Caron felt dirty the next morning. She knew it was unhealthy, but there it was. She'd treated Dom badly, put on a spectacle, annoyed her guards. In return, she wasn't sure what Elke's response meant, but it was faintly creepy, and Aramis continued to be a stone eunuch.
Jason and Horace, or Shaman, escorted her down to the garage. It seemed improper to use that nickname, but he apparently enjoyed it.
Even Ewan seemed distant. She frowned. So much for secrecy. Had he heard rumours or a report of her exploits? He'd known her since birth. A perception as a slut wouldn't go over well, and he'd probably talk to Tad, too.
She made a point of smiling though.
"Good morning, Ewan, good to have you driving for me again."
"Thank you, Caron," he said.
That wasn't like him. Either he was picking up her mood or had heard something.
She piled in and decided against her usual quiet travel. She brought up music, dug a boiled egg and some cayenne salt from the bar, and leaned back for comfort. She needed to put the weekend behind her, manage class, and apologize later, though not much later.
Caron didn't notice Ewan turning off. She was so used to varying routes it was just background. She noticed they were going slower, though, and after several minutes she asked, "Is there a problem?"
"Not at all, Miss," Ewan said. "We should be arriving momentarily."
She didn't recognize the area at all, and they'd been around the school from every direction.
"Arriving where?" she asked.
At that moment he turned the wheel hard and brought them up into the dark maw of a warehouse of some kind. The overhead door was hydraulic and almost slammed closed behind them, pausing at the last moment to settle and lock into its track. She grabbed for the door. Locked. She punched the override. Nothing.
"Here," he said, and sighed. "I am very sorry, Miss."
He released his safeties and was out the door in half a second.
Four goons . . . real goons, not bodyguards . . . trotted up to the door and stood in an arc around it. Their faces were hidden by masks and they carried submachine guns.
"Let's have no trouble," one said, and clicked the door open.
Feeling chilled and burning in a simultaneous flush, prickles all over, she carefully stepped out, one foot at a time, eyes darting back and forth.
They didn't touch her, only gestured with guns. She walked in the direction indicated.
It's not assassination, she told herself. You're worth too much alive and unhurt. They could kill you anywhere, no need to sneak around, no need for four . . .
It wasn't reassuring. Her world had just been smashed. Ewan had been with the family longer than she'd been alive. His father had been with them. His grandfather.
And now he was helping some criminal element.
She kept her eyes straight ahead and made as if to ignore their presence. She even adjusted her posture for the look-down-the-nose effect for the lower classes. She took a slow, measured breath and tried to calm the trembling, vibrating anxiety and fear. She was a Prescot, and Prescots were neither impressed nor intimidated by rabble.
She raised her left arm gracefully and pressed her neck pendant panic button. It was only the third time she'd ever done so, and the other two had been for training. She doubted the signal would get anywhere; only complete idiots wouldn't have it damped and jammed. Still, if there was a chance, or a power fluctuation, or a gap, the signal might get out.
She tried to keep track of movement. Ewan had driven south and turned east. She was now facing south again. The warehouse was stripped and empty, lit and had few features, but there were eight other bays with trucks backed in. She gulped.
Sure enough, a few moments later they chivvied her left, east, and into the empty back of a truck. As she turned and watched, one man rolled the door down while the others stood with their guns ready. The door rattled and latched and everything went dark. She could smell stale food and mild decay from previous cargo and spills. Then she heard other truck doors running down. Possibly seven or more decoys, dammit.
The powerplant was electric. Caron shifted back against the forward bulkhead and squatted down for balance. The truck pulled out smoothly, up a ramp and then south. South. That was definitely away from the school at this point. West. South. Soft east.
Shortly she was on the M5, she figured. She made note of the time. A moment's fumbling let her find a pen. She shot her sleeve, yanked it up and wrote backwards from the inside of her elbow up, retracing the route as best she could.
Then a wave of anger swept over her. She should have been banging on the side for attention, dammit. Yes, tracking her route was good, but getting out was better. Though realistically, the odds of anyone hearing anything and reporting it were slim. Still, she would when they stopped again. If they stopped.
"Say again?" Jason almost shouted.
