Victor ignores Hammett and feeds the full magazine into the Brugger & Thomet MP9. Aware of the glitzy shops of the Magnificent Mile whizzing outside the van, he longs to open up on unsuspecting shoppers at nine hundred rounds per minute. He's been living in America for too long, and he's had enough. Americans are lazy, ignorant pigs who think they are entitled to all that is good in the world. More than anything, he has thirsted for this moment, his chance to set them straight.

  Too bad he can't start with Hammett.

  "I've provided money and men," he says, a temple of infinite patience. "I've done my part. You promised to deliver the transceiver."

  "Your part? What was your part? Fucking my sister?"

  "She's a better fuck than you are. Apparently she's better at everything else as well."

  He says it to get her to shut up, but realizes it is true. Hammett, sexy as she is, didn't even seem to realize he was in the same room as her when they made love. She used him like a piece of gym equipment. At least Chandler seemed to want to please him.

  Of course, he doubted that would be the case now, especially after the whole torture thing. But if she came out of this alive, he'd take her along with the transceiver. He could have fun with her, at least for a little while.

  Hammett, he'll dump in the lake as soon as the prize is in hand.

  In the back, his men pretend they didn't hear, but Victor can feel them grin.

  He is going to enjoy killing her.

  "Let us out here," Hammett orders. She turns to Victor. "I'll go after Chandler. You watch for the police. Try not to fuck it up."

  Victor clenches his jaw and doesn't answer. He is the one giving orders. He is the one who found the investors. He is the one who gets the transceiver when it's all over. Somehow the bitch always forgets she depends on him.

  The van stops. He, Hammett and his men jump out. Best case, they find Chandler, find the transceiver, and escape without a shot being fired.

  Worst case, they'll draw attention to themselves, and people will have to die.

  Victor smiles privately, his hand gripping the MP9.

  Worst case doesn't seem bad at all.

  # # #

  Leading with the Sig, I stepped out of the elevator and into a wide hall. Various prints depicting Chicago hung on the walls, and my feet sunk into plush carpeting. The air smelled of lavender and money. No telling how much it cost to live in a landmark like the John Hancock building, but my nose told me the people who made this their home rarely stooped to do something as middle class as cook dinner.

  The sound of strings filtered into the hall from the closest condo. The Jupiter Symphony, if I remembered my Mozart. No one was in the hall. Hopefully the late hour would keep it that way, at least until I could find the stairs.

  Picturing the layout of the Signature Room above, I headed left. Sure enough, the third door I passed was marked Fire Exit. I ducked inside, the alarm ringing briefly. Springing on the balls of my feet, I started up the remaining five flights.

  I reached the top, my heart rate slightly elevated, and pushed into the restaurant.

  A man around my age stood near the maître d’ stand. "Ma'am, I'm sorry but we're..." His voice trailed off and mouth froze open as his stare alternated between my face and my weaponry.

  "I'm sorry, I'm going to have to ask you to leave. It's for your own safety."

  "Again?"

  It took me a second to realize he was probably reacting to an earlier run in with Hammett, and assumed I was her. Wouldn't he be surprised when she turned up, which I was sure would happen soon.

  "Get the fuck out," I said, pointing my weapon at him.

  He got the fuck out.

  "I'm in on the 95th floor," I said to Fleming.

  Then I went to find my cell phone.

  # # #

  After flailing around and looking appropriately pitiful for the time it took Chandler to get into the elevator, Fleming allowed the security guard to help her back into her chair. A small collection of gawkers had gathered, and even though Fleming had been faking her helplessness, she still felt a small sting of humiliation.

  One more indignity to add to the list.

  She listened to Chandler announce her arrival, and for a brief, self-indulgent moment Fleming pretended she was up there instead. After the fall, and the countless surgeries and hellish failure that was rehabilitation, Fleming swore off feeling sorry for herself. She refused to allow tragedy to limit what she could do. As a result, she’d worked harder and accomplished more than she probably ever would have if her legs had still functioned.

