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THE

PROTECTORS

TREY DOWELL

SIMON 451

New York London Toronto Sydney New Delhi
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To Zack and Adam,

Who sat with wide eyes, donuts in hands, listening to their big brother tell stories. This one is for you guys. Love you both, forever.
PART ONE
CHAPTER 1

I knew men with guns would eventually come for me.

Not like I've been counting the minutes or anything, but it was always in the back of my mind—the nagging voice telling me I was living not on my own time, but by the grace of someone else's.

Sure, you can fool yourself for a while. Stare at the meadow outside the picture window, take a dip in the whirlpool out back and look at the mountaintops—tell yourself This is a good life, and smile. But the wispy grin never lasts because, well . . . you know.

In the same way you know after a first kiss in a firelit den, sooner or later she'll be screaming, "Bastard!" and you'll be shouting, "Bitch!" Sweetness gives way to anger, and soft meadow grass ends up trampled by meatheads in body armor. I know, I know . . . a little glass-half-empty of me, but the Great Cosmic Bartender dumped out half my drink a long time ago.

At least there's a big advantage to being a cynical bastard: you're never disappointed. Most of the time I add "and you're never surprised," but on the day the M-16s showed up, I actually was. They didn't even try to sneak up on me. Not like they could anyway, but still—it was almost insulting.

The helicopters came straight through the valley and dropped right on the front lawn. I heard them a good three minutes before they touched down, which gave me plenty of time to empty my hot chocolate and put the mug in the dishwasher. Even had sixty seconds to find the broom and dustpan.

By the time I pulled a chair around to face the front door, the rotors had slowed. I caught a glimpse of the first squad off the chopper, running around the side of the house. Real go-getters. Special-ops boys carrying assault rifles, tactical knives fastened to their thighs, and gas masks firmly in place. Some of the most supreme badasses the United States government employed—all probably on the verge of shitting themselves, which made me smile.

When I finally heard footsteps on the creaky porch, I sat down, parked both elbows on the armrests, and raised my empty palms. I mouthed a silent "three . . . two . . . one" and the breach team obliged, smashing my doorjamb to kindling. Four soldiers rushed in, two dropping into crouch positions and two standing tall on either side of my shattered door frame. One screamed, "Freeze! Hands in the air!" which sounded a little comical from behind his gas mask. I looked at him and rolled my eyes from left to right at my already raised, empty palms. Seemed safer than calling a guy with an assault rifle a dumbass.

I waited patiently for the real threats to walk through the front door, which I knew would take a couple of minutes. The purpose of the armed breach was to scare me, and the short wait with raised arms was meant to establish that they were in control, not me. Neither goal had really been met, but the government's playbook isn't exactly big on creativity.

Sure enough, after a calculated wait they joined me in the living room. The first one through the doorway could have been the door: 6'4", three hundred pounds, with the neck and shoulders of an NFL lineman—with pads. He had a military-precise crew cut perched above a meaty face, and hid his eyes behind round sunglasses. Flat expression, he radiated Grade-A Enforcer. The second one followed—thin, about 5'8", looked middle-aged, but moved like an athlete. Salt-and-pepper dark hair, he wore a set of aviator sunglasses. Worst of all, he was smiling. No question which man was more dangerous.

Both of them wore immaculate, tailored suits. Bad guys always wear suits. They want you to think they're respectable, honorable—civilized. Laughable, really, as almost every bad thing that's happened to the world for the last five centuries, you can trace back to a douchebag in a suit.

The slim one removed his glasses and beamed a fake megawatt smile, which I'd seen on plenty of government lackeys. The lips may curve up in a big ol' grin, but trust me, they're hiding fangs. He pointed to another chair in the living room, and raised his eyebrows—silently asking to borrow a seat for a chat. So polite. I nodded and he dragged one over, letting the legs screeeeeeech as long as possible across the wooden floor—a not-so-quiet message that, with a smile and a nod, he could do what he wanted when he wanted.

He positioned the chair about five feet from my right side, careful not to put himself between me and the rifles. Mr. Slim casually used his own tie to clean his sunglasses, lifting them to stare through at the skylight after rubbing each lens.

With arms still aloft, I asked, "May I help you?"

His smile dropped, but only because he had to use his mouth to speak.

"Well, well, well. Scott McAlister himself. An honest-to-goodness super—"

"Please don't say it."

"My apologies. What's in vogue now? Meta-human? Or do you prefer 'Knockout'? Regardless, it's an honor to meet you."

I almost believed him, which meant he was an exceedingly good liar.

"I prefer Scott, or Mr. McAlister if you're feeling formal," I said. I put effort into sounding weary.

"Very well, Mr. McAlister. I'm Mr. Tucker, and behind me is Mr. Reyes. As you've probably guessed, we are from the gas company and are here to read your meter."

I chuckled at the joke, figuring it was now acceptable to lower my hands. They'd taken the extra five minutes to read my psych profile and judge that I'd respond better to humor. Smart.

"Yeah, sorry about being so late with my bill . . ."

"It happens," Tucker said.

"So, are you guys from Central Intelligence Gas, or the Federal Bureau of Gas?"

"Oh, I can assure you, we're the intelligent ones," he said.

"Good to know."

Tucker ran his fingers along the creases of his pants and looked around the living room.

"Nice place, by the way."

"Thanks. Decorated it myself."

"Uncle Sam must pay you more than me . . . I can't afford a mountain retreat on my salary," Tucker said.

I frowned at the obvious attempt to make me feel obligated. "I'm not a government employee."

"Really? I thought that if someone receives compensation for their work, cashes the government's checks—that's considered employment. I must be wrong, though." He leaned back and spoke over his shoulder, "How about it, Mr. Reyes? That sound like employment to you?"

Reyes maintained position, completely stoic.

"He's not much of a talker," Tucker confessed, "but boy, is he adept at other things."

"He looks like a knitting and scrapbooking kind of guy."

Tucker's mouth laughed, but his eyes were cold. "You've got him pegged."

"So, what about you, Tucker? Any unique talents?"

"I am so glad you asked. I'll let you in on a little secret." He leaned in, motioning me to bend closer. When I did, he whispered, "I have special powers, too."

My smile was genuine. "Don't be shy. Impress me."

Tucker rose quickly and took a few steps around the room, moving through the entry team's field of fire. He swept his arms around him, indicating the surroundings.

"My superpower is the ability to let you continue living this idyllic life you've made up here in the mountains. With your wonderful view, your nice car, your trips into town to visit the bookstore. Heck, you can even keep dating that pretty little thing you met down at the diner. All of this tranquility and safety—this peace—can be yours. Forever." Tucker made a loop back to his chair and sat. "Pretty cool power, huh?"

I sighed. "And here I was, hoping your power was the ability to fix my door. I don't mean to burst your bubble, Tucker, but I was told this setup was permanent just five years ago, when your predecessor moved me in."

"Mr. McAlister, you are here by the good graces of your benefactor, the United States of America. While we are sincerely grateful for the help you provided your benefactor five years ago, a situation has arisen that requires special handling. The kind we think you can provide. Maybe only you can provide. The need is pressing enough that we feel it necessary to alter the nature of our agreement."

I chuckled under my breath and shook my head. "Tucker, do you have a dog?"

His eyebrows scrunched together. "No. Why do you ask?"

"I've had one for most of my life. You know what the most annoying time for any dog owner is?"

"No, but I'm sure you're going to tell me."

"When you're eating potato chips."

"Really? How interesting," he said in a way that meant it was so completely not.

"A dog hears that bag crinkle from three rooms away and comes running. He licks his lips, whines, and sits six inches from you. Makes you feel horrible every time you put a chip in your mouth. He stares and begs, to the point where you can actually hear his thoughts."

"And what would those fascinating thoughts be?"

"I want only one thing in the world to be happy, and if you were to grant my one request, I would never ask anything of you ever again. All I need from that big, full bowl is a single, solitary potato chip.

"And you, being a total sucker," I continued, "see no other option than to give that dog a chip. And the dog is so very happy and runs away and devours it. But then, you know what happens?"

Tucker leaned back and yawned.

"The dog comes back, and this time he's singing a different tune: Look, I know what I said earlier and I completely meant it. But I slightly underestimated. I now realize that the number of chips I need to be happy is TWO. So if you could find it in your heart to give me just one more, I will be forever in your debt. Manipulative little beast, right? But the crazy part is the dog actually means it. He's not lying. He believes his own bullshit like he's got one paw on the Bible. He's just too stupid to know any better. And in case you completely missed the analogy, let me be clear . . .

"Tucker, you are a dog. A well-financed and well-supplied one, but a dog nonetheless. And I've got nothing left to give you."

Just like that, Reyes lost consciousness and fell to the ground, ripping the pants of his really nice suit.
CHAPTER 2

It'd been a long time since I'd dropped anyone, and it felt surprisingly good—even if I only had about two seconds to revel in it. Without so much as a glance at Reyes's heap, all four members of the entry team yanked the bolts of their assault rifles back, chambering live rounds. Another theatrical display meant to send a particular message. The message received however, was that the team had breached my door without planning to shoot. Before one of their suits dropped, they had no imperative to hurt me . . . they wanted Knockout nice and healthy. I knew from the moment I heard the rotors they needed my help. Now I knew how badly.

Tucker's smile evaporated, and he wagged a nagging finger over his shoulder at the troops, gaze still fixed on me. "Settle down, gentlemen. Everyone take a deep breath and relax."

"How do you know that was me? Maybe he was just tired," I offered.

"Mr. Reyes does not suffer from narcolepsy."

"He looked tired when he came in."

Tucker sighed. "Well, for your sake, I hope everyone else had a full night's sleep, because if another body drops, I'll have to use the broom and dustpan over there to clean up all the spent cartridges. And whatever other mess is left."

I blew a long, slow breath through puffed-out cheeks and let the tension drop. There wasn't any need for further delay just because I was enjoying myself. They certainly weren't going to leave on their own.

"Okay, Mr. Tucker. Let's get this over with. Today's Meat Loaf Tuesday down at the diner."

"Excellent. Let's set up at the table, if you don't mind." He rose quickly and strode into the kitchen, motioning to one of the soldiers on the porch as he went. By the time we were seated, the soldier had already planted a thick dossier in Tucker's quick hands. The dossier was emblazoned with the Department of Defense seal, and once it was opened I saw four individually banded folders within. I knew he'd only take out three.

"Please tell me you didn't come all the way from Langley to ask about the others."

"On the contrary, Mr. McAlister. I've come all this way to tell you about the other members of your illustrious team."

I snorted. "We were never a team and you know it. We were a publicity stunt."

Tucker tapped the dossier. "A publicity stunt? With twenty-seven successful covert operations? You might be underselling your contributions just a tad. How unusual for you."