Helas said, "Disappeared. Transponder off. I zapped a request for traffic cameras. They were connected in thirty seconds. Nothing."
"I fucking said we needed our people. Alex said it. Don't hire us and then . . . arggggghh!"
An adrenaline panic slammed him. He took a huge draft of air, slowly exhaled, and punched for Alex as he did so. Today was about to get exciting.
Caron was sure they were back on streets, but not sure where. With no way to gauge speed, they were somewhere a few kilometers away, and not north. Still, that was a defined area. She'd work this as surveying problem.
She had some weapons and tools, but it seemed probable that any use would just get her stripped naked and abused. Whomever had her was using teams of people, not just singles. She despaired of fighting a group, even with things like the flash bang.
The lorry slowed, stopped and then the door rattled up.
"Out," a man said. She recognized him as one of the group from earlier. That meant two vehicles had come this way. Another item.
A door on the wall ahead stood open, and she assumed that was their destination.
It was. Or rather, it was hers. They reached the door in formation, and in a moment, one goon slipped her purse free and another yanked at her backpack. A pair of hands from a third shoved her firmly inside, and the door was closed.
She flushed in fear and anger again, and turned to the door. It was hinged on the outside. She wasn't going to try the knob yet, but she knew it would be locked when she did. From outside came the sound of bars being slammed into place in the concrete floor. She glanced down and saw a covered slot large enough for a tray of food but no more.
Concentrating on the cell kept her mind busy. She took a good look.
It was a locker room, or it had been. L-shaped. There were four nice toilet stalls and four sinks, with plenty of hand towels and warm air dryers. The floor was tiled, and had periodic drains set into it. There was a bank of modern lockers with settable biometric locks, and four shower stalls. The plain benches had a cot set up between them with a pillow and coverlet.
So, it seemed there were plans for food and water, she had toilet facilities and showers, and bedding.
That meant they planned to keep her alive for now. Good.
She glanced up, then made it look like a gesture of frustration, while taking a surreptitious peek at the ceiling. Dropped acoustic tiles. Was it possible there was an opening above? It seemed unlikely they'd miss something like that, but they might count on her not noticing.
Another slow walkthrough didn't reveal any obvious cameras or monitors, though it was quite possible they had miniaturized ones. There was no reason not to play bored, so she opened every locker slowly in turn, scanned them, read the graffiti, and looked for signs of cameras.
Nothing. The place was bare.
Alex tried hard not to steam. His professional advice had been ignored, and now his principal was missing, along with her untrained retainer. He might have attended a basic bodyguarding course, but he was not the skilled professional the rest of them were.
There was also the possibility he was corrupted, compromised or dead. Alex wouldn't mention the latter. Ewan seemed like a nice guy, but he was not Ripple Creek's responsibility. He very well might be their problem, though.
He'd advised against trusting anyone. Joe Prescot had attacked him for that, and Bryan had been soft. This was not a Ripple Creek failure, but it would play that way on the news.
So, first thing was to recover the principal, second was to keep it out of the news. The relevant parties would know, and that was all that was needed.
Jason was in the office with him, pacing. Jason did that when he couldn't shout or break something.
Jason said, "I'm not sure what we can do. We have government sanction to protect our principals, and Corporate will back us up a lot. Going looking, though . . . first, we're not PIs. Then there's the legal limits on entry, interception, et cetera."
"We have to tell Mister Prescot."
"You do. I agree. Tell him it's a probable, not to be alarmed, and we'll keep looking, but the clock is running."
There was a knock at the door. Elke discreetly stuck her head in.
"Come in," Alex said.
She slipped in and closed the door.
"We have limited tracking resources," she said. "Some pheromones, some camera shots the police gave us free. Have you a map?"
"Yes," Alex said and spun his comm around.
"Ewan was varying his route as we told him, but he took a right here and kept going. Lost camera view here. We might have a pheromone trace here. Shaman is in that area. I suggested he deploy from the school OP."
"Good. Is Aramis still there?"
"Yes."
"No outside comments until I say so."
"Aramis says he's sure the word will leak from the cops."
"Maybe. If so, Mister Prescot can fucking own someone as a slave for the leak, after this is done."
