Читать книгу Out-Foxxed - Debra Webb - Страница 8

THE LULL of the subway train barreling through the tunnel had a hypnotic effect. Despite the press of bodies all around her, Sabrina Fox could almost have fallen asleep right there, standing up and squeezed into the middle of the throng of commuters. Her mind conjured the image of the rain that had forced her onto the subway tonight. Her apartment was only about twelve blocks from work, but no way would she walk in this downpour. As for hailing a cab, forget about it. Managing to snag a cab on a rainy evening at rush hour only happened in the movies.

Real New Yorkers took the train when the weather was uncooperative.

There was nothing colder than a rainy December night in Manhattan. Don’t let anybody tell you different. Those miles of asphalt and concrete that absorbed the heat and acted as an oven in the summer had the reverse effect in winter, mercilessly radiating the bitter cold. But with Friday evening commuters packed into the train as if this particular one were their last chance for weekend freedom, staying warm wasn’t a problem.

Standing room only. Lots of body heat.

Every stop was a study in warily choreographed footwork. Dozens of people off, dozens on; of course, no one who wanted off was ever the closest person to the door. Stepping on toes was as inevitable as breathing. That was the reason she carried her fashionable stilettos in her briefcase and wore her less-than-attractive sneakers for the trek home every day. She generally walked so it made sense.

She surveyed the people jammed into the subway car along with her. The usual eclectic blend of cultures, financial classes and age ranges. Fashion ranged from the mismatched castoffs of a beggar to the high style purchased on Madison or Fifth Avenue.

Diversity was one of the things Sabrina loved most about New York City, the city that never sleeps. There was no end to things to do. Even after calling the city home for almost ten years, she still stumbled upon a shop she’d never visited before or a cozy café tucked into the least likely place. This was home, more so than the Midwest town where she’d spent the first twenty-two years of her life.

The same afternoon she’d graduated from college, she’d taken the last plane out of Kansas and headed for the future. Her extensive study of foreign languages—French, German, Russian and Italian—landed her a job at the United Nations as a substitute interpreter. Any time the regular interpreters in her areas of expertise were on sick leave or on vacation, she took up the slack. The rest of the time, she provided translation services for visiting VIPs and their families. Fascinating work. She’d spent three years very happy there until an opportunity she hadn’t been able to turn down had come along. An intriguing new world had opened up, one that no one she knew now or in the past could possibly imagine.

A smile slid across her lips. She did love her work.

Beneath the bulky coat she wore, tucked into the pocket of her suit jacket, her cell phone vibrated. There had been a time when the one thing guaranteed by a ride on the subway was the lack of intrusion by one’s cell phone. Not always so anymore. With the expansion of service to the platforms and the cutting-edge technology of her special cell phone, there was no escape.

“Perfect.”

Keeping her left hand on the overhead grab bar to maintain her balance, with her right she elbowed at least two people in her attempts to unbutton her coat and reach into her jacket pocket. The train braked hard for the next stop, the flux in momentum causing the crowd to lean forward and then snap back. Despite the shift of bodies as some passengers moved toward the doors and others scooted into their vacated spots, she managed to open the phone and get it to her ear.

“Fox.”

“The henhouse is unguarded.”

Protocol.

Sabrina immediately took stock of her position. The next stop was approximately three minutes away. “I understand.”

The automated voice on the other end of the line gave the address. Protocol was the sophisticated link by which Sabrina received her orders.

She closed the phone and slid it into the pocket of her coat. Hoisting the strap of her briefcase a little higher on her shoulder, she considered the best route for getting off the train quickly. The space between her and the door behind her was crowded with just as many people as the space between her and the door forward of her position. She opted for the door behind her since most of those commuters were younger and only one was accompanied by a child. That group, she estimated, would move a great deal more quickly than the other.

As the train slowed, she executed an about-face. She smiled at the man directly behind her with whom she came face-to-face. Thankfully he smiled back. Inertia had the crowd of commuters who wanted off at this stop weaving as they pushed toward the doors.