"What you call 'successful operations,' I call 'baby steps.' And of course, the key word there is covert. After recruitment, the only time we were allowed in public was in those ridiculous costumes for one of the CIA's dog-and-pony shows."

"You mean the United Nations."

"Riiiiiight." I rolled my eyes at his "we-are-the-world" bullshit. That might've comforted the uninformed millions who watched video of us on YouTube, but there wasn't a single government on earth who believed the Protectors really worked for the United Nations. Everyone in power knew the American government pulled the strings.

"Protest all you want, but I think the Protectors were an amazingly effective team, particularly in those public appearances. All it took was a few televised spectacles for the world to watch and wonder, and you were exactly what America needed. Check that—you were everything the world needed you to be."

"And what was that?" I asked.

"A deterrent. A wonderfully cheap, United Nations–sanctioned, nonnuclear deterrent." He sat back in his chair and focused on nothing in particular in the distance. I realized he was looking really far into the distance—about seven years back. "God, it was amazing, wasn't it? A public relations dream come true—the only four human beings on the planet gifted with extraordinary powers, and each from a different country. The United States, Iran, Venezuela, and Canada. Two from allied countries, two from rival nations—perfect symmetry. Together on one team—a team of heroes, ready to protect the planet."

I'd seen the look on his face too many times. Wonder, awe, the idea of limitless possibilities. The look of a sucker.

"Yeah, we did a bang-up job, didn't we? I'm expecting that Nobel Peace Prize any day now."

"You don't hold much nostalgia for the past. That's unfortunate. Understandable, but still . . . ," he said.

As predicted, Tucker pulled three folders out of the dossier, twirled them around to face me, and opened the first one. "Scott McAlister." He cocked his head and added my alias with a sarcastic, fanboy whisper. "Knockout. So pugilistic!"

"Don't hate. I wanted 'the Sandman,' but somebody had it trademarked."

"A shame. Although you weren't short on alternatives . . . according to your file, the focus groups came up with several impressive monikers. My personal favorite was 'the Slumberjack'—"

Jesus. Not that bullshit again. I tapped my old DoD photo to cut him off. "You guys need an updated pic. I've let my hair grow out. Plus the sun turned it all sandy blond, just like I wanted."

"While I'm certain your worn-down-surfer imitation plays well to the waitress crowd, color me unimpressed. Besides, we have plenty of current pictures. Though you may not see them, our friends at the NSA check in on you from time to time."

I always knew when I was being watched, but there was no need to let the government in on my bigger secrets, so I let him have his smug moment.

"Nice to know I still warrant a telescopic lens."

"The brightest member of the Protectors, able to see the big picture, the only leader in the bunch," Tucker started. I threw him my best self-satisfied smile. ". . . and almost completely incapable of taking instruction; arrogant, with little regard for the chain of command." My smile morphed into a mock pout. "And of course, your particular power set—certainly the least flashy of the team—the ability to put someone to sleep instantly."

"Ask Mr. Reyes over there if he cares about flashy."

"No, no . . . you misunderstand. I'm not trying to offend. In practical situations, your ability is more powerful than anyone's. There is literally no place on earth you can't go. You can walk to the front gate of Fort Knox, put the guards to sleep, and go straight through. Anyone approaches, and snap! Spontaneous narcolepsy. You can walk back out with stacks of bullion."

"Nah, gold is heavy, and Fort Knox has snipers. A bank vault would be quicker, easier," I said.

"I'm disturbed to hear you've given it that much thought," Tucker replied. "But, speaking of your ability, the gentlemen in lab coats would be simply incensed if I neglected to ask—any chance you're willing to come back for more tests? They'd love to see if your ability is evolving. Like Blaster's."

I feigned surprise at the word evolving.

"Diego? What's happened to him?"

Tucker opened the second folder and I saw the grinning face of a man who swore he'd never look me in the eyes again.

"Diego Mendoza. Blaster. Body capable of generating massive electrical energy and channeling it into bursts. Energy blasts six times more powerful than a lightning bolt," he recited.

"Thanks for the biography, but I roomed with the guy for a year. I know what he could do then. What can he do now?"

"Blaster is able to transform his body into energy. Completely. He can travel at the speed of light, and when in energy form, requires no food and no air. A wonderful boon to the Department of Defense, but this . . . evolution . . . makes him incredibly difficult to monitor or control, for obvious reasons. The Agency believes he's off-world at the moment."

"Are you kidding me? I'm impressed. Sparky was an unbearable prick before he could travel through hyperspace—I can only imagine what he's like now."

Tucker gave the barest flicker of amusement. "He's everything you'd assume. Insufferable on a cosmic level."

At least we agreed on something. I pointed to the third folder.

"Well, if Diego is cruising the galaxy, I'm guessing you need my help with . . . her."

"Yes, indeed. Her." He opened the last folder.

The picture looked up at me. Dark hair, olive skin, perfect high cheekbones, full lips, and a delicate, dimpled chin. The black-and-white DoD photo did no justice to her most striking feature—her eyes. I've had a girlfriend or two refer to my blue irises as "stunning," but Lyla's eyes rewrote the definition. A mixture of green and amber, with yellow flecks spiraling out from the center, so bright they seemed to radiate light. She was devastatingly beautiful, which most people assumed was a good thing.

It wasn't. Emphasis on the devastating.

Just looking at her picture brought back the feeling of being near her, of locking eyes. A beauty so all-encompassing it was like a black hole, sucking everything away from you—reason, willpower, even self-control. It left you bare, except for an empty ache . . . throbbing to the point where you wanted to reach inside your body and massage it away—only you couldn't reach deep enough. The only thing I knew to call that feeling was soul pain, and it never went away. Not fully. It had taken five years to fool myself into believing I was free, and now one glance at a three-by-five photo threatened to wipe away whatever serenity I'd managed to scrape together. The lesson was painfully simple: when she was done with you, it felt like nothing was left.

"Lyla," I whispered. I could feel Tucker watching me.

"Lyla Ravzi. Aphrodite," he said.

I was overwhelmed by the urge to reach down and touch the picture, but managed to stop myself. Looking like a lovesick puppy in front of Tucker seemed inadvisable. He barely glanced at the picture before he twisted the folder back around.

"The Goddess of Love," he scoffed while flipping to her service record.

"Not impressed?"

"Not my type."

"Then you've obviously never been in her presence," I told him. "If you had, I doubt you'd be able to flip past her picture so easily."

Tucker's face was still buried in the folder, but his eyes peered up at me from the page.

"I was told early on that risk assessment of Ms. Ravzi would be best accomplished with a large amount of personal detachment."

"Sound advice."

He sat back and clasped his hands together in thought.

"Did you know they had far more difficulty testing her powers than any of you? They suspected her power came from a mixture of voice, gaze, and pheromones, but she was impossible to pin down. I assume you know why?"

"Of course. Are you asking me? I'm sure it's all in the folder."

"Humor me," he said. "I was working in the Sudan back then. CIA files tend to be a little dry. Your take would be far less . . . clinical, I'm sure."

"Fine. It was impossible to test Lyla because the researchers would all fall in love with her. They'd report back whatever she asked them to report. They'd rig the testing equipment, keep all of the DoD minions in the dark."

"Yes. Quite frustrating, I'm sure," Tucker said.

"Cry me a river. You've never been a lab rat."

He brushed my complaint aside. "How did the DoD try to cope?"

"Like morons. They brought in another crew of scientists to work with her—five women and a gay guy. Took about an hour to realize Lyla's abilities weren't gender-specific. The women reacted no differently than the men. They immediately started swooning when she turned it on. The gay one drove home that night and broke up with his partner of ten years . . . insisted he'd gone straight."

"A little awkward . . ."

"You think? General Barrington had to come down and promise Lyla three weeks' leave before she agreed to release the poor guy."

"Release. That's what she calls it?" Tucker asked.

"Yes. 'Embrace' when she's made you hers; 'release' when she's let you go."

"Embrace," he sneered. "Makes mind control sound so tender."

He sounded a lot like the general, which made me both wary and sad.

"Tucker, Lyla isn't evil. She didn't make people worship her on a whim. It was about protecting herself or stopping someone from hurting others. In fact, you should thank the heavens every night it was Lyla who received those abilities, as opposed to someone more . . ." I struggled for the right words. ". . . personally motivated. You have no idea what she could have become."

"Enlighten me," Tucker said.

I hesitated.

"Y'know, it's always bothered me a little when people talk about what I can do and call it 'power.' I make people fall asleep. Woo-hoo." I gave him two thumbs up and a fake smile. "But I rolled with it. If people thought I was special, so be it. Even let it go to my head a little."

Tucker's No, really? expression made me wish there weren't several M-16s in the room.

"Amazing, I know. But after I met Lyla, I realized the truth—I was nothing compared to her. I had a useful ability, an amusing parlor trick, something to entertain the media. If I went off the rails and became an immoral bastard, what exactly could I do? Get rich? Rob banks. Maybe steal a few secrets. Not exactly the stuff of legends.

"But Lyla? She had power. Someone with her abilities could do almost anything . . . gain allies, sway governments, decimate an enemy's will to resist. Christ, someone like that could rule nations. Conquer others. You think Diego or I could do anything like that? We're pawns, Tucker . . . Lyla's the queen. Just be glad she's a benevolent queen, with no interest in ruling anything, because if she did want power?"

I shook my head and leaned back.

"There isn't a damn thing you could do to stop her."
CHAPTER 3

Tucker stared at me as silence hung in the air. Finally, he exhaled and clapped his hands together in slow, measured applause.

"Bravo, Mr. McAlister. Bravo. I could not have said it better myself. You and I happen to share the exact same assessment of the strategic and tactical risk Ms. Ravzi brings to the table. Does that surprise you?"

"Not really. You seem like a smart guy."

"Thank you."

"For a government stooge." M-16s be damned, the guy just plain irritated me.

Unbothered, he flipped to a tabbed section of the folder and turned it around.

"Well, be that as it may, let me entertain you with some comedy. As any good stooge would."

The page in front was from the New York Times, dated one week ago—"North Korea Unilaterally Suspends Nuke Program," with a smaller section below reading, "Agrees to hand over existing weapons for dismantling, UN to revoke sanctions immediately."

"Yeah, I watched the coverage on CNN. Sanctions work, apparently."

"No, Mr. McAlister, I don't believe they do." Tucker turned the page over to reveal a collage of long-range surveillance photos. "These were taken two days before the announcement. That's the courtyard of the presidential palace in Pyongyang, from almost a mile away . . . needless to say, these photographs were incredibly difficult to obtain."

