Encounter in Atlanta

speed barely subsonic to avoid damage to nearby buildings. Almost exactly twelve seconds into Mandi's upward dash, Mohammed Jamal's dying efforts succeeded. In a split-second, nearly eighteen hundred pounds of plastique converted to energy, essentially vaporizing much of the Crown Victoria and shredding the rest of it. Even for someone like Mandi, it was a bit much. While the blast couldn't destroy her, it hit her like a huge fist, knocking her spinning for several miles before she could clear her head enough to regain control of herself. She had no idea where she was until she looked around and saw the cloud of smoke from the explosion hovering above downtown Atlanta. Distance made the smoke cloud appear no bigger than the head of a thumbtack, and Mandi began to realize just how powerful the explosion had been as she guesstimated that it had thrown her five or six miles. Flying back toward downtown, Mandi realized with a mental sigh that there was no way that she'd be able to remain a mysterious semi-myth after today. Someone might even have had the presence of mind to take her picture while she was in the hotel's drive-through. Damn. It would probably be a shot of her reaching under the car for the pvc tube. Wouldn't a close-up of her butt look great on the six o'clock news? Glancing around as she landed in the stairwell alcove where she'd left her mundane clothes, she saw that some of the nearby buildings were missing some of their windows. Any damage would have been from debris, thought Mandi. The blast had occurred almost two miles up, so the shockwave wouldn't have done it. Retrieving a cell phone from her purse, Mandi tapped in an Atlanta number given to her for the mission. A woman answered with, "Zero-eight-two-six." "Angel here." "Go, Angel." "Do you have anything else for me?" "Not a thing. John says 'good job' and you're on standby." "Thank you." The woman said, "You're welcome. Enjoy your stay in Atlanta," then she disconnected. With water from a small puddle near the entrance, Mandi managed to clean most of the explosion's residue from her arms and legs. Using her makeup mirror, she cleaned her face and applied a bit of makeup, then she changed clothes and rechecked herself. Judging her appearance normal enough, Mandi removed the flattened soft drink can that had kept the roof door from latching and headed down to the forty-second floor. She cracked the stairwell door slightly and saw that a few people were waiting for the elevator across the hall. Two minutes later, they were gone and the hall was empty. Mandi stepped out, took the elevator to the fourth floor, and headed for the room that had been issued to her for the mission. Frank Stearns of the NIA stepped out of room 423 and a big grin formed on his face when he saw Mandi. Mandi, on the other hand, sighed and thought, 'Oh, damn.' Stearns wasn't as bad as some men. He genuinely didn't seem have any reservations about working with women, for instance. He did, however, have an overbearing personality and seemed to view himself as every woman's dream come true. He also seemed to have an unyielding curiosity about Mandi, which was actually quite understandable. When Gary had added her to the operation roster, he'd waited until the last possible minute to do so, dropping her in as a standalone with little or no explanation to anyone. Mandi didn't 'liaison' with the teams or team leaders. She hadn't attended even one of the briefings and her introduction had been so brief and uninformative that some of the team honchos -- leery of working with unknowns -- had been more than a little pissed at the time. While she was pleasant enough when someone happened to encounter her, she didn't work or socialize with people from any of the teams. For the most part -- even if they weren't exactly accepting of the terms -- everybody seemed to get used to the arrangement, but not Frank Stearns. His inability to find out anything at all about Mandi through channels seemed to bug the hell out of him. When official queries failed, he'd resorted to overt friendliness, inviting her to lunches, dinners, and even a party, and he seemed to take her continuous refusals as some sort of personal challenge. "Well, hi, there, gorgeous!" said Stearns. "I'm about to go get a late lunch. Care to join me?" Returning his grin with a small, polite smile, Mandi said, "Thanks anyway." "It's just a lunch, Mandi. I don't like to eat alone." "Sorry, Frank. Get somebody else." Turning to watch her walk past, Stearns asked, "Well, how about dinner later?" Without turning around, she said, "You're a coworker, Frank. It won't happen." He sighed, "Hey, I don't agree with