Sabrina’s heart rate kicked into a faster rhythm with her body’s release of adrenaline. Every second wasted could make all the difference.

The doors slid open with a whoosh and the anxious emigration began. The instant her feet hit the platform, she broke into a zigzagging run to get around those who had no place special to be, mothers attempting to push baby strollers while hanging on to their older children and those distracted by conversations.

Sabrina took the steps up to the surface street two at a time. The cold, damp air filled her lungs, replacing the warmer, somewhat more odorous underground air. The rain hadn’t let up, still coming down steadily from the dark overcast sky.

Scanning the street for the elusive yellow cab, she hustled down to the nearest corner. She was in a hell of a hurry. Taking the train back to 42nd Street and then changing for one that would land her closer to 52nd would be time-consuming. She didn’t have a lot of that precious commodity. She needed a cab. With the continuing rain she might as well be asking God for a miracle.

A cab easing to the curb half a block to her right had her thinking that maybe the movies did get it right from time to time. Or maybe God decided to give her a break.

Sabrina didn’t give the other folks coming out of the subway station a chance to give her any competition. She ran the half block, thankful for her practical selection in footwear.

She grabbed for the vehicle’s back door before the woman who’d just climbed out could push it closed.

“Hey, lady,” the driver shouted. He pointed to the roof of his cab. “I’m off duty.”

Dammit.

Not wanting him to take off without her, she slid into the backseat anyway, much to his surprise.

“What the hell you doin’? I told you I’m off duty.”

“Get me to 52nd and Madison in under fifteen minutes—” she passed a one-hundred dollar bill to him through the open space in the Plexiglas partition “—and I’ll give you another one just like it.”

Their gazes met in the rearview mirror, his wary, hers determined. “Besides the fare?” he asked.

A satisfied grin toyed with her lips. “Besides the fare.”

He accepted the hundred. “No problem, lady.”

Sabrina relaxed in the seat, pulled the safety belt across her and snapped it into place. She didn’t question the driver’s chosen route. It wasn’t the one she would have picked, but then she didn’t drive a taxi for a living. He would know the best direction for beating the traffic. At this hour, he’d be lucky to make it in her specified time limit unless he sprouted wings. But then, it was almost Christmas and money could be a serious motivator.

Anticipation had her counting the streets as the driver weaved in and out of traffic in an effort to maintain his dicey speed…39th…42nd. The blare of horns and the occasional near brush with another vehicle kept the ride interesting.

So far, so good.

Most of the street vendors had closed up shop. A hot dog cart on the corner of 45th still had a customer or two seemingly oblivious to the rain. The ambitious gentlemen who generally hawked knockoffs of designer purses, sunglasses and the like had already packed up their wares and headed home. The few who stuck it out offered umbrellas and ponchos for those who hadn’t watched the weather forecast the night before.

The crush of pedestrians on the sidewalks reminded her again that there were only a few more shopping days until Christmas. She should pick up something for her niece and nephew. Overnighting the gifts would be her only option for ensuring they arrived on time at this late date. Maybe she should also pick up gift cards for the members of her team. Letting the holiday slip by unacknowledged by her wouldn’t sit well with her relatives or her colleagues. She’d learned that unpleasant lesson last year.

When they hit 49th Street, the driver started to make his way toward Madison. Four blocks from her destination, they hit trouble—a one-way street with the first of two lanes blocked by a large delivery truck and the other clogged with an accident. The drivers of the two vehicles involved in the fender bender stood in the rain yelling at each other.

Just what she needed. At least the rain had let up.

“I’ll walk from here.” She checked the meter before passing her driver the second hundred as well as the fare. She had to give him credit; with superb driving skills and nerves of steel, he would have made it under the time limit if not for the accident. “Thanks.”

He executed one of those half nods in acknowledgement of her appreciation and stuck the money into his shirt pocket. As she got out, he laid down on the horn, joining the unpleasant harmony of the other five or six drivers who were already expressing their displeasure with the delay in traffic.

