Loyalty in Death

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Clarissa was gone. There was nothing to be gained by berating and browbeating the guard on duty, but Eve did it anyway.

"She looks at him, smiles tearfully, and asks if she can go sit in the gardens." Eve rolled her eyes and tapped the note Clarissa had left behind in her palm. "Then she uses the can I have a glass of water routine she did with Zeke and our boneheaded hero runs off to fetch."

She circled the conference room, waiting for Zeke to be brought in. "Oops, where'd she go? It takes him thirty fucking minutes to call it in because he's so sure a sweet little thing like her is still around somewhere. But does he check her room? See the tearful good-bye note?"

Eve unfolded it again while Peabody wisely remained silent.

I'm sorry, so sorry, for everything that happened. It was my fault. All of it. Please forgive me. I'm doing what's best for Zeke. He can't be held responsible. I can never face him again.

"So she leaves him holding the bag. Let's hear it for true love." Though Peabody said nothing, Eve held up her hand and began to go through the steps and stages. "Zeke hears them fighting through the vent in the workroom. It's Branson's house, his workroom. He knows Zeke's down there. According to Clarissa, he was wild to keep anyone from knowing he knocked her around. So why doesn't he fix the damn vent? The staff's all droids, so he doesn't worry about them. But he's got a live one now."

"You think he wanted Zeke to hear?"

"Follow along, Peabody. I've been working this out since last night."

"Last night?" Peabody's mouth dropped open. "But, Dallas, there was nothing in the prelim report about – "

She broke off, winced, as Eve shot her a cool stare. "You read my prelim, Officer Peabody?"

"Strap me in irons," Peabody muttered, "and flog me. He's my brother."

"I'll reserve the flogging for a later date. No, I didn't put anything into the prelim because the main concern was getting Zeke's story down and putting him in the clear. But the whole deal screamed setup. Slick, organized, damn well-oiled, but a setup."

"I don't see it."

"You can't see past Zeke. Take the steps here. They pull Zeke in from out west. I don't care how good he is, they could've found somebody to do this work without transporting him in. But they pull him, a single guy, a Free-Ager. Branson kicks his wife to hell and back, but he lets her import a young, attractive man into the house. And he's diddling with having carpentry work done when, we suspect, he's laying plans for the biggest terrorist siege on the city since the Urban Wars."

"None of it makes sense."

"Not separately, but it does when you connect the dots. He needed a fall guy."

"But, for God's sake, Dallas, Zeke killed him."

"I don't think so. Why haven't they found the body? Why did this cowed, terrified woman manage to get rid of it in less than five minutes?"

"But – who died?"

"This time around, I don't think anybody did. Toys and tools, Peabody. I've seen several of the prototype droids Roarke's R and D department's got under production. You wouldn't make them at a glance, even a close look." She glanced around as Zeke came in, followed by Dr. Mira.

"Doctor?"

"Zeke's my patient, and he's under considerable distress." Gently, Mira walked him to a chair. "If you feel it's necessary to interview him, I want to be here."

"Zeke, do you want your lawyer?" Eve asked him, and he only shook his head. Sympathy threatened to surface. She knew firsthand how miserable Testing could be. She set the recorder, sat across from him. "I just have a few questions. How many times did you meet Branson?"

"I only saw him twice. Once over the 'link and then last night."

"Just once, over a 'link?" But he'd recognized Zeke instantly. Branson had reportedly been stumbling drunk, but he'd tagged Zeke at a glance. "The whore and the handyman," Zeke had quoted him as saying. "So most of your contact was through Clarissa. How much time did you spend together?"

"Not a lot. When she was in Arizona, we talked. We had lunch a couple of times." He looked up quickly. "It was harmless."

"What did you talk about?"

"Just… things. All sorts of things."

"Did she ask you about yourself?"

"I guess, yeah. She was so relaxed and happy. Not like she is here. She liked hearing about my work, and she was interested in Free-Agism. She said it sounded like such a gentle and kind religion."

"Zeke, did she come onto you?"

"No!" His shoulders straightened. "It was nothing like that. She was married. I knew she was married. She was just lonely. There was something there." He said it with a wonder that made Eve's heart sink for him. "Right away, and we both knew it, but we wouldn't have done anything. I didn't know how he treated her, I just knew she was unhappy."

"Last night was the first time you'd actually seen Branson in person. He never came down to the workroom, never called you up to discuss the projects?"

