Loyalty in Death

"Hell, I don't want any ham-handed EDD chick pawing at me. Just do it."

"All right, okay." He cleared his throat, rolled his shoulders. "The tracker's wireless. It's going to go right over your heart. We figure they'll scan you, but we're going to coat it with this stuff – it's like skin. They're using it on droids. If they pick it up at all, it'll look like a blemish or something."

"So they'll think I have a pimple on my tit. Fine."

"You know, Peabody could do this."

"Jesus, Feeney." Somebody had to get going, so keeping her gaze trained over his shoulder, she yanked up her shirt. "Put the damn thing where it goes."

The next five minutes were mortifying for both of them.

"You, ah, want to hold your shirt out for a couple of minutes, till the skin strip dries."

"I've got it."

"I'll be on the tracker myself. We'll be able to monitor your location through your heartbeat. We rigged this wrist unit." Relieved the worst was over, he picked it up from the table. "The mike's low frequency, so it shouldn't pop on a scan, but its range is a joke, and you're going to have to talk straight into it for us to pick you up. This is just backup."

"I'll take it." Eve removed her own unit, replaced it. "Anything else I should know?"

"We're positioning men all over Grand Central. You won't be on your own. Nobody moves in until you give the go-ahead, but they're there."

"Good to know."

"Dallas, any protective gear over your chest will jam the tracker."

She stared at him. "No vest?"

"Your choice. Gear or tracker."

"Hell, they're more likely to blast me in the head, anyway."

"Goddamn it."

"Joking." But she rubbed a hand over her mouth. "Any line on the target?"

"Nothing so far."

"You looked over the droids at Branson T and T?"

"Yeah, they've got a new Brainiac line." He smiled a little now. "New shell covering, too. Next best to skin. But they're toys," he added. "I didn't see anything full size."

"Doesn't mean they aren't there. Those toys capable of acting out a scene like what happened at Branson's?"

"If they were six foot instead of six inches, yeah. I'd say. Creepy little bastards, you ask me."

"That's my personal 'link," she said when she heard the signal. "I have to take this. It's private."

"Okay, I'll be outside. We're ready to roll when you are."

Alone, she took out her 'link, engaged the privacy mode by unfolding and slipping on her headphones. "Dallas."

"I have your data, Lieutenant." Roarke's eyes narrowed. "Where's your shirt?"

"Somewhere. Here." She grabbed it up. "What have you got?"

"She checks out easily if you skim the first few levels. Born in Kansas thirty-six years ago, parents are teachers, pure middle class, one sister, married with son. She went through the local school system, worked for a short time as a department store clerk. She married Branson about ten years ago, moved to New York. I assume you have all that."

"I want what's under it."

"So I thought. The names her records show as parents did indeed have a daughter named Clarissa born thirty-six years ago. However, she died at the age of eight. Scraping off the levels, we find this dead child with school and employment records and a marriage license."

"Bogus."

"Yes, indeed. A little dip into Clarissa Stanley's medical files indicates she hasn't seen the age of thirty-six for some time. She's forty-six. Tracing the data input, it appears Clarissa was reborn twelve years ago. Whoever, whatever she was before, has been wiped. I might be able to jiggle some out, but it won't be quick."

"That's enough for now. She wanted a new ID, and not to carve ten years off her age."

"If you do a bit more math, you see that she would have been exactly the same age as Charlotte Rowan when Apollo headquarters was destroyed."

"I've already done the math, thanks."

"Since I followed your avenue here, I took it a bit farther."

"Farther where?"

"Some may disagree," he said with a long look at her, "but people in intimate relationships generally have some common ground and a general knowledge of each other's ambitions and activities."

Guilt fizzed back into her chest. "Look, Roarke – "

"Shut up, Eve." He said it so pleasantly, she did. "Since it appears Clarissa may have close ties with Rowan and Apollo, I did some back-checking on B. Donald. Nothing in particular there, except for a number of large and perhaps questionable contributions to the Artemis Society."

"Another Greek god?"

"Yes, and Apollo's twin. I doubt we'll find any data on it in the banks. However, looking a generation back, I found that E. Francis Branson, B. D.'s father, contributed large amounts to this same organization. He was also – according to CIA files – briefly an operative. He not only knew James Rowan but worked with him."

"Which closed the link between the Bransons and the Rowans. Branson grew up with Apollo; so did Clarissa. They hooked up and kept heading down the same path. We are loyal." She let out a breath. "Thanks."

"You're welcome. Eve, how much of a risk are you about to take?"

"I'll have backup."

"That wasn't my question."

"Nothing I can't handle. I appreciate the help."

"Any time."

Words, many of them foolish, bubbled into her throat. And Feeney stuck his head in the door. "We have to move, Dallas."

"Yeah, right. I'm there. Time to saddle up," she said with a half smile at Roarke. "See you tonight."

"Take care of what's mine, Lieutenant."

She smiled again as she slipped the 'link away. She knew he hadn't meant the bonds.

– =O=-***-=O=-

Having backup and a tracker didn't stop her from feeling alone and exposed as she moved through the crushing crowd in Grand Central. She spotted some cops whose faces she knew. Her eyes passed over them, and theirs over hers, without interest.

The speakers droned overhead, a

Eve strode past them. In the surveillance van two blocks away, Feeney noted her heartbeat was smooth and steady.

She saw the vagrants who'd come in from the cold and would soon be rousted out again by security. Vendors sold the news, on paper, on disc, as well as cheap souvenirs, hot drinks, and cold beer.

She took the stairs rather than the glide and moved down to check point. Lifting her arm as if to push at her hair, she muttered into her wrist unit.

"Leaving main level for check point. No contact yet."

She felt the floor tremble, heard the whining scream as a bullet train tore out of the station.

She stood on the platform, one hand firm on the suitcase, the other in plain view. If they were going to take her out, they would do it here, fast, taking advantage of the crowd waiting for their transport. One takes her out, another snags the case, and they're lost in the confusion.

That's what she would do. Eve thought. That's how she'd play the game.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw McNab in a bright yellow coat, blue shoes, and ski hat, idling at a computer game while he sat on a bench in the waiting area.

They were sca

The public 'link behind her began to ring, loud and shrill. Without hesitating, she turned and answered. "Dallas."

"Take the incoming train to Queens. Buy a ticket onboard."

"Queens," she repeated with her mouth all but against her wrist unit. The caller had already disco

Turning away, she moved toward the tracks as the rumble started. McNab pocketed his computer game and strolled up behind her. He'd been a good call, Eve mused. No one looked less like a cop. He was wearing headphones, doing a little head and shoulder dance as if he were listening to music that set him into motion. His body stood at Eve's flank like a shield.