Sabrina ran the final four blocks.

She slowed as she reached the grand entrance to the Omni Berkshire Hotel, took a breath and squared her shoulders. “Showtime.”

The doorman flashed a wide, pleasant smile and opened the door for her entrance. “Good evening, madam, welcome to the Omni Berkshire Hotel.”

She thanked him and entered the marble-floored lobby. Chandeliers glittered overhead, and a profusion of flowers provided a welcoming ambience. As she paused at the registration desk, the clerk welcomed her with the same enthusiasm as the doorman.

Sabrina returned the pleasant smile. “I have a reservation. Cynthia Freeman.”

A few clicks of the computer keys and he confirmed her reservation. “Yes, here we are.”

She passed him the credit card embossed with the name Cynthia Freeman and about ninety seconds later she had a keycard to Room 608.

The elevator car was waiting, another stroke of good luck. She boarded alone and was glad that it didn’t stop between the lobby and the floor she’d chosen. Outside Room 608 she slid the keycard through the lock, watched for the green light and went inside.

The room was already abuzz with activity.

“Agent Fox has arrived.”

Sabrina winked at Benjamin Trainer as she dropped her briefcase near the door. He was the communications specialist attached to IT&PA, International Temps and Personal Assistants. He could do just about anything with a satellite link. She imagined there were a number of other things he could do quite well, but being coworkers precluded her investigation into the interesting possibility.

“Trainer, you’re looking smart this evening.” She surveyed his lean athletic frame as she pulled off her gloves and stuffed them into the pockets of her coat before shrugging out of the heavy outerwear.

Evidently the man had a date tonight. In seven years, she couldn’t recall seeing him dressed in snug jeans, a pullover sweater that looked exactly like one she’d seen in a Gap ad, and classy loafers. This man never wore anything to work that wasn’t a three-piece suit. His dark hair and green eyes were icing on the cake. But then, this was Friday evening. A handsome young guy like him would certainly have plans.

“Depends upon whether or not you wind this up in a timely manner,” he quipped, one eyebrow cocked in blatant skepticism.

“No pressure, right?” she teased.

Along with Trainer were two other support personnel on site. A control team would be close by, if not already in place.

“This is your uniform, Agent Fox.” Costumer and disguise technician Angie Russell waved her arm to indicate the maid’s uniform, shoes and other accessories displayed across the elegant comforter on the king-size bed.

“Thanks, Angie.” Sabrina was already stripping off her street clothes.

“Nice shoes.” This comment came from operation coordinator Hugo Clay, aka Big Hugh. He stood six-four and weighed about two-fifty. Not the sort of guy one wanted to run into in a dark alley. But Sabrina had figured him out long ago. He was just a big, cuddly teddy bear who could also drop a man in his tracks with nothing but his hands.

Sabrina toed off first one Nike sneaker, then the other. “I wore them just for you, Big Hugh.”

“Let’s move it, people,” Trainer reminded. “Time is of the essence.”

Sabrina’s suit jacket landed on the floor atop her coat. “Yes, sir, Specialist Trainer. We wouldn’t want to keep her waiting.”

“Fox is prepping now, sir,” Trainer said into the mouthpiece of his commo apparatus, ignoring Sabrina’s dig. The sir he reported to was Director Anderson Marx. Talking to the boss or not, Sabrina didn’t miss the way the corners of Trainer’s mouth quirked as he spoke. He liked it when she used that official tone with him, even if she were teasing.

As she wiggled out of her skirt, Big Hugh gently placed a listening device into her right ear. “This will provide you with a constant feed from Trainer and our esteemed Director Marx.”

Sabrina kicked aside her skirt and peeled off her black tights. “Give me the details,” she said to Hugh as she straightened and freed the buttons of her blouse.

“We have Namir Stavi on the 10th floor,” he began.

“Israeli?”