Caron's brain whirled with the need to do something. She choked it down. She was a scientist, dammit, and scientists were methodical. They didn't plan to kill her, she couldn't be more than a few kilometers from the college, and people would be looking for her. She also still had her backup charge card and some cash in the pocket in her waistband. If she could get outside and into traffic, she'd be free.
It was an exciting prospect. Free herself. It would also shame and humiliate her captors.
She also had to get the word out about Ewan. If he'd betrayed her, he might betray others.
Still . . . first things first. She had a small amount of stuff on her person that might prove useful. She tried to itemize mentally, but her brain was still thudding with outrage and disorientation. She might be a decent observer, but her cognitive function was still impaired.
Were her observations correct? She spent a moment reviewing the area in immediate view. Yes, probably.
She wandered about, hugging herself, scratching, shifting. She made a point of using the toilet both for relief, and to get a stall door in between her and any observation. I just hope there's no perv cams, she thought.
She wound up with a lumpy pile of stuff in one jacket pocket. It wasn't much, but it might matter.
This was going to take some time, she decided.
The watch imprinted on her shirt cuff said she'd been here thirty minutes. Was that all? She felt as if she'd been slow and discreet, but all her activity had to have been done in a rush.
Still, no one had come to disturb her. She had to be secure enough so far. If they wanted her for ransom or political clout, they had no reason to let her putter around unless they didn't know or didn't care. So she should continue. It would keep her mind busy.
She stepped right up to the corner of a locker bank and pulled out her handful of stuff, laid it down.
She had her stun ring, a pipe lighter, 87 Marks and some change in cash, her still-hidden emergency credit card, a flash stick with personal data and codes on it, a small flashlight, a key that was not a key; it had a tiny knife folded into it—what use did she have for keys? People opened doors for her. She had a tiny pair of pliers, a couple of meters of fine cord, a pair of light gloves, a spare capacitor for her computer interface, two safety pins she kept for attaching loose buttons, her emergency condoms—as if she'd ever need those, and some lint. Oh, the phone hidden in her hair clasp.
She felt stupid for not remembering the phone, but a quick test showed there to be no signal. This was a metal frame building, but that alone shouldn't stop reception. Someone had a damping field set up. Likely her earlier call had gone unheeded.
However, even if she couldn't escape, if she could get where she could place the phone to be traced, that should do it. Too big a field and it would cause interference on the street. People would complain, a technician would show up, and might question the dead zone. The building ends or corners might just be outside.
That just gave her another reason to get above that ceiling, if she could.
She swept her property back into her pocket, and turned back to the room proper.
She had planned to listen at the door. There was a scuffling sound outside it right at that moment. She cursed, but it came out as a "meep."
Then the slot at the floor opened and a tray was shoved in.
"Here, Miss," she heard Ewan say.
Anger welled up, and her first impulse was to kick the tray right back out. The slot closed, though.
She wasn't at all hungry, and the food didn't look that appetizing. It was okay—a sandwich, an apple, a piece of pie and a bottle of Juice-ade—just not thrilling.
She wondered if they'd return for the tray in say, an hour, or if they'd wait until the next meal, or just let them pile up. Then she added tray, thermoset plastic, one, to her list.
Thermoset didn't burn, she recalled. On the other hand, there was a lot of paper that would, and lockers, and the cot, and the benches. She could start a sizeable fire in here. Would that trigger an outside alarm? Or had whomever had kidnapped her arranged for that possibility?
Too many variables. The only reasonably certain one was that they needed her alive. Would their claims be low enough Tad would just pay it? High enough the entire government would come looking? Enough to hurt the family but leave them solvent enough for a repeat performance? Would they keep trying to demand more, then dump her alive . . . or dead?
Too goddam many fucking goddam fucking goddam variables. She growled quietly but with clenched teeth.
Then she reached down and grabbed the apple. She might as well clench her teeth on something nutritious and a little tasty.
She bit, chewed and stared at the floor. It wasn't a very tasty apple.
The apple was half gone when she realized she'd been staring at a folded wad of paper, straw colored like the tray, that said "read" in tiny letters.
She unfolded it, and recognized Ewan's writing at once. She almost crushed it up in rage, but made herself read it.
