Page 11 of Red Line

Struggling to her feet, Red pulled herself together enough for this last push. Hell, she’d been through much worse, she encouraged herself. When she was going through her assessment, she walked for days on end until she had no skin on the bottoms of her feet, and her shoes were damp with her blood. She’d been through SERE training where they threw every phobic thing in the book at her, and when that didn’t work, they threw punches instead.

Ten minutes at most, and she could collapse in a car on the way to help.

She had this.

This was fine. Right?

Chapter Four

Red

With her hand pressed against the electrical panel and her head resting on her upper arm, Red realized she was on an elevator when suddenly, the downward momentum stopped with a thump as the car settled.

She blinked as she lifted her gaze, watching the door slide open.

The elevator rumble must have been just enough to coax her brain into Neverland. Hadn’t this been her same reaction on the way up?

Time had jumped forward, and Red had no recollection of exiting from her hotel room, shutting the door, or locking it. She tried to believe that muscle memory meant that she’d done everything as it should have been.

As the doors slid wide, Red’s hand jerked to her shoulder as a sudden jolt of adrenaline shot shock waves through her system. She grabbed the backpack to assure herself that the strap from the black bag full of asset funds came with her for the ride. She lifted it just enough to assess the weight, checking that all seemed as it should be.

It was fine.

She was fine.

Red stepped into the hallway, spreading her arms wide as the walls whirled in her vision like some kind of funhouse illusion.

These sensations were recognizable. She’d learned during her time at The Farm that if her body ran on autopilot, her consistent application of tradecraft over the years wouldmanifest in steering her zombie-like self through whatever maze presented.

Conversely, it was also essential to change everything up all the time so that her movements weren’t predictable to anyone who might be watching.

Which strategy was best?

One never knew until one knew.

She touched the wall to reorient.

To her left, the door stood open to the back alley. The kitchen waste, decomposing in the hot sun, struck her nostrils, and it just seemed mean, like a kick when she was already down. Waves of nausea and cramps hit her again.

The action plan: Get to the table, drop the bag in Moussa’s lap, turn toward where the ten-o’clock hand would point, find the front door, find a car—probably any car would help her under these circumstances—ask for the hospital.

Yes, that had to come out of her mouth first in Arabic, then French.Hôpital. Hôpital. Hôpital.She practiced as she took a step forward, only to stumble sideways with a cramp.

Appendicitis?

She’d rather not die of something that stupidly banal. She’d much rather go out in some legacy-making shitstorm.

Not shitstorm!She shouldn’t have thought that.

Pressing off the wall, she changed her plan.

Women’s toilet.

She needed to sit again and rest in private.

Yes, sitting and panting were very high on her needs pyramid.

Red realized she was on the very lowest rung of Maslow’s Hierarchy of Needs.

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