Big Hugh nodded. “He and his wife and two children are here for the Christmas holidays. The Agency picked up on reports that an attempt would be made on Stavi’s life while he was visiting our fair city. He and his family are to be executed, and the act is to be blamed on Muslim radicals who hold American visas.”

“Nice,” she mused. Some jerk was always trying to make someone else look bad on American soil. She could see how the press would be all over that kind of international incident, creating even more tension between the American and the Muslim communities, not to mention the Israelis. Recent events already had Israel a little sensitive where the U.S. was concerned.

“Our polite colleagues thought they had the situation under control,” Big Hugh explained, “but somehow the time line got moved up and the assassins hit twenty-four hours early. The agents doing preliminary surveillance couldn’t move into place swiftly enough to counter the attack, so here we are.”

By “polite colleagues,” Big Hugh meant the FBI. If he’d said our arrogant colleagues he would have meant the CIA. His reference to the Agency meant the National Security Agency, the branch of the government to which their organization was loosely attached.

Sabrina grabbed the maid’s uniform and plunged her arms into the appropriate holes before tugging the thing over her head.

“Pink must be your favorite color, Fox.” This remark came from Trainer. He glanced pointedly at her low-cut pink panties just as she poked her head through the neck of the uniform. “Every time I’ve seen you undress you’re wearing pink panties.”

“That constitutes sexual harassment,” Angie warned him with a glare as she thrust the uniform’s matching cap at Sabrina. From all appearances Angie was a stern woman, stoutly built, just shy of five feet, she had a menacing stare that could wither the staunchest male attitude. She was forty-five if she was a day and mothered the whole lot of them.

Trainer shrugged, his attention shamelessly riveted to Sabrina’s hips as she wiggled into the uniform that fit like a glove. “In my opinion, her taking off her clothes in front of me constitutes the same.”

Sabrina turned her back to Angie for her to take care of the zipping and suggested, “Next time, you strip, too, and we’ll be even.”

Big Hugh’s interest visibly heightened. “That sounds fair.”

Glee glittered in Trainer’s eyes. “Fine. Next time, we’ll all just get naked together.” He directed an amused look at Angie. “Fair is fair.”

“Like hell,” Angie muttered.

Sabrina smoothed a pair of nude hose over her legs, then slipped her feet into the white, rubber-soled shoes. “What kind of firepower do we have?”

Big Hugh pinned a button that declared her employee of the month on the crisply starched lapel of her uniform. “That’s so we can hear you.”

Angie slapped a thigh holster into Hugh’s broad hand and stated, “We’ve got a .32 here.” The weapon was dropped into Sabrina’s palm next.

Sabrina checked the .32, which was loaded.

“That good?” Hugh asked.

She glanced down at the thigh holster he’d just fastened into place. She sheathed the .32 there and let the skirt of her uniform slither back down over it. “Perfect.”

“I’m definitely in the wrong line of work,” Trainer commented dryly. “I don’t even get to touch the thigh holster, much less strap it on.”

Angie cleared her throat, drawing Sabrina’s attention back to her, and held up her hand. A lovely ring, gold with a small cluster of diamonds, sat on her palm. “Be careful with this.”

Sabrina gingerly picked up the piece of jewelry. “Poison?”

Angie nodded. “Stick your target good.” She pointed to what looked like an extra stone on the back of the band. “Depress this at the same time and the poison will be released.”

Cautiously sliding the piece of lethal jewelry onto her right ring finger, Sabrina asked, “How long does it take to work?”

“Ten seconds at most. Even a guy the size of Big Hugh will drop like a rock. But don’t miss. There’s only one dose.”

“I assume this means that the protocol for this op is kill first and ask questions later.”

Big Hugh nodded. “We know who set up the attack. We know the ultimate goal, leaving no reason to make this any more difficult than necessary. The enemy is totally expendable.”

“Do we know how many bogies I’ll encounter?”

He shook his head. “Surveillance spotted two, but there could be more we don’t know about. Control hasn’t been able to get a visual inside the room as of yet. Something about the way the duct work is set up.”

