She had reason to know he was better with the equipment than the two men she had left. "First bedroom," she decided. "You're better off where I can keep an eye on you anyway. Jackison, stay clear of the door. When he rings in, wait for my signal to answer. Peabody, I want you at the door of the second bedroom. Use the security peep. Keep alert."
She spoke into her communicator as she walked back into the control room. "Team A, in position. Team B. Team C. It's going down here. Observe but do not approach or delay any uniformed drivers. Suspect will employ house or palm ' link on arrival and use penthouse elevator. Repeat, observe only. No one moves on him. We want him up here. When he's boxed, you'll get my signal and close in on this sector."
"I love it when you talk cop," Roarke murmured in her ear.
"No civilian chatter." Eve planted herself in front of the monitors, scanning each to satisfy herself that all her troops were in position. "He's coming," she murmured. "Any minute now. Come on, you little prick, walk into my arms."
She saw McNab exit the elevator into the lobby. Still steamed, she thought, noting his grim face and stiff posture. He was going to have to learn the value of teamwork. She watched him scan the lobby, and did so herself.
A droid walked a pair of silky, long-haired dogs across the colorful tiles. A woman in a severe black business suit sat on the circular bench surrounding the central fountain and snarled into a palm 'link. A bellman guided an electric cart loaded with luggage toward the main doors. A woman came through them, leading a toy poodle on a silver leash. Both woman and dog were sleekly groomed, with matching silver bows decking their hair. Behind her came a domestic droid loaded down with shopping bags and boxes.
Rich tourist, Eve thought. Early Christmas shopping.
Then she saw him. He came in directly behind the droid, wearing the long dark coat, a chauffeur's cap pulled low, sunshades concealing his eyes. "He's in." She barely breathed it. "Possible target entering through main doors. Male, five-ten, black coat, gray hat, sunshades. He's carrying a black valise. Team leaders copy?''
"Copy that, Lieutenant. In sights. Suspect is taking palm 'link from left coat pocket, moving left of fountain now."
Then it all went wrong. The poodle started it. Eve saw th
at for herself. The little dog began to bark manically, broke from her mistress and streaked, yapping and snarling, toward the pair of Afghans.
A vicious little battle ensued, full of noise and fury. In her rush to save her poodle, the woman with the silver ribbons raced over the tiles and shoved past the businesswoman who'd risen to watch the commotion, nearly sending her into the fountain.
The businesswoman's palm 'link went flying and cracked directly between the surprised eyes of a cop in bellman's gear. He went down like a felled tree.
There were screams and curses, a major crash when one of the participants rammed a table holding a duet of crystal vases. Three bellmen dashed to assist, the first to arrive receiving a slash of canine teeth for his trouble. One of the Afghans bounded clear and raced toward the main doors and escape.
The dog caught McNab at the back of the knees and sent him headlong into the door he'd just been approaching. Outside it, Eve saw one of her men reach under his doorman's coat for his weapon.
"Keep your weapons out of view. Goddamn it, don't draw your weapons. It's a fucking dogfight."
But she saw, because her attention was focused on the target throughout the thirty-second battle, the exact moment they were made. The palm 'link was shoved back in his pocket, his stance went stiff with shock, and he bolted.
"He's made us. Suspect is proceeding on foot to the south entrance. Block south entrance," she ordered as she ran from the suite and toward the elevator. "Repeat. Block the south entrance. Suspect's rabbiting, consider him armed and dangerous." She didn't bother to glance over when Roarke pushed into the elevator with her.
"He's nearly to the doors," Roarke told her, and she saw now that he'd had the foresight to grab up one of the mini-monitors.
"Ellsworth, your location's hot."
"I see him, Dallas. I've got him."
The instant the elevator doors opened, she was streaking across the lobby. Ellsworth was inside the south doors, and out cold. "Tranq'd him. Jesus." She pulled her weapon and went through the doors.
"Suspect is out of controlled area. I've got an officer down at the south entrance. Suspect is on foot—"
She heard the scream as she raced for the corner. He was dragging a woman out of a car. Even as Eve reached the curb and brought up her weapon, he'd tossed her onto the street and had dived behind the wheel.
Pivoting, she pounded to the sportster she'd parked at the entrance.
"I'll drive." Roarke beat her to the car by a stride. "I know the car better."
With no time to argue, she jumped into the passenger seat. "Suspect's jacked a vehicle, is heading east on Seventy-fourth in a white minijet, N-Y-C license C-H-A-R-L-I-E. That's Charles Abel Roger Loser Ice Even. This is Dallas in pursuit. I need ground and air support. He's got a four-block lead, now approaching Lex."
Roarke shoved the sportster into turbo, rocketed.
"Make that three blocks," she murmured, eyes straight ahead when they swung around a commuter tram with a layer of paint to spare.
"He didn't boost a snail," Roarke commented, zigzagging through traffic without a single tap for the brakes. "Those minijets have muscle if he knows how to use it. But he shouldn't be able to outrun us in the long haul."