(in Welsh) "Caron, I'm sorry. Blackmail works with enough leverage. I did what I had to. They promise you'll be unharmed. It's just about your money. We're south and west of Oxford about fifteen kilometers, in Abingdon.—Ewan."
Bryan Prescot tried to focus. He knew his brother was upset also, but he was too worried about Caron to really care, or to listen.
Joe said, "I just think it's a bit too convenient that they weren't around at the time."
"We told them they could trust Ewan. Nor do they have any reason to sell out. This is what they do. It's much easier to believe one bad apple than a crate." He wanted to believe it. He also didn't want to. Ewan's family had been with them for generations. Ewan and Dewi and he had played Robin Hood together in the woods, gone to school together . . . would he rather not trust his friend, or his highly paid experts?
Joe said, "Hell, he or whoever he works for may have paid them to join in. Or they may have suborned him. The only people we can trust are family. There shouldn't be any outsiders anymore."
"I wish that were true. Lots of distant cousins would like in. Our gifts are basically unspoken bribes. There are limits, though, or we're just dispensing charity and creating jealousy, and at that level, we'd be affecting entire economies." He tried to keep calm and rational. He needed to stay grounded, because his head was spinning with nausea. Caron was missing and there was nothing he could do. He didn't even know where she was, yet.
"Better that than this!"
"I'll take it under advisement." Dammit, he didn't want to fight with his brother over this.
Joe must have finally seen his expression, because he took the hint and nodded, then left, closing the door behind him.
Bryan took a deep breath, and considered what to do next.
Aramis said, "Dammit, we have to do something. She's our principal!"
They were all in a company owned hotel in Oxford. When you were Bryan Prescot, you could get air travel authorized in seconds, at high speed. An ultramodern, ultra-expensive craft delivered him to the roof about the same time they arrived by car.
Prescot was across the hall in an office. They were in a parlor for a deluxe suite. There were basic refreshments but no one was interested.
He probably wasn't here to dismiss them. Corporate would handle that. It could be a vent and bitch session. He could even scream at them. They hadn't failed or violated anything, though they might take the heat anyway. He didn't seem the type, though.
Alex replied to Aramis, "We can't do anything unless asked. If we indicate we have that kind of intel, some principals will freak. If we fail in recovery, same thing. We're not on the spot and want to stay completely out of it."
"She's kidnapped at the least, and certainly scared, probably with good reason," Aramis said.
"And a total scorcher, yes?" Alex asked with a cocked eyebrow. "Look, Aramis, I feel sick about it, too. But we did not lose her and can't get blamed. If we try to get back into it, we will get blamed."
"It happened the same day, too." Aramis twitched in frustration, but clearly knew the score intellectually.
"Of course," Jason said. "They were waiting to exploit that, and obviously had inside intel."
Cady stuck her head in the door and interrupted, "Alex, Mister Prescot is across the hall. I've cleared the room and swept for bugs. The building is secure. He says he'd like to come in and talk to us."
"Roger that," he said. He breathed a deep, steadying breath. "Time for me to earn my pay. Invite him in." Still, the man was asking politely and coming to them, not demanding they fall on their swords on his carpet.
Alex would have felt better if the team hadn't waited in stony silence. On the other hand, they were reviewing the event and planning and worrying. This part was all his.
Cady opened the door, nodded and stepped past. Prescot walked in and assessed them with a glance. He looked tense, but non-threatening. He nodded curtly, and spoke.
"I'm wondering, Agent Marlow, if you can do something to recover my daughter."
That was direct.
Alex spoke carefully. "Sir, personally I'll do whatever I can. We all will. But it has to be formally contracted for liability reasons, and I don't know if Corporate will do so. If things go south, the whole company suffers, not just us."
Prescot looked troubled.
"As a businessman I of course understand that," he said. His tight and controlled reserve cracked. "As a father . . . please, tell me what I can do? If it's money, I can guarantee you'll never need to work again."
"Yes, sir, but it's not just money," Alex said. "All our friends and associates would suffer for our mistakes."
"No amount of money will persuade you."
"Sir, I won't say no amount would . . . but I'd rather not find out what my price is. My, our services, can be bought. Our loyalty has to be earned. Our loyalty to them comes first, unless we are already contracted. I'm sorry."
