Tom Clancy Under Fire by Grant Blackwood

to have frozen in their medieval forms, with turrets, alleys fronted by sally port entrances, and moss-trimmed stonework.
    Put her fellow pedestrians and revelers in period garb and the scene would be almost perfect.
    The Mexican restaurant, Chiquito, was just a block away, and it took Helen less than two minutes to get there. Chiquito had only recently become a regular stop for the girl, every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday night from seven-thirty until eight forty-five, with two of her girlfriends.
    Amy had been naughty, Helen’s surveillance had revealed. The girl’s newest boyfriend or hookup—one could never tell anymore, not even the kids themselves, she suspected—was, Robby, a thirtysomething busboy at Chiquito who apparently could make time for Amy only after his shift and before he went home to his wife and kids. Having spent time tailing Robby a day earlier, Helen didn’t understand the allure, but clearly Amy did. She seemed content with taking whatever time he allowed her.
    At seven twenty-five, Helen passed Rose Street and stepped inside the dimly lit plexiglass bus stand. The next bus was due shortly.
    The minutes ticked by.
    “Evening,” a man standing beside her said. “Chilly tonight.”
    “Piss off, wanker,” Helen shot back, her chin tucked into the cowl of her anorak.
    “Hey, I’m just being friendly.”
    “I said, ‘Piss off!’”
    Helen suspected the man was simply making conversation, but apparently “Piss off, wanker” was a perfectly acceptable response to unwanted attention on Rose Street. It seemed rude, she thought, but when in Rome . . .
    “Sorry,” the man muttered.
    Down the block toward Chiquito, Helen heard a trio of raucous giggles and immediately recognized one of them as belonging to Amy. She had a nice laugh, natural, not the mush-mouthed cackles many of her friends let out when drunk. Tonight Amy was with the most obnoxious pair, Margaret and Tera.
    Helen glanced left and saw Amy, flanked by her two friends, walking toward the bus stand. As they passed, Helen stepped out and followed. Amy was wearing a thick red cardigan against the chill.
That makes things even easier,
thought Helen.
    When they reached Princes Street the group disappeared around the corner, heading east.
Good,
Helen thought.
Sticking to schedule.
She slowed her pace, letting them gain some distance, then also rounded the corner. Fifty feet ahead, Amy and her friends were walking, shoulders pressing, talking and giggling and occasionally sidestepping to avoid collisions with fellow bar-goers.
    At the next intersection, Hanover, Amy and her friends stopped at a bus stand. Helen kept walking, passed them, and hurried through the crosswalk to the other side, where she stopped, got out her cell phone, and pretended to make a call.
    Across the intersection, Margaret said in a lilting Scottish accent, “Do you have to go, Ames? Stay with us. We’ll go to Voltaire!”
    “No, sorry, this is the only time we get to see each other.”
    “Yeah, right. Well, don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”
    “You do everything, you slag—what’re you talking about?” said Tera.
    “Hey, that’s not nice!”
    “Then what’s it gonna be tonight, Ames?” Tera asked. “Need to borrow a condom?”
    “God, no,” Amy shot back. “We haven’t done that yet.”
    “Yeah, I know what you’re doing,” Margaret said. “It’s all nice for him, but has he reciprocated? You know, south of the border . . .”
    “Stop, Margaret, you’re awful.”
    “I’m just looking out for you, girl.”
    “I have to go. Your bus will be here soon. Text me, let me know you got back to Pollock safe,” Amy said, and the three of them exchanged cheek air-kisses.
    As they parted, Helen pocketed her cell phone, then recrossed the street, passing Amy halfway across. Hurrying now, Helen headed down the block until she saw a break in the traffic, then jaywalked to the other side of the street and onto a gravel path leading into the