The photos were black-and-white shots, grainy due to the extreme length of the telescopic lens, but still viewable. There were several time-coded shots, but in the first, it was easy to make out the portly figure—the recently promoted son of the largest pain in the ass in the United Nations' brief history—with a large group of military advisors flanking him. As the pictures progressed, a smaller group approached and the two sides shook hands. One shot near the bottom of the page caused me to lean forward and bend close. The picture isolated the Outstanding Leader himself and the central figure of the smaller group. Even at a distance, I recognized the shape and the hair. The final picture was at maximum magnification and showed her profile, exactly as I remembered. Tucker tapped the picture twice.

"It appears as though Aphrodite is exercising some of that power you say she doesn't want."

I grinned. I tried not to, but I wasn't strong enough. "Son of a bitch," I whispered.

"According to our North Korean assets, she stayed just over two hours, then left with her party. Two days later, backdoor channels to the UN magically open up, and the Korean Central News Agency makes their announcement. I find it highly unlikely these events are unrelated. Would you agree?"

"Oh, I most wholeheartedly agree."

"Which brings us to the reason for my visit. We have a problem." Tucker closed the folder. I slowly rose and turned toward the kitchen sink, choking off laughter as I looked out the window at two nervous soldiers peering back. So she'd decided to get in the game and make the world a better place—my first thought was Good for you. Give 'em hell, Lyla. Unfortunately, my second thought came from the cynical bastard within: The world tends to beat the shit out of Good Samaritans. Which made the smile easier to hide.

I turned back to Tucker with folded arms.

"So let me get this straight . . . your big problem, the one that caused you and Mr. Sleepy over there to fly halfway across the continent, is that Lyla single-handedly removed one of the world's biggest threats to peace and stability? At a cost of zero dollars and zero collateral damage? Is that about right? Because honestly, I'm surprised you didn't ask her to do this yourself a long time ago."

"If we had asked Ms. Ravzi, I'd shake her hand, thank her for the service, and send her on her way. But that's the point. We didn't ask. We don't even know how to contact her. She went off the reservation a long time ago. And while this little 'Save the World' stunt looks good on paper, I get paid to look at the big picture—what gets affected down the line. And I'm very concerned about what happens down that path, as are the CIA and the Department of Defense." The unflappable Mr. Tucker started to raise his voice. "And the fact that you're barely hiding your glee at what she's done, frankly, pisses me off."

I heard metal clacking and shuffling footsteps as the soldiers grew more alert. Tucker was on a roll and saw no need to put them at ease.

"You think she's done the world a favor? Fine. I'll agree with you. But what does she do next week? Now that she's seen what a little lovey-dovey visit with a world leader can accomplish, where does she go next? Because I promise you, she won't stop with North Korea. She's gotten a taste of true power—world player style—and that sort of thing changes everyone. If I've learned anything as an intelligence operative it's this: people become ravenous once they've had a taste of power . . . even the ones who swear they have no appetite for it. I've seen it in pencil-pushing, family-man diplomats who get control of some shit-pot hovel in Africa. Big on promises, bright future, freedom and liberty for all . . . and in five years, The Hague wants them for genocide. And did any of them have even a thousandth of the power Lyla Ravzi has?"

"Lyla is nothing like those dictators," I said.

"No. She's worse. Not just because of what she can do, but because of who she is."

He thumbed through the thick folder, letting the pages zip between his fingers.

"It's all over her psych profile—the one analysis she actually let us perform—she's always been the riskiest of you all. You know why? Because she's an idealist. Ms. Ravzi sees the world as it should be, not as it is. She has grandiose ideas about equality and justice, but neither the patience nor the practicality to understand concepts like compromise. That may sound fine to naïve purists, but trust me, compromise is the one reason this planet is not a giant glowing cinder after the last half century."

His assessment scared me a little because he was so damn correct, more than he even knew. Lyla was almost childlike in her black-and-white view. It was one of the reasons I'd been so taken with her—but when you extrapolated her value set upon the entire world, Tucker's fears looked a lot less paranoid.

"Just think," he continued. "What's to stop her from paying a visit to the president of the United States, thirty or forty senators, and a handful of governors? She's always hated violence—maybe she decides, 'Gosh, we don't need guns anymore, time to ditch the Second Amendment.' Funny, right? Well, the joke's on you, America, because Aphrodite can make it happen."

He paused only long enough to run his fingers through his short hair.

"And I assume you know about her other problem. After she 'releases' someone."

"No," I lied.

"Our scientists call it the 'hangover.' Severe depression with feelings of emptiness and longing. There's an entire section devoted to it," Tucker said while letting a fifty-page chunk of the file ruffle through his fingers. "Since almost every scientist personally experienced the effect, their descriptions were quite detailed. Nauseatingly so." He closed the folder and pushed it aside like a trashy romance novel. "Her control doesn't last forever, and whether she does it on purpose by letting go, or it simply . . . wears off . . . the hangover can be brutal. How do you think our new friend in North Korea will react when the bill finally comes due on what Ms. Ravzi has done? How smart is it to make men with the capacity for global destruction into the equivalent of wounded, heart-stricken teenagers? Is it still funny to you, Mr. McAlister?"

It was so tragically unfunny, I felt nauseous. My initial delight in seeing the all-powerful CIA puppet masters upstaged by a five-foot-six, 120-pound brunette had vanished. Tucker was a complete and utter jackass, but also an intelligent jackass—because he was right. Not about fantasies of Lyla undermining the Constitution or throwing a democracy into turmoil—it took too many people and left far too much to chance. But a totalitarian state was different. Lyla's effect didn't last forever, and no matter how good she was at manipulation, putting nuclear-equipped dictators on the edge of emotional collapse was worse than irresponsible. It was criminal. And Tucker was spot-on when he said she wouldn't stop, because I knew if she was willing to take on the North Koreans, her own birthplace wouldn't be far behind. Her next stop would be Iran, a home she hated—and embracing one person wouldn't be enough this time. She'd need the president, the mullahs, the Ayatollah . . . so many potential problems, each one a fuse that could spontaneously ignite once her power wore off.

Dammit, Lyla, it's so YOU—everything is simple, do the right thing, change the world. No thought beyond the immediate goal, no plan for the future.

A furrowed brow and wandering eyes broadcast my thoughts. Tucker dropped his bluster.

"You know I'm right. I can see it. Scott, I'm not the bad guy here . . . I want what you want," he said.

"Let me guess: a better, safer tomorrow for all Americans. The CIA was always big on that."

He looked like he smelled a skunk.

"I don't give a damn about a safe world, because it will never be. I'll settle for the next-best thing: a predictable one. An active, idealistic Aphrodite makes the world far too unstable to predict anything. Which is why we need you."

I found my chair again and slumped into the seat.

"You want me to stop her," I said quietly.

"Don't be so dramatic. We need you to find her . . . talk to her. She respects your authority, your wisdom—or at least she used to—and that's far more than we have in our pocket right now. Once you achieve contact, make every effort to bring her back into the fold. Ms. Ravzi could be wondrously effective if used in a focused, targeted manner—rather than this 'civilization's Good Samaritan' ridiculousness."

"I hope you're willing to settle for less than that," I said.

"Yes, I can imagine she'd be unwilling to join us again. Trust me, we'd be satisfied if she'd merely abandon her quest, however far-ranging it may be."

"What if I can't find her?"

"Then we'll have to take other measures to solve this problem."

"What kind of measures?" I said, struggling to stop my fists from clenching.

"The kind that offer a zero percent chance of Ms. Ravzi being useful in the future. That's the reason we came to you first. You succeed, everyone wins. You fail, well then . . . we'll still win, but certainly not in an optimal way."

I chuckled. "Terminating Lyla might be a lot harder than you think."

"With all due respect, you are not the only meta-human vulnerable to a sniper rifle."

I couldn't stop from making fists after that. He was right. He knew I'd do whatever I could to find her, if not for the world's sake, then certainly for hers. He'd read the psych and behavioral files well, and knew there was more to me and Lyla than just the bond between teammates—something we'd gone to great pains to conceal. No matter.

"I'll find her. I'll do your detective work and go to her. And I'll try to make her understand what she's doing is wrong—but I won't promise anything. It's very likely she'll take the first opportunity to embrace me, after which you'll have an even bigger problem on your hands."

"A contingency that has been discussed," he replied. "We have every confidence you'll take matters into your own hands if she proves . . . aggressive . . . toward your approach."

"Tucker, I'm gonna say this slow and use tiny words so I know you understand: I won't drop Lyla. Not for a little while, and certainly not for good. Get that thought out of your mind right now."

He pointed to the three folders in front of me.

"Feel free to keep those, they're copies," he said, still holding the one folder he'd neglected to show. He rose from his chair and turned to leave without acknowledging me. "Gentlemen, let's go. Mr. McAlister has work to do." The soldiers behind him snapped to and filed through the shattered doorway. Took three of them to carry Reyes away. I heard a chopper engine whine.

"Goddammit, Tucker, I mean it! I will not kill her, no matter what she does!!" I yelled, angry at being ignored.

He turned back. "We'll leave one of the choppers and a pilot—to be used at your disposal. He'll take you wherever you need. Oh, and I enjoyed your speech about dogs earlier. Entertaining and true, but you know the other thing about dogs? They're wonderful companions, loyal and loving until the end—but when an animal goes bad, there's only one thing a responsible owner can do, isn't there?"

The rotors spooled up and Tucker raised his voice to counter the growing roar.

"Bad dogs get put down, Mr. McAlister. You should know that better than anyone. After all, wouldn't be the first time . . . would it?"

He tipped the fourth folder to his temple in a mock salute before slipping through the doorway, leaving me fuming in the wreckage of what had started off as a beautiful day.

—

Thirty-six minutes.

Found her in just over a half hour, and I was surprised it took that long. Of course, my guess was that the CIA probably wouldn't have sent her an email simply asking. She'd used four different addresses back when we were part of the team, and all of them were still in my laptop even though they'd sat unused for five years. I copied all into a single email, a message with only one word . . .

WHERE?

. . . and waited. Used the time to clean up the mess from the doorway—even replaced the doorjamb with the help of a nervous chopper pilot who somehow believed he'd be rendered unconscious if he didn't assist. The door still wouldn't close right. Damn government owed me yet again.

Precisely thirty-six minutes after clicking "Send," I heard the laptop bing with incoming mail. As expected, Lyla's reply was cryptic so only I could interpret it.

BEST FOOD IN SWITZERLAND—745

The words made me smile. I wasn't an idiot—I knew full well the NSA monitored my Internet link and read her email at the exact same moment—but it would do them no good. I told the kid to fire up the helicopter and log a flight plan to Denver International Airport.

I didn't bother sending a response. She knew I'd come.

