Prologue (27 page)

She raced down the iron stairs and burst into the building’s parking garage. She’d only been living in the building, what, six days? She searched frantically until she saw the gleaming yellow fender against the far wall. As she dashed across the floor she heard the metal door slam behind her and turned to see
the two people–Ginter
and a woman–rushing to the far corner of the garage. Who was the woman?
she
wondered as she paused at the Subaru’s door. Natasha watched as Ginter pushed the woman into what appeared to be an antique car of some sort. He seemed to be in a terrible rush to get the woman in and get on his way…to the lab.
Of course.
They knew. They must all know by now. Hutch would have called them all.

She whirled and ducked into the Subaru. She thrust her key into the ignition. In the six days she had possessed the car she hadn’t had time to reset the retinal scan starter and so she turned the key hoping, as she always did, that the quaint starting mechanism would work. It did and she relaxed a bit upon hearing the throaty roar. She shot a glance at Ginter’s midnight blue antique with the shiny metallic finish. She smirked as she heard Ginter desperately crank the starter.

She threw the Subaru into reverse and backed out and around, pointing toward the exit. She was much closer to it and Ginter still hadn’t gotten his car started. She put her car into drive, and then reached down and fastened her lap and shoulder belt. Easing off the brake she marveled as the computer-controlled accelerator eased her effortlessly toward the exit. The gate was up and she barely slowed as she turned left out of the garage and then spun another quick left at the corner and coasted up to
Commonwealth Avenue
.

At the light she smiled to herself. She had taken that last corner at 45 km/hour without slowing and the Subaru had barely swayed. It was indeed a nice car.

When the light turned green she turned right on to
Comm Ave.
, as the locals called it, and purposely chirped the tires. With her ID no District cop would dare give her a ticket. She let the smooth acceleration push her back into the seat. The people in Vodkaville don’t know what they’re missing.

As she slid the WRX into the passing lane heading east on
Storrow Drive
, she first noticed it in her left side mirror. It was about a quarter of a mile back and its large rear airfoil was unmistakable. She checked her speedometer: 85 km. She frowned and pressed down on the accelerator. The WRX jumped to 95 without a murmur. She guided her car back into the right lane. At the Deerneck exchange bend, she cruised by a Saab turbo. As she approached the MIT boathouse she checked again. The Roadrunner had closed the gap to less than 300 yards.

“No way,” she muttered to herself. She eased up on the gas as she overtook a delivery truck, waited for a break in the left lane, and then deftly looped out and back in before taking the Subaru up to over 100. Nearing the BU Bridge turnoff, she again checked the rearview mirror and gasped when she saw the hulking midnight blue Roadrunner barely 100 yards behind.

“Let’s see how you do in town,” she muttered, and dragged her brakes as she decelerated into the BU traffic circle. She slowed momentarily to gain the circle, and then cruised the 270-degree turn at close to 80. Coming out of the turn she was about to accelerate across the bridge but was delayed by a minivan in the right lane and a rusting pick-up in the left. Halfway across the river she darted hard into the breakdown lane and passed the minivan on the right, cutting back in front of the
Jersey
barriers that protected a parked utility truck.

Natasha glanced down at the sailboats out of the
Cambridge
boathouse that plied the waters beneath her. So tranquil, she thought. Little do they
know.

In the rear view mirror she saw that the Roadrunner had passed the pick-up and was gaining on her still.

Damn! What is this thing? She couldn’t accelerate beyond the 75 she was now doing as the
Charles Street
turnoff was approaching quickly. For the first time since she left her apartment, she began to feel uncertain. How the hell is an antique American piece of shit keeping up with me?

She kept her speed up as long as she could before slamming on her brakes just before the
Charles Street
diagonal turnoff and pulling her joystick hard to the right. The computer-controlled brakes tightened harder on the right wheels and the car slid easily into the turn. She came out of the turn in the left lane and again checked her mirror. The Roadrunner was gone. With a momentary panic she checked the passenger side mirror. There was no car in sight. She smiled smugly and let her shoulders relax.

After a few moments she leaned forward to activate the car’s stereo system. As she touched the power button she heard a deep rumbling gurgle. For a split second she thought that something was wrong with the stereo, or even worse, with the Subaru itself. In a panic she scanned her gauges, but the WRX was humming perfectly. Then, out of the corner of her right eye she saw the midnight blue hood with the gigantic scoop slowly pull alongside her.

