Encounter in Atlanta

A Mandi Steel Novel
Copyright � 2003 by Ed Howdershelt
PDF ISBN AP0PDF0016
Caution: Some Erotic Content

Prologue:

   Ahmed Musaffi combined three prayers on Friday afternoon; one for his family, one for himself, and one for success in his holy mission. He then got into the yellow Crown Victoria that had been provided for the occasion and drove the few miles from Cascade Heights into downtown Atlanta through a drizzling rain.
   The Crown Vic had been 'heavily customized' -- a choice of words that had been a source of great amusement among those who had labored for a week to pack the trunk and every concealable square inch of the car with plastic explosive.
   Every little bump in the road bottomed-out the shocks and springs, and despite what he'd been told about his load being detonated only by radio, Ahmed flinched hard at every jolt and swore viciously at the other cars around him.
   A red, hard plastic suitcase shifted slightly on the seat next to him. Ahmed reached to push it back in place and briefly cursed the fool who'd perched it there, although no wires showed and there was no chance the case would fall.
   At a red light one block from his goal, Ahmed wiped his face on his sleeves and repeated part of his last prayer -- the part for himself -- one more time as he twisted his grip on the steering wheel.
   Clusters of people hurried across the street, some in various costumes he recognized. Spiderman led Wonder Woman at a laughing dash to the shelter of an awning, where they were joined by Lara Croft, a tall, furry creature, and a couple of white-armored stormtroopers.
   Ridiculous fantasies of the unfaithful, thought Ahmed. There was only one true book under heaven and no man had ever been so foolish as to try to make a movie of it.
   Ahmed's little group had been instructed to strike on the second day of the science fiction convention. No reasons had been given for choosing this particular event as a target and -- as far as Ahmed was concerned -- none were required. Their leader had spoken, and his words were the words of Allah in matters of their holy cause.
   When the light turned green, Ahmed's jangling nerves caused him to goose the gas pedal. The back tires spun uselessly on the wet pavement until he rather shakily let up on the gas a bit.
   Continuing up the street, he turned left into the covered driveway of the Rivage Hotel's reception area and joined a line of cars waiting their turns to load or offload passengers and luggage at the big glass doors at the top of the driveway.
   Ahmed's was the fifth car in line when a family of five came through those doors and walked past him, evidently on their way to some part of the science fiction convention.
   The three children all wore costumes; the two boys were waving their hollow plastic lightsabres at each other and the blonde girl -- perhaps as old as twelve -- was wearing a Batgirl costume and slinging her cape dramatically as she walked.
   A pang of pity lanced through Ahmed, but then he remembered his teachings, hardened his heart, and severely chastised himself for his momentary weakness.
   They were just infidels. Untaught, unholy, and therefore unfit to live. He moved forward another carlength, and again watched the family in his rearview mirror as they stood waiting to cross the street.
   The blonde girl grinningly faced into the gusting wind to make her cape billow behind her. Too bad, Ahmed thought appraisingly. The girl might possibly have been found worthy of conversion to Islam.
   Or not, he appended, remembering the dancers at the strip club the night before. After all, even infidel females were good for purposes of pleasure and labor. In the pure world that he and other holy martyrs would bring into being, their children would be raised according to the teachings of the Prophet and the women would be allowed to live only so long as they dutifully served the righteous and faithful.
   The car by the doors moved away as people got into the car behind it. It then moved away, as well, and Ahmed was only one carlength away from where he could aim his fake taxi up the ramp at the doors.
   He eyed the walkway ramp -- easily five meters wide, with no posts or other impediments -- and the doors above. In the center was a revolving door, flanked on either side by doors that swung open. They would prove no barrier. All he had to do was ram through and get the car into the lobby, then press the button on the transmitter in his raincoat pocket.
   Motion in his side-rearview mirror and the sound of something hollow clattering on the ground caused him to look away from the doors.
   A truly beautiful blonde woman in what appeared to be little more than a bathing suit and boots stood just behind his car. She seemed to be looking for something, probably some sort of accessory to her scandalously inadequate costume.
   Thinking that she must also be a visitor to the science fiction convention, Ahmed's eyes locked on her marvelous bare legs and ample bosom for some moments as she crouched and knelt to try to reach whatever had fallen beneath the taxi.
   Her eyes met his in the mirror and she smiled coyly as she walked up the driveway. Allah be praised for letting such a magnificent woman be his last sight on Earth! And her glorious breasts were nearly leaping out of her costume!
   Concentrating on her approaching breasts, Ahmed never saw -- and was conscious only long enough to barely feel -- her fist slam into the side of his head. The blow sent him sprawling against the luggage on the seat and into oblivion.
   The woman quickly shifted the car into neutral, went behind it to grab the bumper, and began pulling the Crown Vic backward down the ramp to the street, where she jumped to the front of the car, lifted it by the bumper and reached under it to grip the frame, and launched upward with the Crown Vic dangling from her grasp.
   From the indoor cafe across the street, Mohammed Jamal took his eyes off the policeman and another man who were having a light lunch at a nearby table and stared with incredulous awe as a half-naked blonde woman lifted the Crown Victoria and seemed to leap into the sky with it.
   He'd frozen in mid-sip of his coffee with as much complete, mind-boggling shock as anyone else witnessing the event, but he recovered fairly quickly as he realized that there was still a slim chance to set off the bomb in or near the canyon-like confines of the streets.
   Hurriedly putting down his coffee cup, he reached for the transmitter in his left coat pocket, but the chair arm got in his way. He stood up, wasting precious seconds and knocking his chair over as he continued to stare upward through the window at the Crown Vic. He'd finally managed to get his left hand into his pocket as the two men he'd been watching also stood up and began coming at him.
   The one in a police uniform pointed at Jamal and said, "Freeze!" as he reached for his sidearm. Jamal -- his radio transmitter momentarily forgotten -- made a grab for his Beretta 9mm pistol in his right coat pocket.
   Jamal had thought the cop was the greater danger. He was wrong; before Jamal could even finish bringing his own gun into line with the two men, the other man yanked a pistol from a shoulder holster, leveled it at Jamal, and fired twice.
   Mohammed Jamal felt the hot slugs plunge completely through his chest as their impact slammed him back against the window facing the street. He was barely aware that he fired his Beretta as he toppled; for a moment he actually wondered why the light fixture by the coffee bar exploded.
   The bullets that had passed through Jamal hit the window behind him a split-second before Jamal did, turning it into a ten-foot-tall spiderweb of shattered safety glass that collapsed around Jamal's body in a glittering cloud as he fell to the sidewalk below.
   The bushes below the window snagged Jamal's coat and violently twisted him in mid-air, then he fell to the sidewalk on his left side, hearing and feeling the bones of his arm snap as his head slammed against the concrete. Momentarily stunned, Mohammed Jamal fought to remain conscious and stared upward, trying to locate the Crown Victoria.
   There! Almost directly overhead, an odd-shaped dark dot against the sky! Jamal waveringly aimed his pistol at the men who leaned out of the window frame above him and prayed to Allah that his transmitter hadn't been broken.
   Forcing the unfeeling thumb and fingers of his shattered left arm to squeeze the small transmitter took a supreme effort. Jamal cast the pistol aside in frustration and dropped his right hand over his left to help it close on the transmitter even as more bullets tore through his chest and skull.

Chapter One

   Looking down from the cafe window at the man he'd just shot, Ed Cade saw the brilliant overhead flash reflected in the windows of the hotel across the street and realized that something -- likely the car -- had exploded above the city.
   Some guy dressed as a knight was standing smack in the middle of the street, aiming a camera of some sort straight up at the sky. The light turned green at the intersection and the guy almost tripped over his sword trying to scramble out of the street.
   Cade stepped back from the window and looked to his left and right. There was only the Atlanta cop -- Avery -- standing next to him on the right. On his left, one person still sat by the windows, apparently frozen in stark, staring terror.
   "Get away from the windows," said Cade.
   Avery stepped back as Cade grabbed the frozen guy's coat to pull him to his feet and insistently repeated, "Get away from the window, dammit!"
   The man's eyes fixed on Cade's Glock and he said nothing, but as bits of debris pelted down on the street outside the window, he stood quickly on shaky legs and tried to comply.
   His knees failed and he wound up kneeling, then sitting on the floor. Avery came over to get a grip on the guy's other shoulder and they dragged him away from the windows.
   The rain of unidentifiable debris slackened quickly and seemed to end, and Avery started back toward the window to look up between the buildings.
   "Avery!" said Cade. "Not yet. Count to thirty before you go near that window."
   Cade put his Glock back in its shoulder holster under his field jacket and looked around again. Nine people. Five men, four women. Two had apparently left the cafe.
   He heard more debris-rain hit the street and buildings outside and saw Avery cast a wondering glance at him.
   "Some of it had farther to fall," said Cade.
   As if to punctuate his words, a car bumper slammed into the street, narrowly missing a black Lexus, and spinningly bounced out of view toward the intersection.
   Glancing past the group clustered by the cafe entrance, Cade saw the two missing women hurrying past the reception desk and he took off after them at a trot.
   He caught up with them by the elevators and didn't bother with introductions; they'd likely remember him.
   Stepping in front of them, he said, "Ladies, get back to the cafe. You're witnesses to a shooting."
   "I'm not going back in there!" the one on the right said in a near-hysterical tone. "I'm not! You can't make me!"
   Snatching her purse off her shoulder, Cade said, "I won't have to. The cops'll find you with whatever's in this."
   Turning to the other woman, he asked, "Are you going to give me a hard time, too?"
   Shaking her head slightly, she said, "No. I didn't think we should leave, but Judy..."
   Interrupting her, Cade said, "Cool. Let's go, then."
   Putting his arm through hers, he led the way back to the restaurant. After a moment, Judy followed. Cade turned the ladies and Judy's purse over to Avery, then stepped away from the group to have a look at the street below the window.
   The street was empty of people. Between the blonde hauling the car upstairs, the gunshots, and the blast in the sky, most of them had at least had sense enough to get off the sidewalks and under the cover of the Rivage's drive-through.
   The rent-a-cop who'd been directing foot traffic across the street between the hotels was one of those under cover. Cade whistled to get his attention and pointed to the body on the sidewalk, then yelled that he should keep people away from it. The guy nodded and headed toward the body. Cade went back to Avery, who was talking to someone on his radio.
   Avery finished his immediate conversation, then turned to Cade and said, "Teams five and nine got lucky, too. Two dead and one in custody. The guys on the roof are coming down, so we'll have some help here in a few minutes."
   Nodding, Cade said, "I'll go out and keep the tourists away from the one on the sidewalk."
   Extending a hand, Avery said, "Okay. Hey, if I don't see you again, it's been good working with you. Why won't they tell us where you extra guys came from?"
   Shaking Avery's hand, Cade said, "Damned if I know. I'm from Florida, if it helps any."
   "Oh, yeah," laughed Avery. "That helps a bunch."
   "Great. Later, then."
   Moving past the coffee bar, Cade stopped and looked around for the attendant, then knocked on the counter. A man in a suit separated himself from the crowd by the door and came to say that the coffee bar was closed.
   "You're management?" asked Cade.
   "Yes, sir. Look, we're rather busy at the moment..."
   "I'm the guy who shot out your window and I have to go guard a body on the sidewalk. How much is a coffee to go?"
   The man seemed to have to find a way to attach the two concepts in his mind before he said, "Uh, just take one, sir."
   "Thanks. Why not offer all those spooked people a cup, too? It'll look great on your record if you take charge and keep them quiet and happy until all the note-taking is finished."
   The guy glanced at the group and seemed to realize that this was his middle-management chance to achieve some favorable and potentially useful self-publicity. He nodded and stepped behind the counter to draw Cade a coffee as he called the attendant over.
   "Yes, Mr. D'Angelo?" asked the attendant.
   Handing the coffee to Cade, D'Angelo said, "Go ahead and open back up, Manuel. Free coffee for anybody who's supposed to be in here until the cops are gone."
   "Yes, sir," said Manuel.
   "Could I have an extra coffee?" asked Cade.
   Manuel drew another coffee and handed it to him. Cade thanked him and headed for the stairs to the street. The rent-a-cop was standing by the body, as requested.
   He said, "You're the guy who told me to watch the body."
   Cade handed him the extra coffee and said, "Yup, sure am. Here, I brought you a coffee."
   Someone aimed a camera toward them and Cade turned to face the cop -- Davies, by his nametag -- as the camera flashed. He kicked the gun that had fallen into the bushes over by the body and toed it under a fold in the coat.
   "Should you be moving the evidence around like that?" asked Davies.
   "So tell 'em I kicked it. I just came down here to get your name and badge number for the record and secure the scene."
   Shrugging as he looked around, Cade said, "Now the scene is secure, I have my info, and you have your coffee. Just stay put until the cops get here."
   Davies almost choked on his first sip of coffee.
   He glanced down at the body, then stared at Cade as he asked, "But... You mean you aren't a cop?!"
   "Never said I was," said Cade. "I've just been working with them today. See you later."
   As Cade turned to go, the guard said, "Hey, wait. Is there any word about the blonde? The woman who, uh... who flew off... with the car?"
   "I haven't heard anything."
   Glancing up at the sky, Davies said, "God, I hope she wasn't still hanging onto that car when it blew. I was looking right at it, but it was too far up... Do you think she...?"
   "No idea," said Cade. "Later."
   With that, he headed back up the steps and into the hotel, where he gave Davies' info to Avery and refilled his coffee cup, then sat down in a corner of the cafe with an incident report form to wait for Lieutenant Bain.