For no particular reason other than I wanted to, I dressed the part. The leather-bound chest was beaten and old, heavier than I remembered. I removed it from the attic and threw it on my bed. Once opened, it revealed the wrappings of an old life: the ankle-length black duster, the long-sleeved body armor with subtle stitch holes across the chest where a missing capital P had once been sewn, and shiny combat boots with a few tricks hidden in each sole. I left the tight-woven pants in the case—the gold bands down the sides looked badass in publicity shots, but in real life that comic-book crap just seemed ridiculous. My black jeans would have to suffice. The duster might have been part of Knockout's signature "look" also but it was too important to leave behind—tough, thick leather and lined with Kevlar—and let's face it, a duster didn't stand out quite as much as gold-striped hot pants.

Other than the garish pants, only the webbed belt had a burst of color—the buckle with its golden KO in block letters. Seeing the initials made one corner of my mouth curl into a grin. Still, I took a black marker from the kitchen and painstakingly colored over the letters. The object here was low profile, not a comeback tour.

Call me cheesy, but God, it felt good to put everything on. The instant the coat draped over my shoulders I felt more powerful, more in control of my own destiny. After being parked on a beautiful reservation for five years, sometimes it was tough to remember who I actually was . . . but not when the belt clicked around my waist.

I was Scott McAlister, the man who could knock people out with his mind. The goddamn leader of the Protectors.

Time to be a hero.
CHAPTER 4

In my defense, "low profile" seemed like a reasonable expectation.

The United States of America had a vested interest in making sure the Protectors were kept as far from the limelight as possible, and they did their job with relish. Knockout had vanished. I hadn't worn my getup in over half a decade. The CIA cut off all requests for interviews, retrospectives, and the occasional "where are they now?" segment. No one knew where I lived, and even if they did, the reclusive guy sequestered up on the mountain had a fake name and background that could withstand even the closest scrutiny. Combine those efforts with the fruit-fly attention span of the American public, and you can actually convince yourself.

No one remembers.

Then you walk into an airport at rush hour and realize the true nature of the American memory: less than 25 percent of people remember the headlines from last week, but 75 percent can recite entire scenes of The Princess Bride from 1987. Halfway to the ticket counter, I knew there weren't enough black markers in the world to make me low profile. Like a stone thrown into a pond, recognition spread out from me in a circular wave through the crowd. I tried my best to look unaffected, but I enjoyed it. Although everyone may have deeds they wish no one could remember, I don't believe anybody truly wants to be forgotten. Even the TSA guys' mouths dropped a little when I got to security. The titanium plates hidden beneath my Kevlar chest armor set off the detectors, but they waved me through anyway—didn't even need to show my special dispensation card signed by the president. One of the younger guys started to protest, but the old-school supervisor shut him down with "Don't be an idiot."

The flight to Zurich offered the perfect opportunity to strategize. But my thoughts kept drifting to Lyla—from anger and regret about our past, to the excitement of seeing her again, to fear over what she was planning next. It was a relief when we finally touched down, to feel the pressure of time return. I was surprised at how easily the tactical options came then. Not for meeting with Lyla, but for the more immediate goal—ditching the formidable surveillance team waiting for me.

As soon as I got the email about the "best food in Switzerland," I knew fondue was about to show up on a lot of CIA expense reports. We'd had a long, unexplained delay at our New York stop, which reeked of Agency interference—keeping me safely on the tarmac so the pursuit team would be able to beat me to Zurich by a fair margin and make preparations for my arrival. I knew these "preparations" would not be of the warm-and-fuzzy variety. Tucker's sniper insurance policy was unneeded and unwanted. Besides, I wasn't sold on the purity of their motives: they could just as easily decide to clean up two potential liabilities for the price of one if I was unable to dissuade Lyla. She'd anticipated this, which is why she'd given me the clue in the first place.

The food at St. Moritz was indeed billed on the menu as the best food in Switzerland when I'd taken her there almost six years earlier. We'd shared a laugh over the mistranslated phrase while sitting in a hole-in-the-wall restaurant in the middle of London's theater district. Talk all you want about cryptography and algorithms—the best code ever created is a simple inside joke. Lyla knew I'd need a relatively close place to dump my tail, but more important to her, she didn't want it to be down the street from where she was staying. Zurich was less than five hundred miles from London—close enough for me to get to her easily, but far enough away that the CIA wouldn't find her by accident while looking for me. Well, "easily" might be overstating, but at least it would be . . . different.

Okay, who am I kidding? It was fun.

First things first—a trip to the restroom. And yes, I did relieve myself: of the two GPS locators hidden in my clothes. I'd always known about them, but never felt the need to share the knowledge until absolutely necessary. When you deal with government agencies, information conservation is your best friend. The locators were tiny, but cutting-edge—they drew power from ambient signal energy from nearby sources—a cell phone, a microwave, a radio or television—and were effective for years without having to worry about batteries or wires. I removed both but held on to them; might as well let the CIA's technical wizardry work for me, after all.

My walk out of the airport was slow and deliberate. I wanted to make sure I could separate out anyone in the terminal who wasn't a pure-of-heart traveler. It was easier to accomplish in Zurich than in Denver, thankfully, as Europeans apparently have shorter memories than Americans when it comes to celebrity worship. Didn't take long to spot my five shadows—each dressed differently, each a different age and body type—but all given to nagging glances every time I came around pillars or in and out of shops. There would be at least two more outside in vehicles, ready to move as soon as I did, but it'd be impossible to pinpoint them. I went to the taxi stand outside, knowing my best bet was to get on the move.

I had the driver take me to a restaurant—any restaurant—in the city center, so long as it sat toward the end of the Bahnhofstrasse, the main strip. Didn't matter which one, so I told him to pick his favorite. Like all good cabdrivers, he decided on the establishment that probably kicked him back the biggest fee for dropping off tourists, a small noisy place called the Rheinfelder. I took my time paying the tab and figuring the tip, fumbling with my Swiss francs just enough to give the team plenty of opportunity to see where I was going, and watch me walk through the front door. Up until the restaurant entrance, it was vital to keep the spooks close, let them find my rendezvous location, and begin to set up camp. Part of me hoped the team would give me a little credit and assume I'd try to lead them astray, but sadly, overestimating my abilities has never been the Agency's strong suit.

Regardless, once I made it inside the Rheinfelder, the strategy changed. Now it was all about greasy-fast speed: I had to get through and out the back before the team had a chance to lock it down. They'd assume I would get a table and wait, so there wouldn't be any harm in taking five minutes to coordinate the surveillance. Good idea, except I planned on being in the building no longer than thirty seconds. I sliced past tables and made it through the dining room without trouble, ready to drop anyone who lingered in the way. To their credit, the implacable Swiss don't get too upset when hunkered down over a plate of veal. I paused in the kitchen long enough to dump the GPS locators on top of a microwave. If they bought me even five minutes' hesitation, it'd be plenty. Once in the alley out back, I turned and sprinted with everything I had for my real destination, down at the end of the strip.

The Hauptbahnhof train and bus station in central Zurich was possibly the easiest place to get lost in all of Switzerland. Hundreds of departures and arrivals every hour, with thousands of passengers moving in all directions. Those passengers were from every country in Europe, dressed in a wide array of clothing, speaking fifteen different languages. Loudly.

I danced through huddles in the crowd, across the massive marble-floored chamber toward the old-timey status board. Hundreds of people milled underneath the flickering display of arriving and departing trains, eyes searching the numbers, tracks, and times. I only cared about the top line—the next departing train.

Madrid, ten minutes, track nine. Perfect.

Once away from prying eyes, I could redirect to London at my convenience, but for right now, destination was far less important than timing. I needed to be gone, and fast.

Less than three minutes had passed since my sprint through the restaurant, and I imagined the confusion of the surveillance team . . . the likelihood they'd send someone into the Rheinfelder as a spotter, then panic and send agents in all directions. Even a novice field operative would realize the train station was my true objective. My body felt the pressure: pulse rapid, breathing ragged, unable to calm down or move slowly. The suffocating feeling of being chased—a far cry from drinking hot chocolate in a mountain cabin. Funny how much your life can change in less than ten hours.

Forcing myself to gear down to a trot, I made my way along the steps to the long series of departing trains. Track nine was about halfway down the concourse, and there were a number of benches and seats where passengers could wait before boarding. Most of the Madrid travelers were already aboard by the time I made it to the train, but several remained in the concourse, saying their goodbyes or conducting last-minute business.

I noticed a red-faced, well-dressed businessman speaking animated French on his cell phone, sitting on a bench up against the wall. Alone and seated, he made things so wonderfully easy, in spite of my lack of French. I raised my eyebrows and motioned to the seat next to him, asking permission. He acknowledged me with a head bob, and moved over to one side to accommodate. I looked around the immediate vicinity, waited for a moment when no eyes were on us, and dropped him hard.

His hand fell away from his ear, but I was quick enough to nab the phone before it clattered to the cement and drew attention. I draped one arm around his sleeping shoulders to stabilize his upper body and used my free hand to slip the phone back into his jacket pocket, trading it for his ticket to Madrid. I was out of practice, but the exchange was smooth enough. I sat next to him for another minute, every precious second of which was torture, but necessary to allay suspicion if security cameras caught our exchange. A guy sitting quietly next to his buddy with an arm around his shoulders didn't exactly scream robbery. When enough time had passed, I rose and said goodbye to my sleeping friend, patting him on the shoulder before moving down the concrete pier toward the train. I walked all the way down to the front passenger car and boarded there, choosing a rearward-facing window seat. I wanted a nice, unobstructed view of the entire length of the train, just in case the bloodhounds were closer than I thought.

The final minutes before departure were a tension-packed suckfest. My eyes flicked between my watch and the concourse outside the window, back and forth, over and over. When I finally redirected a single glance to the passenger compartment around me, I noticed a young woman in a seat across the aisle, watching me with a wary expression. Only then did I realize how conspicuous I was: a sweating, out-of-breath man staring out the window while obsessively checking his watch. Thus reminded, I worked on slowing my pulse and breathing down to normal—and the young woman worked on sleeping all the way to Madrid. When the departure call came over the intercom, I took one final look out the window before declaring victory. And of course that's when I saw the bloodhound leaping down the steps, taking them three at a time.

Didn't look like a government agent—jeans, sweater, and a brown sport coat—but that was the point. The best ones were chameleons; they blended in and avoided notice. He could have been a computer programmer running to catch a train. Or a college professor scrambling to pick up his arriving fiancée. But luckily even the good ones have tells. He reached up to his naked ear at one point—mouth moving—while dodging pedestrians in the concourse, and that's all I needed to see. Programmers and professors don't communicate with invisible earbud microphones.

Sure enough, he maneuvered through the crowd directly to track nine. I saw him flash an ID to the conductor outside the last car at the far end of the platform, gaining entry only seconds before the train started the slow lurch out of the station. In spite of my glass-half-empty nature, I was pleased. They couldn't know I was on the train; they only suspected. They did the logical thing and sent a runner after the next departure—there wasn't time to check surveillance cameras or talk to witnesses. No doubt other runners were being dispatched to the next few departing trains as well.