It was always good to go into an operation with as much knowledge as possible. But some situations just didn’t allow for as much advance information as others.

“I can’t risk arming you with anything heavier,” Angie interrupted. “They’ll most certainly pat you down.”

Sabrina nodded. “I understand.” She turned her attention to the cleaning cart waiting by the door. “We have a passkey?”

Angie joined Sabrina at the cart. “This is the same cart all the cleaning ladies on staff use. We’ve rigged it with enough tear gas to put down a herd of elephants, but we don’t want to go that route unless absolutely necessary. Protecting the lives of the hostages is top priority, as you know.”

Sabrina understood. The moment the bad guys noticed anything off-kilter, the killing would begin. If they killed even one of the hostages before the gas put them down, that was one too many, and the operation would be considered a failure. A SWAT team could go in and neutralize the situation, but that wasn’t the goal here. This operation was about rescue, not extermination.

“Room 1012.” Big Hugh provided the passkey. “We’ll be listening to every word. The cart’s rigged for sound, too. If you need us, you know what to do.”

“And if I don’t need you,” Sabrina countered, “I’ll let you know.” These ops could get tense. She didn’t need a control team moving in if there was any chance she could recover the situation.

“We won’t make a move without the code phrase,” he assured.

“Let’s do this thing, then.” Sabrina grasped the handle of the cart and pushed it through the door Trainer held open.

“Good luck, Fox,” he murmured as she passed.

She hesitated long enough to whisper back, “I don’t need luck, Trainer, I’m Sabrina Fox.”

He grinned. “That’s right. How could I forget?”

Sabrina pushed the cart into the corridor and the door closed behind her.

“I wish this night was over already,” she muttered.

“Sound check is good.” Trainer’s voice whispered in her ear, compliments of the commo link Big Hugh had tucked there.

“I need a long hot bath and a bottle of wine,” she added softly as she parked her cart in front of the elevators and pressed the call button.

A sound of deep, guttural agreement echoed in her ear.

She had to smile. Maybe she’d give Trainer a little tit for tat given that he’d made that smart-ass remark about her panties. She did prefer pink lingerie, that was true. She owned pink panties in every imaginable style. French cut, lacy thong, extreme low-rise.

The elevator doors slid open and she pushed the cart inside and selected the tenth floor. Since she was alone in the car, she leaned against the wall and sighed dramatically.

“Lots and lots of frothy bubbles. Neck-deep hot water. Oh yeah, that’s exactly what I’m going to do when I get home.” She closed her eyes and made one of those throaty, wistful sounds that made her think of hot, sweaty sex. “I’ll probably start taking my clothes off before I even get through the door to my apartment. Light every candle in the place and take the bottle of wine and two stemmed glasses to the tub with me.”

“Is that an invitation, Agent Fox? You did say two glasses.”

Director Anderson Marx.

Her gaze snapped open, her face flushed with embarrassment. “Negative, sir, I was…just getting into character with a relaxation technique.”

Damn, she’d forgotten Marx was tied in already. Damn Trainer. He should have said something.

She could imagine him, with his mike muted, laughing his ass off.

“Standing by,” Big Hugh said, reminding her that he was there as well.

“Ten-four, Big Hugh.” She didn’t worry about the big guy; she wasn’t his type.

The car glided to a stop with a soft ding. She pushed the cart into the alcove outside the bank of elevators. A floor-to-ceiling window was on the right, the corridor running parallel to the front of the building on the left. She took the left and headed for Room 1012.

A few steps later, she arrived at the door. She inhaled a deep, fortifying breath, then let it out slowly. She touched her uniform where the holstered weapon lay snugly against her inner thigh, then knocked loudly on the door. “Housekeeping,” she announced.

The room was quiet beyond the door.

Anticipation released another round of adrenaline that ignited a fire in her veins.

She knocked again. “Housekeeping!”

After waiting the perfunctory ten seconds, she slid her passkey through the reader and watched for the green light. Braced for whatever she might find, she pushed down on the lever and backed into the door, ushering it inward as she went.