Chapter Two

   Mandi Steele had landed behind a support column in the drive-through of the Rivage Hotel, then stepped out to briefly join a group of costumed conventioneers on their way up the walkway ramp.
   As she neared the taxi at the front of the line, she spun the two-foot piece of pvc tubing she'd found behind the column like a baton. Letting it escape her grasp in the direction of the taxi gave her a pretext for going through the motions of pretending to look for it as she studied the car.
   The paint was new, but the car wasn't. It was full of luggage and rode so low that it must have had a ton of extra weight aboard. No normal luggage would weigh that much.
   Mandi pretended to search for her missing baton beneath the taxi's rear. She discovered that the inner side of the fender was solid, not hollow. A pinch of the clay-like plastique came away between her fingers and she let it fall under the car before retrieving the bit of pipe and standing up.
   In the rearview mirror, the driver's eyes were focused on her legs. Mandi saw that he was none other than Ahmed Mussafi, a 'suspected' terrorist whose face had graced several of the wanted posters she'd studied before she'd left Las Vegas.
   The anonymous tip to Gary's office about a suicide attack had been gospel, after all. Now; how to neutralize this situation? How to handle the driver, who likely had some kind of a detonator close at hand?
   To a typical Middle-Eastern man, just about any visible female flesh would hold his eyes like a magnet. Pretending to adjust her uniform, Mandi tugged her skirt and brushed imaginary dirt from her breasts. Her motions guided his eyes over her body as she pretended to continue past the car on her way up the ramp.
   As she came even with his window, Mandi took advantage of the fact that his eyes were firmly locked on her breasts, snapping a punch at the side of his head that knocked him cold as it sent him across the seat.
   She let the punch become a grab for the gearshift, took the car out of 'drive' and into 'neutral', then she went to the rear of the car, grabbed the bumper, and began hauling the car down the ramp to the street.
   The first order of business was to get the car a safe distance away from everything and everyone. In the heart of downtown Atlanta, that could only mean going up.
   At the bottom of the ramp, traffic prevented her from dragging the car into the street, so Mandi pulled it onto the broad sidewalk. She jumped over the car to the front of it, lifted the front of the car, got a firm grip on the strongest part of the frame, and powered upward.
   Remembering what Gary had said about possible watchers who might set off any explosives, Mandi nonetheless kept her speed barely subsonic to avoid damage to nearby buildings.
   Almost exactly twelve seconds into Mandi's upward dash, Mohammed Jamal's dying efforts succeeded. In a split-second, nearly eighteen hundred pounds of plastique converted to energy, essentially vaporizing much of the Crown Victoria and shredding the rest of it.
   Even for someone like Mandi, it was a bit much. While the blast couldn't destroy her, it hit her like a huge fist, knocking her spinning for several miles before she could clear her head enough to regain control of herself.
   She had no idea where she was until she looked around and saw the cloud of smoke from the explosion hovering above downtown Atlanta. Distance made the smoke cloud appear no bigger than the head of a thumbtack, and Mandi began to realize just how powerful the explosion had been as she guesstimated that it had thrown her five or six miles.
   Flying back toward downtown, Mandi realized with a mental sigh that there was no way that she'd be able to remain a mysterious semi-myth after today.
   Someone might even have had the presence of mind to take her picture while she was in the hotel's drive-through. Damn. It would probably be a shot of her reaching under the car for the pvc tube. Wouldn't a close-up of her butt look great on the six o'clock news?
   Glancing around as she landed in the stairwell alcove where she'd left her mundane clothes, she saw that some of the nearby buildings were missing some of their windows.
   Any damage would have been from debris, thought Mandi. The blast had occurred almost two miles up, so the shockwave wouldn't have done it.
   Retrieving a cell phone from her purse, Mandi tapped in an Atlanta number given to her for the mission.
   A woman answered with, "Zero-eight-two-six."
   "Angel here."
   "Go, Angel."
   "Do you have anything else for me?"
   "Not a thing. John says 'good job' and you're on standby."
   "Thank you."
   The woman said, "You're welcome. Enjoy your stay in Atlanta," then she disconnected.
   With water from a small puddle near the entrance, Mandi managed to clean most of the explosion's residue from her arms and legs. Using her makeup mirror, she cleaned her face and applied a bit of makeup, then she changed clothes and rechecked herself.
   Judging her appearance normal enough, Mandi removed the flattened soft drink can that had kept the roof door from latching and headed down to the forty-second floor.
   She cracked the stairwell door slightly and saw that a few people were waiting for the elevator across the hall. Two minutes later, they were gone and the hall was empty. Mandi stepped out, took the elevator to the fourth floor, and headed for the room that had been issued to her for the mission.
   Frank Stearns of the NIA stepped out of room 423 and a big grin formed on his face when he saw Mandi. Mandi, on the other hand, sighed and thought, 'Oh, damn.'
   Stearns wasn't as bad as some men. He genuinely didn't seem have any reservations about working with women, for instance. He did, however, have an overbearing personality and seemed to view himself as every woman's dream come true.
   He also seemed to have an unyielding curiosity about Mandi, which was actually quite understandable. When Gary had added her to the operation roster, he'd waited until the last possible minute to do so, dropping her in as a standalone with little or no explanation to anyone.
   Mandi didn't 'liaison' with the teams or team leaders. She hadn't attended even one of the briefings and her introduction had been so brief and uninformative that some of the team honchos -- leery of working with unknowns -- had been more than a little pissed at the time.
   While she was pleasant enough when someone happened to encounter her, she didn't work or socialize with people from any of the teams. For the most part -- even if they weren't exactly accepting of the terms -- everybody seemed to get used to the arrangement, but not Frank Stearns.
   His inability to find out anything at all about Mandi through channels seemed to bug the hell out of him. When official queries failed, he'd resorted to overt friendliness, inviting her to lunches, dinners, and even a party, and he seemed to take her continuous refusals as some sort of personal challenge.
   "Well, hi, there, gorgeous!" said Stearns. "I'm about to go get a late lunch. Care to join me?"
   Returning his grin with a small, polite smile, Mandi said, "Thanks anyway."
   "It's just a lunch, Mandi. I don't like to eat alone."
   "Sorry, Frank. Get somebody else."
   Turning to watch her walk past, Stearns asked, "Well, how about dinner later?"
   Without turning around, she said, "You're a coworker, Frank. It won't happen."
   He sighed, "Hey, I don't agree with that policy, y'know?"
   With a slight nod, Mandi said, "Yeah, I know. Bye."
   He must really have been hungry; for once, he didn't persist. Even if she were interested in playing, it wouldn't happen with Frank Stearns. The guy was a good team leader, but Mandi had overheard him talking to John Hartmann about one of his dates.
   He'd made it sound as if he'd conquered Mount Everest and had given a blow-by-blow description of events -- as he remembered them, of course -- including their bedroom activities, some of which had sounded greatly embellished.
   No, there'd be no playing with Frank. Never with Frank.
   Mandi let herself into room 426 and tossed her purse on the bed, then she began taking off her clothes as she ran hot water in the bathtub and added some bubblebath.
   She wasn't tired and didn't have any aches or pains or frustrations to soak away. Mandi just liked bubblebaths and the private, quiet time they provided.
   It was also an opportunity to see what all had been issued with her DragonCon badge, which was clipped to a plastic bag someone had delivered and placed on the bed.
   Mandi picked the goodie-bag up and peeked inside, then took it into the bathroom. After getting comfortable in the tub, she spent the next half hour reviewing convention literature.
   The big, glossy-covered guide said there'd be several stars from TV shows and movies signing autographs, as well as a host of artists and authors.
   It also listed a costume contest, three dances, discussion panels, and several movies to be shown in the ballrooms. The dealer's room vendor list made it seem likely that she'd find some unique jewelry or clothing.
   A smaller, pocket-sized booklet contained a simpler scheduling chart of all events, panels, appearances, and other doings of interest during the four days of the convention.
   Mandi used a yellow highlighter on some of the chart's info blocks, then rooted through the rest of the stuff in the bag; buttons, pins, party notices, and ads and brochures for upcoming science fiction movies and books.
   By the time the bath water had cooled Mandi had less than an hour to find and get to a writer's panel titled 'Women of Science Fiction'. She got out of the tub and chose a fresh outfit from her limited travel wardrobe.
   Everyone else at the convention seemed to either be dressed for a camping trip -- backpack included, in many cases -- or wearing some kind of costume, so Mandi decided to make a fashion statement of sorts.
   She chose an electric blue, mid-thigh, sleeveless sheath dress that had a white stripe down each side-seam and fit her rather closely. The blue shoes in her shoe bag were a shade off, but in the crowd she was likely to encounter, a shade -- or even a few shades -- probably wouldn't matter much.
   Choosing a small silver necklace from her travel kit, she put it on and thought about wearing earrings, then passed on them as being unnecessary.
   Not for the first time, the thought occurred to her that if her ears could be pierced, she wouldn't have to wear those damned clip-ons that never seemed to stay clipped on.
   Stockings? No, she decided. Bare legs also make a kind of statement and they usually got more looks. After adding a touch of lip gloss, she scooped up her purse and key card and headed for the elevators.