The true dilemma would have been if he'd missed the train, or if I'd been forced to drop him on the platform. They'd have no choice but to call ahead to Madrid and have another team waiting for me, at which point I'd have to start all over again. But this turn of events . . . this was an opportunity to make sure I got away clean. I felt a little sorry for the panting bloodhound. If he knew I was on the train, he'd think I was cornered, which could not have been more wrong.

He was trapped with me.
CHAPTER 5

I figured my bloodhound would take a few minutes to calm down and rest before methodically searching the cars. His goal would be to identify me, and then report back—no contact. I, of course, was in the mood for contact, so I repositioned myself in the front car to guarantee some. I sat in the very far end, still facing the rear so I could see him coming. I grabbed a discarded newspaper from the seat next to me and punched a small hole in the middle. When seated, holding the paper just right, I could see the access door at the other end of the car through the hole. Since I was at the extreme end of the car, with nothing beyond me but the engine, the operative couldn't walk past me to sneak a look . . . he'd have to be creative. Sure enough, he didn't disappoint.

It took him less than five minutes to make it all the way through the train to my car. Through the peekaboo hole, I saw him work through the aisle taking care to check every row for potential hideaways or sleepers. For two passengers whose faces were obscured like mine, he stopped and spoke briefly to each one. I saw them lower their papers and produce their tickets, to which he gave a perfunctory smile and nod before moving on. His substitute-conductor bit accomplished the goal with a minimum of fuss. In moments, he made his way to the end of the car: just me and my newspaper and no other passengers within four rows.

"Die Fahrkarte, bitte," he asked. A young voice, the words more of a challenge than request.

I snapped my paper down fast, revealing the broadest smile I could muster.

"Hi! How's it going?"

The look on his face was priceless. I could actually see awareness spread over his features, starting with his eyes. As they made their transition from cups to saucers, his mouth dropped open and issued a quiet exhale loaded with "Holy shit!" His face matched his voice; young, no more than thirty. For an instant, he paused, stupefied—two feet from a rogue asset and no clue what to do. Then his instincts took over, and he immediately made poor decisions. Sliding one foot back and turning sideways into a shooter's stance, he reached across his body with his right arm and drew a Taser from under his sport coat.

He was fast, too. Stupid, but fast. The arm with the Taser almost fully extended before I shut him down. As his unconscious body dropped, his hand involuntarily released the weapon, which sailed right at my face. I managed to catch the Taser but not the shooter. He crumpled to the floor of the train in a heap. No one saw the exchange, but several people heard him drop and craned around and above their seats to take a look. Part of me wished someone actually had witnessed the scene. Yeah, I felt the urge to show off a little. I'd been alone in a cabin for five years. Sue me.

But the smarter part of me knew that any attention was bad attention.

The other ten people in my car got sleepy in a hurry as I stared down at the Taser: the bane of my existence. Although the CIA couldn't know for sure, electricity was my kryptonite. This quiet revelation had been the only productive part of my relationship with Blaster. His childish antic of injecting every handshake with an electric kicker didn't make him popular with anybody, but it messed me up bad. Not sure why, but three weeks tearing through science books gave me a good guess: probably something to do with overloading my synapses and screwing with their electric potentials. Didn't affect the rest of my body any differently than the next person, but even a small static shock took my powers away. The effect lasted only a few minutes, but I had to believe a full-strength Taser would be much, much worse. Maybe even permanent. I had no desire to find out. I removed the cartridge from the barrel and slipped it into my duster pocket.

Threat neutralized, I turned back to the puddle on the floor. I lifted the bloodhound's limp body into the seat directly facing mine, and even took the time to put the empty Taser back into his shoulder holster and buckle his seat belt. Took the liberty of lifting his identification, too, but it was as useful as any Agency-supplied cover.

Stefan Kovac. Republic of Croatia. Right.

The ID read "Croatia" but the guy cussed in American. I also found his CIA-issued mobile phone and tried to access it. As expected, the device was password protected, and would also have heavy encryption locks on any of the data functions. No matter—I would soon know everything I needed from faux-Stefan. I pocketed the phone and reached across the space between our seats. After a few light shakes, he began to stir.

"Good morning, Sunshine," I said.

His confused, blinking look was familiar. It's unusual to have your stream of consciousness interrupted while standing with a weapon, then have it turned back on and find yourself seated and empty-handed. He managed better than most, and it took only moments before his glower returned.

"Sorry about that, but you didn't give me a ton of options," I told him. He remained stone-faced. "All right, let's get started!" I clapped my hands together one time and leaned back in the seat.

"What's your name?"

"Stefan," he said with a smooth accent.

"What's your name, Stefan?"

Again, he only stared back.

"Seriously? The silent treatment? You know who I am, and I know who you are, generally speaking. Does your name really matter that much? Let's at least be civilized. It's not like I stripped you naked and left you in the dining car. Which I could easily do, by the way."

He sighed and his eyes went soft.

"Fine. Rodney," he admitted in pure American English. "I don't get many chances to talk to a superhero, so what the hell." The word superhero dripped with contempt.

"Nice to meet you, Rodney . . . As I'm sure you're aware, my name is Scott. See, not so difficult to be civil, is it?"

I'd discovered over the years that fawning civility accomplished two goals when dealing with intelligence operatives: one, they got more talkative, and two, they got more pissed-off. Both goals suited my purposes.

"Not difficult," he started. "But annoying as hell. Talk all you want, but I'm not gonna tell you anything. You know I was sent to tail you, obviously. You know I've got a job to do, just like you. Nothing personal. Sorry about the Taser, but you surprised me."

I admired his honesty. He hadn't yet mastered the art of talking in circles like an experienced operative. In another ten years he'd sound like Tucker.

"It happens. And yes, I know you're just doing your job, like me. Out of curiosity, do you know what my job happens to be?"

He shook his head.

"Don't need to know, don't care. My job was to find you after your disappearing act at the Rheinfelder, and I did."

"Excellent work, by the way. I was surprised anybody could get to the train in time. Unfortunately, my job—the one you don't care about—is time-sensitive and cannot be accomplished with Agency surveillance in tow."

Rodney was unsympathetic. "It is what it is."

"It is what it is . . . ," I repeated softly. "Truer words are seldom spoken," I admitted, "but they don't change what needs to happen next."

One of his eyebrows perked up. "Oh, really? What would that be?"

"Well, Rodney, here's the deal: the Agency has no idea I'm on this train yet. Heck, I could be on any of fifteen trains leaving Zurich, or maybe a bus. I'm sure they sent a few of your coworkers on similar jaunts. The Agency won't know for sure until you tell them, or until enough time passes with no contact . . . in which case they'll figure I was on the train and disabled you. Then in six hours, the Madrid train station will be crawling with Langley's finest. You can imagine how much this unfortunate attention will slow me down." I reached inside my duster and pulled out his phone. "Your earbud mike was out-of-range two minutes after we left the station, so this is what I assume you'd use to blow the whistle on me. Which brings us to the uncomfortable part of our conversation . . ."

I slipped the phone back inside the duster, placed both elbows on the armrests, and touched my fingertips together in front of my chest.

". . . I'm going to need your password, plus any other codes necessary to send a text message saying I'm not on board."

He reacted as I predicted. A challenging smile followed by a chuckle.

"And you actually think I'm gonna do this? Just give you access and let you fly off the reservation?"

"Rodney, not only do I think you'll do it . . . I know you'll do it. One way or the other." My tone was less civil now.

"And those ways would be?" he scoffed.

"Not to sound all cliché, but the easy way and the hard way. The hard way is difficult and painful, and the easy way is the opposite. Low impact," I promised, neglecting to mention that the hard way would be difficult and painful to me, not him.

Rodney kept smiling, but the prospect of pain made him tense up. His fists balled and his torso pulled the seat belt taut.

"Relax," I said. "No need to do anything impulsive. You can't reach me faster than I can shut you down. Let's be calm."

He leaned back and pretended to relax.

"Me? I'm plenty calm. I don't mean to burst your bubble, but this is not the first time someone sat across from me and threatened me for information." He lifted one leg and crossed it over the other, radiating ambivalence. "And with all due respect, Captain Sleepy, what exactly can you do? Make me well rested? Oh yeah, put me in the dining car with no clothes. Wow. Come on, man, be serious."

I took the opportunity to mirror his pose and relaxed a bit myself.

"Rodney, I like you. You're refreshingly candid and more than a little stupid. It's a welcome mix. I'm sure we have a few minutes before alarm bells go off and your phone starts ringing, so let's play a game."

"Seriously?"

"I've lived alone the last few years. Humor me."

Seeing little reason to abstain, he agreed with a nod.

"What's the most valuable commodity on earth?" I asked.

Staring out the window, he thought for a moment before answering. "Weapons-grade plutonium."

Surprised, I smiled and nodded. "Good answer. Incorrect, but good. If I'd asked for the most expensive commodity, you might have been onto something. But valuable? I think you're wrong."

"Okay, smart guy, tell me what's more valuable," Rodney said in challenge while crossing his arms.

"Oh, no question about it—the most valuable commodity on earth is time."

He rolled his eyes. "Holy crap, you sound like a freaking greeting card."

"No, no . . . hear me out. There's an easy way to prove it. How old are you?"

"I'm thirty-two."

"Thirty-two? I would've figured you for twenty-six, maybe twenty-seven. You're aging well. You married, Rodney?"

He squinted, trying to see my angle. "No. Why?"

"You want to be one day, yes?"

"Don't see how that's relevant, but yeah," he muttered.

"Of course you do. Young agent, in great shape, prime of your life . . . looking forward to meeting the girl, settling down, the whole American Dream. All in good time, of course. When you're done chasing down assholes like me, obviously."

"Obviously," he agreed. More wary now.

"What if I told you in the same way you close your eyes at night and go to bed looking forward to the next day, your eyes could be shut longer? A lot longer. What if one minute you're right there—in your seat looking at me—and your thirty-two-year-old eyes close, but when they open again, you're forty-two?"

Rodney frowned.

"Think about it," I continued. "In literally the blink of an eye, ten years gone. The ten years you would have met your girl, started a family, built a career . . . and then—"

I snapped my fingers together.

"Just like that, all of those dreams become . . . well, dreams, I guess. Or what if you shut your eyes right now and"—snap—"you were fifty-two instead of thirty-two? In a coma for twenty years . . . can you imagine?"

The color drained from his face. I let it sink in for a few seconds.

"Now, getting back to my point . . . let's say you had a pound of that expensive weapons-grade plutonium, right there in your pocket, and I asked you to trade. Exchange the plutonium for twenty years of your life. Is that a trade you'd make? I bet it is. Because now you realize I was right."

I leaned in for effect.

"Nothing is more valuable than time. And Rodney, I'm the guy who can shut your eyes."

