What he hadn’t imagined was that the Girl Who Walks Through Walls would come to avenge a man he’d killed thirteen months ago. It presented him with one hell of an opportunity. He wanted to reach Smith? Here was one of the terrorist’s most trusted soldiers. The woman who had pulled the trigger on March 12 and blown up the Exchange, killing 1,143 people. He fought the urge to knock her unconscious and leave her for his old team.
But she was just a piece. He wanted the player.
“I don’t know,” he said. “For Brandon Vargas, I guess.” He gave that half a second to sink in, then said, “Let’s go.”
The door bore a sign that read NO ENTRY: EXIT ON GROUND FLOOR. He put a palm against it and pushed. It swung open. On the way through he pulled off the duct tape he’d applied last night to keep the latch from catching. Wonderful stuff, duct tape.
“Now what?”
He ignored her and strode down the hall. A woman smiled as he passed. A cubicle jock did cubicle jock things. The break room was just a wider space in the hall, a fridge buzzing away, packets of coffee creamer and plastic silverware. The window had been painted a dozen times, thick layers that locked it shut. He slid one end of the crowbar under the sash and jerked downward. The paint cracked, and something squealed. Another jerk, and the thing popped open half an inch. He forced it the rest of the way, then climbed out onto another fire escape, half a block away and two stories up from the one they’d arrived at. A train was pulling into the El station. Perfect.
“You’re kidding.” She leaned over the railing.
“Nope.” He climbed up, balanced for a moment, then leaned forward. Felt gravity begin to take him. At the last second he flexed his legs and leaped off. Below streaked the same unforgiving concrete, the same buzzing cars, the same empty air. Then he hit the roof of the El platform, bending his knees and falling into a roll. The metal bonged and rang at the impact, but the arriving train masked the noise. Behind him he heard the same metallic clatter, softer than his, and then they crouched side by side atop the roof as the silver train drew to a stop. He waited until the flow of riders on and off the train had ebbed, and then, with an easy step, he moved onto the roof of the second car. Lowered himself down and army-crawled to the front, got a good grip on the lip, and braced his feet. The metal was cold and dirty. A moment later, the girl joined him. She looked sideways, shook her head. “Asshole.”
He grinned. “Doors are closing. Please hold on.”
There was a lurch like an elevator starting, and then the train began to move.
Most of the plan he’d been reasonably sure of. His old agency hadn’t yet taken into account the fact that he knew their techniques. They were using the same playbook. So it had been easy to create a situation where the flashbangs would buy him time, where he could use standard protocol to his advantage, where he could lure every available agent to one spot and then double back from it. But he’d never ridden atop a moving train before.
After everything else he’d done in the last few minutes, it turned out to be almost easy. According to his d-pad, on a long straightaway the trains could hit fifty-five miles an hour. He didn’t know if they’d be able to hold on under those circumstances, clinging to the slick metal by lousy handholds. Fortunately, they were in the Loop, where trains made a circle before running back the way they’d come. The greatest risk came as they rounded a corner and the train rocked sideways, but he’d anticipated it and braced for the motion. The wind was exhilarating, and the expressions he saw on the faces of people in the buildings made getting shot at worthwhile. They rode through two stops, and he was almost sad when the third came up.
Goddamn, but I’m good. He stood, started for the edge of the train. The doors had opened, and riders were pouring in and out. He’d wait till they were mostly gone and then jump off just before—
She came from behind, her knee knocking out his as her hands took his shoulders. He was going down, no arguing with physics, but why had he turned his back on her in the first place? They hit the roof of the train, bounced. He slipped her hold, twisted, raised one arm to strike.
The Girl Who Walks Through Walls pointed, alarm in her eyes. Cooper narrowed his, risked a quick glance over his shoulder. Passengers leaving the train, men and women, tourists and businesspeople, a flight attendant, a couple of students…and two men in suits.
Roger Dickinson said, “Damn it. I was sure he’d double back.”
“You want to check the train again, sir?” Bobby Quinn had a dryly insubordinate tone, but it was the “sir” that caught Cooper’s attention. Peters must have promoted the man, probably given him Cooper’s old position. That was bad news. Whatever else he might be, Roger Dickinson was very good at his job.
“No, I don’t want to check the train again, Bobby. You know what I want? To know you’re on the right side.”
“I told you, I don’t believe Coop’s a terrorist.”
“Yeah? Even though he blew up the Exchange?”
“He didn’t blow up—”
“Right. He just went there seconds before it blew up, then vanished and started robbing DAR labs. And that woman he was holding hands with, she’s the one who killed Bryan Vasquez. So tell me again. How is Cooper one of the good guys here?”
“I don’t know.” Quinn’s voice was dogged. “But I still don’t believe he’s with Smith.”
“Get it through your head, Bobby. Your girlfriend, he’s a—”
“Doors are closing. Please hold on.” There was a loud bing-bong, and then the train started moving. Cooper barely had time to grab the lip of the car. A strange and awful heaviness tightened his stomach. He’d been cocky there, had almost stepped right in front of his old colleagues. He’d seen how fast Dickinson was. And Cooper was unarmed. If I’d jumped down, he’d have killed me.
When he turned to look at her, The Girl Who Walks Through Walls met his gaze briefly. Then she looked away.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
It was a far cry from an executive suite at the Continental.