Page 23 of Agent Zero
Another silver lining.They were few and far between in this entirely fubared situation.
Bronson sighed again and reached for the desk phone.He’d already forgotten Three was in the room.
FIFTEEN
No sign of her.Reese waited as long as he dared, throttling the rabbit-run of panic under his skin, then hit the street.The back of his neck itched, telling him he’d just avoided an event—instinct or his perceptions picking up on something too small to be consciously noted.Maybe they amounted to the same thing.Or maybe the itch was the little helpers in his bloodstream dying off.
Quit thinking like that.
He could’ve assumed she’d changed her mind, but he had both files tucked in his backpack.It was far likelier she was screaming in a padded cell somewhere, doped on something meant to get her to babble about him.It wouldn’t do any good—she didn’t know anything, and he’d contaminated her just by going back to the diner once too often.Who knew they were watching so goddamn closely?
He should get the hell out of town.That was the safest option, and the most unacceptable one.
Because it left her behind, just like a discarded shirt, andthatwasn’t...what?
It just plain wasn’t satisfactory.So he visited a drugstore, and an hour and a half later found him in a familiar, run-down neighborhood.He ducked into the little bodega she often stopped at and bought a black baseball cap, put it on.Just in case.There was also an emergency exit at the back of the store which might prove useful.
The proprietor, a graying Sikh, barely glanced away from his flickering television to take Reese’s money.The street outside looked normal, no breath of surveillance, and that was bad.If they weren’t watching, did it mean they already had her?Or did it mean he was slipping, since he hadn’t thought they’d noticed him trail Holly?
Don’t rabbit.Walking along pavement as if he belonged, stepping through sudden glare as the sun came out from behind scudding clouds.The wind freshened, holding a promise of rain later, and he could smell faint traces of her the moment he stepped inside the apartment building.The front door wasn’t the best entry, but at least he’d scoped this place thoroughly.
He spent a few moments near the emergency exit at the end of her hall, breathing in the staleness of a dejected apartment building in the dead time of afternoon, when even cranky babies were napping.
With that done, he padded back to her door—4D.Was now the time to admit he’d wondered just how easy the locks would be to coax?She had a deadbolt, thank God, but it wasn’t enough.
Less than sixty seconds passed before he turned the knob and stepped over the threshold.The smell was there, wrapping all around him like a warm blanket.A rush of images—black hair, her smoky eyes, that little smile she sometimes wore.What would it be like to see her really happy?Baking bread, fresh strawberries, the slightly musky tang of an adult woman...
He shook his head, almost staggering.A small kitchen opened immediately to his right, ruthlessly scrubbed and gleaming.She wasn’t looking for her security deposit back, though, because she’d painted the cabinets a soft sunshine yellow.
The bathroom was the size of a postage stamp, but also glaring clean, the fixtures all redone.Probably salvage because they didn’t all match, but they were all brushed nickel and he wondered how she was strong enough to turn a wrench, thin and tired-looking as she was.
The more he saw, the more he liked.
She’d probably chosen this place for the light.The rest of the apartment was a single room, a futon with a cherrywood frame folded neatly into a red-cushioned couch and a small bookcase painted crimson.A skylight filled the space to the brim with mellow afternoon glow, and even when the clouds came again the whole place glowed like the inside of a pearl.Bare wood floors, polished until they shone—had she taken out carpeting to expose the original hardwood?Or had it been a reason to rent this place?
Her smell was everywhere, drenching him.There was a battered leather recliner set near the large window, which looked down on Fifty-Eighth Street.He could see her curled up in it, watching the traffic go by.Probably with a book—and there was a small journal with a pen clipped to its cover.Diary, probably—girls loved that sort of thing.
Or so he’d heard.
Her dresser was in the closet, painted a pale white with pinkish undertones.She’d taken the closet doors off and hung a rippling curtain of red and gold instead, a sunburst of color.A restrained, beautiful nest; the small nightstand next to the futon was ruthlessly bare save for a lamp and an empty glass.
The urge to lie down on the couch and work that wonderful smell all over him was incredible.He made another circuit, checked the bathroom.The mirrored cabinet over the sink held toiletries and pill bottles, all over-the-counter remedies.Looked like she had uneasy digestion, and also trouble sleeping.
I could help with that.
Reese stopped, staring at the antique cast-iron tub.What kind of thought was that?Why was he even here, instead of getting out of town?
Because someone will come to clear this place, and they might know where she is.
It was crazy.It was impossible.It was the riskiest possible maneuver.
I don’t care.He let out a long, soft breath, and his ears perked.At least he wasn’t degrading just yet; his hearing was acute as ever.
Footsteps.Two men, moving with alien purpose.Coming down the hall, a wrong note in the regular symphony of a sleepy city afternoon.
Great.He eased the knife free—time to be silent and quick.Kill one, and see if the other knew anything.There were all sorts of ways to wring information out of people, and he was aching to try a few.
He was out of the bathroom and at the end of the short entry hall, tucked out of sight behind the kitchen.There was a pass-through and a doorway, so you could cook and look out into the rest of the apartment, but they wouldn’t be able to see him.He closed his eyes, listening, and heard something else.
