London: December 26 3:56 p.m.
Dahlia gazed from her office window overlooking the Thames. She had always enjoyed the view over the water at dusk. It reminded her how she loved the Christmas holidays, and she longed to be home with her dearest son, Hunter.
Why did he go snooping into the Collective’s business? Dahlia thought. His impatience had almost cost Black Iris’s hacking operation everything. It was a good idea sending Jony to keep Hunter in check.
An explosion in a nearby office suddenly rocked Dahlia out of her seat and onto the liquor tray beside her. Several full and partially full bottles of top-shelf vodka, whiskey, and wine bounced and shattered around her. She could hear the sizzling sounds of office equipment and wiring burning. Then Dahlia felt another smaller—but no less deadly—blast. Dahlia plunged under her hardwood antique desk, thinking it would provide some protection.
After a moment of silence, Dahlia dared to sneak a glance out from under the desk; nobody was in sight.
Was there a gas leak on the floor?
The lights in the office no longer worked. Blindly, she felt around in the dark areas under the desk for the pistol she kept for emergencies. The weapon was in its holster. She checked the pistol.
Good—a full clip.
The weapon felt natural in her hands, as if it belonged there. It supercharged her resolve; she had some investigating to do.
Dahlia snatched her coat from the chair, shook glass shards from it, and put it on. She crawled along the office floor; flames from small fires fueled by heaps of rubbish illuminated the office. Another twenty feet and she would be at the hallway. When she reached the main hallway, she gasped. Offices on either side glowed as the flames consumed the furniture, drapes, couches, and everything else. Smoke was enveloping the hallway, and soon it would be difficult to breathe, let alone see. She stood up and made a run for the door leading to the stairwell at the end of the hall. Blinded by smoke, she felt for the door handle, grabbed, and opened it. The building’s emergency lighting system illuminated the stairwell. She’d always hated the greenish tint that those lights emitted, but she was grateful for them now.
Dahlia felt the air change; someone was close by. Then she could almost sense the release of energy as the bullets penetrated plaster wall inches from her head.
The bastards will pay for this! Dahlia thought.
She crouched down, hugging and sliding against the wall, trying to reduce the likelihood of becoming a target. Based on the pattern of the shots above her head, she estimated that the shooter was below her. She moved with purpose down the next flight of stairs, being careful not to break a heel. Searing pain coursing through her left shoulder. She glanced toward the pain; her clothes were torn open, and blood was seeping down her arm. Grazed, that was too close!
“Aargh!” Dahlia hissed. She instinctively checked her weapon, a 9mm Beretta; a full clip meant seventeen bullets for seventeen kills. She saw movement below, between the metal bars of the staircase’s railing. Only a few flights down, I should be able to take the shot. She shot toward the shape, which moved with lightning-quick reflexes. The shot hit the wall behind the assailant. Boom—an explosion, followed by a crackling noise above her head; the stairwell began to faintly glow. She coughed; her breathable air was depleting. She made a break for it as more shots rang out.
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Dahlia got to the landing of the next level and flung the door open. Gunshots rang out, and the door filled with holes behind her.
Christ! More than one shooter!
She descended the stairs as quickly as she could. After two additional flights, she had to catch her breath. She heard a door open just below her. She started shooting at the door.
“Aargh! I’m shot,” a voice called from below.
“Gotcha!” Dahlia said. She closed the space between her and the door. When she opened it, a man in a fireman’s uniform rolled back and forth, screaming. He looked up and pointed at Dahlia.
“Aargh! You bitch! Why did you shoot me?”
Dahlia didn’t have time to explain. As she got closer to the fireman, she shot him point-blank in the face.
If he’s innocent, then I’m going to pay for that, eventually.
As she descended the next set of stairs, the air became easier to breathe. No more signs of the people trying to kill her. But she needed to get out of there. Just before reaching the third floor, she tucked the pistol into the small of her back and positioned her coat to conceal it.
Need to remain vigilant.
She encountered no more interference until the ground floor, where she came upon another fireman.
“You need to get out of here!” the fireman said.
With one fluid motion, Dahlia performed a roundhouse kick that landed on the fireman’s throat. He grasped his throat, and blood oozed from his punctured neck.
These heels came in handy after all, Dahlia thought.
It sounded like the man was trying to say something.
“What is that?” Dahlia asked.
The man coughed up blood. She shed her coat then put it over the fireman’s head until he expired. A quick check of the fireman revealed no weapons.
Damn, that bastard ruined my coat. I liked this coat! But better to be cold than caught.
Dahlia made her way to the front entrance of the building. A quick peek out of the windows revealed several fire trucks. There were no police in sight—yet!
Boom—another explosion went off inside the building. The firefighters changed course and moved farther away from her position where more flames appeared. She risked a move. Dahlia exited the building and darted between two nearby cars. A police car appeared just behind the fire trucks. She darted across the street then down a side street.
Don’t think they saw me, but need to be sure.
She positioned herself behind some bushes then looked back at the building. Most of the Design Center’s six floors were burning. The top two floors were burning so intensely that Dahlia thought nothing would be salvageable. There were holes the size of small cars blasted open in several areas across the building’s edifice, and flames licked the night air, looking for additional fuel.
The air was brisk, and the streets were wet. It had been cloudy earlier, but now it was raining. After several blocks she heard the sounds of a pub. She followed until she entered a place called O’Donnell’s. She turned toward the bar side of the pub. The place was overflowing with people, but she could see people walking toward a hallway at the back of the bar. The long hallway ended—the phone!
She dialed the toll-free number that connected her with her calling service. “Fashion Office Exchange,” the operator answered.
“This is Dahlia Frost, employee ID one-zero-one-one. I need an outgoing line to Jony Clarke.”
After several rings, she got to a voicemail. “Jony, this is D. It is urgent that you call the Exchange and leave me with a number where you can be reached.” Dahlia severed the connection. Damn it. Jony must be with Hunter at the Shadow Dealers, she thought.
She didn’t know whom to contact at the Shadow Dealers. The Exchange, a discreet agency she used, offered special services to suit her needs—including getting in touch with some of her more clandestine clientele.
“Ouch!” Dahlia said. This headache came out of nowhere! Argh—I can’t think! After a few minutes, she dialed the Exchange again.
After verification, she asked to be put in touch with the emergency line for the Shadow Dealers.
“Please hold.”
While waiting, she noticed a familiar-looking man at the bar. He looked like Gregor from the Collective. She wasn’t sure, but she made a mental note to find out.
The operator came back on the line. “Connecting you now.”
Then another voice spoke up. “Sorry to keep you waiting. Malcolm speaking.”
“This is D from Black Iris. I’m under attack.”