Chapter Three

   The extra cops from the roof arrived. Avery sent two down to the sidewalk and had the other two continue gathering info from the people in the cafe.
   One started to approach Cade, so he opened his field jacket to show the Glock in its holster. The cop conferred with Avery for a moment, then headed toward someone else as Cade got a coffee refill and returned to his table.
   The image of the leggy blonde hopping over the taxi and launching into the sky with it replayed in Cade's mind.
   Everything he had ever read about flying blondes had appeared either in comic books or the same tabloids that reported things like Elvis and Jesus sightings, and not one of those rags had ever printed a picture of a flying blonde that hadn't been fairly obviously altered.
   In one case the original picture had been from a fashion shoot in the late fifties and the model -- now in her eighties -- had sued and won a few thousand bucks in court.
   Cade decided that he now found the subject of flying blondes considerably more interesting and resolved to look into the matter as time permitted.
   Lt. Bain arrived, checked in with Avery, and headed for Cade's table. Cade stood up as she approached and waved at Manuel as he asked Bain how she liked her coffee.
   Smoothing her skirt and hitching the back of her jacket clear as she sat down, she responded instantly, "Two sugars, please. How do you feel about what happened, Mr. Cade? About... about what you had to do, I mean?"
   'About what he'd had to do'? Couldn't she say the words 'about shooting people'?
   "Next question, please," said Cade. "Manuel, put two sugars in hers, okay?" Manuel nodded.
   "Mr. Cade," said Bain, "I have no doubt the shooting was justified, if that's your concern. I'm asking because..."
   Interrupting her, Cade said, "I'm just an inter-agency loaner. You don't have to be concerned about my feelings."
   Her gaze narrowed as she set her purse on the table and firmly said, "But it happened while you were on loan to us, Mr. Cade, so if you should feel a need for counseling, we have several good people available."
   Counseling, huh? That would be a first. Cade kept a straight face to avoid offending her as he glanced up to see how far along Manuel was with her coffee.
   Getting up to save Manuel a trip, Cade served Bain her coffee and said, "Like I said, milady; next question."
   Bain said nothing until Cade had handed her the coffee and sat back down. She sipped for a moment, then set the coffee down on the table and regarded Cade quietly for a time.
   "Okay, then," she said, "The next question is, how many rounds did you fire?"
   "Four. Avery fired twice."
   "You're sure about that?"
   "I'm sure. I hit him twice up here and twice on the sidewalk when he aimed up at us. Avery fired at him on the sidewalk."
   She nodded and said, "If any rounds went astray, we'll have to account for them. May I see your weapon?"
   Cade unholstered his Glock, dropped the clip and handed it to her, then turned the gun slightly to the left and jacked the slide to eject the round in the chamber, which he caught with his left hand and set upright on the table.
   Leaving the Glock's slide open, he set the gun on the table, as well, and picked up his coffee. Bain had watched the casual emptying of the gun with one eyebrow raised, then she gave Cade a wry look.
   "I'll bet that trick impresses the hell out of some women."
   Shrugging, Cade said, "The only women who've ever seen me do that could probably do it, too, LT, so I kind of doubt it. Are you through counting my bullets?"
   Nodding, she handed him the magazine and asked, "Did you have one in the chamber as well as a full magazine?"
   As he thumbed the loose round into the top of the magazine, Cade said, "Yup. One up the spout."
   He put the magazine back in the Glock and thumbed the slide release to close it, then put the gun back in its holster.
   Bain said, "Thank you," and sipped her coffee again before sighingly saying, "I'm sorry, Mr. Cade, but you and your people were dropped on us from out of the blue. I simply don't know you well enough to just take your word for some things."
   Shrugging again, Cade said, "No problem. Someone once said, 'Trust, but verify'. It's a good policy. Now answer a question for me, please."
   "If I can."
   "Who was the woman who flew off with the car?"
   "I can't tell you that." Heading off his next question, she quickly added, "I don't know who she is. Or was, I'm afraid. She was apparently dropped on us, too."
   "Apparently?"
   With a curt nod, she said, "I hate to admit it, but she was a complete surprise to the Atlanta PD."
   Cade met her gaze for a moment, decided that if she wasn't telling him the truth, it wasn't worth pushing, and said, "I've seen tabloid reports of two superwomen and didn't really believe in either one of them until today. One is supposed to hang out in or around California and the other has been reported mostly around Las Vegas."
   "That's what I've heard, too. I made a request for info as soon as I heard what happened. Before I got out of the comm center, word had come down that I was not to ask again."
   Avery came to the table and said, "Lieutenant Bain, we're going to need you in a few minutes."
   "Okay, I'll be right there," she said, then as Avery nodded and walked away, she said, "Mr. Cade, my office doesn't seem to have your contact info."
   "My boss knows where to find me."
   Bain gazed at Cade thoughtfully for a moment, then stood up and picked up her purse as she said, "In that case, I'll go see what Avery and Dolman have for me."
   Her eyes flicked to the unfinished report on the table.
   "I'll give that to Avery," said Cade.
   He sat back down as she walked away, but he didn't take his eyes off her. Great legs. Tall, brunette, and generally a fine example of womanhood. As she passed the coffee bar her head turned slightly and Cade saw her looking back at him in the mirror-finish of the coffee machine.
   He gave her a nod that said, 'Yeah, lady. I'm looking.'
   Bain held his reflected gaze for a moment, then moved on to join the other cops. Cade returned to finishing the police report and -- after rereading it twice -- judged it finished about fifteen minutes later.
   Cade signed it and presented it to Avery, then pulled his DragonCon 'registered guest' badge out of his jacket pocket, clipped it to his collar, and headed into the hotel to see if this year's convention was still underway after all the excitement.
   In the second-floor con suite, it seemed that a number of other people were wondering the same thing. They filled the con suite practically wall-to-wall as Cade squeezed in and looked around.
   No answers there; Cade left the con suite and headed for the registration ballroom on the first floor, taking the cell phone he'd been issued out of his pocket and dialing the Atlanta number he'd been given for the mission.
   A woman answered with, "Zero-eight-two-six."
   "Dragonfly here."
   "Go, Dragonfly."
   "I filed a police report. Nothing to add. Am I offline?"
   "Yes. John says 'good job' and you're on standby."
   "Okay, thanks."
   "You're welcome. Enjoy your stay in Atlanta."
   She disconnected. Cade slipped the phone back in his pocket as he approached the elevators. As usual, there was a herd of people waiting. Some began chanting in unison as if that would somehow make the right elevator light come on.
   "Down, down; we wanna go down!"
   As he waited, Cade's mind returned to the moment that the blonde had dragged the car out of the hotel's driveway. A Crown Vic's roof came almost even with his shoulders. She'd been tall enough to easily see over it, so that made her between five-seven and five-ten.
   And her legs. By God, she'd had magnificent legs. Even from across the street, he'd seen that she'd had the long, solid legs of a fitness diva.
   How had she happened to be on hand to deal with the car bomb? He'd never seen or heard any reports of flying blondes in Atlanta. Chances were she'd been on tap just like more than half of the other people he'd met during this operation. That would make it likely that she'd been in town at least a few days, stashed somewhere as an ace in the hole.
   It had to have been one hell of an explosion up there. Cade wondered if she'd still been hanging onto the car when it blew. Yeah, probably. She couldn't very well let go of it. Damn.
   Motion in the lobby below caught his eye; the guy who'd been taking pictures in the street was cradling the camera and leading a small herd of people through the dense throng of conventioneers, heading toward the front doors of the hotel.
   Spurred to action for yet-unclear reasons, Cade glanced around for a way through the crowd by the elevators, but he realized that backtracking to the stairs near the con suite would cost him too much time. He looked over the rail at the lobby below.
   The fountain below the balcony was the only area clear of people. Swinging his legs over the balcony rail and letting himself dangle at the bottom of the rail, Cade dropped perhaps seven feet into six inches of water.
   Amid cries of "Jesus!" and "Holy shit!", he clambered out of the fountain and bored through the crowd after the knight and his entourage, nearing them just before they'd reached the sidewalk at the end of the hotel's carport.
   "You! The knight!" yelled Cade.
   The knight and most of his group stopped immediately. They saw Cade, soaked to the knees, running toward them.
   One woman shrieked, "He's got a gun!" and pointed when she saw Cade's shoulder holster, but someone else laughed and said, "So do all the stormtroopers, Sandy. I don't know who he's supposed to be from what movie, though."
   Cade hauled out his wallet and flashed his Atlanta PD Auxiliary Services ID as he came to a halt and said, "I'm not a character from a movie. The gun's real."
   Turning to the knight, he said, "You were taking pictures in the street before the explosion. Did you get any closeups of the blonde who took the car?"
   "Hey, man!" said the knight, "What I got in this camera's worth some money! I've already called World News Net..."
   "Yeah, fine," interrupted Cade. "WNN can wait. I need to see what you've got in that camera."
   Someone said, "Then you can catch the six o'clock news, just like everybody else, man. This isn't evidence, it's news."
   Glancing at him, Cade said, "She grabbed a taxi and took off with it. I'm calling that grand theft auto. That makes this camera evidence, so you can show me what's in it or you can spend the weekend in jail."
   A guy behind the knight whined, "That's bullshit, man! She saved the goddamned hotel and everybody in it. They're saying she was killed in the explosion and now you're saying you're gonna call her a car thief?!"
   "Only if your friend, here, doesn't cooperate."
   The knight stood tall and said, "This is a four hundred dollar digital camera. I can't give you a tape and there's no way in hell you're getting this camera."
   Sighing, Cade said, "Look, I don't want your camera and I don't want to arrest anybody." Leaning close, he growled, "I just want to see the damned pictures. It's been over half an hour since the blast, so I figure you've either made a copy on a computer or you're selling the only copy, which would make you one truly stupid fuck. Which is it?"
   The knight stiffened briefly at that, but he realized that he could either cooperate or spend his DragonCon weekend in a jail cell.
   "Yeah. I made a copy on my laptop," he said. "In case the news guys ripped us off."
   "They won't," said Cade. "That's not how they work. You'll sell them a copy and make me a copy on my laptop and nobody will go to jail. Good enough?"
   "You won't try to sell your copy?"
   Raising his right hand, Cade said, "I swear I won't sell them or put them up for the public on the internet. Now decide -- and I mean right now -- whether you're going to make me a copy or make me arrest you."
   The woman asked, "Jeremy, how are you going to make another copy on his computer? You have to have the camera software installed on the laptop."
   "No sweat," said Cade. "I have a null cable. We'll hook the lappies up and send the pics to my box."
   And so it was. Cade accompanied Jeremy and his little group to the WNN offices, who -- after seeing the camera's contents on the tiny flip-out screen -- sent someone to buy a camera like Jeremy's in order to get the software needed to transfer and remove the pictures from the camera.
   The news honcho coughed up several thousand dollars when Jeremy swore there were no other copies -- a lie he'd have told anyway to keep his own copies -- and the group returned to the hotel.
   Half an hour later, Cade had a copy of all the pictures. He sat at the desk in his fourth-floor room and studied each picture in turn as he cleaned his Glock and replaced the rounds he'd fired, then he chose three of the best pictures to print.
   Cropping away everything but the woman's face, he printed the pictures as full-page images and studied her some more over a cup of instant coffee.
   Even as Cade had examined the smaller pictures on the laptop's screen, he'd begun to feel certain that -- somewhere, at some time -- he'd either seen the woman before or seen someone who could damned near be her twin.
   Holding a full-page blowup of her face made things come together in his mind. In 1996, he'd made a TDY visit to Nellis AFB with Captain Margaret Adams of Air Force Intelligence.
   On the last weekend of the visit, she'd wanted to check out downtown Las Vegas. Some time during that Saturday night he'd seen the woman in the picture, but something about her was different. Her hair? Maybe she hadn't been a blonde.
   Using his art program, Cade darkened her hair a few shades, then darkened it some more. There was still something not quite right. Had she been wearing glasses? No, he didn't think so. Something else. Colored contacts, maybe.
   Laptops and hard drives are like any other machines; they'll usually break down only at the worst possible times. Cade couldn't burn a backup CD on the lappie, so he decided to take other precautions against losing the pictures.
   Using the room's phone line, he signed onto the internet and opened an account at a free web host as 'ABC Products', created a directory for the pictures on the server, made a picture-list web page and titled it 'productimages', and sent everything up to the site. He then made a dummy index page that said, 'Under Construction' and contained no links.
   After adding a 'no robots' text file to the root directory to keep search engines out of the website, he tested the pages by viewing a couple of the sequentially-numbered pictures.
   It occurred to Cade that -- once WNN used the pictures on the news -- both Jeremy and WNN would be questioned at length, and Cade's involvement would be discovered.
   In order to wipe away all traces of his recent web activities, Cade moved the laptop's 'cookie' files and cache files to a temporary directory, then rebooted to DOS and deleted that directory and all the 'index.dat' and history files using 'wipe.exe', which overwrote files with garbage code before deleting them.
   He then backed up his 'favorites' list, uninstalled and reinstalled the browser so it would look as if he'd had to fix problems with the program, and very briefly visited several common websites to create new cache and history files.
   When the coffee was gone, Cade checked his watch, put the computer away, and put his thoughts and speculations about the woman on a mental shelf as he brushed his teeth, put on a clean shirt, and tossed his convention guides in his backpack.
   He had less than an hour to get to the first of four writer's conferences listed in the program guide -- a discussion about 'Women of Science Fiction' -- and he wanted to stop in the dealer's room on the way.

