"If it comes to that—"

"If it comes to that, kill McCarthy, but don't kill her. We need her. Understand?"

Voices carried. Lucia ran almost soundlessly up another flight, eased open the fire door and sprinted for the elevator. There was an intercom button next to the Up and Down; she slapped her palm on it, juggling the package clumsily. "Security! Security, pickup!"

"Security, yes ma'am."

"Get up to the sixth floor. There are three men on then-way to my apartment and—"

"Ms. Garza? This is Marsh, ma'am. Those men are police officers. They came in just after you picked up the package—they had a warrant. Nothing I could do."

"Shit," she whispered, and slapped the call button for the elevator. "Marsh, listen to me. Those men are not police officers."

"I checked their badges—"

"Marsh!" She cut him off coldly, furiously. "I need you to go along with me here. Please. You have information that they're imposters, and you're just doing your job when you lock the damn fire door on the sixth floor!"

"Ma'am…" He debated for a second, then another. "I suppose they could have been fake credentials. We have to take all reasonable precautions."

They'd be to the fourth floor by now. Maybe the fifth, if they were in a hurry. "Marsh? Are you locking them out?"

No answer.

The elevator arrived. She lunged into it and hit the sixth floor button convulsively, willing it to go faster.

The intercom inside of the elevator came alive. "Ms. Garza?"

"Yes, Marsh!" Dammit, she hadn't even brought her gun. Hadn't come prepared at all for trouble. This is what happiness brings you. Disaster. She had let herself be comforted, and that was death to caution.

"We appear to have had a circuit fault on the sixth floor fire door. It's locked down. The cops are making their way up to seven."

"And that one will be locked when they get there?"

"Probably. Fault in the system, ma'am. But I can't promise you more than ten minutes, max. That's the most I can do."

"That's good enough." The doors opened on the sixth floor. "Thank you."

She made it to her apartment, unlocked the door, and caught McCarthy in the act of putting on his shirt. He looked up, startled, and she saw him take in the expression on her face.

He reached for his shoulder holster and strapped it on. "Trouble?"

"Ken Stewart's coming with some kind of warrant. No idea what it is, but it doesn't matter. Eidolan's nervous. He's here to slow us down," she said. "Take this." She handed him the package and grabbed the first thing she could find in the closet—a black canvas backpack, sturdy enough. The alarm started a shrill warning beep by the time she shoved the EMP device inside and zipped the bag.

"You going to shut the alarm off?"

"No. The more confusion, the better." She grabbed her gun, holster and purse, and moved past him to the closet at the back. "Come on." She shouldered the backpack.

"Where?"

"Back door."

It wasn't, exactly, but what building engineers didn't know wouldn't kill them. Though it might give them a good fit of pique… She shoved aside the coats in the closet and pressed hard on the wall behind, which swung open with a sharp pop of magnets coming loose.

It had been opened before. She saw sets of tracks in the pale dust. Gregory Ivanovich. He'd known that she would have built in an escape hatch. And he'd used it against her.

"What the hell…?" McCarthy marveled.

"Shut it behind you." She ducked into the crawl space. Short and dusty, it led into wiring tunnels, which dumped into a service shaft for the air handlers, with a long straight ladder down a central column. She started downward.

Somewhere above, in her apartment, she heard the alarm start to wail. Good. That meant confusion, more cops, possibly even a fire truck or two. The building's clientele this rich, and most of them important. The rich also came with an automatic upgrade of press coverage. With any luck, it would turn into a zoo outside.

She didn't trust luck. She jumped the last five rungs of the ladder, landed flat-footed in a crouch and had her gun in a two-handed grip as she advanced to the door.

No sound beyond. She eased it open a fraction of an inch, but the basement hallway was empty.

"Right." She shut the door and turned to look at McCarthy. "We need to make it to the Hummer. They'll be waiting somewhere along the line. They may even have the garage exits blocked off."

"They could have towed the truck," he reminded her.

"No, I don't think so. Not many towing services could handle it, and they'd have a hard time getting a flatbed truck down where we parked it, or getting the Hummer out if they did. Low ceilings. They'll just guard it. Less trouble."

He nodded. "I'm right behind you."

"I know."

"Try not to shoot anybody."

"Funny," she said grimly, "that's what they said. They want me alive."

That sparked something in his eyes that was hot and hungry. "I take it back," he said. "Shoot somebody. Preferably that rat bastard Stewart, if you see him."

She took a deep breath and swung open the door, then ran, light-footed, to the end of the hall. The parking lot beyond seemed deserted. No sign of surveillance or ambush. The Hummer loomed huge and black at the far corner, apart from the smaller cars and trucks.

She started to move forward, but McCarthy caught her arm and shook his head. He mimed splitting up, him to the right, her to the left. She shook her own head and fished the keys out of her pocket.

"Together," she whispered, making barely a sound. He stared at her face, and nodded.

"Together." It wasn't more than a movement of his lips, but it was a promise.

They broke from cover and ran for it. Nobody stopped them. She hit the alarm remote control and unlocked the doors, threw herself into the driver's side and put the backpack on the floorboard as Ben climbed in the passenger door. The interior looked cool, dark and untouched. "Too easy," he said, and immediately began to look for trouble out the windows. Nothing moved.

"Maybe the alarms upstairs distracted them," she said, and hit the ignition. The SUV started up with a rumble, and she backed it fast out of the space, not particularly worried about crumpled fenders or damaged quarter panels.

'They'll have us blocked in," McCarthy warned. His gun was out.

She nodded and gave him a lupine grin. "Let me worry about that. The army doesn't use these monsters just because of their pretty paint jobs."

"Manny's going to kill you."

"Better him than Ken Stewart, wouldn't you say? And if you're going to shoot, roll down the window."

He shook his head and watched the parking garage whip by as she accelerated the Hummer up the curving ramp toward escape. "Wild woman."

Bet your ass, she thought, and pressed the accelerator to the floor when she saw daylight, and two police cars blocking it. She honked, a loud blare, though they could hardly have missed a huge, black SUV barreling upward, engine roaring. Sure enough, the cops had prudently decided to leave empty cars in her path.

The Hummer hardly even shuddered at the impact. It slewed out into traffic as she whipped the wheel, burned rubber, and it stayed upright only because of the wide wheel base as she steered it down Vine Street.

"You realize that I'll be going to back to prison," McCarthy said, almost casually. "Doing crash tests with squad cars, that's some kind of crime. I know—I used to be a detective."

"Shut up. You're a hostage."

"I'm a what?"

"Hostage. You can truthfully say that I abducted you."

"I'm driving, after all."

"You know, my life with you might be short, but damn, it's going to be memorable."

She dug one-handed in her purse, came up with her cell phone and flipped it open. Voice-activated a call to Jazz, because she needed most of her attention for keeping the Hummer on the road and watching for any police cars moving to intercept. She had to get this thing off main streets fast, before air surveillance could get to them. Preferably, they needed to change cars. The closest chance would be six blocks away, in a parking garage behind a bank building.