Goddam, it sucked. But there were limits. How many millions would this man offer? Alex really didn't want to know.
Prescot leaned back.
"I respect that," he said with a slow, thoughtful nod. "If I call the company, will you give them an honest assessment of your interest and ability? Please?"
"Yes, sir," he agreed. "If they give the word, we'll do it."
"Very well. If you'd please wait here? And do avail yourselves of refreshments."
"Yes, sir," Alex said.
In the broad parlor, Jason said, "Do you think they'll go for it?"
"I don't know," Alex said. Morally, he wanted to help. Professionally, it wasn't really what they did. Investigation and security were related, but discrete specialties.
His phone rang, and it indicated scramble. He enabled encryption, accepted the algorithm, and connected.
He was on the phone with Ripple Creek CEO Don Meyer himself.
"Alex, man to man, can you really do something?"
"I think so, sir. We have biometrics, those others no one knows about, we have intel on some of the hostile parties, and we'll have the resources, obviously."
"'Think so' isn't enough," Meyer said brusquely.
"Sir, if I don't think we can do it, I won't start an actual op. I'll just share intel."
"That's fair. We'll talk again in a moment. Stand by."
"Holding, sir," he agreed.
Shortly, Meyer was back, as was Prescot.
"District Agent Marlow, I have finalized negotiations with Mister Prescot. You are to attempt location and recovery of Miss Prescot if it can be done without violations of law. You should provide any necessary information to appropriate government agencies if they ask or if you deem it prudent."
That was a pretty ass-covering set of limitations, Alex thought, but that was to be expected on record.
"Understood, sir," he said.
Prescot spoke for record, even though he was just in the other room.
"I will provide any legal services needed should there be any questions regarding your actions on this matter," he said. "Personally, not through company assets." That was good. It wouldn't be subject to a board vote or otherwise called to question. It was Prescot's word, and they knew they could trust that.
"That's all," Meyer said.
"We'll get on it at once, sir," Alex agreed.
"Good man. We'll talk later. Meyer Out."
"Marlow out."
He cut the phone, and Prescot came through from the other room.
"Thank you, all of you," he said, looking at them. Aramis rose from the seat he'd sprawled in. Elke stood politely. Bart came over from near the door. The rest were already standing.
"We'll do our best, sir," Alex said, and the rest spoke agreement.
"As to legal aid," he said, "I won't ask you to do anything illegal, but if there are questions, I have excellent lawyers with both Parliament and General Assembly connections, and I'll spare no expense."
You're asking us to do anything illegal that will help, Alex thought with a mental grin. Well, they'd been on the wrong side of someone's law more than once.
"Understood, sir," he said. "We'll start now."
"Thank you. I don't need updates, but please, make them to me personally. Only."
"Of course." He extended a hand. Prescot shook it, then, with a troubled expression, turned and left.
"Well, we have his office to work from," Jason said. "Let's avail ourselves of some massive information power."
Caron twitched when the door rattled. She hurried back to stand facing it, hands out of her pockets, feeling like a schoolgirl trying not to look guilty. Had they seen her?
One of the goons came in, closed the door and laid down his gun on the vanity.
"They'll be arranging your release soon," he said.
"Thank you," she replied. Communication was a good sign.
"Our people promised you'd be unhurt."
"I appreciate that," she said. She really did. A rush of relief swept over her.
Then he stepped closer.
"Hurting would be bad," he said.
Her stomach shriveled into a ball and dropped.
"The way I figure it," he said, "as long as there's no marks, it's a fair exchange. Just a sample of the merchandise, so to speak."
At least he was clean physically. She shuddered and couldn't control it. They planned to return her alive, good. They weren't above raping her for fun first, though.
She'd had a class in this way back, on how to negotiate, but she hadn't paid attention. Caron Prescot would never be unescorted in a place where that might happen.
She wasn't sure how she wound up against the wall, but he was pulling at her clothes with creepy hands. They were caresses, almost loverly, but he was not a lover, and the imposition was already criminal and terrifying.
She cringed, and wondered if this justified using her ring. It would definitely put him down, but how would they react? Violence on top of rape? Gang rape? Take the possessions she had, which might or might not help her escape?