As threats go, it was one of my better ones. He looked out the window and his jaw muscles clenched. A good poker face is awfully tough to maintain when the guy across the table has all the chips. When he turned back, I knew he was going to give me what I wanted.

"Christ, man. If this is the easy way, I'd hate to see the hard one," he said.

"Trust me, I don't want that, either. You might not see it right now, but we're on the same side. We both want the same thing, but I need you guys out of the picture when I find her."

"Aphrodite?" he asked.

"You know a little more than you let on . . ."

"A guess. My section chief told me about North Korea. The same section chief that's gonna ream my ass if I let you send that text message."

A little pushback, but halfhearted.

"Rodney, I gotta be honest—you're going to get an ass-chewing either way. The only question you should be asking is: do you want it tomorrow, or ten years from tomorrow?"

I jiggled the phone in front of his face.

"Clock's ticking. I'd rather send the message before they call. Looks better."

He sighed.

"Unlock code is zero-seven-seven-four-three-two."

I typed in the numbers and the phone blinked to life. I was halfway through typing the text when a thought occurred. I fixed eyes on Rodney.

"Just so we're clear: I don't have to be sitting right next to you to turn you into Rip Van Winkle. If I get to Madrid and notice a team after I've left the train, I will assume you've lied to me," I said, voice cold. "I detest liars, Rodney."

His eyes widened and he swallowed. He motioned for the phone.

"You have to put my ID number at the beginning of the text or they'll know I was compromised." His voice was sullen, like a nine-year-old who realizes for the first time the world isn't truly fair. He punched in a string of digits and then even did me the courtesy of typing the message. He handed the phone back and let me approve before hitting SEND.

"All done," I said. Rodney stared up at the ceiling before blowing out a long breath.

"Well, there goes my career," he said.

"I wouldn't worry. You're not the first agent to bargain with me, and the others are still around."

"Great. I feel better already," he said with precisely zero enthusiasm.

He was pissed, and sure to get a first-class dressing-down from his section chief, but he'd live. I slapped my hands down on my thighs and he bolted upright in his seat at the noise.

"Now comes the time for the good news/bad news portion of our program. The good news is you will be well rested when we reach Madrid. The bad news, unfortunately, your rest is mandatory."

Panic flashed over him, which I dismissed with a wave of my hand.

"Don't worry. It's just for the duration of the trip. I swear I won't do anything more . . . so long as I don't run into more of your friends in Madrid."

The nine-year-old answered. "You promise?"

"Yes, Rodney, I do. Trust me—I'm one of the good guys."

We listened to the thrumming of the train against the tracks for a long moment.

"Y'know—if you have to tell people you're the good guy, you're probably not," he said.

I dropped him, and he slumped into his seat. The words stung, but all I could think of was how true they were. Knockout couldn't fall asleep after that, which has to rank pretty high on the universe's Irony Meter. Didn't help to stare at Rodney's snoring body directly across from me.

If you have to tell people you're the good guy, you're probably not.

"It is what it is," I whispered to a train car full of unconscious passengers.

Of course, getting the last word doesn't really have the same punch when no one else can hear it.
CHAPTER 6

Rodney was true to his word—Madrid was busy, but uncluttered by Langley's finest. After disembarking, getting truly gone was just a matter of avoiding security cameras and finding a train to Paris. Once in France, being outside Agency surveillance made travel ridiculously easy. All it took was being polite and asking for a ride to the coast. Well, polite, plus the power to render someone unconscious and borrow their car when polite fails.

Henri didn't seem to mind, plus I left a few euros on the dashboard for his efforts.

A ferry ride to Dover and yet another train to London were all I had left, but over the miles I felt a gradual shift within me, and it wasn't a happy one. It was easy to get involved in all of the CIA nonsense and focus on what needed to be done when I was matched against Agency types. Moving fast, feeling the pursuit, thinking on the run . . . it was invigorating and made me feel sharp—like knocking off five years of accumulated rust.

But after the heat of the chase dissipated, the impending showdown with Lyla loomed large. My initial plan after talking with Tucker had been simple: I'd explain the larger ramifications, she'd understand the danger, and we'd come to an agreement. It had sounded brilliant in my cabin five thousand miles away, but when I came around the corner and stared at the awning over the St. Moritz entrance, I realized distance is a powerful hallucinogen.

I'm seconds away from the most seductive, alluring, amazing woman I've ever known. Which is great, except for the whole "she can turn me into a leather-clad love slave with no more than a glance and a whisper" thing. Oh, and also—she hates me.

I felt my entire body vibrate with nervous energy, and the crazy thing was, I couldn't tell if it was the "I'm on a first date" kind, or the "I'm about to die" kind.

She'd said 7:45 in her email, and I assumed she'd been coming every night since then waiting for me to show. I glanced at my watch: 7:30. No matter. When you have a dinner date with a goddess, it never hurts to be early.

I shook my hands out and took a couple of deep breaths before reaching the door, which almost slammed into me as two patrons exited in a huff. They were complaining about being denied a table—apparently St. Moritz was in big demand tonight—but I entered regardless. The maître d' took only a cursory look in my direction before it was clear that I'd be more fortunate.

"Mr. McAlister! We've been expecting you. Thank you for coming. May I take your coat?"

I shook my head, distracted by the noise from the dining room. A small place, St. Moritz packed about twenty tables in fifteen spots, and every one of them was at capacity. I scanned several and saw no trace of Lyla. I turned back just in time to catch a glimpse of the maître d' twisting the dead bolt on the front door, but played it off as though I hadn't. No reason to throw a fit—locking the door didn't alarm me in the slightest. If anything, it would keep distractions out of the restaurant. His outstretched arm pointed toward the far end of the room.

"Your party is waiting," he said, beckoning me to follow. We carved a serpentine path in and out of the tables, and my eyes focused on each one as we went past. No surreptitious looks, no signs of stress. Every diner involved in conversation or eating, and not one person cast even a glance my way, which should have screamed "red alert," but it didn't.

Because I saw her.

At the worst table in the house, near the kitchen doors, she waited alone. Her eyes locked on to mine and I practically floated the last ten feet to the table. She'd straightened her long black hair, which framed the sides of her face in gleaming curtains. Her skin was exactly the way I'd remembered—perfect, olive, radiant—made even more striking by her simple white dress. The elegant fabric was brilliant in the low light and the thin straps highlighted her slender shoulders. And the eyes—my God, always the eyes—flecks of gold twirled around her pupils. It reminded me of a hypnotist's charm, almost impossible to look away from. Especially if you'd never seen her before. But this wasn't my first time, and the only thing impossible for me not to notice was her mouth—she wasn't smiling. I stopped short of the table and made no movement toward the empty chair facing her.

"Hello, Scott." None of the distinctive purr to her voice. All business.

"Lyla. It's been a long time."

She unlocked her gaze long enough to look me over.

"You even wore your duster. You know, I've never felt them appropriate for men under six feet."

"Nice. Leading off with a height joke. I'm five eleven. And a half."

"Look at you, like a picture from years ago. You're exactly the same," she told me. Her voice sounded tired.

"Not exactly."

She raised her hands from beneath a white linen tablecloth and rested them on the surface. A glass of red wine sat on the table in front of her. It looked untested. Another full glass sat in front of my empty chair. She examined her fingernails, distracted or unwilling to look at me.

"Still haunted by the past, I hope," and her mouth finally formed a smile, a cruel one. She was angry, which made two of us.

"Look, this is about bigger things than Crusher . . . ," I began. Her eyes widened and her nostrils flared as her face contorted with rage.

"His name was Carsten!" she hissed. "Carsten Walker. Don't you dare talk about him like he was a comic-book character. He was my friend. He thought he was your friend, too. Until you killed him."

A five-year-old argument, made new again. Just as painful now.

"Wow. Thirty whole seconds before mentioning Carsten. Thank you. That's about twice as long as I thought I'd get," I told her. She geared up for another tirade, and I lifted my arm to point a finger in her direction. Surprised, she shrank back in her chair. "Just listen for one minute . . . ," I started, without recognizing my old habit of extending an arm and pointing at someone before dropping them. As soon as my arm moved, the restaurant changed around me. Conversations—all of them—stopped. I heard a flurry of chairs screech across the wooden floor, plates and silverware clanging, and the distinctive sound of cocking hammers.

Lots of them.

I let the arm continue and had my other one join in, pointing at the ceiling. Taking extreme care, I turned my head to look over my right shoulder. Every single customer, every waiter, and even the courteous maître d', was armed. Revolvers, automatics, and submachine guns of all types, presumably hidden beneath the tables when I'd entered, were leveled in my direction. People near me were crouched on the floor in shooting positions, while people farther away at the front of the restaurant were standing on tables and chairs. It looked like a theater-seating shooting gallery, and I was on the wrong end. I turned back to Lyla. Slowly.

"Jesus. You embraced all of these people?"

She looked a great deal more relaxed now, standing by the kitchen doors outside the line of fire.

"Yes. With your history it felt prudent. Remember how you once told me you couldn't affect more than forty people simultaneously?"

"How many of them are there?"

Lyla smiled. "More than forty."

"Well done. Although unnecessary. I'm not here to hurt you, Lyla. I just want to talk."

She sneered.

" 'I just want to talk'? Do not try that hostage negotiation drivel with me. I'm not some moronic criminal you can manipulate. I'm disappointed you would even try."

"Sorry. Force of habit," I told her, then offered a mean-spirited chuckle.

"What is so funny?"

"You're offended I'm trying to manipulate you. If that's not the pot calling the kettle black, I don't know what is. You've got a room full of mind-controlled people with guns standing here, and you're pissed-off at me? C'mon, even you have to admit that's funny."

Her expression stayed flat. In spite of my jokes, it took everything I had to hold my arms still and belie my nervousness. I don't care how powerful you are, having more than forty guns trained on your back generates many sensations, none of them pleasant. I was an inadvertent sneeze away from looking like shredded cabbage. I needed to ratchet the tension down, and it was useless to say anything directly to Lyla's mob. There was only one person I needed to calm down, so I fell back on the most reliable form of persuasion I know.

"You look wonderful. Better than I remember. Incredible job on the setup . . . none of them looked embraced."

A glint of satisfaction from her eyes.

"Thank you, flatterer. My abilities have changed over the years. I am . . . better . . . now."

"I can tell. Their conversations were so natural, I didn't see any of the old signs. You totally fooled me," I told her.

"Well, I do love making you a fool."

Ouch.

"Happy to oblige, but seriously, could you please ask them to put safeties on or at least lower the guns? They're making me nervous. Even if it sounds like a line, I am only here to talk. Hate me as much as you want, but you know I'm not a liar."

She returned to her seat and stared back at me with those eyes, weighing the decision. My arms were starting to tingle from holding them aloft. Finally, she shrugged.

"Friends, please lower your weapons and engage the safeties. I believe him."

