"Is that who I think it is?" Jen whispered.

I peered through the gloom toward the sound, listening intently. The barest sliver of light glimmered from the other side of the cavernous studio, a band of illumination creeping from under a door, wavering along its length as someone walked past on the other side. The voice continued, the words consumed by the distance but the strident tone utterly familiar.

It was Mandy Jenkins, sounding very annoyed.

Chapter 30

I LOWERED MY VOICE BELOW A WHISPER, JUST BREATH: "KEEP QUIET."

Among the shadowy, jumbled shapes, quiet meant slow. We moved like deep-sea divers, taking slow-motion steps, waving our hands in front of us in the darkness. As we grew nearer, eyes still adjusting, the glow from under the door seemed to grow brighter. The texture of the concrete floor became clearer, its pitted surface lit by the sidelong light like craters on the moon.

Gradually I began to make out that there were other doors along this wall of the studio. Most were dark, but a few showed glints of light under them. More sounds came dully through the wall, grunts and scrapes, the movement of heavy objects across the rough floor. A few metal ladders disappeared up into darkness above us, where a catwalk wound its way around the outside of the studio, accessing a steel framework hung with movie lights and sound equipment.

The door we'd first spotted stood out, the light around its edges glowing fiercely, and I imagined a blinding interrogation lamp pointed at Mandy's face across a bare table.

A sentence formed out of the muffled hum of her voice. "I think you've got this all wrong!"

The reply was too quiet and steady for me make out any words, but it sounded coolly threatening.

The scrape of a chair came from behind the door, then footsteps.

Jen threw herself behind some huge piece of equipment, waving frantically for me to follow. The sliver of light grew darker as someone approached.

I took a few panicked, silent steps to join Jen, crouching beside her just as the door opened, spilling an arc of light across the huge studio. Cowboy boots and red-and-white client shoes swept across my view— NASCAR Man (also known as Futura Garamond) escorting Mandy across the gray concrete expanse.

Darkness wrapped itself around them as the door swung closed, but then illumination poured from overhead, a row of work lights popping on. Jen pulled me farther back behind our hulking piece of equipment just as Futura Garamond looked our way, his hand still on the switch.

I swallowed, pressed hard against Jen, my heart beating frantically. Had he heard my footsteps? Seen us?

"Hello?" he called.

We stayed frozen until he shook his head and guided Mandy to another door a dozen yards away, pulling it open. She went in alone, and Garamond let it swing closed behind her with a click.

"I'll be back," he said through the door, then turned and disappeared up one of the ladders, cowboy boots clanking on metal. Peering upward through the catwalk, we watched him clomp right over our heads. Then his footsteps faded.

Jen and I stayed still for a moment, still clinging to each other. Was he still up there, looking down? Waiting for us to emerge? Or did the catwalk lead off into some other part of the building?

After long seconds of waiting Jen said, "Come on."

We crept toward the door through which Mandy had disappeared, me looking up at the dangling work lights. I felt naked in the light, but Garamond, wherever he was, might notice if they clicked off again.

When we got to the door, Jen reached out and softly grasped the knob, turning it as carefully as a safecracker.

She shook her head. Locked.

I put my ear to the cold metal and heard nothing. This must be where they kept Mandy between interrogations. What were they trying to do? Learn the client's marketing secrets? Dig up dirt on their overseas operations? Find out more about me?

Whatever the anti-client wanted from Mandy, now was the time to rescue her. And quickly. Futura Garamond had said he was coming back.

Jen mimed a knock on the door, a questioning look on her face.

I quickly shook my head. The last thing we needed was Mandy calling out, asking who we were. Her sharp voice was famous for its ability to get the attention of unruly focus groups.

I made a punching gesture at the door, and Jen nodded agreement. We were going to have to break it down.

Unfortunately, we hadn't remembered to bring a battering ram. The door looked formidable, its metal painted industrial gray. And once the first blow rang out, we were going to have company pretty soon. We would have to crash through, drag Mandy out, and make a run for the other end of the studio.

I looked around for something to hit the door with and spotted a fire extinguisher hanging in a corner.

Jen stepped in front of me, shaking her head. She pointed back to where we'd hidden.

In the work lights I could clearly see the piece of equipment we had crouched behind. It was a camera dolly, a heavy, four-wheeled cart used for filming traveling shots. Attached to its front was a heavy, cranelike arm for holding the camera.

I smiled. We did have a battering ram.

We stole quickly back to the dolly and gave it a tentative shove. It glided forward easily on rubber tires designed to provide the camera with a smooth, silent ride.

Jen and I grinned at each other. Perfect.

We lined it up with the door, aiming the camera crane dead center.

"One… two… three…," Jen mouthed, and we leaned our weight against the dolly. Engineered to roll fast, it built speed quickly and quietly moved across the smooth floor.

About five seconds from collision the door opened.

Mandy was standing there, a puzzled look on her face, the small room glaringly white behind her. I skidded to a halt, but our battering ram pulled itself from my grasp, rolling unstoppably ahead.

"W-What the…," Mandy stammered as the dolly hurtled toward her; j then, at the last instant, she did the sensible thing and slammed the door shut.

The dolly struck with a bright metal crunch, the sound of a car hitting a garbage can at full speed echoing through the vast space. The door crumpled inward, closing around the dolly's camera crane like a stomach around a fist.

"Mandy!" I cried, leaping forward.

Jen and I pulled the dolly back frantically, and the door swung outward, then tumbled from its hinges, crashing to the floor.

Mandy was standing inside the little room, looking down at us from her perch. I realized she'd jumped up onto a toilet to escape the rampaging dolly—she was in a bathroom. The sounds of flushing noises came from the imperturbable plumbing.

"Are you okay?" I shouted.

"Hunter? What the hell are you—?"

"No time!" I cried, and pulled her down. Jen was already headed back across the studio floor, out of the pool of work lights and into the darkness. I dragged a very stunned Mandy after me, bruising my shins against shadowy obstacles as we charged for the big sliding stage door.j

The sounds of confusion came from behind me, doors swinging open and light spilling into the studio. If only we could make it back to the security guard at the front entrance or even out into the sunlight…

"Hunter!" Mandy screamed, a dead weight behind me.

"Just run!" I yelled, trying to yank her forward, but she planted her heels and pulled me to a stop.

I spun and faced her.

"What are you doing?" she cried.

"Rescuing you!"

She looked at me for an endless second, then sighed and shook her head. "Oh, Hunter, you are so yesterday."

Then the world exploded, buzzing and powerful banks of film lights hitting us from every direction.