He slipped a hand down her slacks, and she decided yes, she should stun him. She tried to angle her hand to make contact.
Someone shouted, "What the fuck are you doing?"
Two very large men yanked her rapist away and slammed him over the sink counter. One of them proceeded to pummel him, while the other turned to her.
"Miss, are you okay? Do you need a doctor?"
Decide fast. Doctor, certain to be an insider. She might lose the gear she had, might be secured somewhere else. No actual injuries, creeped out, I want to be left alone. Please, just leave me the fuck alone!
"No. I'm fine," she said, and pulled her disarrayed clothes back. She realized she wasn't making eye contact, and should. She did, but he was masked anyway.
The guard turned to his compatriot and said, "Take him out and shoot him. Do it now!" He turned back to her and said, "I apologize for the behavior. It won't happen again."
They half-dragged the aspiring rapist out the door, as he cursed and screamed and called her a "filthy elitist whore!"
The door slammed, the shouts continued, and then a loud BANG! echoed tinnily. There was a thudding sound, and the curses stopped.
For some reason, she didn't find it reassuring.
She cried again, and hugged herself tightly, sinking down to the floor.
Joe wanted to know how they were handling this. Bryan got here in minutes. His flight was later, but as fast, and hang the expense. It was an investment, even if personal.
He knocked at the door, and that Jason Vaughn answered. Vaughn seemed like a reliable man. Behind him the room was abuzz.
Joe gave them this, they were good at reacting. The suite had comms all over, wires, antennae and chatter.
Vaughn asked, "Yes?"
"Is there anything I can do? How is it proceeding?"
"Your offer is appreciated but this takes professionals in the field. Thank you, though." Vaughn said, and didn't that sound like a rote speech for such occasions.
"Sorry, it's just that I feel partially responsible."
"No incriminations at this point. First we'll handle recovery. Discussions are for afterward. Sir, we are rather busy, with all due respect."
"Sorry. As CFO, can you give me an update?"
"This is not a company matter."
"Of course not. It's a family matter, about my niece."
"Well, your brother has the information."
"He hasn't gotten back to me yet. Busy."
"Then, sir, I suggest you will have to wait."
The door closed, leaving Joe feeling put upon and left out. Dammit, he needed to know. Bryan would be too personally involved to get any actual information. This was where Joe could best help.
Grumbling, he figured he'd better go help his brother. That was useful, too, and he'd find something out that way, eventually.
Caron shook off the incident. That just made it more imperative she get out.
If she got above the ceiling, could she get a message out? Her phone had an override that was line of sight, and supposed to get through interference. Would it get through a deliberate screen, though?
It was worth a try. They wanted her alive. They wanted her intact, at least officially—she shuddered again. That decided her. She didn't want to face anyone else who wanted favors.
They might have a camera, so she'd have to do this fast. She walked back, stepped on a bench, opened a locker and used it as a high step, stretching to reach it, shoving a tile up and gripping the frame precariously as it bent.
There was extruded concrete behind it, and she got fingers atop that. Not the most secure hold, but enough to let her lean and stretch and get both feet onto the edge of the locker. Then she was through the panel, grit and dust and spiderwebs all around and on her.
The top of the locker bank was sloped, but she leaned and got both hands over the concrete wall, and shimmied. Her belt caught, and she wiggled to free it.
Her slacks tore at the knee and she felt a burn as something gouged her. It wasn't severe, though, and she was now into the dead space, under a sheet polymer roof and over the dropped ceilings, with old insulation crumbling all around, and barely any light, though she could see pinholes of daylight here and there.
A quick look revealed her luck or training had paid off. The main part of the room below had a solid structural sheet over it. This corner and an access above one commode stall were all the openings there were. Either they'd assumed it was all covered, or figured she wouldn't do anything.
Her phone got no signal.
Sweating, and not just from the heat, she wondered about trying to throw it through a crack and hoping it would work outside—if their damping field extended too far, someone or their phone would quickly report the service problem. Of course, this could be an abandoned building in the middle of nowhere, given the way new construction was shifting everything. But that would leave her where she was—no phone service, and someone might find it and report it.