I heard the mob do exactly as she commanded, with zero hesitation. Even so, I didn't lower my arms until I had time to check again over my shoulder. Not only was I no longer a target, but the crowd sat down and resumed dining as though nothing had happened. They looked harmless, as before.

"Very nice. Thank you."

"Like I said, I'm better now."

I rolled out a crick in my neck and said, "So am I." Then I dropped every single person in the building except us.

Glasses and plates crashed against tables and then to the ground. Diners slumped out of their chairs, waiters collapsed to the floor, and the maître d' fell right into a potted plant. Even four guys out of sight in the kitchen went down. I never took my eyes off Lyla. "Honest conversations rarely happen with loaded guns in the room," I said.

She only shook her head.

"So you are stronger now. Why not drop them when they drew their weapons?"

"All those guns, all those fingers wrapped around triggers . . . some of them would have gone off when they fell. Didn't want anyone getting hurt."

Her smile was tinged with sadness.

"Same old Scott. Always worried about the innocent," she whispered.

"Not the same old Lyla, though, is it?"

Her gaze drifted away before answering, and I noticed dark areas under her eyes. She looked exhausted.

"You are correct. I am different." Soft and quiet at first, Lyla sounded like a shy child telling me her age, but when her eyes came back to mine, she had an edge. "I'm not a pawn anymore."

Here we go.

"Like me, you mean."

"You are what you are. If you take offense, perhaps you should wonder why the truth riles you so much," she said. Lyla's ability to make an insult sound regal hadn't waned. God, even without using her powers she had a way of controlling my emotions. Especially when she wanted to piss me off.

"Says the woman whose entire existence is built around making people into pawns. Nice, but I'm nobody's lackey."

"Then you apparently have a very poor memory," she said.

I could feel burning in my cheeks and neck as the anger boiled.

"You wanna hate me because of Carsten—fine. I made the tough choice, and I've had to live with it every goddamn day for the last five years. But don't tell me my memory sucks, because it works just fine. My memory is disgustingly, nauseatingly perfect . . . no matter how hard I try to forget." I wasn't lying. Over the last few years, I was lucky if more than two days went by without me reliving the moment.
CHAPTER 7

I stand in burning, smoky ruins. Sirens and screams from all directions. A broken rotor from a crushed helicopter whines behind me. The bodies of doctors, nurses, and soldiers litter the rubble. Some are dying, most are already gone. The government calls this place a "psychiatric assessment center," but that's just politically correct bullshit. We know what it is—the high-security wing of a mental institution—and we know what it means for one of our own.

It's the end.

Except no one bothered to tell Crusher. He rises up from the wreckage, all seven feet and four hundred pounds of him. His clothes are burned away, courtesy of repeated bolts of lightning from Blaster. Diego used everything he had before collapsing, brilliant sustained blasts of electricity arcing from his fists across the remnants of the building. Millions of volts, hell, maybe billions, and Carsten just laughed. Didn't even bother to throw the tank at him. He just went ahead destroying everything else and waited for Diego to wear himself out.

Carsten looks at me now, and his eyes are scary. I don't know what they see, but it's more than what's really here. Everything a danger, everyone an enemy, monsters and demons all. Sanity is like water pumping out of a hand-cranked well—he's tried so hard to gather it up, claw at it—but it just slips through his fingers and soaks the ground. He starts toward me and I realize how far gone Carsten is. He roars and takes giant steps across the distance. Lyla fights to embrace him, but he can't hear her voice. Doesn't matter—his mind is broken, beyond her power to control. Only one person can stop him and he knows it. I had to drop Carsten multiple times just to get him to the facility, but each time it was harder to do. He FIGHTS me . . . hell, I didn't think it was even possible, but he does. Now, with his rage beyond measure, he closes in on the one demon that can actually harm him.

I reach for him, feeling for the mental button I know will turn Carsten off. It's easy to find, just like everyone else's, but when I press it nothing happens. He pounds through the carnage, not bothering to hurl anything—he wants to finish me up close, kill me in person—he needs to feel my body pull apart at the joints. I like my arms and legs attached, so I don't just press the button—I stab and hold the damn thing down. He feels it now . . . the edge of his consciousness being pulled away . . . and he staggers. I keep right on pushing and pushing, so hard that for the very first time I feel a dull throbbing pain in my own head. He knows he won't make it to me now, so in desperation he bends over and picks up the only lethal object within reach. The steel-plate door may be crumpled, but it weighs more than I do, and it will cut me in half.

That's when I know: it's him or it's me. So I drop the fucking hammer on his button. I scream, he screams; but in the end, Carsten and the door hit the ground at the same time. Everything falls quiet. I don't even hear the sirens or the choppers anymore. I'm aware of only one thing: I'm terrified. Watching Carsten plow through the rubble intent on murder has petrified me, and the only thought pulsing through my brain is I can't let it happen again. Ever. So I keep a death grip on that button. He's already down but I don't care. I keep pressing, pressing, pressing . . . my hand stretched out and straining toward his unconscious body. I'm dimly aware of Lyla touching my arm—soft at first, then insistent, and finally, panicked. She's screaming now, pleading for me to stop. When I finally do, Carsten isn't breathing. I sink to my knees, blinking in disbelief.

I've killed my friend.

As empty and lifeless as I feel in the aftermath, one look at Lyla makes it worse. Through a prism of tears I see her . . . staring at me as she rises from Carsten's body. Those hypnotic eyes tell me everything her voice never will: despair, rage, and pity. I've made an enemy of the only woman I've ever loved.

—

Now, five years later, her eyes are on me again. But this time, it's harder to read them. Oh, trust me, there's still anger . . . but anger I understand. It's the pity I can't take.

"So, you are haunted by the memory of Carsten's murder . . . the price of being the general's assassin has proven too high? I feel so sorry for you. Look at you, the government's little errand boy, sent across an ocean to fix another broken superhero."

"Goddammit, Lyla, enough with the superhero crap. I didn't have orders to kill Carsten. What happened, happened. And I'm not here to 'fix' you, either. If I was"—my eyes looked away on reflex—"I would have done it already."

She leaned back in her chair, but still kept her annoyingly perfect posture. For the moment, she was on defense—so I kept her there.

"I'm going to ask a simple question and I want a direct answer. Do you really believe I killed Carsten because of an order? Do you think I'm an assassin?"

She stared at me, searching my face. Before her lips started moving, I knew she was going to sidestep.

"What I think is: Carsten was special. A jewel unlike any other, as all four of us were. I think you destroyed that jewel and it is now gone from this earth. Do the conditions of such a travesty really matter in the long run?"

Her arms folded to punctuate her rhetorical question.

"It matters to me. I've had a long time to think about that day, y'know. Five years of rewind gets old, but a while back, I stopped cursing my memory because it finally let me see something. I was astonished I'd overlooked it . . . but with all the depression and anger, I guess it was understandable. Just like knowing I was buried under a mountain of guilt probably warms your heart."

A whisper of a smile on her face. "A little."

"Well, when I finally came up for air, guess what I remembered? I wasn't the only one there that day. You were, too."

"A shocking revelation. Yes, I was there, trying to stop Carsten . . . keep him safe. So the government did not just give up and kill him. Like they asked you to do."

"Which I refused."

"Correct. You refused the general in the morning. Then things get uncomfortable and by afternoon you choke the life out of Carsten's helpless body."

"While you stood there and did nothing."

"You know quite well I could not reach him. His . . . mind . . . was . . ." She searched for the word. ". . . chaotic. There was nothing for me to embrace, nothing I could hold on to once his rage began."

Now I had her. I hated myself for going in this direction, but if she hadn't faced the truth yet, it was time. Hell, it was way past time.

"You couldn't stop Carsten. But you could've stopped me," I told her.

Her eyes narrowed.

"You could have embraced me immediately after he fell. Just as I'm sure you planned to that morning while you scowled at the general when he asked me to terminate Carsten. You could have sat me down, made me recite the Pledge of Allegiance, or tap-dance in the rubble. You could have stopped me. They're the two worst words in the English language, but listen to them: could have."

No surprise, no affront registered on her face. She knew. She'd always known.

"But you didn't," I said. "Let me tell you what I think: Carsten was sick. He had been for a very long time, and he was only getting worse. And yeah, I know he wasn't the only one. There are plenty of people out there with invisible demons . . . I get it. But those people can't throw railroad cars at their demons. Their bodies aren't impervious to drugs. News flash, Lyla: the world can't handle a psychotic Superman.

"You wanna blame me . . . you wanna go on thinking you had nothing to do with it? Be my guest. But it doesn't change what happened. I killed Carsten, yeah"—I pointed my finger at her chest—"and you let him die."

I expected her to recoil, if for no other reason than my harsh tone, but her eyes merely drifted to the wine, focusing on the lip of her glass. She said nothing. The silence felt good, but only because I was tired of hearing angry voices. Finally, she spoke.

"Are you happy? Does it feel better to know your burden is shared?"

I told the truth.

"Not even a little bit."
CHAPTER 8

Neither of us was very interested in conversation. We just sat there, two people in a cozy romantic restaurant in London . . . surrounded by bodies, shattered dinnerware, weapons, and worse, our shared guilt and loneliness. A standard dinner date.

It was a solid five minutes before she spoke. "You know, I don't hate you."

"Yeah, well, that makes one of us." I suddenly felt old and tired. The wineglass in front of me drew my attention.

"I could use a drink . . ." As I reached for it, Lyla's hand flashed out and smacked my fingers.

"Hey!"

"Sorry. It's drugged. Just in case." She handed me her own. "This one is safe."

A silly, simple gesture, but it lightened the mood. The wine went down smoothly and the warmth in my chest felt nice. I leaned back and thought about how much I missed Carsten. The big lug could drink an entire barrel of wine (and often did) with absolutely no ill effects. Before I became misty-eyed, though, Lyla reached under the table and pulled up a handbag, her arm buried up to the elbow.

"I have something to show you. I think you'll appreciate it."

Her hand withdrew a piece of paper, folded over twice. I recognized it immediately. The cover shot from Time magazine, our cover shot. Our first exposure to the world as the Protectors, sponsored and endorsed by the United Nations. All in costume, trying to look imposing for the camera. Man, we looked young. Carsten was the only one who actually achieved imposing, but then again, it was easy when you took up half the frame. His spandex overalls looked perpetually ready to rip apart at the seams. Diego, holding his hands out with upturned palms—one of his electrical arcs jumping from one hand to the other. No idea if the camera actually captured the energy or if it was a special effect added later, but damn, it looked cool. Lyla in her Greek goddess toga, pure white against olive skin. The robes never covered as much of her legs as she wanted, but hey, modesty takes a backseat in the public relations business. And the diamond tiara! I couldn't help but smile thinking about how much she'd argued with the design people on that.

