She saw Louise turn away to speak to someone, and block Rusk's easy path to Roarke.
And she saw Julianna.
It went fast as a heartbeat, slow as a century.
Julianna wore the trim white jacket and slacks of the servers. Her hair was a soft, honey brown—a short, curly cap that was fashioned like a halo around her face. That face was carefully enhanced, carefully composed to nondescript.
She could have passed for a droid, and was garnering just as much dismissal, as she walked easily through the polished bodies toward Roarke.
In her hand she carried a single flute of champagne.
Her gaze flashed up, met Roarke's. Whatever she saw there must have satisfied her, for she smiled, just the slightest curve of unpainted lips.
"Target sighted." Though Eve spoke clearly, there was too much distance, too much noise between them for Julianna to have heard.
And still she turned her head and looked at Eve.
They moved at the same time, Eve forward, Julianna back. Eve had the small twist of satisfaction of seeing startled temper cross Julianna's face before she swung into the thickest part of the crowd.
"Suspect is dressed as server. Brown and brown, moving west through the ballroom."
She sprinted forward as she spoke, ducking, shoving, flinging herself through startled people. Feeney's relay rang in her ears, had her spinning to the right, knocking hard into a startled waiter. She heard the thunderous crash of his tray behind her.
She caught another glimpse, saw Julianna pass the flute to an oblivious older man before she streaked up the curve of the floating staircase to the second level. People tumbled in her wake like tossed dolls.
"Moving up," Eve shouted. "Close in from positions eight and ten. Now, now, now!"
She ran straight into the man who was just lifting the flute of champagne to his lips. It splattered all over his suit as the glass flew out of his hand and crashed to the floor.
"Well, really!"
He was angry enough to make a grab for her arm, and got a hard stomp on the instep. He'd limp, Eve thought as she leaped up the stairs, but he'd live.
"Inside this area, Lieutenant." One of the two cops who raced forward to flank Eve gestured toward a pair of double doors. "She nicked in. I couldn't get a stream off due to civilian safety. She's flipped the locks and caged herself in. There's no way out unless she decides to jump ten stories."
"She'll have a way." Without hesitation, Eve aimed her weapon at the door and blasted the locks.
The explosion came a second later. The hot gush of air punched like a fist and knocked Eve back a full five feet. She tumbled, head over feet, and her weapon spurted out of her hand like wet soap. Her earpiece went dead.
Smoke belched out of the anteroom, choking and blinding. She heard the nasty crackle of flame, and the shouts around her, below her, as people rushed into a screaming panic.
She slapped her clutch piece out of her ankle holster. "Officer down. Officer down," she repeated, hoping the mike still worked as she saw one of her backup lying unconscious and bleeding from the head. "We need medical assistance, the fire and explosives department. I'm going in after this bitch."
She crouched, sprang, and went through the doors into the smoke in a fast, low roll.
Julianna leaped on her back in a fury of fists, teeth, and nails.
The safety system had water gushing down from the ceiling, fans whirling, alarms screaming. Through it, they grappled like animals over the ruined carpet.
For the second time she lost her weapon—or so the report would read. The satisfaction of feeling her bare fist plow into Julianna's flesh was like a song.
She tasted blood, smelled it. Rode on it.
Her mind was laser sharp as they both gained their feet, circled each other.
"You fucked up, Julianna. Stay back!" she snapped out the order as Roarke burst into the room, steps ahead of McNab. "Stay the hell back. She's mine."
"Sir."