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guarded by two security cameras, and you were either buzzed in or you dealt with a topflight security panel located on the right-hand side, because the door had no doorknob.
    She lowered her head even more as a whirring sound came from above her head. Good God, their cameras were motorized!
    Well, it was a security company, and she’d been assured they were really good.
    They’d better be, because otherwise she was dead.
    She rang the bell. There was a click and the door slid silently open. Ellen walked in gingerly, heart starting to pound.
    Was this a good idea? Because if it wasn’t, if she was putting herself into the wrong hands, there was no turning back, and she’d pay the ultimate price.
    The lobby was wonderful—luxurious yet comfortable, with huge, thriving plants, soft classical music in the background, the faint smell of lemon polish, deep, plush armchairs. A secretary sat behind a U-shaped counter. She smiled in welcome.
    “Are you Ms. Charles? Mr. Reston will be in shortly. Please have a seat.”
    For a second, Ellen didn’t respond, thinking the receptionist was talking to someone else. But there wasn’t anyone else around.
    She closed her eyes in dismay. Of course.
    She’d booked the appointment under the name Nora Charles, which was stupid. Any film buff would recognize it as a fake name, but she’d been so desperate when she’d called and she’d just sat through a triple feature of The Thin Man , After the Thin Man and Shadow of the Thin Man last night in San Francisco, waiting for the first bus to San Diego. An allnighter at the cinema was the only thing she could think of to stay off the streets.
    She’d started the journey the day before yesterday in Seattle and hadn’t slept more than an hour or two in three days.
    But exhaustion was no excuse.
    Forgetting her cover name was terrifyingly dangerous. She was alive because she was always alert, always. Forgetting her cover name for just a second was inviting death. And if there was one thing the past year had taught her, it was that she didn’t want to die. She wanted—desperately—to live.
    Nora Charles was her fifth cover name in twelve months. Forget all the others and concentrate on this one, she told herself.
    She was mentally putting together a little fake bio for Nora, just to give Nora a little heft in her head, when the receptionist suddenly said, “Yessir, I will.”
    Ellen really was exhausted, because she couldn’t figure out who the receptionist was talking to. There was no one else in the lobby and she wasn’t talking into a phone. Then she saw the very neat, very small and very expensive headset attached to one ear and understood.
    Wow. She should have noticed it.
    This was truly dangerous. Her exhaustion was catching up with her. She felt stupid with fatigue. Stupid people died, very badly. Particularly ones with Gerald Montez and his army after them.
    “Ms. Charles?”
    Ellen looked up. “Yes?”
    “Mr. Reston has been delayed. But Mr. Bolt is free. They are both partners in the company.”
    “How—how long will Mr. Reston be delayed?”
    “He doesn’t know.” The receptionist had a kindly look, unusual in such upscale surroundings. Usually an employee in such a swank, obviously successful company was snooty and remote. This woman looked gentle. As if she somehow understood. “It might be a long time. Mr. Bolt is very good, too.”
    Oh, God. Kerry, the woman who’d told her about RBK Security, had dealt with Sam Reston, who’d saved her life. She had no idea what this Mr. Bolt was like. Maybe Sam Reston worked on the down low to rescue women in danger and this Bolt didn’t know anything about it. What then?
    Ellen closed her eyes for just a second, wishing she could either rewind her life to a year ago or fast forward to a year in the future, when either she’d be settled in a new life or she’d be dead. Because if she didn’t do something, now , she was surely headed toward a slow and painful death.
    Gerald