the row of metal buildings on his left, sweeping with his flashlight as he went.
He looked at the spatter pattern, trying to imagine where it’d come from. Facial injury? Person had to be about half a foot shorter than he was. Maybe Allison’s height. She came up to his shoulder. Perfect for kissing.
He didn’t like thinking that way right now.
She’s here…why? She gets attacked. She hits a guy’s car making her escape…
Or she was never here in the first place.
He took one of his tissues, wiped it across the blood spatter on the wall and dropped it into a paper evidence envelope in his pocket.
He made his way back to the open door and aimed his beam into it, noting several sets of dirty shoeprints, one set significantly smaller than the others, exiting this way. He was guessing heeled boots. Allison had boots.
Could still be someone in there, hiding in the shadows, armed with an Uzi or a rocket launcher. He put it on his list of things to keep track of and started to head back to the car.
The rain was hitting the blacktop unevenly, indicating an object on the ground. He arced his beam downward again, and saw a portable phone. Some kind of animal print—leopard, maybe. He squatted down, grabbed it and stuffed it in his pocket.
In the distance, the thin wail of a siren prodded him to hurry. Swearing softly, he glanced up. Maybe he should go up on the roof…
The siren was getting louder. Morgan was a little surprised, and wondered if Andy had told another member of the Maryland State Police that he’d found some blood. Why else rush on a rainy night to a vehicular hitand-run with no injuries?
Betting against the likelihood that the State Troopers would be searching for advanced bugging equipment, he reached in his pocket and pulled out a small plastic container of microphones no larger than fleas, which were adhesed on strips that looked like tiny bandages. He picked up the tiny pipette included in the package, squeezed out the air and tapped one of the microphones with the tip, creating suction. Then he placed it on the interior section of the doorjamb, two inches lower than his own mouth, and tapped it onto the surface. Morgan was six foot two.
He dashed back to his car and fished a small black metal box out of his trunk. Nonstandard issue for cryptanalysts, highly standard issue for black ops. Morgan wished he had some sexier stuff on hand. He hadn’t re-stocked his car after his last assignment—Fairfax— because he’d intercepted comint—communications from intelligence—that NSA was going to recommence random searches of employee vehicles. One of Project Ozone’s tasks included beta-testing encryption protocols for mini-mics, so he could explain why he had them.
He flicked the box open, felt around for his earphones and looped one around his ear. It was set to the frequency of the tiny microphone on the jamb.
He hurried back to the button mic.
“Test, test,” he said. He heard himself in his earphone. He also heard the siren—in stereo—distinct from his voice and the rain. He had good reception, and he was about to have company unless he got the hell out of there.
Back to the car, then, he put his flashlight in the glove compartment and calmly drove away. He went through the intersection and looped back around to get back onto the parkway. Sure enough, a Maryland State Troopers vehicle was just taking his original off-ramp.
Still wearing his gloves, he pulled the animal-print cell phone he had collected out of his pocket and hit the code to redial the last number that had been called.
“Athena Construction,” came a voice. His sister’s voice.
He drove on autopilot for a few seconds, dumb-founded. Athena. As in Athena Academy?
Katie said nothing more; she was obviously waiting for a reply. That raised the likelihood that there was some kind of coded response—which Morgan didn’t know.
He listened to the white air. They were still connected.
She was his sister, for God’s sake. If he ID’ed himself—
Everything in him told him to shut down the call. He shouldn’t tip his hand. Frown lines creased his forehead as he clicked the phone closed, put it back in his pocket and drove straight to Allison’s town house.
* * *
Allison kept to surface streets as she tried to staunch the flow of blood from her nose. She was certain that it was broken. Her head was pounding and her vision was blurring. She was worried about a concussion.
As soon as she had verified that there was no one following her, she pulled over to a weed-choked shoulder, staggered out and threw up.
Her mind bounded ahead, clearing a path to her goal. She would have to dump her car. She would have to get to Arizona. She would have to stay alive.
Slinging herself into the passenger seat, she dug in her briefcase for some ibuprofen and a bottle of water. She rinsed out her mouth, then swallowed a double dose of painkillers. Her body was trembling. She had to find the calm center. She had to take control, not be controlled. But she was on the verge of freaking out. Her body was still in battle mode; she had both fought and fled, and her central nervous system knew very well that the dangers were not over.
She breathed deeply, aware that seconds mattered right now. Nanoseconds. But she had to take the time.
Once she was more composed, she grabbed one of the prepaids, slapped on her distorter and called the Loschetter safe house again.
“Athena Construction,” Katie Rush said.
“I’m interested in buying a house,” Delphi answered, using her voice distorter. “Status.”
“Delphi. Did you call before without speaking?” Katie asked.
Allison blinked. Alarms went off like hand grenades. “No. When?”
“I logged it. About ten minutes ago. Nine minutes and forty-eight seconds, actually.”
“Hang on,” Delphi told Katie.
Despite the fact that several Oracle agents had the safe house phone number, Allison had a feeling that things had just escalated from worse to worst. With her free hand, she opened up her briefcase. She had put six prepaids in there. There were four. The one she was on made five.
She shut her eyes at her terrible blunder. She must have left the one she had used in the alley. Who had found it? Her mind ranged over the possibilities, from CIA to assassins unknown to Echo. A good spy would be able to trace the call with satellite equipment. She’d done it herself in the past.
“Pack up. Be ready to leave on my signal,” Delphi ordered her subordinate. “Your location may be compromised.”
There was a beat. “Roger wilco, Delphi.”
“Switch to the alternate phone number. I’ll send a memo. I’m going to check in with you every hour on the hour starting now,” Delphi continued, checking her dashboard clock. “It’s 6:57 p.m. where you are, correct?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“You’ll
