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He lifted off at a speed that had her stomach remaining at ground level and whimpering. But she set her teeth, and contacted a duty officer to inform him she was coming in by air, and by civilian. Her comm beeped an incoming before she was done.
Feeney left his own message.
On my way.
“How do I access the blueprints?”
As he soared over buildings, Roarke gave her step-by-step directions in the simplest terms he could manage.
“That doesn’t sound exactly legal.”
“It’s a gray area.”
She grunted, followed the steps until she was looking at the floor plan of a two-story building, with full basement.
“That’s where they have him,” she muttered, and began to study the egress, the access, and working out the bones of her op.
He landed with some bumps on the helipad, and she jumped out into the cold, angry wind. She badged them both inside, jumped on the elevator.
“Doors front, rear, side. Corner building. Prime real estate. There’s a basement, and my money says that’s where they’ve got the torture room set up. No access to the basement from the outside, so we have to go in from above.”
“They’ll hear you coming.”
“Maybe, but if I had a torture room— I don’t, do I?”
“No. Perhaps Charmaine can design one.”
“Har har. If I had a torture room, it would be fully soundproofed.” She jumped off on her level. “I’m going to confiscate a conference room. You want to be a hero?”
“Yours, darling? Every day.”
“Ha. Help me transfer the board from my office. And program a vat of real coffee. I need to get the blueprints, the schematics up on screen so I can really see them. Peabody should be here pretty quick, but not quick enough.”
“Doesn’t your conference room have a swipe board?”
“I hate those things.” She hissed out a breath. “But okay, faster.”
“Ah, technology.” This time he did pat her ass. “You program the vat of coffee, and I’ll transfer your data. You can set it up how you please after. What room?”
She shoved open a door, saw it empty. “This one.”
In her office, she hit the AutoChef while Roarke sat down at her desk. Since she didn’t actually have a vat, she calculated, then programmed three large pots. It should get them going.
“Swipe board or not,” she muttered, stuffing Yancy’s sketches in a file.
“I’m going to start setting up. Maybe you could bring the rest of the coffee.” She strode out without waiting for his answer.
In the conference room, she scowled at the computer. “Activate swipe board.”
You are not registered for this room and this equipment at this time.
“Bite me. Dallas, Lieutenant Eve. Register it, goddamn it.”
The use of profanity is not—
“I’ll beat you to death with a hammer, then stomp what’s left into dust. I’ll torch the dust. Register this room and this equipment at this fucking time to Dallas, Lieutenant Eve.” She slapped her badge on its pad. “Scan it. Do it. Or I swear, you’ll be in the recycler in two minutes flat.”
Identification scanned and verified. This room and this equipment is registered to Dallas, Lieutenant Eve.
