Into the Fire(110)
He brought up the folder containing the files he maintained on every resident of Castle Heights. Mia’s was just as invasive as the rest of them, with zero-day exploits granting him access to her iPhone, her work calendar, the DA databases, and virtually everything else.
He hovered the cursor over her name.
Hesitated.
He could only imagine the ire Mia would unleash if she knew he was about to illegally pry into her life.
He recalled Max’s anguish at walking away from Violet to save her. How he’d done the one thing she would have least wanted him to do.
Because he couldn’t bear not to.
Evan opened Mia’s file.
58
Beautiful, Furtive Choreography
Mia jammed her thumb into the crosswalk button at South Grand and 6th, the downtown traffic so solid it looked like a wall before her. She’d donned sneakers for the long walk over from her office, stuffing her ankle-strap flats into her overburdened purse.
A last-minute mystery witness had stepped forth, e-mailing her from an anonymous account and promising to reveal incriminating evidence about a pay trail leading to the dirty detectives who’d been killed at Hollywood Station last week. The witness had claimed that she was flying out first thing in the morning for her own safety and requested that Mia take her statement in the privacy of her room at the Standard Hotel.
Mia checked her watch. Five minutes to 4:00 P.M., which meant Peter would be at language lab. Another late evening for the case that stubbornly refused to break open.
The light changed, and she crossed the street.
She did not notice the white van idling at the crosswalk. The two large men occupying the front seats. Or the bulkhead partition hiding the others in the rear.
The driver signaled to two SUVs parked across the street.
They pulled out after Mia, shadowing her as she stepped up onto the opposing curb, her satchel briefcase swinging. She weaved along the sidewalk, the van and the SUVs rotating in the background, enfolding her in expert surveillance.
As she made her way toward the hotel, the SUVs accelerated past her and parked on parallel cross streets. Two operators emerged from each, leaving the vehicles behind. They wore bone-conduction headsets wrapped around their left ears. The inconspicuous units conveyed sound waves as auditory vibrations that passed through the bone behind the ear into the cochlea. The men shuffled into the various streams of pedestrians, riding the currents in a swirl around Mia. The lead operator peeled off, slipping through a side door into the Standard Hotel.
The van slithered through traffic, coasting past her. Oblivious, Mia neared the hotel entrance. A man glided up on her heels. Two more approached from opposite directions, splitting and overlapping.
A beautiful, furtive choreography.
The dance continued through the lobby as she headed for the elevator, men rotating around her, menacingly close and somehow inconspicuous. One paused to linger by a pillar. Two more vectored to the stairwell, blending into foot traffic, merging with the bustle of an average evening.
Mia stepped onto the elevator, knuckled the button for the twelfth floor. One of the operators was waiting inside, shouldered to the rear behind a cluster of women with oversize shopping bags.
The doors closed.
As they rose silently, Mia checked her e-mail, confirming the meet in Room 1202. A screen embedded above the buttons flashed glammed-up images of the restaurant, the gym, the spa-blue swimming pool on the rooftop.
She watched her screen. The man watched her.
When the doors opened on the twelfth floor, Mia exited, head down, reviewing notes on her phone.
The operator sidled out weightlessly behind her.
They walked up the corridor. The stairwell door opened silently behind them, and another operator eased out. A third emerged from an intersecting hall. Seconds later the neighboring elevator car delivered a fourth.
Mia padded down the hall, her footfalls soft on the carpet, scrolling through e-mails with her thumb. The men swept in from various directions, gathering behind her.
A graceful convergence on 1202.
The door was—oddly—open.
Through the gap she could see that it was a huge corner room.
Mia palmed the door open and gasped.
Evan Smoak stood in a Weaver stance, pistol raised, aiming at her face.
59
Guardian Angel
Mia froze in the doorway, staring at Evan and his drawn pistol, seemingly pointed at her. Their eyes locked. Her pupils were constricted with shock, and he read in them equal parts terror and confusion.
He fired over her shoulders—literally through her hair on either side. It swayed with the velocity of the rounds.
The sound, even suppressed, caused her shoulders to jump upward.
Two bodies fell behind her.
Before she could look, he grabbed her around the small of her back and pulled her close, shooting even as he spun her, cheek to cheek, a violent waltz. Her chest was pressed to his, her palms flattened against his ribs. His body blocked her from incoming fire.
She clung to him, spinning, disoriented, as the men flashed across the threshold and jerked back and down. The clank of gunmetal on carpet. Wet gasps. A deep-voiced grunt.
And then Evan stopped, still holding her tight enough that he could feel her heartbeat through her blouse, the heat of her skin. Her hand was curled against his chest, half shielding her eyes.