“You got it.”
Here we go, she thought as the van pulled over. “Team Two in position,” she said into her mic. “Sound it off.”
She listened as team leaders reported, gestured to the e-man on her team. “Bring it up. Let’s have a look.”
She studied the building, all shimmering gold and glass in a wide curve. Railed balconies spread into longer, deeper terraces on the upper levels.
And McQueen’s, the top level, east corner. “Zoom it in on target.”
She edged forward. Unless he had a parachute or a personal jet lift, he couldn’t escape by way of the terrace. With the elevator and stairs blocked, he wouldn’t have access to the roof.
The only way out would be through a wall of cops. He wouldn’t make it.
“Do a sweep, ground level,” she ordered.
She spotted the softclothed cops in position or moving into. The couple having coffee at the sidewalk café nestled beside the building, a man sitting on a wall above a bunch of flowers working a PPC. Still another window-shopping.
She counted off the rest.
She’d given strict orders not to approach or pursue should McQueen be spotted outside. The last thing she wanted was another chase, and any opportunity for him to slip the net.
“We’re in,” Roarke said in her ear.
“Copy that. Show me.”
The monitor switched again, showing her the lobby area—glossy, elegant—droid at a long, low table to check in visitors, deliveries, cleaning crews. Lots of flowers in angled glass vases along one wall.
While he took her through maintenance areas, security stations, utility rooms, Team Four’s leader sounded in her ear.
“Sensors read empty, Lieutenant.”
She thought, Crap. “We hold. Team Five, move on the garage. Let’s see if he’s on the road or on foot. If you locate the vehicle, disable.”
She settled back. “Roarke, let’s see his floor.”
She studied the corridor, the placement of other apartments, the position of the stairs, the elevators. And the security on McQueen’s door.
“Target’s vehicle in assigned slot. Now disabled.”
“Acknowledged. We hold.”
And, she thought, we wait.
A few blocks away McQueen browsed the selections of a gourmet market. He’d missed this—missed the time to do as he liked, missed enjoying a meal of his own choosing when he chose to enjoy it.
He intended to make himself a very special dinner, the last before he had some company.
The last before Eve joined him.
It would work very well, he thought as he considered the artichokes. He knew just where to find her now.
The hotel security on communication was, as you’d expect from a Roarke property, perfection. But the Dallas police weren’t quite so clever or well-funded. It hadn’t been difficult to triangulate her signal during their last contact. And tonight, he’d pay her a visit. He would, undoubtedly, have to kill Roarke, which was a shame considering all that lovely money that might have come into his hands.
But Eve was worth the cost.
Just a few more details to iron out, which he’d do after marketing.
He found himself staring, unable to make a decision on olives. So many different choices, all those little jars. How was he suppose to pick one, to know what he’d want in an hour? In two?