  But that was all behind-the-scenes stuff. Even the encryption code for the transceiver—a brilliant combination of mathematics and programming—was for someone else to use. Fleming longed to do something active. To be viable again. But instead of taking the lead, she wheeled back into the lobby and played the back-up role, watching for Hammett.

  She didn't have to watch long.

  Hammett strolled in, wearing an ankle-length brown duster, a beige top, and black leather pants. Fleming had always flirted with the notion of buying leather pants, and seeing them on Hammett, decided they were a bad idea. Hammett was flanked by six men, walking in groups of two, looking very much like a military unit even though they were in civvies. Slung over each of their shoulders was a duffle bag, and judging by their weights Fleming guessed they held automatic weapons.

  Keeping her head down, she backed around the corner and watched as they approached the bank of express elevators. One of the men began to speak to the maître d’ they'd run from a moment earlier.

  Hammett reached inside her duster, no doubt putting her hands on a gun.

  Fleming gripped the arms of her chair, but she didn't fire. This was not ideal. Hammett and Victor stood between her and the cops. If she stayed in position and tried to take Hammett out, she might hit the innocents behind her. If she did nothing, Hammett would likely get through, and if everything went to hell, she could kill those same innocents on her way to interfere with Chandler.

  Footsteps sounded to the side of Fleming. Two more officers.

  She took her fingers from the triggers and gripped the wheels. Where shooting at Hammett's men didn't bother Fleming in the least, the thought of getting in a firefight with police officers who were just doing their jobs was another story. She'd have to find a different position, and figure out another way to keep Hammett and the men from reaching the restaurant, at least until Chandler had a chance to get the phone and get out.

  "She's here," Fleming whispered. "Six men with her, all armed and—"

  That's when Hammett pulled out a semi-automatic pistol and shot the maître d’ in the head.

  # # #

  After Hammett caps the rude maître d’—and let's face it, the son of a bitch had it coming—she sidesteps the police line and goes to the express elevators, ignoring Victor and his shouts of rage.

  A firefight breaks out, Victor's men and the police in the lobby. Hammett slips into the first lift that opens and hits the button for the restaurant. Then she does a quick check of her weapons. A 9mm Beretta, loaded with hollow points. A carbon fiber Spyderco Navaja. One of Victor's MP9s, hanging from a shoulder sling inside her coat. And something with a bit more stopping power, in her right pocket.

  "Ready or not, dear sister, here I come."

  # # #

  Fleming spoke in my ear as I was racing up the stairs to the balcony overlooking the restaurant. "Six men with her, all armed and—" Gunfire exploded in the background, making her words hard to hear. But reading the alarm in her voice was easy.

  "Fleming?"

  More gunshots. My stomach clenched like a fist.

  As I approached the top of the stairs, I forced all thoughts of what my sister was going through from my mind. I needed to focus. I needed to get the phone.

  After contemplating and rejecting various hiding places, I decided to take a more direct approach and gave the phone to the bartender, feeding him a story about finding it in the ladies room. Then I hung around just long enough to see where he kept the lost and found.

  Now I dashed straight for the maître d's stand on one end of the balcony.

  The top drawer was locked. Hands shaking, I started feeling along the hem of my t-shirt before I remembered I wasn't wearing my own clothing.

  Yet my fingers hit something stiff. Wires.

  Of course. This was Hammett's shirt. Hammett, who had gone through the same training I had.

  I ripped the stitching and removed the picks, letting the fifty dollar bill fall to the floor. The lock was a simple one, and only took seconds. I pulled the drawer open and stared at over a dozen cell phones jamming the small space.

  How did so many people manage to lose their phones?

  I clawed through the collection. Seven iPhones, a Droid, at least six of the old flip models—who knew how long those had been there—and a variety of odds and ends, including a Kindle. Finally I located mine. I dropped it in my rucksack and zipped it up.

  Just as the elevator door chimed.