"No, he never came down."

Eve sat back. She was willing to bet Zeke had yet to meet B. Donald Branson in the flesh. "That's all I need for now. Zeke, you're going to have to stay here, in Central."

"In a cell?"

"No. But you have to stay here."

"Can I see Clarissa?"

"We'll talk about that later." Eve rose. "The uniform will take you up to the recreation area. There's a sleeping bin off the side. I think you should tranq up and use it."

"I don't use tranqs."

"Me, either." She softened enough to smile at him. "Use the bin anyway. Get some rest."

"Zeke." There was so much Peabody wanted to say, wanted to do, but she held it in and looked at him soberly. "You can trust Dallas."

"I'll be up in a minute." Mira patted his arm. "We'll use meditation." She waited until the uniform came to take him out. "My testing is complete enough for me to give you an evaluation."

"I don't need it." Eve cut her off. "It's for the record, not for me. He's not going to be charged."

Mira relaxed fractionally. In the last two hours, Zeke had slipped past her professional veneer. "He's suffering. The idea that he took a life, however accidentally – "

"It wasn't an accident," Eve corrected. "It was a setup. If I'm on target, B. Donald Branson's very much alive, and most likely with his wife. I can't get into the details, I don't have time," she continued. "You looked at Clarissa's statement, you viewed the recording."

"Yes. It's a classic case of abuse and shattered self-esteem."

"Classic," Eve agreed with a nod. "Like textbook. Like line for line out of a case study. She didn't miss a trick, did she?"

"I don't know what you mean."

"No friends, no family support. Delicate, helpless woman dominated by an older, stronger man. He drinks, he beats her. He rapes her. She sticks. 'Where will I go, what will I do?'"

Mira folded her hands. "I realize you would find her inability to change her situation a sign of weakness, but it isn't at all atypical."

"No, it's dead typical. And I'm saying that's just how she played it. Played Zeke, played me, and would have played you. I think you'd have caught on, and she probably figured the same. That's why she's gone. And when we check Branson's financials, I guarantee the money's gone, too."

"What possible reason would the Bransons have to fake his death?"

"The same reason they arranged his brother's. Money. The same reason they timed it to pull part of the team away from the central theme. More money, with a little payback thrown in. We'll tie them to Apollo. Sooner or later, something'll click. Take care of Zeke. If I'm right, we'll be able to tell him he didn't kill anyone. Let's move, Peabody."

"I can't keep up," Peabody told her. "I can't get it straight in my head."

"You will, when we get the rest of the pieces. Check those financials."

Peabody scrambled to keep pace as they worked their way down to the garage. "Jesus, Branson transferred fifty million – that's most of the fluid cash in the business – to an off-planet, coded account. He did it last night, two hours before Zeke…"

"Check their personal accounts."

Working one-handed, Peabody slid into the car. "Six personals, between twenty and forty apiece. He cleaned them out yesterday."

"A nice little nest egg for Cassandra." As she drove, Eve contacted Feeney on her communicator.

"Voiceprints match," he told her. "Now how are we going to arrest a dead guy?"

"I'm working on it. Take a run by Branson T and T; take a look at the droids in development. Did we get the order for tapping Monica Rowan's lines?"

"They're tapped. Not a peep so far."

"Keep me up." She ended transmission. "Peabody, contact the locals up in Maine, get a black and white to do a runby. I want Monica under wraps."

– =O=-***-=O=-

Lisbeth wasn't pleased to see cops at her door. She stared through Eve and ignored Peabody. "I have nothing to say to you. My counsel has advised – "

"Save it." Eve pushed her way in.

"This is harassment. One call to my lawyer, and I'll have your badge."

"How tight were the Branson boys, Lisbeth?"

"Excuse me?"

"J. C. must have talked to you about his brother. What did they think of each other?"

"They were brothers." Lisbeth shrugged. "They ran a business together. They had their ups and downs."

"Did they fight?"

"J. C. didn't fight with anyone, really." Something like grief flickered in her eyes and was quickly shut down. "They disagreed occasionally."

"Who ran the show?"

"B. D. ran the show." Lisbeth waved a hand. "J. Clarence was better with people, and creatively he enjoyed having input in new projects. It didn't bother him that B. D. held the reins."

"What was his relationship with Clarissa?"

"He liked her, of course. She's a charming woman. I think she intimidated him somewhat. She's very formal and aloof for all that air of fragility."

