Later, after waking up, Regina Cash would try to put the pieces together.
She remembered running across the sidewalk.
She remembered shoving the boy and the girl toward the service entrance of the hotel.
She remembered the shocked look on the boy’s face.
She remembered the girl yelling at her to stop.
She remembered thinking that Dorchek Palmer would be very pleased.
She remembered thinking that she was going to be very, very rich.
And she remembered a sudden, sharp pain in the side of her neck.
After that the memories ceased. There was only darkness.
She woke up an hour later, lying in the dark recesses of the service entrance at the Hotel Monaco with a small red dart in the side of her neck and a pounding headache.
“Camille?”
No answer.
“Camille?” Art asked again. The light from the sidewalk penetrated just a few feet into the recess in which he now stood. The lady in the brown jacket lay on the ground at his feet. He could see her chest rising and falling as she breathed—small frosty clouds drifting from her open mouth. But he didn’t see Camille.
“Camille?” he asked once more.
“Art?” Camille finally responded from the darkness. “What just happened?”
“I’m . . . not sure,” he replied. “We were walking down the sidewalk and then the woman in the brown jacket appeared. She had a gun and . . . well, then we’re here.”
“Where’s ‘here’?” asked Camille.
Art noticed a small sign on the wall. “Service entrance to the hotel,” he said.
Camille stepped out of the darkness and knelt by the woman lying on the ground. A red dart protruded from the side of her neck. In the woman’s hand was a small pistol.
“I wish my mom had let me have a phone,” said Camille.
Art strode over and put his hand on the girl’s shoulder. He knew this wasn’t easy on her.
“We’ll call her soon. I promise.”
“Call her?” said Camille. “Are you kidding? I want a picture of this! Nobody’s ever going to believe me. Do you know how exciting this is? I had that little dart in my hand—I had no idea what it was. I mean, I knew it was a dart. But what was it doing on your backpack, you know? So I was just looking at it when she shoved us. I didn’t even think—I just jabbed. Next thing I know, she’s on the ground. It’s like we’re secret agents or something.”
Art smiled. It was exciting—and ridiculous, and stupid, and incredibly dangerous. And they still had no idea why all these people were following them, or how many more might be out there.
“Let’s go,” Art said as he stepped around the woman. “I don’t want to be hanging around if more of these guys show up.”
Art peeked around the corner. The fire alarm had stopped, and he could see people filing back into the hotel at the far end of the block. “Coast is clear,” he said. “Follow me.”
Art and Camille stepped out of the service entrance, turned left, and continued quickly down the block until they reached E Street.
“There!” Camille said. She pointed at a taxi parked along the side of the street.
Art took one last glance back up the sidewalk and then followed Camille to the cab.
Nigel Stenhouse stood across the street from the Hotel Monaco’s emergency exit. The fire alarm had finally stopped blaring, and the crowd was beginning to funnel back into the hotel. He put his earpiece back into place.
“Regina? Eric?” he said. “Any sign of the kids?”
There was no answer—just static.
Stenhouse made his way across the street and stood next to the door leading back into the hotel. He kept a close eye on the rapidly thinning crowd, but there was no sign of the boy or the girl—or Eric McClain or Regina Cash.
It was as if they had all simply disappeared into thin air.
He tried contacting Regina Cash on her cell phone, but there was no response.
Stenhouse had no choice—he placed a call to Dorchek Palmer.
“Report,” Palmer said when he answered the phone.
Stenhouse grimaced. “No sign of the boy or girl,” he replied.
There was silence on the other end of the line.
“Did you hear me?” Stenhouse asked.
“I heard you,” Palmer said calmly. “What happened?”
“I’m not sure,” replied Stenhouse. “And I can’t locate McClain or Cash, either.”
Silence again. Stenhouse suspected Palmer was trying to track down his teammates. Palmer had ways of doing things like that.
“I tracked Regina’s phone,” Palmer finally said. “She’s somewhere near the hotel just south of you.”
Stenhouse turned and started making his way down the street. “On my way,” he said.
After a hundred feet or so, Stenhouse could just make out a dark opening on the side of the hotel. It was a narrow space—carefully hidden in the wall of the massive stone building.
“I think I found a service entrance,” he said to Palmer, who did not respond.
Stenhouse quickened his pace. Moments later he turned the corner into the darkened passageway. It took his eyes a moment to adjust to the darkness.
“Well?” asked Dorchek Palmer.
“We have a problem,” replied Stenhouse. “I just sent you a picture.”
A moment later Palmer’s phone pinged. He opened the text message and looked at the photo that Stenhouse had sent.
For the third time that day, Palmer was caught off-guard.
Stenhouse had sent him a photograph of Regina Cash, one of the most highly trained covert operatives in the world, lying unconscious on the ground.
“No sign of the kids,” said Stenhouse. “They’re still loose in the city.”
Camille opened the rear door of the taxi and climbed into the back seat. Her heart was beating a mile a minute. She glanced back to make sure no one was following them, but everything looked clear. Art followed her into the cab and pulled the door shut.
The taxi driver, a heavy middle-aged man who had not shaved for several days and smelled like stale coffee and corn flakes, turned and looked at them. “Little young to be catchin’ a taxi, aren’t ya?” he asked gruffly.
“Not that young,” snapped Camille. She was quickly running out of patience with adults.
“Taxis cost money,” replied the driver. “And I ain’t no babysitter. So get out and go call your parents to come get you.”
Art pulled three twenty-dollar bills out of his backpack and held them up. “Will this work?” he asked.
The driver contemplated the currency held between Art’s fingers.
“Don’t forget to tip,” the man said as he put the car into gear. “So where we headed?”
Art read the address from the coffeehouse receipt. The taxi pulled away from the curb and headed west along E Street.
Camille glanced out the rear window of the taxi. “Do you think there’s more of them?” she asked.
“I’d bet on it,” replied Art.
Camille sighed and settled back in her seat. “I was afraid you were going to say that.”