Chapter Four

   The door to room 422 opened as Mandi neared it and a tall guy in jeans, cowboy boots, and a green Army field jacket stepped out. He pulled the door shut with a glance in her direction that turned into a rather long look, then he hefted his black backpack and followed her toward the elevators.
   He had to be close to fifty; Mandi wondered which team he was with, and in what capacity. All the rooms from 420 to 430 had been reserved as a block to centralize personnel, so he had to be some kind of a cop or fed. Or a liaison?
   Pressing the 'down' button, she heard -- no, she 'felt' -- the man come to stand quietly a few feet behind her. Very quietly, she added after a few moments. Almost unnaturally quietly.
   There was no rubbing of fabric or scuffing of his boots on the carpet. No shifting of his backpack or even the soft creak of old boot leather as weight shifted from one leg to the other. The guy was an embodiment of silence.
   Mandi had to actually focus her hearing a bit to be sure he was breathing, and she found it mildly unnerving that anyone could stand so silently for so long.
   Another few moments passed before she turned and grinningly said with a raised eyebrow, "Just checking to see if you're really back there. You're very quiet."
   He nodded slightly and returned her grin. When she'd turned, his eyes hadn't been on her butt or her legs, as she'd expected. They'd been on her hair or shoulders, because they'd met her eyes instantly. Mandi found that odd, too.
   The guy seemed to study her face as he said, "Yeah, I guess I am kind of quiet sometimes. That's a nice outfit, milady. It doesn't scream 'look at me!', but it can't very easily be ignored, either."
   'Milady'? Who calls a woman 'milady' these days? Mandi accepted his compliment as given and saw his eyes drop to her breasts. Correction; to her badge, which hung from one of her tiny demi-lapels. Her eyes fell to his badge in return.
   "Mandi Steele," he read, extending his hand. "Hi, Mandi. I'm Ed Cade."
   His eyes returned to hers as she shook his hand and said, "So I see. Nice to meet you. Why's the name block on your badge light blue?"
   "I'm registered as a guest author. Artists get a different color -- light green, I think. Staff types get red or yellow."
   She glanced at his badge again, then asked, "Are you staying on this floor? Was that your room you came out of?"
   "Yup."
   "I don't think anyone else on this floor is registered as a guest author. Why you?"
   "Maybe it's because I'm really an author."
   Uh, huh, thought Mandi. Or maybe he was a reporter who'd gotten wind of something? He'd come out of one of the rooms in the agency block, but...
   Her expression made him add, "I'm with John's crew. They pulled me out of retirement for this op when they found out I'd be here anyway."
   If anything, her puzzlement grew. "Retirement? From what? You don't look old enough to be retired."
   Shrugging slightly, Cade said, "I am, though. Retired, that is. So I must be old enough, I guess. How about you? Which team are you with?"
   "No team. John put me in as a standalone."
   "Woo! A superspook, huh? Foreign or domestic? There seem to be some of each here today."
   Shaking her head, Mandi said, "No, I'm not exactly with the NIA. I've been, uhm... coordinating things, you could say."
   Something in Cade's expression seemed to change almost imperceptibly as he nodded without comment. Mandi instantly got the impression that he didn't believe her.
   "What is it?" she asked with a small smile, "The fact that I'm a blonde? Don't you think I could coordinate anything?"
   Raising a hand slightly in protest, Cade grinningly said, "Oh, no, milady, it's nothing like that. I'm sure you're very good at what you do. I have no doubt you could run an office if you had to. You'd look absolutely great while you did it, too."
   Thinking that Cade meant that he thought she might be one of those 'secretaries' who can't really type, Mandi asked rather ominously, "What the hell are you getting at?"
   She wasn't in the least prepared for his answer.
   "Mandi," said Cade, "I saw you haul a car into the sky today. Admin types don't do stuff like that. They don't like to get their hands dirty."
   A jolt shot through Mandi and her gaze at Cade narrowed peeringly as she quietly asked, "Are you nuts?! If you are, just tell me now so I can get the hell away from you, okay?"
   The red 'down' light came on as the elevator chimed its arrival. Cade stepped around Mandi to clear the doorway.
   Shifting his backpack slightly, he said, "Yeah, I was afraid you might react like that. The dealer's room can wait. Let's go back to my room for some show and tell."
   The elevator doors opened as Mandi whisperingly blurted, "What?!"
   Nobody got off the elevator and the people aboard it looked questioningly at Mandi and Cade until the doors closed again.
   Once they were alone, Mandi stepped very close to Cade and was about to say something scathing when Cade said, "Okay, maybe that was a poor choice of words, but I guarantee you'll be glad I showed you the pictures."
   Hovering between anger and startlement, Mandi peered at Cade sharply as she asked, "What pictures?!"
   Shifting his backpack around front, Cade unzipped it and fished out the three printouts, which he handed to her.
   "The pictures these blowups were made from," he said. "A kid with a digital camera took them. He sold them to WNN about an hour ago."
   After staring at the pictures for all of two seconds, Mandi grabbed her cell phone out of her purse and dialed.
   Cade heard the same woman he'd talked to perhaps six times in the last few days say, "Zero-eight-two-six."
   "Angel here," said Mandi.
   "Go, Angel."
   "I need to talk to John. Right now."
   "He'll call you back. Do you need local assistance?"
   Loudly enough to be heard by the woman on the phone, Cade said, "Tell her Dragonfly said 'no'."
   "Angel, do you confirm?" asked the woman.
   Unrealizingly nodding as she studied Cade, Mandi said, "Yes. We aren't in any danger here. We're trying to prevent a blown cover. Mine."
   "Okay, Angel. Hang up and stand by."
   "Thank you."
   For a long few moments, Mandi continued to study Cade in silence, then she said, "We seem to know some of the same people, Dragonfly. I'll accept that as a positive reference."
   Grinning, Cade said, "Well, that's damned decent of you, ma'am. You're 'Angel', huh? I'd say that fits well enough. What now? I'm pretty sure someone thought of this possibility."
   Nodding, Mandi said, "They did. We did. Where did you get these printouts?"
   "I printed them for reference. I thought you might still be in town and I wanted to be able to make a positive ID if I saw you again. Guess I don't really need them now, huh?"
   Folding the pictures and putting them in her purse, Mandi said, "No, you don't. Do you have any other pictures of me?"
   "Why even ask? You know they'll toss my room and check my laptop on general principles."
   Grabbing his jacket and yanking him close, Mandi growled, "Don't be difficult. I'm not in the mood."
   Almost nose-to-nose with her again, Cade quietly said, "You shouldn't get tough with people who are trying to help you. All the pictures are on my laptop."
   Mandi's cell phone chirped and she quickly answered it with her free hand, not releasing Cade as she did so. Cade had no problem at all with being an inch from her face. It allowed him to listen easily to both sides of the conversation, which was rather short.
   "I'll meet you in 422," said John. "Five minutes. Here's Alan. Tell him what you know to get the ball rolling."
   "Hi, Angel," said Alan. "What have you got for me?"
   "Nothing," said Cade. "I'm the one with the info."
   He reached for the phone and Mandi let him take it as she finally released his jacket, then he gave Alan particulars about the kid who'd taken the pictures and the names of those who'd bought the pictures at WNN.
   "Is that everything you've got on them?" asked Alan.
   "That's it," said Cade. "If I think of anything else, I've got your number."
   "Okay, thanks. Put Angel back on."
   Cade handed the phone back to Mandi and heard Alan say in a rather intense tone, "Angel, we don't know this guy from Adam. He's just a part-time reserve asset that John called in to fill the ranks for this op. I think you should stick to him until we know that we know all he knows."
   With a laugh, Cade said, "The 'part time reserve asset' isn't exactly unhappy with that idea."
   "Aw, shit!" said Alan. "He can hear me?"
   Somewhat acidly, Mandi asked, "Alan, do you have any other shining pearls of wisdom and advice?"
   "Uh... No. Sorry."
   "Later, then. Bye."
   Hefting his backpack as Mandi tapped her phone off and put it away, Cade grinningly offered her his arm and asked, "Shall we go, milady?"
   Mandi shot him a glare and said, "Yes," as she started walking. Cade followed at a slight distance, the better to eyeball her backside and legs as she marched ahead. Mandi abruptly stopped and waited for him to catch up, her slight glare unabated.
   "Great legs, ma'am," said Cade. "Great everything, really."
   She made no reply as she walked beside him. At 422, he let them in and left the door slightly ajar for John, then took his coffee mug to the sink and began making a fresh cup.
   "Want to try some of my instant coffee?" he asked.
   "No." As an afterthought, she added, "Thanks, anyway, but we came here to see some pictures."
   Cade glanced in the mirror. Mandi was standing in the middle of the room. Oh, well. She knew she didn't need an invitation to sit down. Come to think of it, she probably didn't feel any need to sit down as often as regular people did.
   A sharp double tap at the door announced John's arrival and entrance. The two men with him began methodically searching Cade's room as John approached Mandi and Cade and shook hands with both of them.
   "Sorry," John said as he gestured at the two guys rooting through Cade's suitcases. "Her people insisted."
   "Figured they might," said Cade. "Alan seemed the cautious type. If I need one, can I get a loaner laptop while you root through mine?"
   Nodding, John said, "No problem." He turned to one of the guys searching the room and said, "Chuck, he may be dropping by later to borrow one of the pool laptops."
   "Yes, sir," said Chuck, resuming his efforts.
   "Ed," said John, "Alan played back your report on my way here. Can you add anything to it?"
   "Can't think of a thing, John. All I really had were some names and a room number here at the hotel."
   After another few moments, Chuck came to look through Cade's backpack and check his pockets, then said, "That's it, sir. Nothing left but the computer." Turning to Cade, he asked, "What's your boot-up password?"
   "Don't need one," said Cade. "Just hit 'enter'."
   The guy raised an eyebrow at that, as did John.
   Laughing, Cade said, "Boot to DOS and you can wipe the password file and reboot without one. I won't keep anything on a computer that I couldn't show my mother."
   Chuck looked at John and shruggingly nodded agreement.
   John looked at Cade and said, "Well, okay, then. Sorry for the inconvenience."
   "Oh, I guess I'll survive," said Cade. "What now? Think you can put a lid on this thing?"
   "Yeah, we think so. It depends on whether WNN has already sent copies to affiliates."
   At that, Mandi groaned softly.
   Cade turned to Mandi and asked, "Mandi, why you don't wear a mask or a hood? Or something?"
   She replied rather testily, "Do you really think you're the first to suggest that?"
   "Not likely, and you didn't answer the question."
   Sighing exasperatedly, she said, "I've tried dozens of the damned things. At high speeds they come apart, blow off, or burn off, and everything I've tried that'll survive and stay put looks like shit. Does that answer your question well enough?"
   Chuckling, Cade said, "Well, yeah. I guess so."
   With another quick round of handshakes, John led his search team out of the room, leaving Mandi and Cade to themselves. Mandi called Alan with an update, then sighed and sat down at the room's small desk.

