Marlene was breathing hard, wheezing like an old window-mounted air conditioner. Felicity held her arm to steady her. Felicity’s eyes seemed a little out of focus, but her mouth was drawn into a hard line of determination he had only seen before on Rangers near the end of an all day road march. She was mad. Not mad at him or anybody in particular, but at the situation, and her anger was carrying her. His mind started playing an old Army cadence call.
Had a dog, his name was Blue.
Blue wanted to be a Ranger too.
They made him march for 28 days.
Now old Blue’s in a zombie haze
He smiled. Felicity wanted to be a Ranger too. Morgan had been there and done that. When people got that tired they didn’t think too well. His new partner was there now, and he had to fill in the thinking for her.
“Now listen,” Morgan said. His words were clipped, his voice terse. “It’s probably all smoke out there. You won’t want your eyes open, but you’ve got to get out. If you get lost in the lobby, you’re dead. Understand? The lobby door is about six paces to the right, then left about twenty. Got it?”
“Right six, left twenty,” Felicity said in a robotic voice. “Right.”
“When I push this door open, take a deep breath and crouch down as low as you can. Hold your breath, clamp your eyes shut and run. Hang on to Mrs. Seagrave and drag her if you have to. There’s nothing in your way. When you hit the door to the outside, you’ll know it. Ready? Go!”
Morgan slammed his back against the door’s lever, swinging it open. Smoke curled in on him. The women slipped past, arms linked. He followed, hefting Paul in his arms. It was a long twenty seconds of darkness, following the sound of Marlene’s feet on the marble floor. He was grateful that she was barefoot because despite her exhaustion, Felicity’s boots were silent. Paul choked and gagged in his arms. Morgan’s eyes smarted from the thick smoke, even with his lids clamped shut. Even his own saliva tasted of smoke while he held his breath.
Strong hands clamped onto his left leg, pulling him off balance. Someone must have gotten trapped in the lobby. It could be an innocent employee, or it might be one of the guards who ran from Seagrave’s meeting room. Morgan didn’t have the luxury of distinguishing. He managed to right himself on his left foot just long enough to manage a single stamp kick. It was enough to free him. He staggered forward, out of breath and out of time. He stumbled, almost dropping Paul. His shoulder hit something hard, but whatever it was, it moved.
The barrier slid aside and a blast of cool air froze the dampness on his face. Two sets of arms stopped him. He gulped fresh air and collapsed. He cracked his eyes open to see that a pair of firemen was helping him walk. Someone clamped an oxygen mask over Paul’s face and lifted him away. The firemen holding Morgan’s arms lowered him to a seated position, leaning against the giant tire of a hook and ladder truck, and went back to work. His head hung between his legs, his eyes burning. Bull horns nearby blasted instructions to bystanders and emergency personnel.
Morgan’s head spun, and the air tasted like water that had been in the refrigerator too long. It was all catching up to him now. His showdown with Paul. The shoot-out in the conference room, so much like a mad minute back in Vietnam. His brief, terrible battle with Monk. The fire. Forty-one flights of stairs, carrying a body all the way, racing against the blaze. And now, after all that, would come the moment of greatest danger.
There he sat, surrounded by police. His windbreaker was wrapped around Marlene Seagrave now, so there was no concealing the loaded gun he was carrying, not to mention three knives. Felicity was still laden with burglar tools and a live hand grenade. The building they just left was ablaze and two charred bodies were stretched out on the pavement around there somewhere. Any minute now, a nurse medical tech would be asking him how he was and what happened upstairs. He and Felicity were left with way too much to explain. What, he wondered, would they be charged with? Breaking and entering? Burglary? Arson? Murder? These days, maybe even terrorism. They were alone, with no witnesses and no defense.
Gathering his remaining strength, Morgan forced himself to his feet and trudged heavily over toward Felicity. She and Marlene Seagrave were talking to a police captain. Morgan had to step over hoses and avoid rushing fire fighters on the way. This scene of confusion, he realized, was all taking place inside a police barricade. Several trucks and emergency vehicles were parked too closely together in an overlapping pattern, like so many red and yellow pick-up sticks. What looked like an army of men was fighting what he could now see was a major fire. He looked around for Monk and Seagrave, but someone must have already cleared that mess away.
When he reached Felicity, he was surprised to find her looking solemn, but not worried or frightened. She raised a palm to Morgan, cautioning him to stay silent. Marlene, still in her nightgown and Morgan’s windbreaker, was speaking to a detective now. Morgan could barely hear her words over the fire fighters’ clopping boots and shouted commands.
“That’s right, Marlene Seagrave,” she said, as a fireman wrapped a blanket around her shoulders. She was biting her lip and looking every bit the grieving widow. “My husband is, or was, Adrian Seagrave, the importer. We live, lived, in an apartment in this building. Our offices were here and he insisted on living where he worked.”
“And these people?” the policeman asked.
“These people? Oh, they’re in my husband’s employ as, eh…”
“We’re security personnel, sir,” Felicity said, somehow looking helpful and supportive.
“Yes, that’s right, security,” Marlene said, nodding. “There were others, but they all ran off. This man and this woman risked their lives to save me and that other fellow, and I don’t even know their names.” She gulped back a very sincere and convincing sob. “I’ll be happy to make a more extensive statement to you and the press after my new friends and I get a shower. Can I please go get some clothes on?”
As the police moved away, Felicity turned toward Morgan. Her confident expression melted like a wax mask. Exhaustion washed over her face and she fell into Morgan’s arms. A man standing nearby turned from the police to point a camera at them. His automatic flash stabbed Morgan’s eyes. Morgan twisted away, reflexively trying to avoid being identified.
“Who the hell are you?”
“Daily News,” the man said, not even bothering to offer his name. Instead he pushed a pocket tape recorder toward their faces. “Fires happen every day. You guys are the story here. From what the other woman said, you two are real heroes.”
34
On a cool spring evening, a sleek black Corvette slid into a parking space in at an exclusive marina on the ocean side of Long Island. The passenger side door opened and a tall, powerfully built black man got out. He appeared vaguely uncomfortable in a navy blue suit and tie. His shoes were hand made Italian slip-ons. He walked around the car and opened the door for the driver, a slender, stately redhead. She was dressed simply in a jade silk gown that matched her eyes.
“That’s her boat,” Felicity said, pointing down a long pier.
“Boat?” Morgan snorted. “Red, when they get into the two hundred foot class, I don’t think you call them boats. They become yachts. This old girl’s two hundred eighteen feet from stem to stern.”