"Really, but you were friends?"

"Friendly. After all, we were both involved with a Branson. We socialized, with and without them."

"Did she ever tell you B. D. mistreated her?"

"Mistreated?" Lisbeth let out a short laugh. "The man fawned on her. All she had to do was bat her eyes and purr and he jumped."

Eve glanced toward the wall screen, noted it was turned off. "Not watching the news these days?"

"No." She turned her head and for a moment looked tired and strained. "I'm making arrangements to clean up some personal matters before I transfer to the rehabilitation center."

"Then you wouldn't have heard that B. Donald Branson was killed last night."

"What?"

"He fell during a struggle when he was beating his wife."

"That's ridiculous. That's absurd. He wouldn't lay a hand on Clarissa. He worships her."

"Clarissa claims he's been abusing her physically for years."

"Then she's a liar," Lisbeth snapped out. "He treated her like a princess, and if she says otherwise, she's lying through her teeth."

She stopped abruptly, went very pale.

"You didn't find the photographs in your mail slot, did you, Lisbeth? You had them handed to you by someone you trusted – someone you thought cared about J.C."

"I – I found them."

"No point in lying to protect the Bransons. He's dead, and she's gone. Who gave you the photographs of J. C., Lisbeth? Who gave them to you and told you that he was cheating on you?"

"I saw the pictures. I saw them with my own eyes. He was with that blond bitch."

"Who gave them to you?"

"Clarissa." She blinked once, twice, and tears started to stream. "She brought them to me, and she was crying. She said how sorry she was, how sorry. She begged me not to tell anyone she'd given them to me."

"How did she get them?"

"I never asked. I just looked at them, and I went crazy. She told me it had been going on for months, and she couldn't pretend not to know any longer. She couldn't stand to see me hurt and J. C. ruin his life over some cheap lay. She knew how jealous I was, she knew. When I got to his house, he denied it. He told me I was crazy, there wasn't any blonde. But I'd seen! And the next thing I knew, I was picking up that drill. Oh my God, oh my God. J.C."

She collapsed into the chair, wailing.

"Get her a tranq, Peabody." Eve's voice held no sympathy. "We'll have a car come by and pick her up. When she's pulled it together, McNab can take a statement."

– =O=-***-=O=-

"I know we're pressed for time." Peabody jumped in the car again. "But I feel like I'm three steps behind."

"Branson's connected to Cassandra. Clarissa's connected to Branson, Zeke's connected to Clarissa. We're led to believe that both the Branson brothers meet with untimely and violent ends within a week of each other. Meanwhile, the accounts are stripped. Zeke's brought in from clear across the country to work at the Branson house, and within a couple of days, he's tangled with Branson over Clarissa and supposedly killed him. But Clarissa, out of her fear and concern for Zeke, loses the body.

"That's the part that hung me up all along, but a guy tells you he kills another guy, you generally go with it. Still we've got no body, and there's nothing on the droid playback to indicate he was instructed to weigh it down. The search team's sensors don't pick another up, it doesn't bob up and float, but we know it got tossed in the river."

"Droids don't float, and the sensors are looking for flesh, blood, and bone."

"See, you're catching up. Now, we connect those dots. Zeke killed himself a droid. We have Lisbeth's statement that there were never any beatings, no rapes, and odds are she'd have known if there were. Through J. C., if not on her own. We have the coincidence that Zeke just happened to be in the right place at the right time to hear beatings and rapes, then Clarissa turns to him for help. She's already scoped him; she knows the kind of man he is, and very likely made the subtle kind of play for him he wouldn't see as a come-on."

"He doesn't understand women," Peabody murmured. "He's practically still a kid."

"He wouldn't understand this one if he'd hit the century mark. She trolled for him and reeled him in. She and Branson got rid of the brother, which leads me to believe he wasn't involved in Cassandra. He was weight, so they ditched him. I'm primary on the case, and they don't want me looking too hard, having just the kind of talk with Lisbeth I just finished having, so they tag me on the bombings. Blowing up the city's going to pull my attention away from a plea bargain I know I can't change."

"Whoever had pulled J. C. Branson's homicide would have been tagged? They moved to you because of that?" Peabody considered. "That was their big mistake."

"That was excellent sucking up, Peabody. Smooth, subtle."

"I've been practicing."

"The politics are more smoke – pull the attention away, waste our time. It's the money they're after and the sheer delight in destroying."

"But they have money."

