What brought her back was Ethan.
He was alive in this building. She had no doubt about that. He was smart—so smart. He saw this coming somehow. Showed up to work, just like her, put his bag down, fired up his computer, but noticed something off. A little detail. Which was just like Ethan.
Hanging upside down, she remembered going to the door before being distracted by Molly. Calling out to see if anyone (Ethan?) was there.
It was Ethan behind that door. She knew it now.
And she left him behind.
Yes, death was there. Thirty-six floors below. But it wasn’t up here with her. Not yet.
She was closer to Ethan than to death.
Amy sucked in warm air and prepared to sit up, that’s it, just think of sitting up, just once, and grabbing hold of the window frame. You only have to grab it once. Pull yourself inside. Kill that murderous cunt. Find Ethan.
Now, standing in the hallway with a gun in her hands, she was ready for the next part.
CLEANUP
Amy squeezed the trigger. There was a spray of wood trim and drywall. Molly spun with the blast and bounced off the wall behind her, then dropped out of sight.
“Get down!” Amy cried.
They fell to the floor, guns pointed away from each other.
“Think I got her.”
“You sure?”
“We need to look.”
“I’ll do it,” Nichole said.
She crawled on her hands and knees to the edge of the hallway. Glanced around the corner, then ducked her head back in.
“I see legs.”
“Molly?”
“I think so. The woman up there is not wearing shoes. When I encountered Molly an hour ago, she didn’t have any shoes.”
“That’s her, then.”
“Whoever it is, I’m going to cripple her. A bullet in the ankle will slow her down. We stand up, flank her, it’s over.”
“We need to kill her.”
“No,” Nichole warned. “She has to answer for this.”
Amy gave her a crooked smile. “You’re the CIA agent.” She said it in a tone that sounded more like,
“That’s right,” Nichole said. “I am.”
Nichole held up her gun, then flung herself into the hallway. Arm extended, lining up a shot. Looking for that leg. Looking for that piece of ankle.
Instead of firing, she cursed.
“What?” Amy whispered.
Nichole pushed herself off the carpet and back to her original position. Amy didn’t need her to say anything, really. She knew what had happened.
The legs were gone.
Ania was lucky in a way. The bullet had passed straight through skin and muscle of her left shoulder. No bone. No joints. No place that couldn’t be endured, and later, repaired.
But she was spectacularly unlucky in that the bullet spun her and smashed her against the wall. Muscles that had already been in extremis now refused to function. She lay on the teal blue carpet, partially writhing in agony— this bullet hurt—and unable to execute a simple bodily command, such as:
Someone out there in the hallway had a gun.
Her guess was Amy.
Oh, how she’d underestimated that woman.
Amy Felton was a database warrior, an operations center soldier. There was no evidence she’d actually ever
But it was entirely possible she’d had years of field experience, under a different name, before taking a job with Murphy, Knox. In which case, Ania’s job became considerably more difficult.
Flipped over on her belly, Ania was able to use her elbows and knees to clear the hallway in a matter of seconds. She rolled over into the assistants’ area, nudged the door closed as quietly as she could.
This bought her a little time.
Ania hated the assistants’ area. It was a multipurpose part of the office meant for transcribers, researchers, and other assorted temps. David hired based on a tit-to-hip ratio, as well as eyes. Men rarely set foot in the assistants’ area; the domain belonged to women David could conceivably fall into bed with easily and without future entanglement.
Not that David ever did. Far as Ania could discern, he kept his office alliances limited, seeking release elsewhere in the city—usually from personal ads in the back of local alternative newsweeklies. She’d once found a ripped-out square of newspaper tucked in his DayMinder: “Let me swallow your Tastee Throat Yogurt.” There was a number printed on the ad. Someone—presumably David—had underlined it twice.
Ania was glad she would be killing David later.
But now it was Amy’s turn.
The assistants’ area was utterly devoid of weapons. Used PCs sat on top of Formica cubicle desks. Roll-out chairs. Plastic wastebaskets. Ceramic coffee mugs emblazoned with MURPHY, KNOX: PROUD TO CALL THE CITY OF BROTHERLY LOVE HOME … 5 YEARS RUNNING! Black plastic in-boxes. A wall of cork, painted pale blue, with pushpins grouped in one corner. A paper trimmer.
A paper trimmer.
Ania quickly examined the handle, the blade, the joint.
Her left arm was useless for the moment.
But her right …
She flipped open a compartment on her wrist bracelet and produced a mini Phillips-head screwdriver. She immediately set to work.
She could hear someone approaching.
Nichole motioned to Amy:
A thin trail of blood led to the door closest to Nichole.
Molly was shot.