  # # #

  Victor curses that shalava Hammett and then fires ten rounds into a wide-eyed cop who barely cleared leather with his weapon. He also dispatches the cop's partner, who managed to get off two ineffective shots before doing the machine-gun-boogie. Then Victor's men form a half-circle around him and lay down a burst of suppressive fire. The two dozen people in the lobby who hadn't fled or hit the floor yet got the hint. All except some cripple in a wheelchair, who seems to be rolling their way with an expression of—

  Chto za huy! I know that face!

  Victor rolls out of the way as a barrage of bullets fires from the armrests of the wheelchair, mowing down three of his men. He slides across the tile floor on his shoulder, bringing up his MP9, but Hammett's sister is already in motion, barreling toward his men, who duck for cover, steering toward one who had taken a dive and then—what the fuck is that?—a long, thin blade comes out of the chair's axle and neatly slices Sergei's throat and then severs Nikolai's hamstring.

  Peter comes up behind, spraying bullets. They clang off the back of her wheelchair, apparently bullet-proof.

  She taps her armrest again and a long jet of fire hits the poor bastard square in the face.

  Holy shit.

  The woman spins around, lifting up her footrest, which had concealed another blade, and as Yuri rushes at her, she guts him.

  That leaves Victor and Karl, and Karl is backpedalling as fast as he can move his feet, his shots flying harmlessly over the crippled woman's head as she accelerates toward him, now brandishing a .45. She shoots Karl in the forehead, then whirls around, seeking Victor.

  But he's already in motion, raising his weapon, stitching rounds up her legs and across her chest.

  The woman slumps in the chair, her gun clattering to the floor.

  Victor looks at his fallen comrades, spits in disgust, and then storms over to her, ready to put the coup de grace into her head.

  # # #

  The gunfire began when the elevator doors opened just a sliver. I immediately dropped behind the maître d’ stand, crawling away as bullets chewed into the wood and flung sawdust into the air, the tattoo of automatic weapon fire drowning out all thought.

  I reached the stairs, flipping onto my back, freeing the Tec-9 and aiming with my left hand while the right held my Sig.

  The shooting paused, and for a moment all I heard was the ringing in my ears.

  "Where was it?" Hammett called out.

  I kept my arms extended, fingers on the triggers. "Lost and found."

  "Clever girl. Clever, clever girl."

  I caught the movement peripherally, Hammett rushing in low to my right, the muzzle flash of her machine gun preceding the barrage of lead pocking the floor in front of me, coming my way to cut me in half.

  Ah, hell...

  I swung the rucksack in front of me, using it as protection. The punch of a dozen rounds peppering it, I pushed myself backward, scooting down the stairs. Still being chased by bullets, I tucked my legs up to my chest and began to roll, feet over head. I bumped into the railing and kept somersaulting, each step bruising my spine, my skull. By the time the steps spit me out onto the lower floor, my sense of balance and direction was completely gone.

  My skull ached, adding to the disorientation, and after a quick self pat-down found I had somehow lost my Tec-9, and—

  Oh, no.

  My rucksack.

  My rucksack, with the transceiver in it.

  I cast a frantic look around and saw it, sitting midway on the stairs.

  I got my legs under me, ready to make an attempt, but Hammett suddenly appeared over the railing above, her face shiny with excitement.

  Still dizzy, I fired my Sig, and then dove to the side as more lead rained down on me. I made it to the edge of the carpeted dining area, crawled under the closest dinner table and upended it, sending silverware flying. Hunkering down behind it, I replaced the magazine in my weapon and willed the world to stop spinning.

  "Please tell me the transceiver is in that backpack." Hammett's voice carried a teasing edge.

  She'd seen my face when I realized it was gone. She knew something important to me was inside. I wasn't about to give her any more hints. "Why don't you go and check?" I taunted, the Sig now loaded and ready.

  In my earpiece, more gunfire and screaming.