"More's better, especially if you grew up on the run, hiding out, maybe scraping for the good life. What do you want to bet Clarissa Branson spent her formative years in Apollo?"

"That's a big leap, Lieutenant."

"'We are loyal,'" Eve quoted as she zipped through the security gate to the parking area under Roarke's midtown offices.

Peabody gawked a little when they moved into the private elevator, but before she could comment, Eve's 'link beeped.

"Lieutenant Dallas? Captain Sully, Boston PD. The patrols just reported in from the Rowan address. Monica Rowan has been the victim of what appears to be a bungled B and E. She's dead."

"Damn it. I'll need a full report on that, priority level, Captain."

"I'll get you as much as I can as quick as I can. Sorry we can't be of more help."

"So am I," Eve murmured as she ended the call. "Goddamn it, I should've put a wall around her."

"How could you know?"

"I do know. Just a little too late." She strode out of the elevator, moved past Roarke's efficient assistant without stopping.

Efficiency prevailed, however. Roarke was opening the door for her himself when Eve got there.

"Lieutenant, I didn't expect you personally."

"I'm heading in. I'm pressed to the wall here." She looked in his eyes, wished she could say… wanted to. "Things are coming together, and the clock's running."

"Then you'll want your bait." He looked into her eyes. "I assume several million in counterfeit bonds is bait – with you as hook."

"We're closing in. With any luck, this should finish it. I – Peabody, take a walk," she said without looking back.

"Sir?"

"Step out, Peabody."

"Stepping out, Lieutenant."

"Look…" Eve began. "I'm really hitting the wire on this, so I can't get into stuff. I'm sorry about before."

"You're sorry I'm irritated."

"Okay, fine. I'm sorry you're irritated, but I have to ask for a favor."

"Personal or official?"

Oh, he was going to make it tough. She leveled her gaze, and a muscle in her cheek twitched. "Both. I need everything you can dig up on Clarissa Branson – everything – And I need it really fast. I can't spare Feeney, and even if I could, you'll be quicker and you won't leave fingerprints."

"Where do you want me to send the data?"

"I need you to call me with it, privacy mode, on my personal palm-link. I don't want her to know I'm looking."

"She won't." He turned and lifted a wide steel case. "Your bonds, Lieutenant."

She tried a smile. "I won't ask you how you managed this so fast."

He didn't smile back. "Best not."

She nodded, hefted the case, and felt miserable. She couldn't remember another time when they'd been together for five minutes and he hadn't touched her in some way. She'd gotten so used to it, so dependent on it, that she felt the loss like a backhanded slap.

"Thanks. I'll – The hell with it." She took a fistful of his hair, and swallowing what for her was a great gulp of pride, pressed her mouth hard to his. "See you later," she muttered and turned on her heel, stormed out.

Now he smiled, just a little, and walked to his desk to do the favor she'd asked of him.

– =O=-***-=O=-

"You okay, Dallas?"

"Yeah, shit. I'm dancing." She was stripped down to her undershirt and jeans, a fact which mildly embarrassed both her and Feeney.

"I can call in a female to, ah, finish this."

"Hell, I don't want any ham-handed EDD chick pawing at me. Just do it."

"All right, okay." He cleared his throat, rolled his shoulders. "The tracker's wireless. It's going to go right over your heart. We figure they'll scan you, but we're going to coat it with this stuff – it's like skin. They're using it on droids. If they pick it up at all, it'll look like a blemish or something."

"So they'll think I have a pimple on my tit. Fine."

"You know, Peabody could do this."

"Jesus, Feeney." Somebody had to get going, so keeping her gaze trained over his shoulder, she yanked up her shirt. "Put the damn thing where it goes."

The next five minutes were mortifying for both of them.

"You, ah, want to hold your shirt out for a couple of minutes, till the skin strip dries."

"I've got it."

"I'll be on the tracker myself. We'll be able to monitor your location through your heartbeat. We rigged this wrist unit." Relieved the worst was over, he picked it up from the table. "The mike's low frequency, so it shouldn't pop on a scan, but its range is a joke, and you're going to have to talk straight into it for us to pick you up. This is just backup."

"I'll take it." Eve removed her own unit, replaced it. "Anything else I should know?"

"We're positioning men all over Grand Central. You won't be on your own. Nobody moves in until you give the go-ahead, but they're there."

"Good to know."

"Dallas, any protective gear over your chest will jam the tracker."