With her back fully to the room, she pulled her cart through the door. Her pulse edged into that alert zone that reminded her that she’d just turned her back on the enemy. But she needed whoever was in the room to believe she expected to find it empty.

When her cart cleared the open doorway, the door closed with a heavy thud.

“Don’t move.”

The undeniable feel of a muzzle pressed against the back of her skull.

She caught her breath, adopted an expression of terror, making her eyes go wide and leaving her lips slightly parted.

A hand moved over her torso. She tensed, as much from the need to ensure whoever it was didn’t find the weapon fastened against her inner left thigh as from the need to appear frightened.

She twisted slightly away from his touch. “What’re you doing?” She was proud of the fear infused in her voice, as well as a second harsh intake of breath that sounded completely credible. “What’s going on here?”

Harsh fingers curled around her arm and jerked her around to face the owner of the gun that had left an impression on her scalp. “Shut up,” he growled.

She made a small shrieking sound, just loud enough to be convincing without alarming him. Things could go downhill fast if he or one of his friends grew suspicious of her and panicked.

“You have very bad timing, lady.” He leered at her, his gaze raking down to her breasts. “You should have skipped this room.”

Making her body tremble wasn’t difficult considering the guy jammed the silenced muzzle of a Glock 9mm under her chin. Not exactly comfortable—and she didn’t trust him not to accidentally fire off a round. Glocks weren’t designed for amateurs or idiots. He looked exactly like the latter, a little too excited and gung ho. Considering the uniform she wore, she doubted her breasts had caused the effect.

“I’m sorry,” she whimpered. “Please…please…don’t hurt me.”

He laughed, nice and loud as goons would do. “Please, please don’t hurt me,” he mimicked in a high-pitched, squeaky voice.

“What do we do with her?”

The new male voice came from behind the goon currently manhandling her.

Well, now she knew for sure there were at least two of them.

The goon with the 9mm still rammed against her glanced menacingly over his shoulder. “What the hell are you doing? Get back in there!”

Sabrina knew this room was a two-bedroom suite. Though she couldn’t see anything beyond the large man blocking her view, obviously some or all of the family were being held in one of the bedrooms.

When the goon’s attention turned back to her, she dropped back into character. “Please,” she pleaded, “I’m just a housekeeper.” She shook her head frantically. “I don’t—”

“Shut up!” He backhanded her.

She saw at least one star on the heels of the pain that shattered in her jaw. She didn’t have to taste the blood to know he’d busted her lip. Nothing major, just a tiny crack.

Marshalling the requisite tears, she dove deeper into the part of terrified hostage.

Her new friend shoved her to the floor next to her cart. “Don’t move,” he snarled, “while I decide what to do with you.”

Shaking for the benefit of those watching, Sabrina huddled against the cool stainless steel of the cart and covertly took a look around the room.

Two men lay on the floor near the massive wall of windows that, behind the drawn drapes, overlooked Manhattan. Both men were bound and gagged, and either dead or unconscious.

The unmistakable sound of a hard fist connecting with soft flesh tugged her attention to her extreme right.

An older man was secured to a chair. His face bore the signs of a severe beating, yet he somehow managed to look distinguished in his distress. As she watched, he groaned and attempted to turn away from the next blow coming his way.

Mr. Stavi.

Well, at least he was still alive.

The guy beating him made Goon Number Three. The taller guy standing back watching the torture was Number Four.

Four to one.

Not the worst odds she’d ever encountered.

But not the best, either.

Since the wife and children were not in this room, her initial assessment had likely been correct. The family, dead or alive, was being held in one of the bedrooms. Since Goon Number One had ordered Goon Number Two back to his post, she would work under the assumption that he still had live hostages to oversee.

The sound of a round being chambered hauled her attention once more to the man hovering over her. She stared into the ominous black barrel of the 9mm, then at the bully beyond it.

“I’ve made up my mind,” he declared.