Chapter Five

   All that could be done was being done. John's people would try to find and secure all copies of the pictures and warn everyone about dire consequences, etc..., but Mandi seemed to lack faith that his efforts would be enough.
   She'd known and accepted the risk of complete exposure, of course, but she'd also hoped strongly against it. Another sigh escaped her as Cade put his stuff back in his backpack and zipped it shut.
   Without looking up from the desk, she muttered, "Now we wait to see whether I'm going to become a TV star tonight. I've got a feeling that my privacy is about to be shot to hell."
   "Not necessarily. Vegas is full of great-looking, leggy blondes. If anyone says you look like you, just thank them for the compliment and move on."
   For a moment Mandi staringly said nothing, then she quietly asked, "How the hell did you know I live in Vegas?"
   "I saw you there," said Cade. "Back in 1996."
   Sitting up and turning around to give him an exasperated look, Mandi replied, "1996? After all these years, you're absolutely sure it was me you saw?"
   "Yeah," Cade said with a shrug. "I am. Mind if I make a suggestion?"
   Tossing the pen she'd been fiddling with onto the desk, Mandi almost shouted, "Oh, sure! Oh, hell, yes! Why not?"
   Thumbing at the door, Cade said, "Could be that John's people will square this away. If not, you might as well enjoy your last few hours of anonymity, right? I'm just saying, 'business as usual and hope for the best'. And we have about fifteen minutes to get to that writer's panel."
   Mandi almost laughed at his last words, but she realized he was probably right. What the hell; might as well. She stood up and picked up her purse, putting her sentiment into words.
   "What the hell; we might as well." Pointing at his shoulder holster, she asked, "Do you really think you need that?"
   "I'm on standby. I think John would take it poorly if I had to say, 'Wait one while I run upstairs and get my gun'."
   Nodding with a chuckle, Mandi said, "Yeah, I guess he might, at that."
   Cade got the door for her with a gentlemanly flourish and they headed for the elevator.
   "Ed," said Mandi, "Most people are full of questions when they first meet me."
   Nodding, Cade said, "Yeah, that seems likely," and nothing more as they approached the elevator.
   He pressed the 'down' button and stood beside her as he'd stood before; silent to the extreme. Mandi suddenly realized that she hadn't noticed his footsteps in the hallway, either.
   "Why are you so quiet?" she asked.
   "Just a habit, I guess."
   For once, the elevator arrived quickly and they boarded. As Mandi stepped in and turned around to face the door, a brief and almost complete silence occurred around her and she wondered if her pictures had already somehow been leaked.
   As the con-related chatter resumed around her, she heard two teen guys whispering in the back.
   "Wow! Check her out, man!"
   "You think I'm not?! Jesus! I'd lick my way up to her..."
   A woman said, "One more word, Tim. Go ahead. One more."
   "You aren't my mom, Jackie. I can... Ow!"
   "If you don't knock it off, I can tell your mom what a wonderful little gentleman you weren't at DragonCon. Now can the crap or I'll pinch your other tit, you little twerp."
   There were snickers and giggles and a snort of laughter. Mandi glanced at Cade with a grin and Cade returned it as the elevator doors opened and they stepped into the lobby.
   As the woman herded the two teens past them toward the escalators, Cade said, "There goes your adoring public."
   "Oh, wow," Mandi said in a flat tone. "Be still, my heart."
   They set forth toward the Orchid Ballroom as Cade said, "Most men never grow out of that stage, you know."
   Grinning, she said, "I've noticed that now and then."
   Sighing dramatically, Cade said, "I feel so transparent."
   Mandi laughed, looked at him, and laughed again.
   "Ed, you're probably one of the most un-transparent people I've ever met."
   "The word for that is 'opaque', ma'am."
   After a quick, sharp glance at him, Mandi gave him a wry grin as she said, "Yes, I know. I wasn't sure you would."
   "Gee thanks. That, by the way, was an 'antiphrasis'."
   Mandi stopped and looked intently up at him for a moment, nodded, then continued walking.
   As they reached the escalators that led to the ballrooms below, Cade asked, "You had to look that one up, didn't you?"
   When Mandi didn't answer, Cade said in German, "I'm very sure you have been told often that you're a very beautiful woman."
   Without a hint of hesitation or unnecessary modesty, Mandi replied in German, "Yes, I have."
   Nodding, Cade said, "Kinda thought you could do that."
   "Why?"
   "You wouldn't have been sent here unprepared."
   Giving Cade a sidelong glance, Mandi asked, "What makes you think I was sent here?"
   "You aren't a product of normal anthropogenesis and nobody on Earth could create you in a test tube. You were manufactured somewhere else." He glanced at her and added in French, "And whoever did it did a damned fine job."
   Mandi grinned and returned in French, "Thank you again," with no regional accent. It was schoolbook French; the precise, formal kind you learn only in classrooms from people who've never walked the streets of France.
   "You had a good teacher," said Cade. "Human or machine?"
   As they entered the Orchid Ballroom, Mandi said, "My language teacher was a computer about the size of this hotel."
   "I'll bet most of it was empty space; mostly just places for people to hook up to it or whatever."
   Choosing a pair of chairs in the third row, Mandi said, "You'd win that bet."
   A woman tapped on a water glass to start the panel introductions. Reps from two small presses and three self-published authors gave their names and credits, then the moderator -- a woman who'd written two PG-13 novels and self-published them -- opened the floor to questions.
   The first question came from a woman in row two, who asked, "Why is it that women in science fiction are always portrayed only as victims, goddesses, or demons?"
   One of the small-press reps, a guy named Donovan, said, "They aren't, actually. Most women in sf are used as support characters, just as they are in movies and music videos. It's a trend that should be rectified."
   "Rectified how?" asked a woman in the seventh row. "Even most female authors tend to use male lead characters."
   Donovan shrugged and said, "If you're really an author, you'll write your characters your way."
   "But if I buck the trend, will I ever be published?"
   "Ninety-nine percent of all manuscripts aren't published when they don't buck trends, so all you can do is try, like everybody else."
   The rest of the session was about the same. Nobody asked any questions that couldn't be answered in about the same manner, and one of the small-press guys gently ranted about how expenses and tight budgets made publishers extremely selective about what sorts of manuscripts were accepted.
   One of the self-published authors used the small-press guy's rant as a springboard for extolling the virtues of being your own publisher, citing total control and other aspects.
   Someone asked him how many copies of his book were sitting in his garage, waiting to be sold, and how many copies had been sold. The self-pubber's answer was rather vague, but it didn't actually seem evasive; in fact, it seemed to Cade that the guy had simply been unprepared for the question and really didn't have the actual numbers at hand.
   A guy in the fourth row asked if epublishing could be considered a valid form of being published.
   Donovan took that question, too, and opined that -- as far as he was concerned -- 'real' books were made of paper. It was a wholly predictable response from a guy who made his living as a paperback publisher.
   Cade raised a hand, and when called upon said, "Since 1999, I've paid taxes on nearly thirty thousand dollars that came from ebook sales on the Internet. How are books that people pay for and read not 'real' books?"
   Glancing to his left and right as if for solidarity with the others of the panel, Donovan said, "Let's make one thing clear, sir; you've been selling computer files, not books."
   "That's why they call them 'e'-books. My question stands."
   The moderator said, "This is off-topic. This panel is about 'Women of Science Fiction', not methods of publishing."
   "You could have said that earlier," said Cade, "When the second or third question wasn't about 'Women of Science Fiction' and before thirty minutes were spent on off-topic topics. Let Mr. Donovan answer my question, if he will."
   "He won't," said Donovan. "She's right; this is off-topic and we should get back to the reason for this panel."
   Cade's chuckle earned him a curious glance from Mandi and a few others nearby as the moderator, herself, rather ineptly tried to manufacture a topic-related question to force the panel back on track and get it rolling again.
   As Mandi and Cade headed back to the escalators, she said, "Only one percent of manuscripts being published doesn't offer authors much hope of making a living from their work."
   "Those people want to see their name on a paperback. For them, it won't be about money unless they get published. Most of them don't even have a realistic concept of how much -- or how little, actually -- published authors truly earn from their books. Today they'll bitch about stacks of rejection slips, wasted time and postage, and stupid editors who can't see the value in their work. If they happen to get published, they'll wind up bitching about being screwed by their publishers over rights and book returns from chain stores."
   After a short laugh, Mandi asked, "Then why do you go to these panels?"
   Grinning, Cade said, "Sometimes they stay on topic."
   She shrugged and said, "I feel as if I've just wasted an hour with that one. Don't you?"
   "Nope. I can usually find some way to use even an experience like that in one of my ebooks."
   Mandi was about to say something when her cell phone chirped. She and Cade stepped out of the flow of foot traffic as she answered the call.
   "Angel here."
   "Alan. We found Hamad Marjeel and two of his people right across the street. The Rivage seems to be getting all their business today. Instead of running, they grabbed a couple of hostages in 831 and they're demanding media coverage."
   "Meaning you want me to go in as a reporter?"
   "It's all we can come up with. We're staging up in 835."
   Mandi said, "I'm on my way."
   "You'll be holding a mike and handling the interview," said Cade. "You'll need a cameraman."
   "You're volunteering?"
   Shrugging, Cade said, "Well, if you'd prefer to have one of the younger guys in there with you... You know, one of the guys with a wife and kids..?"
   Mandi gave him a wry look and nodded, then said, "Alan, I already have a cameraman."
   "Cade?"
   "Yes. We'll be there shortly."
   She put her phone away and gestured for Cade to hurry along as she took the escalator steps three at a time, weaving her way upward past some very startled people.
   Cade followed at a somewhat more sedate pace, taking only two steps at a time and easing past the other riders. The terrorists wanted media coverage and they had hostages as leverage, so they weren't going anywhere right away.
   At the front doors, Mandi was waiting for him.
   "You sure you're up to this?" she asked.
   "What's the hurry?" asked Cade. "They'll be there. Where do we get news credentials and hardware on short notice?"
   As they started across the sidewalk to the street, Mandi said, "That's Alan's job."
   "Might want to give him a ring and see what he's doing about that."
   "I already know what he's doing about it. He's doing whatever he has to."
   As it happened, that's exactly what Alan was doing when they walked into room 835. The two newsies from Channel Nine and the three from WNN were already there, arguing about who'd be going in to talk to the terrorists.
   Alan handed the video camera he was examining to Cade like an unwieldy football and asked, "Do you know how to operate one of these?"
   "I aim it at the bad guys while I press the trigger button."
   "You've got it."
   John came into the room and asked, "What's the plan so far, people?"
   "They'll act like reporters," said Alan, nodding at Mandi and Cade. "If they can disarm the situation, they will. If not, they'll continue to act like reporters and we'll try something else."
   A man came trotting into the room to hand Alan a couple of laminated press badges. He stood by as Alan examined them, then he led the real newspeople out of the room.
   Handing one of the badges to Mandi, Alan said, "You're Mary Winston, intrepid reporter for WNN." Handing the other badge to Cade, he said, "And you're Grant Parker from Channel Nine. This will be called a cooperative news effort."
   Turning to John, he said, "If anyone was watching, they saw the real Grant and Winston rush over here."
   Nodding, John said, "Okay, then. Check the gear and confirm the feeds to WNN and Nine. There'll be some deliberate static in the first few seconds and an excuse will be made about adjusting the signal, then we'll switch the feed to an in-house loop. While our terrorists are watching themselves being interviewed on TV, anyone outside will be taken back to whatever was on before."