that policy, y'know?" With a slight nod, Mandi said, "Yeah, I know. Bye." He must really have been hungry; for once, he didn't persist. Even if she were interested in playing, it wouldn't happen with Frank Stearns. The guy was a good team leader, but Mandi had overheard him talking to John Hartmann about one of his dates. He'd made it sound as if he'd conquered Mount Everest and had given a blow-by-blow description of events -- as he remembered them, of course -- including their bedroom activities, some of which had sounded greatly embellished. No, there'd be no playing with Frank. Never with Frank. Mandi let herself into room 426 and tossed her purse on the bed, then she began taking off her clothes as she ran hot water in the bathtub and added some bubblebath. She wasn't tired and didn't have any aches or pains or frustrations to soak away. Mandi just liked bubblebaths and the private, quiet time they provided. It was also an opportunity to see what all had been issued with her DragonCon badge, which was clipped to a plastic bag someone had delivered and placed on the bed. Mandi picked the goodie-bag up and peeked inside, then took it into the bathroom. After getting comfortable in the tub, she spent the next half hour reviewing convention literature. The big, glossy-covered guide said there'd be several stars from TV shows and movies signing autographs, as well as a host of artists and authors. It also listed a costume contest, three dances, discussion panels, and several movies to be shown in the ballrooms. The dealer's room vendor list made it seem likely that she'd find some unique jewelry or clothing. A smaller, pocket-sized booklet contained a simpler scheduling chart of all events, panels, appearances, and other doings of interest during the four days of the convention. Mandi used a yellow highlighter on some of the chart's info blocks, then rooted through the rest of the stuff in the bag; buttons, pins, party notices, and ads and brochures for upcoming science fiction movies and books. By the time the bath water had cooled Mandi had less than an hour to find and get to a writer's panel titled 'Women of Science Fiction'. She got out of the tub and chose a fresh outfit from her limited travel wardrobe. Everyone else at the convention seemed to either be dressed for a camping trip -- backpack included, in many cases -- or wearing some kind of costume, so Mandi decided to make a fashion statement of sorts. She chose an electric blue, mid-thigh, sleeveless sheath dress that had a white stripe down each side-seam and fit her rather closely. The blue shoes in her shoe bag were a shade off, but in the crowd she was likely to encounter, a shade -- or even a few shades -- probably wouldn't matter much. Choosing a small silver necklace from her travel kit, she put it on and thought about wearing earrings, then passed on them as being unnecessary. Not for the first time, the thought occurred to her that if her ears could be pierced, she wouldn't have to wear those damned clip-ons that never seemed to stay clipped on. Stockings? No, she decided. Bare legs also make a kind of statement and they usually got more looks. After adding a touch of lip gloss, she scooped up her purse and key card and headed for the elevators.

  Chapter Three

  The extra cops from the roof arrived. Avery sent two down to the sidewalk and had the other two continue gathering info from the people in the cafe. One started to approach Cade, so he opened his field jacket to show the Glock in its holster. The cop conferred with Avery for a moment, then headed toward someone else as Cade got a coffee refill and returned to his table. The image of the leggy blonde hopping over the taxi and launching into the sky with it replayed in Cade's mind. Everything he had ever read about flying blondes had appeared either in comic books or the same tabloids that reported things like Elvis and Jesus sightings, and not one of those rags had ever printed a picture of a flying blonde that hadn't been fairly obviously altered. In one case the original picture had been from a fashion shoot in the late
fifties and the model -- now in her eighties -- had sued and won a few thousand bucks in court. Cade decided that he now found the subject of flying blondes considerably more interesting and resolved to look into the matter as time permitted. Lt. Bain arrived, checked in with Avery, and headed for Cade's table. Cade stood up as she approached and waved at Manuel as he asked Bain how she liked her coffee. Smoothing her skirt and hitching the back of her jacket clear as she sat down, she responded instantly, "Two sugars, please. How do you feel about what happened,