“Because there was a chance that he wouldn’t. Besides, I’ve run a million of these. I know the playbook.”
“Right,” she said, her voice cold. “You’ve run a million of these on other gifted.”
“Yes. And right now there are about a hundred agents converging on this building. You think you can slip past them all, be my guest. Otherwise, do what I say, and we get out of here.”
“Why would you help me?”
He paused, mind racing. He’d figured Zane would betray him; had been depending on it, in fact. The DAR was no doubt paying a hefty bounty. Not only that, but while the agency didn’t care about common criminals, it had pull with agencies that did. Selling Cooper out might buy Zane insurance later. It was simple math to assume he would call the DAR, and that the department would come in full force. Come loudly and publicly. Which had been the purpose of the whole exercise. It was a test balloon. A message. It would show John Smith that Nick Cooper was, beyond a doubt, no longer on the DAR’s payroll. And just maybe it would be the first step toward the terrorist.
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.”