Riley swallowed, trying to draw up a little moisture. His throat hurt like helclass="underline" “All right,” he rasped. “First. Luce show them where the gun was.”
The compact woman lifted the back of her sweatshirt and slid the mini-Uzi into the harness strapped around her body. She smiled demurely and swiftly drew the submachine gun back out. Then she put the gun down on the ground and lifted the right leg of her jeans. A small automatic was cinched to her right calf. She lifted the front of her sweatshirt slightly. Unsnapping her belt buckle, she folded out the knife on the reverse side.
Riley bowed in her direction. “I won’t even begin to tell you what she has in her bra.”
The cops laughed nervously, not sure if he was joking.
He walked over and stood next to her. “Just because she’s a woman doesn’t mean she can’t kill you.” He slashed forward with his left hand in a karate strike for her throat. She easily blocked it, grabbed his hand, and then twisted underneath, locking his elbow over her shoulder, the pressure on the joint lifting him up to his toes. Riley tapped her with his free hand and she released him. “In fact, studies have shown that female terrorists are much more ruthless than men. Thanks, Luce.” She turned and left the room.
Riley shook his head. “Rule number one. Everyone gets cuffed. Everyone. Hostages included. The easiest thing for a bad person to do if they want to get out alive is play the victim in this situation. It doesn’t look good on the news to have cuffed hostages, but it beats being dead.” He coughed and cleared his throat. After a brief glance around, he walked over to the window and spit.
“All right. The entry was good. Let’s remember something though. We’ve got to work this up to where you can do it not only at night but wearing gas masks. Your normal crook in a hostage situation is going to be relatively unprepared, so it’s to your advantage to gas your objective. That’s why we’ve designated your blooper man and had him practice putting his tear gas rounds through windows out on the range.
“But let’s also worst-case things. If your intelligence indicates you’re up against professionals, then you have to expect they’re wearing gas masks too.” Riley’s head hurt. Every time he taught this stuff he started getting into this worst-case cycle. “So then you’re back to square one. But that’s what—”
“What have you done?” A burly policeman, his bulk enhanced by the flak vest he wore, had asked the question.
“Excuse me?”
The cop’s gray mustache twitched as he spat the words out. “We’ve been listening to you prattling on for four days now about what we should and shouldn’t do. Well, I’ve spent eighteen years on the streets here. I’ve been in three shoot-outs, and I just want to know what your qualifications are.”
Riley sighed. “I spent three years in the 10th Special Forces Group. Then three years in a classified counterterrorist unit overseas. I’ve been to—”
“Yeah. I heard all that the first day,” the cop interrupted. “But what I want to know is if you’ve ever been shot at or if you ever shot anyone. Eh?”
Riley looked at the man for a long time as he considered his answer. Finally he lied. “No.”
The cop nodded. “I thought so. Well, I have, and you can tell us all this, but it don’t make a bit of difference when the shit hits the fan. You stand there and—”
“Riley.” Luce was in the doorway with the portable phone in her hand. “The colonel’s on the phone for you. He wants to talk to you now.”
“All right. You take over. Do another run through.” Riley could feel the eyes of all the occupants of the room on his back as he took the phone from his partner. He walked down the hallway and stepped out into the brisk fall weather.
“This is Riley, sir.”
Colonel Pike wasted no time on pleasantries. “I want Luce to finish out the contract. I’ve got a friend in trouble and I need your help.”
Riley didn’t hesitate. “Yes, sir.” He knew the colonel was worried about him and that Luce had been assigned as his partner to keep an eye on him, but Riley felt that he did his job well enough. What he did in his off-duty time was his own business. He’d been at this job for a little more than a month now, and although it had kept him busy, there were still times when there was no work and the four walls of the hotel room closed in. Those times were the worst. He wondered what the colonel had conjured up for him now.
“Your tickets will be waiting at the Delta counter at the airport. The flight takes off in forty-five minutes, so get moving. Give me a call when you get on the ground.”
AS the western coastline of the United States disappeared behind them, Conner allowed her mind to drift ahead to the landing in New Zealand and then back in time. She wondered if Devlin would be the same as she remembered him from Chicago more than a year ago.
She’d first seen him chained to the outlet pipe of a factory that poured thousands of gallons of polluted water into Lake Michigan every hour. Devlin and three other members of Our Earth had stayed there for four hours, letting the filth pour over them, while other members of the group held banners and protested nearby. Finally, even the security men for the plant couldn’t take it anymore and they had moved in with bolt cutters to break the chains.
Conner had already gotten enough footage for a good minute-and-a-half spot, but she still followed the police wagon down to the station, where Devlin and his partners were booked for unlawful trespass. She was impressed with the efficiency of the Our Earth organization as the men were bailed out in almost record speed.
Devlin was coming out of the courtroom, still clad in his filthy overalls, when he spotted her standing by the door. He walked over to her and smiled. “The news lady. Channel 4. How much time do we get tonight? Thirty seconds?”
Conner looked up at his grime-streaked face and decided he was worth more than a perfunctory two-to-three-minute chat. She already knew some background and hoped to coax more from him. Randall Simpson Devlin was almost more of a story than the group to which he gave all of his time and the majority of his money. And money was the key to Devlin — his family was loaded, thanks to a hardworking great-grandfather, good family marriages, and efficient tax attorneys.
She knew from her research that Devlin’s childhood had been spent in East Coast mansions surrounded by the best primary caretakers money could buy. His first toy car was large enough for him to ride in; his first pet was a pony. His father had hoped he would enter the family business after the Choate-Ivy League route, but Devlin at eighteen had turned away from his family’s money and connections to make it on his own. Conner’s theory was that in Our Earth he had found a way to assuage his guilt and thereby enjoy the fruits of his ancestor’s labor.
Standing there outside the police station, Conner was impressed that he both knew who she was and had spotted her at the plant. She wanted to know more. There was a great story standing in front of her and she meant to get it. “No, sixty seconds. But I can make it ninety if you let me buy you a drink and then talk to me.”
She wasn’t sure why she had asked him out for the drink. It just seemed like the right thing to do. It was far more than the story. The facts that Devlin was attractive, rich, and would be gone from the city in the morning and out of her life were very enticing.
Devlin smiled at her. “I’m not exactly dressed to go out. How about we go back to my hotel while I get changed. I’ll take that drink and talk when I’m clean.”