Chapter Six

   Cade left his coat and gun with John, and for appearances' sake, both Mandi and Cade were taken to the doorway of 831 to let the terrorists see them putting on Kevlar vests as they received platitudinous encouragements.
   When they were finally sent into the room, Hamad Marjeel stopped them at the doorway and one of his men quickly frisked them for weapons and checked their gear before allowing them to pass. The man then shoved ahead of them into the room to take up a position at one side of the bed.
   Marjeel and the other two men appeared to be in their twenties and thirties and wore western clothing. All were clean-shaven and only their weapons and attitudes made them look more like terrorists than a trio of off-duty yuppies.
   As Mandi and Cade emerged from the room's short hallway past the bathroom, they saw two women in their sixties lying stiffly on the bed. A man on each side of the bed held a pistol aimed at each woman's head and Marjeel held a black Beretta 9mm pistol aimed generally between Mandi and Cade.
   In a tone dripping with disdain, Marjeel said, "Welcome, friends of the media. Before we begin, do you understand that your function here is merely to record my words, and not to speak unless invited to do so?"
   "Yes," said Mandi.
   Cade had been examining the side of his camera. He bumped it once with the heel of his hand, listened to it for a moment, then looked up and nodded as he said, "Sure."
   "Are you having difficulties with your camera?"
   "Well, it seems okay now. Your guy, there, may have yanked something too hard while he was messing with it."
   "Are you sure it will work properly? Do you need another?"
   Holding the camera up and aiming at the ceiling, Cade pulled the trigger. A red 'record' light came on at the front.
   "Looks like it's working now," said Cade. "I couldn't get the one I wanted to use for this. Somebody probably has it out on the loop, shooting traffic footage or..."
   "Quiet!" snapped Marjeel. Turning to Mandi, he asked, "Are you ready to begin?"
   "Yes," said Mandi, thumbing the mike's 'on' switch.
   "Yeah. Locked and loaded," said Cade, patting the camera.
   His comment drew narrow glances from Marjeel and one of the other terrorists, which likely meant that the one who'd ignored his words hadn't understood the term. Maybe he didn't speak English? Or maybe he just didn't speak it well.
   Mandi stood in front of the camera long enough to introduce herself as Mary Winston of WNN and introduce Hamad Marjeel according to what he'd written on a sheet of hotel stationery, then she stepped aside and let him have center stage.
   Marjeel began reading from a prepared speech that dragged on for a good twenty minutes. It was full of catchwords and phrases dear to the hearts of America-bashers everywhere, but it also contained quite a bit of Islamic religious rhetoric.
   He started the speech conversationally enough in firm tones, but soon he began to sound a bit strident, and by the time he hit the third or fourth page, he sounded a helluva lot like Adolf Hitler, almost ranting at the camera.
   The speech ended rather abruptly and Marjeel seemed to compose himself in silence for some moments before saying, "Now it is time to prove yet again to the Great Satan America that we are not only willing to kill, we are willing to die."
   He'd barely begun to turn toward the bed when Cade let up on the camera's trigger, again whacked the side of the camera, and said, "Hey, wait one. Damn. Can we get another take on that last bit?"
   Everybody was looking at him as if he was crazy, including Mandi. Cade thumped the camera again and triggered it briefly, making the light flicker, then thumped it again.
   "Well, that's it," said Cade. "Did we get enough?"
   Raising his pistol, Marjeel thundered, "Do you wish to die?!"
   One of the guys by the bed -- the possible non-English speaker -- also aimed his gun at Cade and the other guy's gun wavered from the woman who'd been his target.
   Holding the camera in both hands as if offering it to Marjeel, Cade said, "Well, here, dude. You try to make it work."
   When Marjeel grabbed for the camera's handle, Cade shoved the camera at Marjeel's face like a basketball. Launching himself right behind the camera, Cade drove Marjeel across the room and to the floor, his left hand locked on the wrist of Marjeel's gun hand and his right grasping the front of the terrorist's shirt.
   They landed hard, both of Cade's knees tightly together in the center of Marjeel's stomach as his back hit the floor. A loud, shouting groan escaped Marjeel on impact and his body tried to curl up, but Cade was in the way.
   When Marjeel wouldn't let go of the gun and tried to shove Cade off, Cade rammed an elbow straight down into his throat, then forced Marjeel's gun arm over the camera and leaned on it. There was a sickening snap of bone, Marjeel shrieked, and Cade was at last able to pry the gun out of his fingers.
   Marjeel tried a rather inept left-handed punch at Cade, so Cade swatted him in the temple with the Beretta to calm him down. Raising his head, Cade looked around.
   Mandi was standing beside them. Both of the other gunmen were down and their guns were in Mandi's hands. The two hostages were sitting up, barely beginning to realize that their danger was over as what seemed like a dozen more people in SWAT gear flooded the room.
   Cade rolled off Marjeel and got to his feet, handing the gun to one of the SWAT guys. Marjeel feebly tried to spit at Cade, but missed. He still seemed a bit disoriented.
   John walked up and extended a hand to Mandi, then to Cade, and said, "Good job, people. Great job."
   "Thanks," said Mandi.
   "Yeah," said Cade. "I'll be down the hall."
   "Okay," said John, "See you in a few."
   Mandi looked after him quizzically as he left the room and asked John, "Is he okay?"
   "Sure," said John. "He's like that, that's all. A few minutes from now he'll be his usual cheery self."
   'His usual cheery self, huh?' thought Cade with a small grin as he entered the hall and headed for 835. 'Up yours, John.'
   The guy at the camera console in 835 looked up as Cade came in and started to say something, but Cade raised a hand and said, "Play it back for me. Show me what she did."
   Nodding, the guy hit rewind as he said, "Good job in there."
   Another 'good job'. Damn all overused phrases.
   "Thanks."
   When the scene on screen had reversed to Cade holding the camera, the guy hit 'play'. Cade kept his eyes on Mandi as the action proceeded. She seemed to leave the floor and lean slightly forward before she almost disappeared completely.
   The black and blue colors of Mandi's Kevlar jacket and dress seemed to stretch across the room to the first gunman and continued streaking across the bed to the second gunman.
   Both men fell to the floor at about the same time and the blur came to a stop by the men struggling on the floor. Mandi stood holding both mens' pistols as she watched Marjeel and Cade scuffle.
   "Jeeezus!" breathed the console guy.
   "Try it at half-speed," said Cade.
   The guy stopped the tape and rewound, then set the speed bar and played it again. Mandi was still blurred, but vaguely identifiable as a blonde in a blue dress instead of simply a streak across the screen. They were still unable to see what, exactly, she'd done to the gunmen.
   "Jeeezus!" the console guy muttered again. Checking his watch against the tape counter, he said, "When you made your move, she took the other two out in less than three-tenths of a second!"
   "Yeah, she's pretty quick," agreed Cade. "Thanks."
   He turned from the screen and went to the bathroom, took a leak and washed Marjeel's taint from his hands, then combed his hair and headed back out to the bedroom.
   Half a dozen people were clustered around the console, playing and replaying Mandi's part of the action and making various amazed comments about her as she appeared in the doorway. For a few moments she watched and listened to them, then she looked at Cade.
   "Are you all right?" she asked.
   As Cade said, "Yup," some of the awe-struck people turned to stare at her. Two men hurried over to her, raving about how she'd handled the two gunmen so quickly and helping her out of her Kevlar vest.
   Another guy pulled open the closures on Cade's jacket and took it, then Cade left Mandi to her adulation and went to climb back into his shoulder rig and field jacket, tossing his phony 'press' badge on the bed.
   John came in and momentarily joined the group by the console, then went to stand by Cade and asked, "She's really something, isn't she?"
   "Oh, hell, yes, John. Every bit of something. How's your picture-collecting coming along?"
   "I can only tell you what I told her. Our people are working on it. So far we've recovered five sets at WNN alone."
   "It doesn't look good for total containment, huh?"
   Shaking his head, John said, "Honestly? No, it doesn't. And if they get to the internet, we can forget about it."
   "No shit. John, do you remember the Marilyn Monroe and Elvis look-alike contests back in the sixties?"
   He shrugged. "Yeah. Vaguely, I guess."
   "They happened all over the country. If Mandi's pictures get out, maybe the thing to do is hold contests in L.A., Vegas, and all the major cities as quickly as possible. Send up some chaff. Make Mandi Steele-wannabes all over the place and give her a nationwide crowd to get lost in; otherwise she'll have to hide between missions in order to have any privacy at all. Now tell me something, John."
   "What's that?"
   "Tell me why didn't you just let her buzz into the room and grab all the guns. I've seen the tape. With a running start from the hallway she could have zapped them all in half a second or less and been out of there."
   With a straight face, John said, "It was felt that we needed a distraction to minimize risk."
   "And I need taller boots. Just tell me you aren't going to tell me, John. Don't bullshit me."
   Nodding, John said, "Okay. I can't tell you."
   "That means someone else is in command of this op. Someone I don't know. I really don't like that, John."
   Sighing slightly, John said, "Well, I don't either, but you know it isn't the first time and it won't be the last."
   "Can you tell me who's running the show?"
   "Not at this time."
   "That sucks, John."
   Nodding again, John said, "That's how I see it, too, but that's how it is."
   Someone called to John from the doorway and John excused himself, patting Mandi's shoulder on the way past her and saying, "Thanks again for your help."
   Mandi shortly disengaged from her SWAT fan club and joined Cade by the bed.
   "Is everything all right?" she asked.
   "No," said Cade. "John can't tell me who's running this op."
   "Neither can I," said Mandi. "Alan's getting his orders from John and won't admit to knowing anything else. Does it really matter who's at the top?"
   "It does to me, but as long as John's in my command chain, I'll go along with things. Do you have dinner plans?"
   "Yes. Some of the people from my group are going to DelMonico's around seven if nothing else happens. Want to come with us?"
   "No, thanks," he pulled the DragonCon schedule halfway out of his pocket, "I'm gonna disappear before they let the news people out and go find some food. There are a couple of things I want to check out between seven and nine."
   Reaching to touch his arm, Mandi said quietly, "You gave me the opening I needed in there. Thanks."
   Regarding her silently for a moment, Cade said, "You didn't need me at all, Mandi. After I saw the playback, I asked John why you didn't handle the whole mess yourself."
   Letting her hand fall to her side, Mandi said, "That wasn't the plan, Ed. That's all I can say."
   A woman called Mandi from the doorway.
   Mandi nodded to let the woman know she'd heard and turned back to Cade to ask, "What's your issue-cell number?"
   "Forty-two-eighteen. Yours?"
   "Zero-two-two-one."
   Although he knew that the cells were recharged and reissued in no particular order, Cade grinningly said, "Wow, that's a low number. You must be somebody special, ma'am."
   Laughing, Mandi said, "No, not me. They just handed me one from a box."
   An awkward moment of parting was developing. Cade curtailed it by extending a hand and saying, "I'm off in search of dinner. See you later, milady."
   Catching her lower lip between her teeth for a moment as she shook hands, Mandi said, "Yeah. See you later, Ed."
   As Cade left her to head for the door, a guy asked, "Have you been debriefed?"
   Thumbing at the console that was being packed into metal suitcases, Cade said, "It's all on tape. John has my number."
   'Debriefed', thought Cade as he entered the hallway. What kind of a putz came up with that word? Probably a politician.

