said, as she took the steps two at a time. The small battery-operated tool was fast, but two bolts remained in the grill that blocked her escape when she heard running footsteps on the stairs above, heading her way. Clipped voices. Anxious, and she couldn’t hear the words. Security guards, most likely.
Working quickly, she removed the final screws and slipped into the narrow space as quietly as possible, fitting the grill back into place behind her and hoping it would stay put long enough for her to get the hell out of there. It was precariously balanced on a small ledge of metal.
She didn’t have much room to maneuver in the square ductwork, but she’d been in worse places. She shimmied forward a few feet to a wide junction. Vents led forward, left, right, and up. “I’m in the vent at the first juncture,” she informed her backup in a hushed voice. “Which way?”
“Keep straight, then up,” he replied. “Then forward again a short way. You’ll find the vent in the women’s public restroom on the mezzanine of the hotel. Blade’s headed there now to get the screws off for you.”
Domino elbowed forward to the next juncture, then into the duct that led up. She didn’t have enough room to change, but she stuffed her wig into the tote bag and paused to remove her heels. Bare feet would give her better purchase against the slippery-smooth metal walls of the vent.
Bracing her back against one side and her feet against the other, knees bent, she had to strain for every yard she gained upward. But in less than three minutes, she reached the next level of ductwork and followed it to the restroom. Peering through the grill, she could see Blade primping in front of the mirror.
Domino remained where she was, quietly waiting.
Soon a toilet flushed and a young woman appeared beside Blade at the sinks to wash her hands. When she left, Blade pulled a screwdriver out of her pocket and hurried over to the vent.
“Turn left out the front door,” Blade whispered as she removed the final screw and lifted off the grill cover.
“Right. Now go.” Domino hustled into one of the stalls and jerked on the change of clothes provided in the tote bag. When she emerged a couple of minutes later, she was wearing shorts, a T-shirt, and sneakers. Everything else was tucked in the small red nylon backpack she slung over one shoulder. She paused at the mirror to hand-comb her brunette hair into place and wipe the lipstick and rouge off her face with a wet paper towel. Then she plucked out her brown contacts. Blue-gray eyes stared back at her; she looked like herself again.
She emerged onto the mezzanine, which overlooked a lobby abuzz with people, harried hotel employees, worried-looking guests, and a handful of police passing through to the crime scene, appearing singleminded in their purpose and destination.
Domino strolled casually through the chaos, simply a hotel guest out for a day of shopping and sightseeing. After exiting through the front door, she turned left and had taken only a step or two before Reno said in her earpiece, “Turn right at the first corner, Domino. Then, halfway down the next block, you’ll see an alleyway next to the Starbucks. We’ll pick you up there.”
C
HAPTER FOUR
S
enator, it’s time to upgrade the glasses. And we need to darken your hair a shade and add some highlights.”
Senator Terrence Burrows had employed an image consultant long before he decided to run for president, so he needed only minor tweaks these days to keep him in maximum photogenic form. Hair transplants had given him thick brown hair, dermabrasion removed the evidence of his chronic adolescent acne, and all his suits were tailor-made.
“Call my aide in the morning,” he told the consultant, “and have her set up the appointments. Thanks, Seth.”
When he disconnected, Terrence reached for his remote and turned on CNN. He wanted to catch their story on the energy bill, because they’d interviewed him for the piece. Though the