She looked around at the slits and holes of light, and saw one that might be long enough to be pried open. She squatted onto the concrete and pretended it was a balance beam in school. She used her hands above her against the roof—it was that low.
Perhaps she should have reached down to close the locker and put the tile back? They'd waste some time looking for her. But she didn't want to turn around, and she was on her way now.
It got darker as she moved away from the opening, even as her eyes adjusted.
The wall was rough and crumbled, and she shuffled along, sweating and itching and aching. Her pulse hammered and she wondered when they'd notice.
Jason and Elke shouted in unison.
"Yes!" "Prosim!"
Alex said, "Talk to me."
Jason said, "We have a faint but definite pheromone trace. We've got it within three blocks."
"Tell Cady."
"Yup." He keyed a mic. "Cady, you there?"
"I am."
"I have a general location for you. Get over there and look for phone signals or pheromones."
"I see. We'll be there in three."
Alex said, "That's a lot of buildings, and we can't search them. Though the odds of seeing them if they try to E and E are better."
"Tracers in the food were brilliant," Jason said. "We need to make that a regular option with the company."
"Not too regular, or word will leak."
"Ah, yes. That's why you make those strategic decisions. I'm just going to supervise while Elke does aerial analysis."
Elke said, "Already have done. There, there or there are my first choice," she said as she pointed. "This pair is second. Then these." Her accent was a little thicker under stress.
"Why?"
"Disused, access is on quiet streets and usually recessed or sunken. Major operations will not use their own buildings, nor will most people use their employer location."
"Sound enough. That gives us six areas, but spreads our people thin."
Cady said, "We'll pop sensors all over. I have aerial coming."
Alex said, "Do it." Good people. It was still a large area of big old warehousing and industrial capacity, though.
Below her, Caron heard clattering and shouts. They were coming for her now.
There was a gap in the sheet metal she might squeeze through. The ground was four meters down or a bit more, but that was manageable if she could hang. It would bang her up if she tried to jump. First, though, her phone. She reached down under the crack and tossed it straight out.
Shouts behind her. She didn't look, but it sounded like they were much better in the scaffolding than she.
She felt nicks and tears and gouges as she bent the metal back, stuck her legs down and felt for grip. She had wobbly metal on one side, extruded concrete on the other. She tried to squeeze through and hang, slipped, banged her elbow enough for electric tingles, and landed hard enough to smack her teeth, then hit her chin on her knee. She staggered and stumbled but stayed mostly on her feet, and was on the ground.
She ran for her phone as noise up above turned to what was probably stunner fire. She scooped the phone and a handful of sharp rubble and ran.
The gap between these buildings was overgrown with two meter stalky weeds, rubbish and construction debris from decades before. She picked her way fast and hoped the growth would stop any stuns.
Then she was out on an old, disused street that served these derelict blocks.
Right across the way were three men in suits, obviously muscle, and with bulges she recognized as body armor and weapons.
Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit.
And they definitely recognized her and started moving faster.
There was no traffic to dart into, and she was limping and couldn't run. She punched at the panic button, visibly, because it didn't matter now.
Then the men were on her.
"Miss Prescot, Agent In Charge Marlow sends his regards. I'm agent xxnamehere with Cady's team. You may have heard of me. Are you alright? Do you need medical attention?"
Caron heaved a deep breath.
"Can you prove that?" she asked. Not that it mattered, but . . .
"Of course. We will wait here until you are satisfied," he said, and kept speaking into the air, "Playwright, please give Miss Prescot a call."
Her emergency phone rang.
"Hello," she said at once.
"Caron, this is Alex. I'm almost as relieved as you and your father must be. Mr xxnamehere is one of our agents, you may have seen him at the house. Here's your father."
There was a pause and then, "Caron?"
"Tad," she said, and relief washed over her.
"The code is Ysbaddaden. And now we'll have to change it."
"That's fine, Tad," she said, tears welling out. "I'm safe. I'll be home in a few."
"I love you, Merch."
"And you."
She lowered the phone slowly, and breathed deeply.
"Yes, Agent xxnamehere, please take me home."
"Yes, Miss. Right this way."
Their car pulled up a few seconds later. It was a heavily reinforced Mercedes sedan. She sunk into the cushions and closed her eyes, trying to pretend the world didn't exist.