Natasha swore loudly. No way. The
Plymouth
had been in her blind spot in the turn and was now pulling even. Even as she slammed her right foot to the floor and felt the Subaru’s computer generated downshift kick in she saw the
Plymouth
visibly jerk as Ginter manually downshifted from fourth to second gear. Hah! Too low!
she
thought triumphantly of Ginter’s move, but the Superbird’s rear end crouched low and the muscle car inched ahead of her. Then in one wrenching motion she felt, rather than saw, Ginter shift up to third and pop the clutch. There was a squeal of tires, the
Plymouth
momentarily swerved left with the torque, and then, in a swirl of blue smoke from the screeching rear tires, the
Plymouth
surged ahead of the Subaru and swung hard in front of it. Ginter
downshifted
again forcing Natasha to again brake–no time to swerve to the right–and in a moment Ginter was back in third gear, the mammoth hood scoop was sucking in all the air that
Cambridge
had to offer, and the antique was roaring away from her.

In a matter of seconds Ginter had slammed on his brakes and skidded into the Astrophysics parking lot by smashing through the wooden gate. Natasha had no choice but to follow him in, clearly in second place. At the granite pillars at the mouth of the main entrance’s walkway the
Plymouth
jerked to an abrupt stop. Ginter and the woman fled from the car leaving both doors open as they raced across the plaza.

Natasha was blocked. She skidded up alongside the Roadrunner and watched helplessly. The pair ducked inside the building and pulled the main door shut after them.

Natasha slammed her hand on the Subaru’s joystick. She knew that once inside Ginter would immediately change the codes. She’d have to wait.

A yellow cab pulled into the parking lot and slowly circled to where she was parked. When the taxi stopped, Igor Rostov exited from the rear seat and paid the driver, all the while looking over at Natasha curiously.

“I trust you have some explanation, Comrade,” he began in an officious tone as he approached.

Natasha’s eyes moved to the pack slung over his right shoulder. “Ginter and some woman are already inside.”

“Ginter?
Some woman?
Who is she?”
Rostov
asked.

Natasha reached over and shut off the engine. She flung open her door and got out.

“I don’t know,” she said disgustedly. “Probably some tart he picked up.” She grabbed her bag off the seat and strode toward the building.
Rostov
followed along behind.

As she expected her card didn’t work–the door wouldn’t open. She pulled angrily at the latch and swore softly. Behind her she heard, “I can open it!”

Rostov
whipped a card out of his pocket. He waved it in front of the scanner. The doors clicked open and they raced into the lobby.

“Where’s the lab?” he demanded.

“Elevators are here, if he hasn’t disabled them…shit,” Natasha said, jabbing her finger at the button with no response. “Stairs are over there.”

“What floor is it on?”

“Twenty-first.”

Rostov
groaned, turned, and ran after Natasha.

“This is too heavy to carry,” he said, shifting the pack.

“Wimp, you can’t leave it in the goddamn lobby. We may need it. Bring it.”

Amanda met Paul deVere at the door of the lab. “You made it O.K.?” she asked, smiling wanly.

“I hope this works,” Paul said, hurrying past her. “That’s all I can say. Where’s Lewis?”

“He should be here by now,” Amanda answered.
“There, that car…oh no.
Who’s that woman?”

Paul looked out the window. “That’s Natasha, the intern. What’s she doing, following him?”

“Not her.
That
woman!”
Amanda said
,
pointing at the woman Lewis was running with to the door.

Paul looked back out. “I can’t believe he brought her. It must be that woman from the Descendants. Today was their meeting.”

Together they watched as a cab pulled up, a man emerged and began engaging in animated conversation with Natasha.

“Who’s that guy and what’s he got?” Amanda asked.

“They can’t get in if Lewis remembered to scramble the codes when he came in,” Paul said. They watched as Natasha rattled the doors in vain, but recoiled when the man opened them.

“Whoever that guy is, he’s good,” Paul said. “Come on, Lewis.”

“Can we go back tonight?” Amanda asked anxiously. “Before that guy gets upstairs?”

Paul didn’t look at her. “We can try. But our wormhole doesn’t open until September first. Lewis will have to find another one.”

The elevator opened behind them and Ginter and a woman tumbled out.

“What is this all about?” she whined, but stopped when she saw Amanda and Paul. “Oh,” she said brushing back her tousled bangs with one hand. “Hello.”

They ignored her. “Lewis, what the hell is this?” Amanda barked.