For the first time, Tasha wasn’t entirely certain that voice in her head belonged to her own mind.
Chilled, she used the security keypad beside the stairwell door and punched in the code, then opened the stairwell door as quietly as possible and passed through, closing it just as quietly behind her. There was a small, high window, heavy-gauge wire between two pieces of shatterproof glass discouraging anyone who might have made it this far from an attempt to reach through, even if they could pop the glass out, and open the door from the hallway; it was high enough that Tasha, a tall woman, had to stand on tiptoe in order to see through it.
The stairwell was well lit, but the lights dimmed at night; the computer controlling security for the building controlled that and would, in an emergency situation, turn all the lighting up to full wattage and, in case of a fire or other official need to evacuate the building, disarm all the security doors so that residents and staff could exit quickly and safely without having to remember security cards or codes.
It was one reason the system had to be monitored 24/7 by experienced security personnel, and one of the major reasons Tasha had chosen the building. Because it was the most up-to-date and security-conscious of any she’d looked at.
And security is an illusion. Got it.
She kept back at an angle, making herself as unseeable as possible as she fixed her eyes on the far end of the hallway and that other stairwell.
In less than a minute, three men entered from that stairwell.
Tasha was somehow surprised that they seemed . . . ordinary. Like anyone she might pass on the street without a glance. They wore casual clothing rather than being in all-black as she imagined an ordinary burglar would wear.
Then again . . . these men were not burglars. She didn’t know much, but she knew that, felt that. Not burglars. And stalkers, as far as she knew, were always singular, one person stalking another.
Kidnappers?
Assassins?
Neither possibility made sense, but Tasha pushed that aside to be considered later. She studied them, baffled. They moved with evident quiet, yet didn’t seem to worry about cameras or being observed any other way. They were all curiously interchangeable, nothing about any of their faces especially memorable.
Just ordinary men, perhaps in their thirties, well built but not imposing, all with brown hair and regular features.
Expressionless.
That last gave her another chill, for though they moved with ease and without, seemingly, undue care, there was something . . . implacable about them. Something cold and relentless and remorseless.
They didn’t speak to each other.
Apparently, they didn’t have to.
They didn’t hesitate at any point in the hallway but went straight to her door. Standing rather close together, they blocked her view of the door handle, but whether it was with a key or some other means, the door was open within seconds, and the three men slipped inside the condo.
She hadn’t seen any sign of weapons, but Tasha was nevertheless very glad she had fled the apartment. She could imagine, with total clarity as though she watched from inside, them moving with that same relentless determination through to her bedroom, knowing exactly where it was, because they would and because it was a small condo with the two bedrooms in a fairly obvious location.
Would they search the condo when they found her not there?
If so, they were incredibly fast, because in less than three minutes by Tasha’s internal clock they were back at the door, moving out into the hallway, still expressionless.
If her absence either surprised or disappointed them, they gave absolutely no indication.
Tasha hesitated, then slid back along the wall and, very swiftly and silently on bare feet, climbed the stairwell up to the fourth floor. She pressed herself against the wall beside the door in case she might need to escape the stairwell that way.
She’d pull a fire alarm if she did. Yell. Pound on doors as she passed them.
They want this to be quiet. They need it to be quiet.
She heard the very slight sound of the third-floor door to the stairwell opening. Straining her ears, but keeping every other sense as quiet and still as possible, she heard the click of it closing.
She counted to ten, then moved just far enough forward so she could see the stairwell below.
They had already reached the ground floor and moved to exit the building, leaving as silently as they had come.
THREE
It was probably a good ten minutes before Tasha could persuade herself to return to her apartment, and even then she argued with herself for at least half that time.
Notify security.
No, don’t.
Why? They should damned well have been watching. Why weren’t they watching?
They were. They thought they were. It’s a computerized system; anybody could have hacked in and put the camera video on a loop or something. This late, there wouldn’t be much if any movement in the hall except for the guards, and even if they do vary their patrol patterns like I was told, there has to be plenty of time they wouldn’t be visible on any one floor. The guard downstairs at the desk probably saw . . . just what they wanted him to see.
Sure, because that’s a common skill, computer hacking.
Not all that uncommon these days, especially with so much Wi-Fi.
The building has a closed system, apart from the Wi-Fi residents can use. Remember? You have to use a special code to access it, and that code is a lot more elaborate than the usual Wi-Fi system. One of the reasons it seemed like such a safe system. Unhackable.
No system is unhackable. It could have been hacked. Had to be. Unless I find sleeping or missing security guards downstairs, what else could it be? Those men damned well weren’t invisible.
Maybe to cameras they were.
And to guards?
Maybe. Sleight of hand. Misdirection.
How?
