behind—she didn’t think she’d have been able to get the bike through all the people. The pièce de résistance was in the center of the street, one of those huge, three-headed dragons made of papier-mâché and wire; its body was segmented into at least twenty pieces that gyrated and hopped, propelled by the people hiding inside it who manipulated the wires. The whole thing wiggled and twisted in time to a cacophony of sound pouring from digital speakers set high on poles set at regular intervals along the sidewalk, and while the sound quality was excellent, Violet sure couldn’t find any kind of a rhythm to it.
Her goal, called the Needle by its builder, was the tallest skyscraper in this sector. Its appropriately named apex seemed to go up forever, or at least until it pierced the cloud cover that was, thankfully, blanketing Chicago—those clouds made things a whole lot easier on her oversensitive eyes. But even here, in the heart of the Asian community where the most independent—and dangerous—of the nationalities lived and worked, the L.L.D.D. had managed to make its presence widely known. Security teams were everywhere, their helmets and black visors swiveling from left to right as they patrolled the crowds and ignored the street hawkers who tried, outright sarcastically, to sell them a few useless gadgets and snacks. The resentment felt by the neighborhood residents toward the security forces was more than obvious—it permeated the air and carried on the belligerent voice tones, scissored from person to person on narrow-eyed glares. Still, the Asians, like Violet, suspected that ultimately there was no winning the war . . . just the little battles now and then.
Were the security teams looking for her? Violet didn’t know, but it was a good bet that if they hadn’t already received word of her theft via their microphones, it would happen at any second. Like most of the people passing the guards, she kept her gaze downward as though she needed to concentrate on exactly where her feet would land—it was easy to use the jagged curbs and the trash- and people-lined sidewalks as an excuse. But behind the ruse, her gaze constantly darted in every direction as she tried to keep her distance from the black-suited L.L.D.D. guards. The security people were even inside the Needle itself, which made things doubly tricky—she didn’t dare do something to attract their attention and, God forbid, invite them to follow her. This was the last place in the world she wanted to lead them.
For a change Violet managed a little kiss from Lady Luck and there was an elevator in the lobby waiting to begin its ascent. She shouldered her way through the office workers who were waiting for it and pushed inside ahead of several others, ignoring the barbed, angry glances. Her breath was shuddering as the doors finally closed—she’d become convinced that at any instant a couple members of the L.L.D.D. security force would charge onto the elevator and open fire. There was just no way to run—an elevator was way too much like a coffin built for a dozen people instead of one.
It was nerve-wracking to have to share the ride with several other people, but there was simply no avoiding it. Short of standing on her head on the counter in front of the security desk, Violet could think of no faster way to point to herself than to bodily remove her fellow passengers. Instead, she inched to the back wall as casually as she could, pressing her spine against a smooth, cold surface—fake marble—that matched the real stuff back in the lobby. Anxiety was making her flush and the chilly material against her back did nothing to help; she could feel nervous perspiration gather along her nose beneath the hard bridge of her sunglasses. To her own mind, she was glaringly noticeable—black hair, black coat, and sunglasses . . . how could she
not
be? Then again, maybe not. There were a lot of black-haired beauties in this Chinois community, and a
Her goal, called the Needle by its builder, was the tallest skyscraper in this sector. Its appropriately named apex seemed to go up forever, or at least until it pierced the cloud cover that was, thankfully, blanketing Chicago—those clouds made things a whole lot easier on her oversensitive eyes. But even here, in the heart of the Asian community where the most independent—and dangerous—of the nationalities lived and worked, the L.L.D.D. had managed to make its presence widely known. Security teams were everywhere, their helmets and black visors swiveling from left to right as they patrolled the crowds and ignored the street hawkers who tried, outright sarcastically, to sell them a few useless gadgets and snacks. The resentment felt by the neighborhood residents toward the security forces was more than obvious—it permeated the air and carried on the belligerent voice tones, scissored from person to person on narrow-eyed glares. Still, the Asians, like Violet, suspected that ultimately there was no winning the war . . . just the little battles now and then.
Were the security teams looking for her? Violet didn’t know, but it was a good bet that if they hadn’t already received word of her theft via their microphones, it would happen at any second. Like most of the people passing the guards, she kept her gaze downward as though she needed to concentrate on exactly where her feet would land—it was easy to use the jagged curbs and the trash- and people-lined sidewalks as an excuse. But behind the ruse, her gaze constantly darted in every direction as she tried to keep her distance from the black-suited L.L.D.D. guards. The security people were even inside the Needle itself, which made things doubly tricky—she didn’t dare do something to attract their attention and, God forbid, invite them to follow her. This was the last place in the world she wanted to lead them.
For a change Violet managed a little kiss from Lady Luck and there was an elevator in the lobby waiting to begin its ascent. She shouldered her way through the office workers who were waiting for it and pushed inside ahead of several others, ignoring the barbed, angry glances. Her breath was shuddering as the doors finally closed—she’d become convinced that at any instant a couple members of the L.L.D.D. security force would charge onto the elevator and open fire. There was just no way to run—an elevator was way too much like a coffin built for a dozen people instead of one.
It was nerve-wracking to have to share the ride with several other people, but there was simply no avoiding it. Short of standing on her head on the counter in front of the security desk, Violet could think of no faster way to point to herself than to bodily remove her fellow passengers. Instead, she inched to the back wall as casually as she could, pressing her spine against a smooth, cold surface—fake marble—that matched the real stuff back in the lobby. Anxiety was making her flush and the chilly material against her back did nothing to help; she could feel nervous perspiration gather along her nose beneath the hard bridge of her sunglasses. To her own mind, she was glaringly noticeable—black hair, black coat, and sunglasses . . . how could she
not
be? Then again, maybe not. There were a lot of black-haired beauties in this Chinois community, and a
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