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Wiping the sweat off of her forehead, she looked at the results of her efforts. The scanner had melted into slag, with bits of charred green plastic and tangled wires poking out at all angles. The stench reminded her of a car fire she'd once covered. But had her plan worked? Was the lock disabled? Only one way to find out. She twisted the doorknob and pulled.
The door swung open.
She gathered up her tools and hurried into the corridor. Recessed emergency lighting tinged the hallway yellow. There. To her left. The corridor turned, and then...yes! The door was just where she remembered it.
She hurried to the door and peered out at the main aisle through the webbed security glass. Empty. No one was running to investigate the noise or the power failure. As soon as she blew this scanner, she'd be home free. She pulled out her screwdriver and got to work. The four screws came free, and she snapped open both hidden latches. She picked up the cable and looked around for an outlet.
Nothing. No light switches, no electrical outlets, no heating grates. Just blank, smooth walls. Where was she supposed to get the electricity to short out the scanner?
She'd come too far to give up now. The scanner had wires. Some of those wires had live current running through them. If she found two that were live, and crossed them, that should short out the system. But she had no rubber gloves, no coated tools. She didn't even have that stupid plastic toothpick from her pocket knife. It was back in the rental car with anything else even remotely useful.
No point feeling sorry for herself. Thieves managed to hot-wire cars all the time without electrocuting themselves. She'd probably just get a little zap, like touching metal on a cold, dry day.
She studied the wires. They were color coded, but what did the different colors mean? She should have paid attention in her junior high shop class. Red usually meant danger. So that probably had current running through it. Green? Green meant something was safe, right? But what about white and yellow? She'd just have to pick one. Well, she'd never liked yellow.
She reached in and detached the red wire, careful to touch only the plastic coating. Now, touch the bare end to—
DESMOND SLID his keycard through the scanner, but it didn't register. He slid it through again. Still nothing. Frowning, he sliced the keycard through the scanner a third time. It didn't open, but it also didn't set off the alarm after three failures like it should. He tried the door. It wasn't locked.
He peered through the door glass into the shadowy corridor beyond. A body lay crumpled against the far wall, still and unmoving.
"No!"
Throwing down Rebecca's suitcase, he shoved open the door and charged into the hall. The smells of charged ozone and melted plastic filled the air. His heart kickstarted into a rapid beat. What had she done?
Rebecca sprawled against the wall like a carelessly discarded doll. He knelt by her side, fumbling for a pulse.
A heartbeat. And another one. Faint, but regular. She was alive.
Closing his eyes, he exhaled the breath he hadn't known he was holding. She was going to live. But was she injured? He couldn't tell. His knowledge was limited to battle field first aid and the skills needed to cope with Gillian's illness. But he didn't dare leave Rebecca's side to fetch someone who could make that diagnosis. He lifted her hand and held it, willing her to be well.
"Come on, Rebecca. You can make it. You're too damn stubborn to quit now."
Had she really been so desperate to get out that she was willing to risk her life? He remembered her reaction to being accidentally locked in the lab, but he'd thought the suite would be big enough not to trigger a claustrophobia attack. Too late, he realized her anger toward her car might have been covering her fear at being underground in the parking garage. He hadn't meant to torture her. He couldn't do anything right tonight.
He coughed, trying to clear the catch in his throat. Rebecca had to be okay. She still had to h
elp Gillian.
He tried to brush her soft chestnut hair away from her face, but it wouldn't stay down. It clung to his hand as if it had a mind of its own. Or was full of static electricity. He glanced at the nonfunctioning keycard scanner. Dangling wires and homemade tools bore mute testament to what she had tried to do, and what had happened instead.
His grip tightened on her hand, and he bowed his head.
"Please be all right. Please don't die."
She moaned softly, and the pressure in his chest eased.
"Rebecca? Can you hear me?"
Grudging admiration for her ingenuity warred with guilt that he had driven her to such extremes. From now on, he would take better care of his reluctant guest.
Her eyelids fluttered and she moaned. She was coming around.
Rebecca blinked her eyes. She had a headache the size of the Grand Canyon, her thoughts echoing off the walls of her mind until they almost deafened her. And someone had wrapped the world in cotton gauze while she wasn't looking. Everything was blurry and out of focus.
"Rebecca?" A man's voice caressed her name, the sweet syllables melting in his mouth as if they'd been dipped in chocolate.
If she didn't already feel weak in the knees, that voice would do it to her. Actually, she felt weak everywhere. Was she sick? She didn't remember being sick. She remembered needing to do something important. What had it been?