Chapter Seven

   Mandi watched Cade leave the room and wondered how such people came to be. She'd met a few others somewhat like him since her arrival on Earth and her involvement with the NIA. None of them had talked much and few had been as smilingly sociable with her as Cade.
   She paused by the door to help the two men who were working to angle the long commo equipment trunk through the narrow hallway to the corridor.
   One guy grousingly asked, "How the hell did they get it in here in the first place?"
   Grasping the top strap in her right hand, Mandi lifted it out of their hands and said, "I'll hold it. You guide it."
   After a moment of staring, the men steered the trunk through the door frame and into the corridor, where Mandi put it down on end for a guy with a two-wheeled dolly.
   One of the guys marveled at the way the leather-and-metal handgrip on top had been deformed by her grip and said he was going to replace it just to have this one as a souvenir.
   When John saw Mandi at the door of 835, he excused himself from the two women who'd been hostages and went to her, leading her a short distance away from everyone else.
   "Mandi," John enthused, "I just wanted to say that I've never seen anything like that in my life. It was amazing. I can't tell you how happy we are to have you aboard."
   "Thanks, John. Can you tell me why you wouldn't let me go in there alone?"
   Expecting her to simply accept his words, Mandi's question appeared to take him somewhat aback, but he recovered and said, "No. I'm sorry, but I can't."
   "Can you at least tell me whether it was your idea or someone else's?"
   He shook his head. "No, Mandi. I'm sorry, but..." A thought seemed to occur to him and he asked, "Where's Cade? He hasn't been debriefed yet."
   For some reason, it gave Mandi a twinge of pleasure to say, "I believe he went to see about some dinner, John. Besides, what debriefing is really necessary? You have it on tape."
   John regarded her thoughtfully for a moment.
   As he was about to say something else, Mandi asked, "Was he 'debriefed' after what happened earlier today? From what I've heard, he just filed a police report and left."
   "You know about that, huh?"
   "Yes," she said flatly. "Ringer told me why the car blew up. What's going on, John? Why all the secrecy?"
   Looking pained, John said, "Look, Mandi, talking could cost me my job. Give me a break, okay?" After a short sigh, he added, "Here's some good news. We think we may have all the copies of the pictures sold to WNN. The risk at the moment is that someone who had a set may have posted them on the internet. Nobody's admitted to that, but the only way to know for sure is to wait and see."
   Thumbing over her shoulder at room 835, Mandi asked, "What about the tape of what happened in there?"
   In a firm tone, John said, "It goes into an NIA vault. One copy goes to Washington. That's it."
   "Does Washington get copies of all your incident tapes?"
   "Well, no, but this one's not exactly routine and I've been ordered to supply a copy."
   Altogether unenthused, Mandi muttered, "Uh, huh. Is there anything else, John? I have to go do some things."
   He shook his head and said, "No, nothing else that I can think of. Thanks again, Mandi."
   Nodding, she said, "You're welcome. See you later, John."
   Heading back past 835, Mandi refocused her vision and began looking inside the trunks, bags, and boxes that were lined up for removal along the wall.
   She saw the outlines of all sorts of objects, electronic components, and weapons, but no tapes. Glancing around slowly, she let her vision sweep the interiors of nearby rooms from 835 to 831, but saw no videocassettes of any type.
   Then she realized that the large trunk was missing from the equipment lineup. Lifting slightly from the floor, Mandi flew toward the elevator alcove, arriving just as the doors opened for the two guys who'd taken the trunk on the dolly.
   Landing and smiling as she approached, Mandi said, "Hi, guys. Need another hand with it?"
   One grinned at her as they stood the dolly upright in the elevator and said, "No, ma'am. I think we've got it this time."
   Mandi boarded the elevator and pretended to examine the damage she'd done to the handle as she scanned the trunk and chatted with the guys.
   She saw three cassettes in the trunk and used her heat vision to melt the fragile tape within each cassette. They -- whoever 'they' happened to be -- would realize the damage hadn't happened by accident, of course. The damaged tapes were Mandi's message to them: "No pictures."
   Would it really do any good? Or would her action simply piss somebody off enough to leak the other pictures? Mandi sighed, knowing that her exposure was inevitable, anyway, but she vowed to stave it off as long as possible. Privacy was just too damned hard to come by.
   There wasn't really any way to pressure the authorities. She couldn't in good conscience refuse to help in matters of life and death. On the other hand, she could let them know that quite a number of their other hopes and plans involving the cooperation of a superwoman would become null and void the moment any pictures were found -- or even suspected -- to have leaked from any government offices.
   Mandi mentally studied her list of agency... 'acquaintances'. That was the best that she could call them, really, even after two weeks of working with them. Most of them were more than a little in awe of her and some even seemed to fear her.
   John Cooke, who was nominally in charge of this NIA op, but seemed unable to let even his star players know who was really running the show.
   Alan Vosier, who reported to and took his orders from John.
   Karen Phillips, who liaisoned between John and someone else, probably the nameless entity controlling the op.
   Ed Cade, who called himself semi-retired, appeared to work directly with John, and... And what? She realized that she knew almost nothing else about him. Nothing at all.
   Mandi suddenly also realized that Cade had so far seemed to come and go like a cat, disdaining such formalities as 'debriefings', although he'd filed a police report after the first incident of the day because he'd used his gun.
   He definitely hadn't seemed either in awe or afraid of her. Instead of asking her dozens of questions about herself, he'd simply asked her to validate his own conclusions.
   Or had he? Yes. Once, at least; in asking whether her language teacher had been human or machine. In all else, he'd simply stated his conclusions about her, and they'd been right.
   Furthermore, although she and Cade hadn't discussed possibilities or been issued a plan of action, when Cade had pounced on Marjeel, he'd done so with apparently no doubt at all that she could and would deal with the other two terrorists.
   How could he have had such implicit faith in her?
   Mandi couldn't really envision any of the other agency people she'd met attempting much of anything without a thoroughly pre-discussed plan that had been specifically approved by someone up the chain; a plan that would cover all contingencies and especially peoples' asses after any fuckups.
   That line of thinking led her back to the question of why she hadn't been allowed to go in alone. Those of consequence within the NIA knew her capabilities from demonstrations of her speed and strength at White Sands on two occasions.
   The elevator doors opening at the second floor roused Mandi from her contemplations. Two men and a woman stepped aboard and moved to one side, then the doors closed and the elevator descended.
   When the doors opened again, Mandi nodded goodbye to the two men with the trunk and strode out of the elevator at almost a march step, in keeping with her mood, but had no particular destination in mind.
   The lobby of the Rivage Hotel seemed crowded with people in various costumes. Mandi asked a nearby woman in an alien costume what was going on and was informed that preliminaries for the first costume contest of the convention were about to be filmed for the local six o'clock news.
   Someone heralded the arrival of a camera crew and equipment and shepherded them to one side of the doors to a ballroom, where they began setting up their lights, reflectors, and other gear. Two hotel employees wheeled a big-screen TV to the same area and plugged it in, then left.
   Oh, great. If John's people had missed even one copy of the pictures or failed to properly intimidate even one news hound, she could be in the middle of this crowd when some talking head said, "This footage just arrived..." and everybody saw her airlifting a taxi on that huge damned screen.
   Would they do that after being contacted by the NIA? Oh, hell, yes, they would, even if it meant having someone 'anonymously' send the pics to several news outfits at once so they could cover their asses later.
   Mandi spun on her heel and -- again at a march step, but this time with a destination in mind -- headed for the walkway where she'd made her Atlanta debut.
   Disdaining the revolving door, she used the left side door in a manner that made the mechanism ring and clatter and continued down the walkway with a glance at the spot where the explosive taxi had been.
   At the bottom of the ramp she had to wait for the light at the corner to interrupt the flow of traffic. Looking around, Mandi saw the faint remains of a stain on the nearby sidewalk and spotted glitterings of overlooked shards of glass in the shrubbery by the wall. Glancing up, she saw that the cafe's window had already been replaced.
   When the crossing guard stepped into the street and waved to people on the sidewalks, Mandi's march continued against the flow of more costumed people on their way to the contest preliminaries.
   Across the street and up the steep steps she went; past the pool and into the lower lobby of her own hotel, with little attention spent on anything except getting past the oncoming herd of people and the crowd by the escalators.
   The group waiting for the elevators in the main lobby was large, as always. Mandi cut left and headed for the stairs, instead, dodging people who preferred the stairs as a short cut to the convention's hospitality suite in 221, which was only a few steps from the stairwell.
   Traffic on the stairs thinned to nothing above the second floor and Mandi flew above the steps until she reached the fourth floor.
   Through the stairwell door and down the corridor toward her room she went. A man in a suit -- one of Frank's people -- glanced out of one of the rooms and recognized her with a nod and a small salute. Mandi nodded back as she passed, but her stride remained constant until she reached her door.
   Once in her room, Mandi picked up the TV's remote as she set her purse and key card on the bed, flicked the channel to WNN, and noted the time on the screen bar.
   Five-fifty-eight. Two minutes to newstime. Mandi sat on the edge of the bed and watched the remnants of an item about some event in Marsailles, France, that didn't seem particularly newsworthy to her.
   The cell phone in her purse chirped and she reached for it with more than a trace of irritation. Someone had to choose just this moment to call her...
   Tapping it on, she said, "Angel here."
   "Dragonfly here. You sound a little tense, milady. Sounds as if we're watching the same channel."
   Listening to the background sounds at his end, Mandi said, "Yes, we are. It sounds as if you're in a bar, Dragonfly."
   "Only because I am, ma'am. I stopped in the lobby's pub to grab a burger platter. Had the bartender turn on the news, in case the newsies have used the last couple of hours to figure a way around the confiscations. Have you made any plans yet?"
   "Plans?"
   "Yeah. If they show the pictures, will you stay at the convention or leave?"
   With a ladylike snort, Mandi said, "Leave, I'd think."
   "Won't help," said Cade. "If I can make blowups, others can, too, and they'll circulate nationwide. Worldwide. Did you see the 'Dawn' lookalike contest in the program guide? If the pictures are shown, what would you say to a 'Mandi Steele Lookalike Contest'? After something like that, you'd be just another pretty tree in the forest while you're here."
   After a moment of horrified silence, Mandi asked, "You're actually serious, aren't you?"
   Around a mouthful of french fries, Cade said, "Yup. I know a guy who can set it up and they can build it into one of the other costume contests. It can be the first of its kind."
   "The what?!"
   "The first ever 'Mandi Steele Lookalike Contest'. Who knows? If you enter, you might even win. Think about it and call me back after the news."
   He disconnected and Mandi sat staring at the phone. Had Cade lost his mind?

