In Death 09 - Loyalty in Death

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.
    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, announcing incoming and outgoing transports. Flocks of commuters lined the public 'links, calling home, calling lovers, calling their bookies.
    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 scanning her now, she imagined. They'd find she was armed, but they'd have expected that. If she was lucky, and Feeney was good, they wouldn't make the tracker.
    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 disconnected. "Next train," she added. "Incoming."
    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.
    The displaced air from the train blew over them. The whine shivered away, and people began to bump and shove their way on and off the train.
    Eve didn't bother to try for a seat but gripped a security hook, planted her feet, and braced for the takeoff.
    McNab squeezed in just down the line and began singing lightly under his breath. Eve nearly smiled when she recognized one of Mavis's songs.
    The trip to Queens was crowded, hot, and blessedly short. Yet even that short jaunt made Eve thankful she wasn't an office drone condemned to ride public transpo throughout her days.
    She stepped off onto the platform. McNab moved by her without a blink and headed into the station.
    They sent her to the Bronx next, then Brooklyn. Then shot her to Long Island, back to Queens. She decided she'd just throw out her arms and beg for a laser blast if she had to take one more ride.
    Then she saw them coming. One on the left, one on the right. She ran Fixer's description through her head and decided these were the two who'd made his deliveries and cut out his tongue.
    She backed up out of the crowd of weary commuters, noting the two-man team had slipped into a pincher pattern:
    They were taking no chances, she mused, and as one flipped open his coat to show the police-issue blaster, she assumed they meant to take no prisoners, either.
    She bumped deliberately into a man waiting behind her, lifted a hand as if to catch her balance, "Contact.