  I peered around the table, eyes on my rucksack, then looked left to the expansive wine cellar, stocked to the ceiling with bottles behind glass doors. I crawled over to it, broke the glass with the butt of my .45, and snatched a bottle of Merlot by the neck. Hammett was no longer at the railing, but I knew if I were up there, about to make a run at the rucksack, I'd be close to the stairs, yet behind cover. The only thing on the balcony that qualified was the splintered remains of the maître d’ stand.

  So that's where I threw the bottle.

  As it sailed through the air, I quickly grabbed a replacement from behind me, then aimed and shot the Merlot. It shattered near where I guessed my sister to be, spraying glass and wine. I tossed the second bottle, grabbed a third, shot the second, tossed the third, grabbed a fourth, shot the third, and then I stormed the stairs, taking them two at a time, emptying my magazine as Hammett brought her gun up and began to blind fire. Discarding my Sig, I snatched the rucksack strap. Bullets cut the air around me. I flew up the last three steps, leaped past the maître d’ stand, and, just as my sister stuck out her head, I cracked her in the face with a 2007 MacPhail Pratt Pinot Noir.

  I landed on my side and tugged the rucksack onto my shoulders. Then I pulled up my leg and freed the asp.

  Hammett was on all fours, shaking wine, glass, and blood out of her hair like a wet dog.

  I got my feet under me and sprinted at her, extending my telescoping baton with a chhhht-chhhht sound like a shotgun being racked.

  Hammett brought up her MP9, and I swung the asp with all I had. It hit hard, bending both it and the barrel of her gun. Then I drew back a foot, aiming to kick her in the throat.

  She twisted her body and caught my leg in her armpit. She thrust to her feet, and I fell backward, over the broken stand. Grabbing her jacket, I pulled her with me, and we both tumbled down the stairs.

  # # #

  Victor raises his weapon to the woman's head. He pauses for a moment, savoring. The bitch destroyed his men. Only Nikolai is still alive, writhing on the floor, whining and clutching his useless leg. But in the end, Victor took her down, and now he will blow her goddamn face off. The fact that she looks like Hammett is a bonus.

  He smiles.

  Before he can pull the trigger, he hears the click, feels the twin prongs jab into him, and when the electric charge rips through his body a split second later, there's nothing he can do.

  His teeth clench. Every muscle seizes. A guttural groan bounces off the marble, coming from his own throat.

  The woman opens her eyes and stares at him, very much alive, as the taser pumps juice through his body.

  He manages to stumble backward, ripping the darts from his flesh, but he can't regain his balance and goes down, hitting the floor hard.

  The force knocks the air out of him. He gasps for breath, but he's not done. He still holds his weapon. Bringing it up, he sprays rounds in her direction. Bullets fly everywhere, uncontrolled, his muscles still in spasm.

  Her .45 lays useless on the floor, out of reach, and she spins around, shielding herself with the armored chair. She takes off in the other direction.

  She's out of ammunition.

  She had to be. It was the only reason for her to turn tail while he was down and wheezing and out of control.

  Victor scrambles to his feet and starts after her. He feels stronger with each step, and he closes the gap between them despite her surprising speed. He has her now. This time he will not hesitate, he will not assume anything. This time he will shoot her in the head first and savor the kill later.

  He pushes his legs to move faster, running all out, gaining.

  Small pieces of something fall from her chair and skitter over the marble. He doesn't fully grasp what is happening until his foot comes down on one.

  The spike drills through the sole of his shoe and knifes into his foot. Cold slices his flesh, chased by pain. He bellows and pulls up short.

  The chair keeps moving, rolling around the corner.

  # # #

  Hammett releases her sister as they tumble down the stairs, spreading out her limbs to stop the rolling. She snatches the railing, the world a blur, and watches Chandler reach the bottom floor and begin to crawl away.

  Oh no, you don't.

  Hammett unholsters her Beretta. She fires, pinging Chandler three times in the left side.

  They're hollow points, meant to open up on impact and cause massive internal bleeding. A hit to a limb at this range should prove fatal, let alone three body shots.

  Chandler cries out, but keeps crawling.

  Body armor? Perhaps the liquid prototype Hammett had stolen?