The Fall by R. J. Pineiro Read Free Book Online Page A

process. Alpha-B certainly fell deep in the “walk” territory.
    And again, with no technical explanation.
    But something had gone terribly wrong, and the reality of the situation started to inject doubt in her self-confidence, making her question her actions. What if she really had screwed up? What if Hastings and his experts knew something she didn’t and had valid technical reasons to back up their request for a different descent profile—reasons they just simply couldn’t share with her due to valid security reasons?
    Did I blow this?
    Did I just kill my husband?
    She bit her lower lip as she stood and crossed her arms, staring at the walls, feeling trapped, and not looking forward to the next round with Hastings, especially if he was right.
    I need to get out of here.
    I need time to think.
    Slowly, Angela’s gaze shifted to the large windows behind the desk.

 
    2
    LEVELS OF CONSCIOUSNESS
    No problem can be solved from the same level of consciousness that created it.
    â€”Albert Einstein
    She crawled out of the third-story window, grateful that it faced the rear of the building, opposite from the press and the public anxiously waiting behind the barricades out front.
    The sun was low over the horizon, casting long shadows against the redbrick structure. It would be dark soon.
    One hand on the windowsill, she reached for the round copper drainpipe running down from the roof, and tugged it, testing its anchor to the brick structure.
    Hoping for the best, Angela let go of her grip around the window and brought her second hand over while swinging her body off the ledge, her face now an inch from the green patina layering the aging copper pipe, the soles of her motorcycle boots pressing against the rough surface of the bricks, creating enough friction, just like Jack had shown her during their rock-climbing trips.
    Slowly, with caution, she brought one hand beneath the other and began her descent, taking only thirty seconds to reach the bushes below, jumping the final few feet, landing in a half crouch amid waist-high shrubbery and instantly breaking into a run for the rear parking lot connecting the building to Flight Control Road.
    The sun’s waning light gleamed over the blacktop as she pushed her legs to go faster, waiting for the shouts she expected from the building behind her at any moment.
    But none of Hastings’s men came after her as she reached the bike parking area in the front of the lot and hopped on her vintage black 1979 Triumph Bonneville T140 motorcycle. When it came to bikes, Angie was a purist, not only restoring “Bonnie” herself, but she had picked the 1979 model because it was the last one before Triumph added an electronic starter.
    If you can’t kick-start a bike, you shouldn’t ride, she thought, reaching behind her, and grabbing her open-face black helmet, which had a pair of clear riding goggles snugged around the top. She strapped it on before kick-starting the British-made bike, which roared to life as its two cylinders fired in perfect synchronization.
    Gotta get away.
    Buy time to think this through.
    The thoughts flashing in her mind matched the intensity of the rumbling bike as she put the Bonneville in gear with the toe of her boot and released the clutch while twisting the throttle.
    She rode around the back of the building, past the line of dark SUVs—Chevrolet Suburbans—monopolizing the VIP section of the rear lot, adjacent to the dozens of vans from the media and the press. Three of Hastings’s eunuchs stood by one of the dark vehicles but didn’t look in her direction.
    Accelerating toward the Samuel Phillips Parkway on the eastern border of the Cape, Angela glanced at her rearview mirror and caught a glimpse of one of the drivers reaching for his cell phone, answering it, and immediately becoming agitated.
    Crap.
    She lost sight of them as she rode past the security checkpoint, waving at the guards, who waved back