I don’t know how. But they got through the doors easily enough. Even the ones requiring cards and codes. Did they get cards somehow? Did they know the codes? Or did they have a way to bypass those locks?
You don’t know much, do you?
No. I don’t.
And during all that, tumbling through her mind below the surface thoughts was the cold realization that even though they hadn’t found her there, the men could have left something behind in her condo. Something bad.
Something to finish the job they hadn’t been able to finish.
You think they want to kill you.
What else could it be?
Kidnap you?
And ask ransom of who? My financial manager?
Maybe.
No. It can’t be that. Not . . . not, at least, for money. I’m not worth that much, not worth enough for the trouble. Investments and other assets would have to be liquidated, which takes time. And, anyway, kidnappings for ransom have gone way down. I read about it. Easier ways to make money, even illegally. Because of all the cameras everywhere, on the streets, in stores, at ATMs, never mind nosy people with cell phone cameras, it’s harder to grab someone, harder to get to a cash drop unseen, and electronic money transfers are traceable.
No one would have seen you being grabbed tonight. Apparently.
There was that.
Tasha finally persuaded herself to return to her condo, to unlock the door and reenter warily. She paused right there, touched the small LCD screen/keypad by the door, and called up the lobby security camera, the one camera all residents could access. For peace of mind, the real estate agent had told Tasha when she’d been condo shopping. So she could always be reassured that the security staff were doing their jobs. And so the security staff were aware that anyone could check on them at any time.
Extra motivation to be alert on the job.
The security desk
was manned—and nobody was asleep.
She could just barely see the bank of monitors where one guard sat; from all appearances, he was alertly scanning the different feeds of all the cameras on his monitors. Each camera in its own square, what looked like nine per large-screen monitor. There were no dark squares, nothing to indicate that any of the cameras had for any reason malfunctioned. Just clear images of doorways and hallways and the parking spaces out behind the building.
No movement anywhere, as far as Tasha could tell.
Two other security guards stood talking a couple of feet from the desk, then separated, one going outside to presumably do his perimeter check, while the other headed for the elevators to, presumably, begin the hourly check of each floor.
Twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, every floor was patrolled at least once each hour by a security guard. And they varied their patrols, since burglars liked nothing better than routine.
As Tasha watched the security monitors in the lobby, the guard who had gone outside appeared on the front door monitor as the other became visible on a different monitor getting into the elevator.
At the concierge desk, the night clerk was also awake and clearly aware, doing something on his computer that might have been work and could have been solitaire or a role-playing game, or some online social networking site. Or just e-mail.
How the hell did those men get past everyone? How did they even get in? You can see the front and rear entrances from the lobby, see the stairwell doors, see the elevators. Both exterior doors are security doors that require an ID card swiped and a code punched in; if you’ve forgotten your card or the code, you can call the desk from the system’s intercom right there at the door. But they never just let you in without checking. Never. A guard comes to meet you, and if you’re a visitor, they call the resident you’re visiting before you can come in.
Almost all the windows on the ground floor were in front, the lobby. Not many other windows, and those covered by “decorative” security bars. Outside lighting around the doors, plus landscape lighting all around the rest of the building meant no blind spots, no dark places in which to hide. No residents on the ground floor, either, just office services, that small gym, maintenance rooms and closets.
Those men should have been seen. Why weren’t they?
More disturbed with every moment and every increasingly baffled inner question, Tasha remained wary as she left her purse and keys on the entry hall table and began a methodical search. Room by room, closet by closet, even checking the kitchen cabinets. And underneath her bed. Making sure all the windows were secure. Turning on lamps and other lights as she went.
Nothing.
Not a single sign that anyone but she had been here.
She stood in her bedroom for several minutes, looking around. Nothing disturbed. The bed as she’d left it, duvet smooth, pillows neatly decorative. The book she’d been reading earlier in the evening on one nightstand, along with the usual nightstand clutter.
Lamp. A bottle of water. A clock radio that also served as a sound machine providing assorted soothing noises. A box of tissues. And on the other nightstand, another lamp, a stack of books she wanted to read, her cell phone plugged into its charger.
Her cell phone.
Tasha walked around the bed, eyeing the phone. She had to charge the thing every single night, all night, and even then it virtually always went dead at some point during the day. It didn’t matter what kind of cell phone, what brand, what service provider, how much or how little she used it. They all died on her within a matter of hours.
The fact that it was here, in this day and age when so many people were practically attached by umbilical cords to their cell phones, would be evidence to some that she had not just gone out somewhere, but had fled the condo in haste.
To some. Maybe to those men who had come for her?
