Iris Johansen - Star-Spangled Bride

Not because of any mushy feelings of nobility, as Evan had charged, but out of respect for an extraordinary man, her own professional ambition, and a certain amount of gratitude. If those reasons had been powerful enough to bring her to this point, then they should be enough to make her go through with the escape plan.

If she could just get over this damned panic soaring through her.

The Jeep containing Falkner and his two guards stopped at the top of the Street of the Camels.

Ronnie drew a breath of relief. Ten minutes late. She had been afraid they had changed their plans.

She edged forward in the alcove and focused her camcorder on Falkner as he stepped out of the Jeep. The light from the street lamp played over him. Lord, he was big. Almost six foot five and built like Schwarzenegger. The jeans and cotton sweater he wore were soiled and ragged, but they revealed the enormous strength and power of his thighs and shoulders. His hawklike features reflected the same toughness. She couldn't see his eyes from where she was, but knew they were a pale icy blue.

The guards were evidently well aware of that power because his hands were manacled and his ankles chained so that he could walk with only a shuffling gait. One of the guards said something to Falkner and then pushed him to start him down the street. Falkner turned and looked at him. It was just a stare, but the guard faltered and then started to curse as he prodded Falkner with his automatic rifle.

Great stuff, Ronnie thought absently as she continued filming. She could almost hear the voice-over-Falkner, dominant even in captivity.

The three men were heading toward her, their destination the house at the end of the block. She was located at the halfway point. Reluctandy she turned off the camcorder and put it in her camera bag.

The men were now a hundred yards from where she stood.

Bracing herself, Ronnie reached behind her, silendy opened the door she had previously oiled, and took the smoke grenade from her jacket pocket.

Fifty yards.

She cast an anxious glance at the second-story window across the street. Mohammed had betterbe as good a shot as Evan had said. He would have to pick off both guards within a matter of seconds to keep them from turning on Falkner.

Five yards.

She pulled the pin from the smoke grenade with her teeth.

The first shot!

The guard on the far side of Falkner fell to the ground.

She hurled the smoke bomb down the street.

The sickening thunk of a bullet hitting flesh as Mohammed's second bullet struck the remaining guard.

Billows of smoke suddenly obscured everything in the narrow street.

She darted out of the alcove. Her hand grasped Falkner's arm. "Hurry!"

He didn't question her. "Right." He let her pull him into the alcove and through the open doorway.

She slammed the door, shot the bolt, and then moved down the corridor. "Follow me. We have two minutes before the men from the house will get here and another two minutes before the smoke clears enough for them to start a search. There's a trapdoor in the basement that leads to a fruit cellar. I've cut an exit out of the cellar thatleads to a storm drain." She fired the words as she hurried down a curving staircase, then into the basement. "Can you manage a ladder in those chains?"

"I could manage to climb Mount Everest if it meant getting away from these bastards," he said grimly, his gaze searching her blackened face. "Who are you? CIA?"

They had reached the fruit cellar, and she led him to the cut-out exit. She shook her head as she started down the ladder. "Later."

"What's your name?" he persisted.

"Ronnie. Ronnie Dalton." She waited for him at the bottom of the ladder and then played die flashlight on the drainage pipe. "You first."

He looked at the opening skeptically. "It looks pretty small."

"You'll fit. I measured it."

"Very efficient." He got down on his hands and knees and began to crawl through the pipe.

She waited until he was several yards ahead and then went in, shutting the camouflaged door behind her. "Hurry!" she whispered. "We have to be at the end of the pipe in four minutes."

"And where does it exit?"

"Two blocks north."

"You have a car waiting?"

"No."

"Why the hell not?"

"Stop questioning me and move!"

"I'll move, but I'll be damned if I'll stop questioning you. This is my life and I'm not risking it for any half-baked plan that-"

"It's the only hope you've got," she said in exasperation. "I've got it covered. Trust me."

"Under these kind of circumstances I don't trust anyone but myself."

"Well, maybe it's time you changed. You didn't do so well getting away from them on your own. It's not- Why are you stopping?"

"I've reached the end of the pipe." He moved cautiously out onto the street. "No one in sight."

"There will be soon. This entire area will be crawling with those scum once they radio for reinforcements."

He stood up and reached out a hand to pull her to her feet. "Then let's get out of here."

She moved quickly ahead of him down the street, turned left and then right. She heard the jangle of his chains as he shuffled behind her. After the third block he muttered testily, "Are we supposed to walk all the way to die border?"

"If I say so." She turned left again, moved swiftly down the alley, threw open a door, and gestured for him to enter. "In here."

Fatima waited in the hall just inside the door. "You're late," she said sourly. "If you'd arrived two minutes later, you would have found the door locked. I told Evan I would take no unnecessary chances." She locked the door, then turned on her heel and walked quickly down the dimly lit corridor. "Come with me."

"What is this place?" Falkner asked.

"It's a bordello," Ronnie said. "We thought it would be safer for you to hide in plain sight. Here's the scenario. You're a customer and I'm one of Fatima's women."

Fatima threw open a door. "You'd better do it right," she told Ronnie grimly. "Or we'll all end up corpses."

"And that charming lady is the madam?" Falkner asked as the door closed behind Fatima.

Ronnie nodded. "Fatima al-Radir." She gestured toward the bed. "Sit down, I have to get those chains off."

"Gladly." He sat down, studying his rescuer. Not that there was much to study. Except for glittering wide-set hazel eyes and a slightly turned-up nose, he could discern little of her blackened face. Her thin body was dressed inblack trousers and shirt and a sock cap that completely covered her hair. "And how do you intend to get rid of these chains? Do you have a file tucked in your bag?"

"Better." She knelt at his feet, fumbled in her camera bag, and pulled out a tiny key. "You'll be out of these in a minute."

"How well prepared you are." His gaze narrowed on her blackened face. "How do you happen to have-"

"There!" she interrupted as the lock opened on his ankle manacles. "Now give me your wrists."

He extended his hands. "And how did you know where I'd be tonight?"

"I never reveal my sources," she said lightly. "Deepthroat would never forgive me."

"You're a reporter?"

She nodded as she took the manacles off his hands. "Photojournalist."

"One of my people?"

"My people," she repeated. "I heard you were possessive about your employees."

"Well, are you?"

She shook her head. "Free-lance."

"You're taking a hell of a risk to get a story."

"I'm after an Emmy," she said flippantly. "Go get in the shower. I'll have Fatima get rid of thesemanacles. Throw out your clothes and I'll get rid of those too." She reached into the bag and handed him a small case. "False beard and eyebrows, brown contact lenses. Those blue eyes are a dead giveaway." She grimaced. "Oops, wrong word."