Chapter Eight

   The last commercial ended and the fanfare intro music for the top-of-the-hour news began as a camera zoomed in on the head and shoulders of a smiling brunette anchorwoman who introduced herself as Wendy Swale.
   When the first quarter of the hour dealt only with the usual sorts of news and issues of the day, Mandi began to feel as if she'd been worried for nothing. After all, John had the full weight of the US government behind him, and...
   "Ladies and gentlemen," said Wendy, "We've just been informed that the following footage, taken with a digital camera in downtown Atlanta earlier this afternoon, has been sent anonymously to more than one hundred news organizations worldwide. With more on the story, here's David Thrush, our news director."
   Thrush's head and shoulders were full-screen as he greeted the audience, then he was quickly reduced to quarter-screen as a second camera feed filled the rest of the screen.
   Mandi's fists clenched and her heart sank as she watched herself leap over the taxi, lift the front end of it, and launch skyward. The camera rather belatedly elevated to follow her upward and stayed focused on her until the taxi exploded.
   Car horns sounded, the camera swiveled and lowered to come to rest on a rapidly approaching wall of traffic, and then there was a brief break of blackness before the entire sequence of events was repeated.
   As the scene replayed a few more times to his left, Thrush explained that the pictures appeared to be genuine. He nodded to someone off-screen and the repetitions of Mandi taking off with the car were replaced by a blow-up of her face.
   The expanded view wasn't very clear, but at that moment Mandi wasn't really in the mood to critique photographic skills. Her face had just appeared on national television.
   In the name of the people of Atlanta, Thrush thanked the 'mysterious superwoman' for her heroic deed, hoped aloud that she'd somehow survived the explosion, and begged her to come forward to receive the thanks of a grateful public.
   He then said that there'd be further discussion of the pictures on a later news-related show and relinquished the screen to Wendy, who echoed his sentiments that the superwoman come forward in an apparently heartfelt manner before she glibly continued reading from the teleprompter about other news of the day.
   Mandi stood up as she stared at the screen, then strode to the closet and took out her two suitcases. As she opened them on the bed, her cell phone chirped. She ignored it, returning to the closet for an armload of clothes.
   There was a knock at the door as she laid the clothes on the bed. She almost ignored that, too, but her glance in that direction noticed a sheet of paper being shoved under the door.
   She went to pick it up. It read, 'Come to my room. Door is open. Cade."
   Opening the door, she found him leaning on the doorframe, a bottle of beer in one hand and a cell phone in the other.
   "Why would I want to go to your room?" she asked.
   Pulling an Ice House beer from under his jacket, Cade opened it and handed it to her as he said, "Here, I smuggled this out of the bar for you. Frank and everybody else on the teams have probably dropped their forks and are most likely on their way back up here. I'd say you have about five minutes to be elsewhere."
   Taking the beer, Mandi wryly said, "Gee, thanks, mister, but Timbuctu and Borneo are considered 'elsewhere' too. Why should I go to your room in particular?"
   "So you won't be in your room when they get here, that's all. Turn off your phone. Kick off your shoes and relax. We can ring John and Alan on my phone and tell them to settle the herd, then talk about what to do next."
   Laughing, Mandi asked, "Next? Next I head back to Vegas."
   She took a long hit from her beer as Cade said, "Uh, huh. I've heard they even have TV's in Vegas nowadays, ma'am. John said that there are still four terrorists unaccounted for. Do you really want to be way out West if they try something else this weekend? We still don't know why they chose this time and place. Could be it isn't over yet."
   "He didn't say anything to me about four more of them."
   "Well, he didn't tell the rest of us about you, either, so it could be he just doesn't communicate very well, y'know?"
   Levering himself off the door frame, Cade said, "I'll leave my door open, just in case. Later, milady," and swigged his beer as he headed for his room.
   Some guy with a phone to his ear opened the temporary ops room's door across the hall, saw Mandi, and spoke to someone as he stood there. Cade veered across the corridor and noddingly pushed past him into the room.
   The guy followed, protesting, but his objections ceased as Cade showed him his ID.
   "Where's Frank?" asked Cade.
   "Uh, downstairs, at dinner. Which group are you with?"
   "I'm on John's B-team. We worked with the cops today. You guys got any loaner laptops in here?"
   "No, they're two doors down. See Mitchell or Gray."
   "Will do. Thanks," said Cade, heading for the door.
   Some twenty steps later he had to use his keycard on his door, which hadn't been closed when he'd left the room. Letting himself in, he closed the door securely and turned to see Mandi step from behind the hallway corner by the bed.
   With a grin, Cade said, "Hi, there. You're as quick as ever. Should I send out for more beer?"
   Waving her half-full bottle, Mandi smiled and said, "Oh, not just yet, I think. I didn't really come here to party. Thanks for running interference for me."
   Looking enlightened, Cade said, "I knew there was a name for that," and handed her his phone. "Might as well call John and see what he has to say about what happened."
   Mandi put the phone on the desk and pulled the chair out to sit down, then said, "In a little while. First I'd like to hear what you think about what happened."
   Cade sat on the end of the bed and sipped his beer, then shrugged.
   "I can think of a few possibilities. One; a kid named Jeremy sandbagged a copy of the pictures and sent them to news outfits all over the place. Two; some news guy may have set up a way around the ban. If the pix really were sent to a hundred unaffiliated stations -- and I think they probably were -- some of those stations would have put them on the air."
   He sipped again, then said, "Three; the same unnamed people who are running this op -- or those above them -- may have decided to spill the beans about our new, no-longer-secret weapon. You know; to cheer up the voters and give the terrorists the finger at the same time. They wouldn't necessarily have felt the need to tell John he was wasting his time trying to corral all the pictures. I'm sure this thought has occurred to John, as well, and that he's checking into who had access to the pix every step of the way."
   Shrugging, Cade sipped again, then said, "Whatever; we can chase down that end of things later. As I said, you're no longer a secret. You're also noticeably beautiful and you have distinctive features. Since plastic surgery probably isn't a realistic option, I'll suggest that we use what's available downstairs -- a science fiction convention with 25,000 registered attendees -- to toss together a look-alike contest."
   After a moment, Mandi sipped her beer, then shook her head as she quietly said, "You don't look insane, you know. You don't usually sound insane, either. Did you skip your dinnertime meds or something?"
   Chuckling, Cade said, "Maybe I'm just all flustered at being in the same room with you, Miz Superlady, ma'am."
   Mandi returned his grin as his cell phone rang and he answered it. She heard John instantly ask, "Cade, have you seen Mandi?"
   "She isn't in her room?" asked Cade. "I saw her there a little while ago."
   "She isn't answering her phone and if she's in there, she isn't answering her door, either."
   "Huh. Got any idea why she'd be avoiding people, John?"
   There was a pause before John very quietly said, "We really need to talk to her, Cade. Is she in your room?"
   "The official word is 'no', John, but why don't you come here alone and have a look? Repeat; alone."
   Another short pause ensued, then John said, "Alone it is."
   John disconnected and Mandi regarded Cade for some moments in silence, then said, "You could have asked me before you invited him."
   "Do you want to try to find out what's going on? I do."
   "Do you think John will know who released the pictures?"
   "I think that's not the most important issue right now. Done is done. Now it's time to try to fix things a bit."
   Standing up and pacing, Mandi asked, "The contest? How the hell is a lookalike contest going to make things better? If anything, it'll call even more attention down on me."
   "It'll call more attention to the superwoman, yes, but it'll only get you second or third place as a runner-up."
   Stopping her pacing and staring at him with open irritation, Mandi said, "Okay, Ed. It's time to explain what you've got in mind -- and explain it well -- or drop it."
   Tossing his empty beer bottle at the trash can, Cade said, "You got it. Agent Phyllis Morey can make anybody look like just about anybody else and she has her kit with her. At the contest you'd fly in..."
   "I'd fly in?!"
   "It's the easiest way to instantly prove that you're you, right? You'd get an intro, do a trick or two, a bunch of people would take a bazillion pictures of you, and then you'd see or hear an emergency and excuse yourself to fly out and deal with it. The contest would go on in your honor, but without you, 'cause you'd be busy having your makeup removed."
   "Makeup."
   "Yup. At your first public appearance, you wouldn't quite look like you. A bit more ear, nose, and chin. Wider cheeks. A slightly different skin tone. A birthmark or a mole. Like that. Then you lose the makeup and get on stage later as one of the many contestants. You might come close, but you probably won't win. Sorry 'bout that."
   Mandi noticed the way he'd switched from sounding speculative to sounding rather definite in his last sentence, but she didn't challenge him on it. In fact, the idea didn't sound quite so insane, after all.
   "Of course, you might want to give some more thought to wearing some kind of a mask when you're on duty," said Cade. "And it probably wouldn't hurt to..."
   A rap on the door interrupted whatever he'd been about to say. Cade rose to go to the door, checked the peephole, and let John into the room.
   John nodded to Cade as he hurried toward Mandi, but he stopped well short of her as he saw her tight expression.
   "Well, John?" she asked. "What happened?"
   For the first time in the thirty-odd years Cade had known John, the guy actually looked apologetic.
   "Mandi," said John, "We tried. We really did. My people picked up nine copies and warned everybody, but somebody pulled an end run. A hundred or so international TV stations and newspapers received an anonymous email that contained a download link to a website on a Dutch server."
   Her expression unchanged, Mandi asked, "And now?"
   Shrugging slightly, John said, "We can try to find out who did it and prosecute him. Or her."
   Setting her empty bottle on the desk, Mandi said, "Which helps me not one damned little bit."
   With a sigh, John said, "It's about all we can do."
   "Not quite," said Cade. "I told her about my idea for a contest. If we can provide her some cover, we owe her the effort, and this is a perfect place and time to test the idea."
   "It's pretty short notice for a schedule revision, Cade."
   "That's my problem. If we start the ball rolling here, will the agency help us organize similar events in other cities?"
   Shrugging again, John said, "Can't see why not, if we use cutouts to handle the details."
   "Cutouts?" asked Mandi.
   "Go-betweens," said John. "With anonymous seed money."
   "Aw, dammit!" said Mandi, "Speak English."
   Cade laughed at John's expression and said, "They'd set someone up with a few bucks and an office. That someone would find local advertiser-sponsors who'd supply the place, the bleachers or whatever, the refreshments, crowd control, security, and all the other stuff an event needs."
   With a little grin, he added, "All you'd have to do is show up, show off a bit, and smile a lot for the cameras. Think you could handle that, ma'am?"
   Mandi gave him a mock glare and smilingly asked, "How would you like to be dropped from ten thousand feet?"
   "No sweat. Been there. Dunnit."
   With a saccharine-sweet little smile, Mandi asked, "Without a parachute?"
   "Yup."
   Glancing disbelievingly at John, Mandi said, "Bullshit."
   "Nope," said Cade. "You said 'without a parachute'. We'll stop at my house so I can change into my flight suit."
   Her gaze narrowed as her head canted slightly.
   "You have a flight suit?"
   "Sure do. Got it to use with my Falcon 195."
   Again glancing at John, Mandi said, "Okay, I'll ask. What's a Falcon 195?"
   "A hang glider."
   One of Mandi's eyebrows went up as she peered at Cade, then she looked at John and said firmly, "Okay. He'll do."
   "Glad to hear it," said John. "Do for what, exactly?"
   Laughing shortly, she said, "Just about anything, I expect."

Chapter Nine

   Paul Money ignored the buzzing of his walkie-talkie until he'd finished scribbling a phone number on a tiny memo pad.
   "If you have any real problems, call this number," he told the female volunteer staffer. "Ted's crew knows how we like to set up the speakers. Ask if they brought Darcy's amps, okay?"
   With a nod, the woman headed for the doors. As Cade approached the stage, Paul waved to him, glanced over the stage once again, and then answered his two-way and dealt with another issue that had developed in the dealer's room.
   Cade hefted his backpack and waited until Paul had finished that conversation before he said, "Hi, Paul. Look up."
   With a harried expression, Money said, "Oh, nothing much. It's seven o'clock and we're still working on stuff that should have been done half an hour ago. I'm swamped with details, three people are out sick, and..."
   Casually pointing skyward without lifting his arm, Cade said, "I said 'look' up, not what's up."
   Paul Money looked up and his mouth fell open as his eyes widened. A blonde woman in what seemed to be a white bathing suit with a red cape and blue boots appeared to be standing on thin air near the auditorium's high ceiling. She gave him a little wave and a smile.
   "Oh, damn!" muttered Paul, thumbing his walkie-talkie on. "What the hell..? I'll get someone in here with a ladder."
   "She didn't get up there with a ladder," said Cade. "She won't need one to get down, either. Cancel the call."
   "Damn it, Martin, answer up!" Paul muttered into the walkie-talkie. He turned to Cade and asked, "Cade, why the hell are you jeopardizing the entire convention with a stunt like this?! We don't need a lawsuit."
   "It isn't a stunt, Paul. She's the woman who was on the news. Cancel that call."
   Glancing up, Money asked, "The, uh... superwoman?"
   Cade reached quickly for the walkie-talkie, snatched it out of Paul's hand, and turned it off.
   With a chuckle, he said, "Oh, good guess. I'll give this gadget back to you in a minute. This isn't a gag. That's her."
   Turning a very skeptical gaze at Cade, Paul asked, "And you just happen to know her?"
   Shrugging, Cade said, "Yeah, that's about the size of it. Everybody knows somebody, y'know. She'd like to make her public debut here at DragonCon. If you can fit her in, that is."
   Paul Money took a deep breath, counted to ten, then asked in a controlled voice, "How would both of you like to be banned from this and all future DragonCons and..?"
   Cade raised his voice slightly and interrupted with, "Damn it, listen up! She's the real thing, Paul."
   A pair of blue boots slowly descended next to Cade, followed by two very fine female thighs, then the rest of the blonde woman Paul had seen hovering above him. Once she was standing next to Cade, Mandi slung her cape over her shoulder with a touch of flourish and smiled brightly.
   After a moment of openmouthed startlement, Paul unfroze himself and walked around her, waving his hands above and around her, then he returned to face both of them.
   With a grin, Cade laughed, "Trusting soul, aren't you? Nope, no wires, Paul. She wants to go public and she's willing to put on a little show. If you can squeeze her into tonight's program, I'll introduce you."
   "Ah..." Paul groped for words, then he seemed to pull himself together quickly and asked, "A show?! When?!"
   "Like I said, sometime tonight, but..."
   Paul interrupted with, "I'll make some calls. We'll put her in at the end. That way she can have all the time she wants."
   "In that case," said Cade, "Mandi, meet Paul Money. Paul, this lovely superlady is Mandi Steele."
   Mandi extended a hand and Paul -- who'd many times in the past escorted name bands and TV and movie stars around a DragonCon -- took it as if he'd never met a celebrity before.
   After introductions were finished, Cade said, "Paul, you didn't let me finish. Don't make any calls about her. No announcements. We'll keep tonight's appearance under wraps until the las