She hesitated a moment, then leaned down and rather gingerly touched the screen so it would light up. Then she pressed her thumb to the screen, using yet another layer of the security that had become such a big part of her life. Anyone who had her very unlisted number could call the phone, leave a message or text, but once there it was locked in her phone until she unlocked it. Without her thumbprint, the phone offered only a lighted screen with a box in the center, a box blank until it read her thumbprint. Then only she could access information contained in the elegant little device, numbers, contacts, even the number of the phone itself and the apps she used.
The home screen came up, just as it always did. Showing her the time, the date. Call and text icons. Message icon. Menu and browser icons. Icons for the apps she used most often.
Tasha checked to make sure that the last call made was the one she had made. Checked to make sure there weren’t voice mail or text messages waiting for her.
There was one text message, chillingly simple.
Dead.
—
“He did what?” Duran looked up from the file he’d been studying, his coldly handsome face not showing nearly the displeasure his normally calm voice betrayed.
“Left a text on her phone.” Alastair kept his own voice calm, his own face expressionless. It hadn’t, after all, been his fuck-up.
“A text.”
“Yes. Just one word. Dead.”
“She has a secure phone.”
“Yes, sir. Fingerprint activated. Her print, of course.”
“Which Graves bypassed.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And did he say what possessed him to do something so idiotic?”
“He said he thought the idea of tonight’s mission was to rattle her. You had told them she wouldn’t be in the condo, that you were sure she’d sense they were coming and would get out before they could get in. So the idea, or part of it, was to let her see the team getting in and out so easily, see them apparently bypass all the expensive security of her building, her condo, even her cell phone, let her be rattled by them. Threaten her sense of being safe. Graves thought the text would help accomplish that objective.”
Gently, Duran responded, “And did he explain why he felt the need to think for himself?”
“No, sir.”
Duran leaned back in his chair. “When we’re done here, send him to me.”
“Yes, sir.” Alastair was very glad it hadn’t been his fuck-up.
“She was gone, as expected.” It wasn’t really a question.
“Yes. We had the real-time security video, of course; she slipped out of the condo and waited in the stairwell, hardly more than a minute before the team arrived on the third floor. The stairwell the team wasn’t using, obviously.”
“Even though that stairwell was farther from her apartment.”
“Yes. Didn’t take the time to dress, even put on shoes, but had her purse and keys. And she had made the bed look as though no one had been sleeping there only minutes before.”
Duran considered briefly. “But she left her cell phone behind.”
“Yes, sir. That’s what gave Graves the idea. It was on the nightstand, charging. He used one of the disposable cells to leave her the text.”
“Not a complete idiot, then.”
Alastair thought it prudent to remain silent.
“Did she notify building security afterward?”
“No, sir. According to the security computer, she did access the lobby security camera as soon as she returned to her condo.”
“Checking to see if the guards were where they were supposed to be.”
“I assume so.”
“And, of course, they were.”
“Of course, sir.”
“So now she has reason to doubt or even mistrust the security personnel, the security system—any illusion of safety, in fact.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And now we know for certain she has some awareness of u
s. Or at least some awareness of danger.”
“Yes, sir. But she didn’t run away; the stairwell cameras show that she stood at the door and watched as the team came and went. Climbed up to the fourth floor before they entered the stairwell to exit the building.”
“So alert and careful, but also curious.”
“Apparently.”
“And confident of her ability to escape.”
“I suppose so, sir, yes.”
“When she returned to her condo, did she find them?”
“No, sir.”
Duran’s smile wasn’t at all a humorous thing. “Good. That’s good.” He returned his gaze to the file before him on his desk, adding almost indifferently, “Send Graves up here.”
“Yes, sir.” Alastair didn’t waste any time leaving the office, and he didn’t waste much sympathy on Graves.
Stupid bastard. They all knew it wasn’t wise to cross Duran, and in his eyes any deviation—any deviation—from his orders was considered by him a betrayal.
Everybody knew that.
Alastair did wonder, briefly, what fate lay in store for Graves, but his mind skittered away from the question before he could really begin to ponder it.
There were some things it really was best not to know.
—
Miranda Bishop watched as her husband cradled the phone in their hotel room. Cell phones were convenient—unless one was a psychic and routinely drained their power. Bishop seldom carried one these days, at least not on or near his body, despite the fact that their bright boys and girls on the technical side of things had designed protective cases that allowed most psychics to at least drain their cell batteries at a slower rate.
Not that it mattered at the moment.
“Still no luck?” she asked.
“No. Katie Swan isn’t answering.” Bishop was frowning, which was rare.
Normally Miranda would have known every thought and emotion her husband was experiencing because they had a unique and rather remarkable psychic/emotional connection. But that connection had been shut down as much as possible by both of them, because in this particular place and time it could prove a definite and deadly danger.