She stared at him. "No vest?"

"Your choice. Gear or tracker."

"Hell, they're more likely to blast me in the head, anyway."

"Goddamn it."

"Joking." But she rubbed a hand over her mouth. "Any line on the target?"

"Nothing so far."

"You looked over the droids at Branson T and T?"

"Yeah, they've got a new Brainiac line." He smiled a little now. "New shell covering, too. Next best to skin. But they're toys," he added. "I didn't see anything full size."

"Doesn't mean they aren't there. Those toys capable of acting out a scene like what happened at Branson's?"

"If they were six foot instead of six inches, yeah. I'd say. Creepy little bastards, you ask me."

"That's my personal 'link," she said when she heard the signal. "I have to take this. It's private."

"Okay, I'll be outside. We're ready to roll when you are."

Alone, she took out her 'link, engaged the privacy mode by unfolding and slipping on her headphones. "Dallas."

"I have your data, Lieutenant." Roarke's eyes narrowed. "Where's your shirt?"

"Somewhere. Here." She grabbed it up. "What have you got?"

"She checks out easily if you skim the first few levels. Born in Kansas thirty-six years ago, parents are teachers, pure middle class, one sister, married with son. She went through the local school system, worked for a short time as a department store clerk. She married Branson about ten years ago, moved to New York. I assume you have all that."

"I want what's under it."

"So I thought. The names her records show as parents did indeed have a daughter named Clarissa born thirty-six years ago. However, she died at the age of eight. Scraping off the levels, we find this dead child with school and employment records and a marriage license."

"Bogus."

"Yes, indeed. A little dip into Clarissa Stanley's medical files indicates she hasn't seen the age of thirty-six for some time. She's forty-six. Tracing the data input, it appears Clarissa was reborn twelve years ago. Whoever, whatever she was before, has been wiped. I might be able to jiggle some out, but it won't be quick."

"That's enough for now. She wanted a new ID, and not to carve ten years off her age."

"If you do a bit more math, you see that she would have been exactly the same age as Charlotte Rowan when Apollo headquarters was destroyed."

"I've already done the math, thanks."

"Since I followed your avenue here, I took it a bit farther."

"Farther where?"

"Some may disagree," he said with a long look at her, "but people in intimate relationships generally have some common ground and a general knowledge of each other's ambitions and activities."

Guilt fizzed back into her chest. "Look, Roarke – "

"Shut up, Eve." He said it so pleasantly, she did. "Since it appears Clarissa may have close ties with Rowan and Apollo, I did some back-checking on B. Donald. Nothing in particular there, except for a number of large and perhaps questionable contributions to the Artemis Society."

"Another Greek god?"

"Yes, and Apollo's twin. I doubt we'll find any data on it in the banks. However, looking a generation back, I found that E. Francis Branson, B. D.'s father, contributed large amounts to this same organization. He was also – according to CIA files – briefly an operative. He not only knew James Rowan but worked with him."

"Which closed the link between the Bransons and the Rowans. Branson grew up with Apollo; so did Clarissa. They hooked up and kept heading down the same path. We are loyal." She let out a breath. "Thanks."

"You're welcome. Eve, how much of a risk are you about to take?"

"I'll have backup."

"That wasn't my question."

"Nothing I can't handle. I appreciate the help."

"Any time."

Words, many of them foolish, bubbled into her throat. And Feeney stuck his head in the door. "We have to move, Dallas."

"Yeah, right. I'm there. Time to saddle up," she said with a half smile at Roarke. "See you tonight."

"Take care of what's mine, Lieutenant."

She smiled again as she slipped the 'link away. She knew he hadn't meant the bonds.

– =O=-***-=O=-

Having backup and a tracker didn't stop her from feeling alone and exposed as she moved through the crushing crowd in Grand Central. She spotted some cops whose faces she knew. Her eyes passed over them, and theirs over hers, without interest.

The speakers droned overhead, announcing incoming and outgoing transports. Flocks of commuters lined the public 'links, calling home, calling lovers, calling their bookies.

Eve strode past them. In the surveillance van two blocks away, Feeney noted her heartbeat was smooth and steady.

She saw the vagrants who'd come in from the cold and would soon be rousted out again by security. Vendors sold the news, on paper, on disc, as well as cheap souvenirs, hot drinks, and cold beer.

She took the stairs rather than the glide and moved down to check point. Lifting her arm as if to push at her hair, she muttered into her wrist unit.

