“And I don’t plan to pick any locks, but you never know what you might have to do in a pinch. Let’s face facts, Red. We’re going into a dangerous place, and this time I don’t want any mistakes, any chance of failure.”
31
Marlene just managed to get the door open before she dropped her bundles. The four large bags cascaded out of her arms before she could reach the sofa. A puff of air flipped the curl hanging over her forehead. She loved shopping, but getting the stuff home was sometimes a challenge. First she had to switch elevators at the forty-first floor, which meant finding her pass card and getting it into a slot. As if that wasn’t a big enough pain, she had to fumble with the cipher lock to get into her own apartment. With all this security, you’d think someone wanted to kill them.
As her breathing quieted, she heard voices from another room. Adrian was home early. Her breath caught in her throat, and her jaw set harshly. Did he have one of his women here? She did not think she could stand for it anymore. In the last few days she had more than fulfilled her obligations as a wife, and his carnal desires had grown steadily more extreme. She would not tolerate another woman. Not now.
Straightening her spine, she marched across the carpet headed into the study. At the doorway she stopped, listening for the voices inside. She did not hear a woman’s voice, but that of a man. It was the one she had heard her husband call Paul.
“No sir, just the fact that they escaped makes them a threat,” he was saying. “I’m afraid we’re putting ourselves in a position to underestimate these people.”
“What’s to underestimate?” Seagrave asked in the haughty voice he so often used toward his employees. “The woman’s a flake and the man’s probably terrified of tangling with Monk again. I’ll bet they’re still running. You’re just being paranoid.”
“I disagree,” Paul insisted. “Besides, you pay me to be paranoid. I’m trying to protect your safety. Just let me lay on a little extra security. I’d like a few more guards at the entrances and patrolling the floors.”
Marlene held her anger, but she felt she had seen enough. She strode into the room, her eyes on Paul.
“Adrian. What’s he doing here?”
“Business,” Seagrave said without looking at her.
“He’s one of those violent men you hire,” she said in an accusing, whining tone. “I can tell just looking at him. You think I don’t know what you do? I do, you know. And I imagine there are lots of people out there who would wish us ill because of it. But you promised me you’d never have those people in our home.”
When Seagrave turned toward her, all the frustration he had felt in the last few days showed in his eyes and she realized suddenly that she had crossed some invisible line. With unexpected strength Seagrave gripped her right arm and forced her down to her knees. His nails bit into her skin as his eyes burned into hers. Looking up at him, her lower lip began to quiver and she was close to tears.
“You listen to me, bitch. You don’t care how I do business when it’s buying you all those clothes, and all that jewelry, and trips to everywhere on earth. All you need to do is mind your damn business and be there when I want you.”
Seagrave’s voice had slowly risen to a squeaky falsetto. As the last sentence ended he drew his left hand back across his shoulder, preparing to swing his knuckles backhand across her face. Marlene gasped and stared into his face, too scared to even turn away.
“Sir!” Paul’s voice froze Seagrave’s swing.
“What is it?” Seagrave spun his head to see Paul’s face. The tall man’s ice blue eyes never wavered, his gaze both cold and hard.
“The men?”
“Yes, yes.” Seagrave released his wife’s arm and she backed away across the floor. “Get all you want, put them everywhere if that’ll make you happy. Now get out of here.”
Paul took one last long look at Marlene, as if expecting her to say something, then stepped silently out the door.
A crisp autumn breeze cut through the stocky blond man in the doorway. He put his hands into the pockets of his black leather jacket and hugged the corner of the doorjamb. His left side was chilled by the mini-Uzi slung under his arm, beneath his coat.
He thought it was stupid, posting guards downstairs on the street entrance. Nobody would try to break into the building that housed the Seagrave Corporation. Besides, if a problem came up, fifteen people on five floors were patrolling in patterns that only looked random. Here it was, almost four in the morning and he was wasting his time out here. His two buddies inside were sleepy too, but at least they were warm. At this time in the morning there wasn’t even enough traffic noise to keep him alert. The occasional taxi rolled past, but the business district was largely unmoving. Why did rich people always lay on extra protection after the action? Did they really think troublemakers would come back after barely getting away with their skins?
As the guard turned his jacket collar up, he noticed a black man rounding the corner and trudging toward him. The man showed weariness in each step, pushing a big-wheeled pretzel cart. He hugged a ragged coat around himself as he clicked down the sidewalk in worn-down shoes. The fingers were cut off his gloves. His beard was crinkly and a floppy slouch hat covered his head. He was thickening around the middle and he had the street urchin’s twinkle in his eye. As he came even with the door, the mouth-watering smell of his wares reached out to the guard.
“Hey, man,” the blonde at the door called. “What you doing out this early?”
“Not early, brother,” the vendor replied, in a thick West Indian accent. “Dis late. I tried a new spot and sold more pretzels den ever. Hey, you want one? You look cold, mon. Here, it’ll be on me. On de house.”
The blonde waved inside the building to the burly black man standing near the elevator. He looked out and noticed his partner tearing into a big, soft, hot pretzel. Smiling, he waved to the third ground floor guard, and they both marched out the door. They stood in a circle, their breath smoking out. All accepted the peddler’s gifts and celebrated his good fortune with him. They felt warm for a moment, and a bit friendlier. They grinned and waved as he headed up the block a few minutes later, the wheels of his cart squeaking rhythmically as he went.
Across the street, Felicity watched the trio from the darkness of an opposing doorway. She was dressed in her work clothes, holding a pair of opera glasses. She smiled broadly when she saw the first man yawn. After all, if it worked on guard dogs it would work on these hastily hired extra security men. The first one was leaning against a wall. By now she knew Morgan was around the next corner, peeling off the facial hair, the slouch hat and the padded, ragged coat. And he would be putting on more appropriate footwear for the work ahead.
Guard number two crouched in the hallway as the drugged pretzel took full effect. The third man was trying to rouse his two partners. He had a little more body mass, which may have been slowing the effects, but his own groggy mind appeared to be just coming to the realization that something was amiss.
From her right, Felicity could see Morgan jogging in toward the target building, all black in his own “business suit”. The only standing guard staggered back into the building. Three seconds later, Morgan followed. Five seconds after that, a black glove reached out the door and beckoned. She nodded, smiled, and sprinted across the street. Inside, she followed Morgan as he dragged the big man through the door into the fire stairs. She wished they could ride up but, unfortunately, elevators always have lights that announce an approaching car. Not the safest way to travel in a guarded building.
“I’m still not sure about your boots,” she said as the stairwell door closed behind her. “They might make too much noise on the steps. I’ve got to get you a pair of these special crepe soled boots.”
Morgan turned and closely examined the steel door they had just come through. “Don’t sweat it, Red. These fire doors are almost completely soundproof. Now, quit stalling and let’s get up there.”