Sorry, bitten by the editing bug, again.

11

The question was; up, or down? Had the whack-jobs in the grey suits planted their men throughout the entire building, or were they confined to the fourth floor? Just inside the concrete-and-steel stairwell, Cindy forced herself to slow down, and think. No sense running like an idiot, right into the waiting noose.

Looking first up the tall stairway, then down it, she saw nothing but dust motes, lazy-dancing in shafts of slanting sun, heard only the muffled chatter and canned music of surrounding offices.

So, up led to the roof, with its heli-pad and observation deck; down... if she dared risk it... down led out, and to safety. More room to maneuver, down stairs, and many more places to hide, though her townhouse was probably out of the question, now.

'Down', she decided anyway, easing her way along the cold, grey wall, eyes shifting constantly from one door to the next. If she could make it to street level, she'd be able to lose herself in the crowd, maybe use the cell phone she'd lifted from Lennie's desk to call for help.

The second floor was the station's lobby and reception area. People bustled, potted exotics stood whispery-tall, and big neon signs declared: WNN- Your Eye on the World! With a sigh of relief, Cindy started to open the door, but a second glimpse through the wire-reinforced window revealed another of those government types by the elevators, looking like a hungry pike in dark glasses. The parking garage, maybe?

Beginning to feel rather desperate, Cindy went down another two storeys, peering cautiously through each window slit as she passed.

At the garage level, she saw another suspicious figure, this one fingering something inside his bulging jacket. Cindy was just about to give up and try for the roof, after all, when two very strange things happened.

The elevator doors beyond her hiding place chimed opened, releasing a large group of relaxed and chattering business women, joking and elbowing one another like they were headed for the mother of all 3-margarita lunches. At nearly the same time, a young boy, obviously lost and afraid, ran up to the grey-suited man.

Simultaneously thinking 'Huh?' and, 'One, two, three... GO!' , Cindy slipped out through the fire door and into the crowd of women. What happened next took her completely by storm. She was briskly hauled into the center of the group, her blue 'dress for success' jacket removed, and a girlishly-ruffled floral number slipped on in its place. Even stranger, someone with the calm professionalism of a Hollywood makeup artist placed and adjusted a long, light-brown wig, and straw tote bag. All this before Cindy could do more than gasp. More to the point, perhaps, before the gunman disentangled himself from the boy, who'd now been 'found' by his hysterical mother and loud, angry father.

"What the hell do you think you're doing, Mister?" The tall, beefy fellow demanded. "Trying to kidnap my son? You a child molester, or something? Why, I've got a good mind to...!"

As if such things happened every day, the group carried on walking and chatting. Stunned, Cindy started to question the nearest office worker (the 'make-up artist'; a sleek, bespectacledred-head), but the oddly familiar woman merely smiled, and passed her a cell phone. Immediately, it began to ring.

As they were piling into a white van marked 'Great Escape Tours', Cindy answered it. Santa Claus, no doubt...

The screen flashed once, then cleared, revealing the stoic, uniformed image of John Tracy. Except... how could it be him, when John was on the moon, up to his neck in flight logs and reconfiguration details? Feeling a thick coat of ice crystalizing around her queasy insides, Cindy took a rather large risk.

"Hey, Baby," she said, her voice a throaty purr, "we still on for tonight?"

The woman next to her, the one who'd exhibited such a deft hand with the disguise, made a slight choking noise.

'Ah-ha! Got someone's attention, anyway...'

John's response was slower than it should have been, but right on target.

"Not unless you know something I don't," he said, cocking an eyebrow. "This call is being long-distance relayed, through a friend."

All right... maybe.

"Same friend who arranged all this, I take it? Thanks for the assist. I'll pay you back by using that right head-shot in my report."

"Left profile," he corrected. "Do I pass? Much as I enjoy all this verbal patty-cake, things are a little hectic up here. The 'Ladies Aid Society' will take you to a secure airstrip, where another operative will take over. Your father and co-workers are already taken care of."

Cindy smiled, feeling a sudden, genuine rush of gratitude.

"Thank you, John," she told him, quietly. "I owe you."

"All in a day's soap-opera. But do me a favor, and tell the red-head sitting beside you... and Scott..., that you were kidding, earlier? I have to come home, sometime."

She grinned a truly mischievous and wicked little grin, thinking, 'Gotcha!'

"But, Sweetheart! Love-cuddles! Mooshy-face..."