"Leaving main level for check point. No contact yet."

She felt the floor tremble, heard the whining scream as a bullet train tore out of the station.

She stood on the platform, one hand firm on the suitcase, the other in plain view. If they were going to take her out, they would do it here, fast, taking advantage of the crowd waiting for their transport. One takes her out, another snags the case, and they're lost in the confusion.

That's what she would do. Eve thought. That's how she'd play the game.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw McNab in a bright yellow coat, blue shoes, and ski hat, idling at a computer game while he sat on a bench in the waiting area.

They were scanning her now, she imagined. They'd find she was armed, but they'd have expected that. If she was lucky, and Feeney was good, they wouldn't make the tracker.

The public 'link behind her began to ring, loud and shrill. Without hesitating, she turned and answered. "Dallas."

"Take the incoming train to Queens. Buy a ticket onboard."

"Queens," she repeated with her mouth all but against her wrist unit. The caller had already disconnected. "Next train," she added. "Incoming."

Turning away, she moved toward the tracks as the rumble started. McNab pocketed his computer game and strolled up behind her. He'd been a good call, Eve mused. No one looked less like a cop. He was wearing headphones, doing a little head and shoulder dance as if he were listening to music that set him into motion. His body stood at Eve's flank like a shield.

The displaced air from the train blew over them. The whine shivered away, and people began to bump and shove their way on and off the train.

Eve didn't bother to try for a seat but gripped a security hook, planted her feet, and braced for the takeoff.

McNab squeezed in just down the line and began singing lightly under his breath. Eve nearly smiled when she recognized one of Mavis's songs.

The trip to Queens was crowded, hot, and blessedly short. Yet even that short jaunt made Eve thankful she wasn't an office drone condemned to ride public transpo throughout her days.

She stepped off onto the platform. McNab moved by her without a blink and headed into the station.

They sent her to the Bronx next, then Brooklyn. Then shot her to Long Island, back to Queens. She decided she'd just throw out her arms and beg for a laser blast if she had to take one more ride.

Then she saw them coming. One on the left, one on the right. She ran Fixer's description through her head and decided these were the two who'd made his deliveries and cut out his tongue.

She backed up out of the crowd of weary commuters, noting the two-man team had slipped into a pincher pattern:

They were taking no chances, she mused, and as one flipped open his coat to show the police-issue blaster, she assumed they meant to take no prisoners, either.

She bumped deliberately into a man waiting behind her, lifted a hand as if to catch her balance, "Contact. Two. Armed."

"Lieutenant." One of them slipped a hand over her arm. "I'll take the payment."

She let him steer her back. Not a man, she realized when she took a good, hard look. Fixer had been right there, too. They were droids. You couldn't even smell them.

"You'll get the payment when I get the target, and it's confirmed. That's the deal."

He smiled. "New terms. We'll take the payment, my partner will cut you in half where you stand, and the target will be destroyed as a celebration to the cause."

She saw McNab barreling down the glide. He jerked his thumb up, signaling that the target had been made. Eve showed the droid her teeth. "I don't like those terms."

She swung back, slamming the case into the knees of the droid behind her. With the move she swung down and to the side, catching him by the ankles as he discharged the weapon. The blast put a fist-sized hole in his partner's chest.

Screaming for civilians to take cover, she reared up, clamped her fingers over his weapon hand, and twisted. The next blast hit the concrete, its path close enough to singe her hair. She could hear shrieks, stumbling feet, the roaring whine of an oncoming train.

Eve threw back her weight, brought the droid down with her. They rolled through running feet, toppling people like bowling pins.

She couldn't get her hand to her weapon, and his was lost in the stampede. Her ears were ringing with the noise, and beneath her, the ground shook like thunder. The droid reared up; something sharp and silver flashed in his hand.

Eve bucked back, swung up her legs, and slammed her feet into his groin. He didn't buckle as a man would, but teetered back, arms pinwheeling for balance. She rocked to her feet, made one frantic grab, missed.

He tumbled to the tracks, then disappeared under the silver blur of the train.

"Jesus, Dallas, I couldn't get through." Panting, red welts swelling on his face, McNab gripped her arm. "Did you take a hit?"

"No. Damn it, I needed one of them working. They're useless to us now. Call for a cleanup and crowd control here. Where's the target?"

"Madison Square, they're evacuating and defusing right now."

"Let's get the hell out of Queens."