Tom Clancy Under Fire by Grant Blackwood Read Free Book Online Page A

we’re out of here, the better. Don’t step in the blood. Keep track of what you touch.”
    “Worried about fingerprints?”
    “Habit. By the way, why do you have a gun?”
    “Protection. Rapes are rising in Tehran. The lure of uncovered hair and all that nonsense.”
    They walked back to the bedroom. Jack crossed the room, adjusted the curtains so the center slit was closed, then turned on the card-table lamp. Jack handed Ysabel the folding chair. “Against the front door.”
    She returned a few moments later and pointed at the safe and said, “What the hell is that?”
    “When was the last time you were here?”
    “Two weeks ago, with Seth. It wasn’t here.”
    Jack knelt by the safe. The hardwood floor around its gray steel bottom lip was scarred and gouged. The marks were new. Balaclava Man and his partner had been trying to get to the bolts securing the safe to the floor. If they wanted the contents that badly, they’d be back with heavier equipment.
    “Steaks,” Ysabel said.
    “Steaks.”
    They returned to the kitchenette. Jack clicked on the range light, opened the freezer, dug around, and came up with four steaks wrapped in white butcher paper. He dumped them on the counter. Together they began unwrapping the meat.
    “I found it,” Ysabel said.
    Jack stepped closer to her, their shoulders touching. Written on the inside of the wrapping in black marker were a string of digits: 37-42-51. Jack folded the paper, stuffed it into his pocket. They rewrapped the rest of the steaks and returned them to the freezer.
    They walked back to the bedroom, where Jack dialed in the safe’s combination, then depressed the lever. With a dull click the door swung open. Inside was a six-inch-thick brown accordion folder. Jack pulled it out, then inspected the safe’s interior: nothing else.
    “Let’s go,” he said.
    After using the bathroom hand towel to wipe down all the surfaces they’d touched, they stepped out into the hallway and locked the door.
    To their left, the stairwell door banged open, then clicked shut.
    At a trot, Jack and Ysabel headed to the fire exit at the end of the hall. Jack placed his hands on the red-striped press bar, said a quick prayer, then pushed. No alarm sounded. They stepped through and Jack eased the door shut. They stood still.
    After a few moments, below them came the echoed clicking of footsteps on the concrete stairs. Jack stepped to the handrail and peeked over. Two floors below, a figure stepped onto the landing and turned onto the next set of stairs. In his right hand was a semi-auto.
    Jack turned to Ysabel and pointed up the next set of stairs and placed his index finger against his lips. She nodded, then started upward. Jack waited until she reached the next landing, then followed. They climbed upward, Jack occasionally glancing over the rail to check the man’s progress; he was on the third-floor landing.
    Jack and Ysabel reached the sixth and uppermost floor. Down a short corridor lit by a dim ceiling bulb was a steel door—the roof access, Jack hoped. Jack pointed to it, then made a key-turning gesture to Ysabel, who nodded, then padded down the hall. After a few moments, she turned and nodded, then opened the door. The hinges let out a rusty squeak.
    Ysabel froze. Jack froze.
    Silence.
    Footsteps pounded on the stairs below, heading upward.
    Mouthing “Go, go, go” to Ysabel, Jack followed her out the door and onto the gravel roof. He hesitated, then stepped back inside and tapped the barrel of the revolver against the lightbulb. It shattered. The corridor went dark. He stepped out onto the roof and swung the door shut behind him, catching it before it latched, leaving it open a crack.
    Jack whispered to Ysabel, “Walk to the edge of the roof and face away from the door. Tuck your hair into the back of the jacket. Whatever happens, don’t turn around.”
    To her credit, Ysabel didn’t hesitate and did as Jack ordered.
    Jack pressed himself against the wall beside the