Spy to the Rescue by Jonathan Bernstein

tucks her hands under her elbows and looks down. Her hair falls over her face so I can’t see her eyes.“Not long,” she mumbles. “There were years I tried not to think about you at all. I told myself it was better if I forgot you, but then . . .” Her voice cracks on the last word. All I see is this curtain of inky black hair covering her face. Is she making a play for my sympathy or is this what’s been hiding in the back of my head since the second I heard her voice?
    â€œWho do you work for?” I snap.
    The woman sweeps her hair away from her face. “The Forties,” she says.
    â€œWhat’s the Forties?”
    â€œThe floors of the Dominion Brothers Building from forty to forty-nine.”
    â€œThe ones that were too expensive to rent out,” I say, remembering the painstaking research I undertook before Blabby caused a tsunami of soda to engulf my laptop.
    The woman nods. “Edward Dominion, the grandson of the brother who didn’t jump out the window, found a use for them. He filled them with professionals and hired them out to the highest bidder.”
    â€œWhat sorts of professionals?” I ask.
    The woman starts counting on her fingers. “Hackers, gangsters, leakers, con artists, kidnappers, bank robbers, blackmailers, home invaders, hired muscle, and assassins.”
    â€œWhich one are you?” I ask.
    The woman raises a hand for silence. I hear the elevator, the dark silent one, and start to climb.
    â€œYou want to meet my colleagues or you want to live to see your fourteenth birthday?”
    â€œWhat was my birth date?” I ask.
    â€œTwenty-fourth of August, 2002,” she says. “The worst storm in twenty years. Hailstones the size of human heads.”
    That’s easy information to access. Anyone could find that out. But just like I instinctively knew the man with Carter Strike’s face was a liar, I instinctively know this woman with the pale face is not. And that means . . .
    I jump down from the ladder.
    The woman is unzipping her leather jacket. She reaches up behind her back and pulls a gun from a shoulder holster and a metal rod from inside her jacket pocket. She unfolds the rod. It’s an arrow. A steel arrow. She inserts the bottom of the arrow into her gun and adjusts it until there’s a loud metallic click.
    She holds out an arm to me, and I move closer to the woman in black. She puts an arm around my waist.
    â€œYou trust me?” she says.
    I trust a handful of people. I don’t know this woman. Even if she’s who I think she is, I don’t know her.
    â€œYes,” I breathe.
    â€œThen hold on.”
    I wrap my arms around her. She fires the gun at the ceiling. The arrow shoots upward, dragging a steel wire after it. The arrow hits its target. The woman is lifted off the ground. I gasp in shock as I go with her. Her arm is tight around my waist. I cling to the soft leather of her jacket.
    â€œDon’t look down,” she says.
    â€œI could have done this myself,” I say. “I’ve got marbles.”
    â€œMarbles are fun,” she says. “But there are times when a girl needs her mother.”
    The woman lands on a wooden beam. She reaches out to steady me and then she pushes upward. Above us, a skylight at the top of the gym opens. I see the gray Manhattan sky. It’s not even dark yet. I feel like I’ve been in this nightmarish building for a week but I doubt it’s been much more than an hour.
    The woman climbs up through the skylight, turns, and reaches out a hand. I take it and allow myself to be yanked out of the gym.
    Suddenly, I’m freezing. I see my breath in front of me. The late fall wind hits my face like an angry hand slapping me. I can also see office workers in cubicles in the building next to this one. That’s because I’m standing onthe ledge of the Dominion Brothers Building. The ledge of the forty-eighth floor.
    â€œRemember I