
“I didn’t know that made you hungry.”
Amy and Nichole eyed each other. They looked like two college students stuck in a group project who both clearly hated group projects.
“I’m not sure about you and a gun,” Nichole said.
“There’s two of us. One of her. It’s simple.”
“You don’t understand. About thirty minutes ago, I fired six shots at her, point-blank, and they went through her like she was a ghost.”
“She’s flesh and blood. She can be killed.”
“Hey,” Jamie said. “You don’t need to kill anybody.”
Nichole ignored him.
“You even field-rated?” she asked Amy.
“I can shoot.”
“Hey!” Jamie shouted. “She’s our co-worker. She’s confused. She needs help. You can’t just go and kill her!”
Had everyone gone insane? Why weren’t they even responding to him?
Nichole sighed.
“I can do this,” Amy said. “I
“Fine. We do this, we come back here for answers. If you cross me, you
Amy knew death.
Hanging upside down, it was easy to spot death.
It was right there. Thirty-six stories below.
Death was a city sidewalk.
Or maybe death was the space between. Even after the fact, it was hard to decide.
Obsessed with heights, Amy had read about the jumpers at the World Trade Center. Oh, so many hours fixed on the image of the infamous “Falling Man”—the anonymous human being who had leapt from one of the burning floors and had been captured by a photographer at a particular moment in time: 9:41:15 A.M. on September 11, 2001. In that moment, all looked strangely ordered, composed. The lines of the building, the lines of his body. One leg, tucked up slightly. The Falling Man looked like he was floating. Frozen in space, as if he were in complete control.
The more Amy read, the more she understood the true horror. The photograph, which appeared on the front pages of a dozen newspapers on the morning of September 12, 2001, was a piece of freak luck. Photographers were trained to look for symmetry, shapes. At that moment, the Falling Man was in perfect harmony with his surroundings. But the outtakes from the same sequence—snapped almost robotically—reveal the truth. There’s nothing symmetrical about falling to your death from a height like the 105th floor of the North Tower. It is a fast and horrific and chaotic death—death at 9.8 meters per second.
That’s what death looked like.
That’s what Amy Felton stared at for the better part of an hour.
No, that wasn’t quite true. She had passed out for much of it.