Then me, the leader of the Protectors—off to the side in my black duster with the KO belt buckle and the big P on my chest armor. My left hand, outstretched to the camera as if I were about to drop the photographer. Which, trust me, I almost did by the end of the two-hour photo shoot.

God, we argued so much that day about where to stand, what poses to take—a bunch of costumed divas. But strangely, looking at the cover, even though I remembered all the frustration, the jealousy, the arguments—they had no power. Instead, my overwhelming feeling was one of happiness. The cover reminded me of a time when we were all alive, all friends, and the world seemed a great deal warmer. I knew why she kept it with her.

"We were glorious, weren't we?" Lyla asked. The voice was lower, with a vibrating bass I'd never heard before. Her eyes came alive, focused on the page, churning their colors and making me swoon. I was dizzy for a moment, then felt energy pulsating outward from her, hitting me in waves—each one making me feel warm, safe . . . loved. The feeling was overpowering, nothing like I'd experienced before. I craved more—to feel more, to be surrounded by her voice, enveloped by her energy. To feel that warmth—

"Wait . . . Lyla. Wha—what's happening?" I stammered. Her eyes were focused only on the Time cover, lost in her moment of reverie.

"Stop. Lyla, stop . . . you're . . . embracing . . ." And then it no longer mattered. There could be nothing better than this, the two of us here, alone, together again. There was nothing more I could ever want. Just us. Forever.

She looked up, face twisted in concern. Immediately, the pulses cut off like a lead barrier had slammed down between us.

"Scott, I'm sorry! I had no idea! Please, it was not intentional!"

I tried to shake the feeling. My mind was hazy, like coming out of a dream. "Whoa. What the hell?" I said.

"The downside of greater strength," she explained. "When I become emotional, it can initiate without my awareness. I am sorry, my love." She reached across the table and grasped my arm.

My love. For an instant, her old pet name for me was like a warm blanket thrown over my shoulders, a two-word reminder of the happiest time of my life. But that memory died when splashed with cold reality. Five years of exile had shown me the truth behind those words now: we'd never "dated" and Lyla sure as shit never loved me. Hell, I don't know if she'd ever loved anyone. If she even understood what the word meant to other people. For Aphrodite, love wasn't about affection. It was about control.

I yanked my arm away from her grip. "Don't call me that."

Her hand withdrew as if shocked, and she placed it back in her lap, bumping the table on the way down.

"I'm sorry. Force of habit."

It would have felt good to hold on to my anger—make Lyla feel bad for the pain she'd caused me—but the raw intensity of what I'd just experienced wouldn't let me.

"Your power . . . it's different now," I said. "Overwhelming."

She seemed to appreciate the topic change. "It comes at a high price. My brain is hyperactive in all respects. CAT scans of my cerebrum look like firework displays. It feels as though I'm constantly riveted and on alert. I have not slept more than an hour a night in the last three months."

Only then did I recognize the signs of true exhaustion. Beautiful, yes, but the shoulders slumped. The skin beneath her eyes, slightly darker than the rest. Chest heaving with deep breaths, even without visible exertion.

"If your power didn't render one into an unconscious, dreamless coma, I would have contacted Knockout long ago."

She was right—my induced sleep was far from refreshing. No recovery, no REM stage, no deep alpha waves to rest your brain and body. Shutting down someone's consciousness was like hitting the PAUSE button on a DVR.

"One hour per night? How are you even walking around, operating on that little rest? Your 'evolved' power sounds more like a curse."

Her face softened.

"No, you misunderstand. I would not trade my abilities now at any price. They are a gift beyond measure," she said. She looked like a child about to regale me with stories of Santa Claus. "I was clumsy when we knew each other, encouraging slavish devotion for the tiniest of tasks. Like wielding a sledgehammer to press a thumbtack. My evolution has granted me nuance . . . the ability to use only a fraction of my power when I need it."

From a former thumbtack's perspective, the change was intriguing. "Let me get this straight—you've gotten stronger by getting weaker?"

"Strangely enough, yes. I can now influence people to speak or act, yet they feel as though it is their choice to do so. Without requiring them to be in my thrall . . . to feel like a lovesick minion."

My eyes grew wide as I considered the impact of what she described.

"What about the hangover? If you're able to influence without enslaving someone . . ."

A smile reanimated her tired face.

"I do not leave people brokenhearted and bereft of hope—I have no need to release someone unless I've used the full extent of my power."

"And this nuance? Is that what you did in North Korea?"

"Yes."

"How long does it last?" I asked, holding my breath.

"We are about to find out. If I hear saber-rattling coming from the Korean peninsula, I will simply plan another visit."

So easy, so matter-of-fact.

So Lyla.

If what she said was true, it invalidated almost every concern Tucker implanted back in Colorado. The ability to guide an entire region of the world back from the brink, all through subtle manipulation of one key man, with no destabilizing emotional effect—the possibilities were astonishing. The chance to change the world for the better, without endangering herself or others.

Tucker was wrong. Stop her? Hell, I wanted to book her next plane ticket.

"How about you, Knockout? You've grown more powerful as well. Does the government still believe you use pheromones to render people unconscious?"

I smiled at the memory of the squads coming off the helicopter three days ago.

"Amazing, right? I've never dropped anyone wearing a gas mask, so they believe that's how it works. Nice insurance policy on my part."

"Always the wise one," she admitted. "But there's more, isn't there?"

I wasn't quite ready to give away my trump card. Not yet.

"Yeah, but nothing too spectacular. I certainly can't go planet-hopping like Diego."

She stared back, unwilling to take the bait on my topic shift. I thought I saw her eyes start to rotate, so I looked away. A flash of panic hit my brain as I considered possible responses if she decided to push, because nobody could push like Lyla. Then, as if my mental locomotive weren't steaming fast enough, she dropped another bombshell, which threatened to derail the train entirely.

"Do you remember the Time article? The one in the same issue as our cover story?"

I didn't understand at first, but then I remembered. The article about how much money the world's governments spent on defense. The conversations it sparked. The nights spent debating the future. What the world could be like, if only someone had the guts—

My mouth dropped, and my voice, too.

"That's what you're planning to do? You can't be serious. Lyla, they'll kill you," I whispered.

She stared through me.

"They can try. I am quite resourceful."

Behind me, I heard groaning—the telltale sign of Lyla's army coming back to life. Rather than do a blanket drop on all of them again, I wanted some true alone time with Lyla. I had questions to ask, things to consider.

"Do you have somewhere we can go? Just to talk."

For an instant, her face flashed a familiar expression: wrinkled nose, dimples, and a grin that touched her eyes. A look from years ago, when she'd led me by the hand to her room, just to "talk."

But memories like that had a short half-life—and once decay sets in, the shine never comes back.

Lyla must have agreed, because her features melted back into exhaustion. "Come with me, I have access to rooms not far from here," she said without smiling.
CHAPTER 9

She led me back through the kitchen, where dazed cooks and dishwashers were only now beginning to pick themselves off the floor. We reached the back door and she pushed it open with one arm, allowing me to go first into the alley beyond. She looked so sad and tired that I couldn't help but turn to her once the door shut.

"Everything will be fine—we just need to figure some things . . ." And I stopped when I saw her. She was looking over my shoulder in surprise. I wheeled to look at the alley and immediately felt a light thump in my chest. I looked down to see the red tail of a tranquilizer dart, sticking out from my chest plate. The Kevlar and titanium sheet beneath kept my skin untouched, and before I even lifted my head to see where the projectile had come from, a second dart hit two inches to the left of the first, over my heart.

I looked up and saw two gunmen, one on each rooftop bordering the alley, pointing their weapons down on us. Just then, my head erupted, as if microphone feedback was being pumped directly into my brain. The sound forced us to our knees, and only as I ventured a second glance upward did I notice the cylinders slung under the gunmen's rifle barrels: sonic suppression devices. They were the perfect nonlethal weapon in an urban environment, projecting a tight cone of piercing rhythmic wails. Even more perfect for thwarting Lyla's mind-control ability, drowning out her seductive voice and making it impossible to focus.

I channeled the last of my concentration to latch on to the gunmen, and I managed to drop them both at once. Their weapons clattered from the rooftops and the sonic assault halted. Before I could help Lyla to her feet, I sensed movement in the shadows behind a nearby dumpster. I had barely enough time to curse before I took a rifle butt to the jaw and went down hard. My face dragged over slimy cold cobblestones as I tried to lift my upper body off the ground, but to no avail. Muffled shouts of "Get her!" and "Don't look in her eyes!" came from two people streaming past my body to Lyla. From the far end of the alley, I heard brakes squeal and a truck door roll open.

"What is your name, my love?"

Her deep, rich velvet voice filled the air.

I heard a British accent mumble, "Colin," and knew right away that he was hers.

A second voice panicked.

"Hawthorne?! Snap out of it! Grab her now!"

"And you? Tell me your name," was the only response, producing another mumble.

"Thomas."

In spite of the blinding pain in my jaw, I rolled over and finally got a look at them: two men, wearing black tactical garb and carrying assault weapons, slumped in front of her. Her eyes swirled now; Lyla was turning on the power full-force.

"Colin, Thomas . . . please protect us from your colleagues." They turned as one and began walking toward the street, weapons held low. We were lucky Lyla managed to embrace them, because the extreme pain and spotted vision made it impossible for me to focus enough to stand, let alone drop anyone. At least, it seemed lucky at first. As they passed my prone body, I heard Lyla finish her orders.

"Kill them all," she said.

The words were so foreign, I could hardly believe they came from her mouth.

"No!" I croaked.

I raised my hand toward the walking men, fighting to concentrate enough. I couldn't find what I needed in my haze of pain.

"Stop!" I shouted at Lyla. "What are you doing?"

Her stare didn't move from the end of the alley.

"Make them stop! Don't do this . . . don't kill them!"

Colin and Thomas were almost to the street opening now; I could hear their teammates shouting at them—asking what had happened. I took a long, slow inhale and closed my eyes, trying to purge the throbbing from my head. When I blinked them open, I saw Lyla's minions' rifles rise. Now the shouts from their teammates became frantic, and I heard multiple firing bolts being cocked in the distance. I reached out again and marshaled all the strength I had left for one try.

"Let it happen," Lyla hissed, turning to me. "I am tired of being hunted like an animal."

With that one sentence, I not only understood Tucker's fear—I shared it. The anger and hatred in her voice . . . backed by unimaginable power. I had no idea if the CIA's pursuit had created the rage, or if she'd simply "evolved." Either way, I couldn't allow Lyla to murder innocent men.

My mind cleared as I extended outward and this time, I found the mental buttons. I dropped everyone within a hundred feet. Rifles clattered to the cobblestones and metal struck metal as sleeping drivers on the street lost control of their vehicles. Lyla fell into a small heap in the alleyway next to me. I propped myself up against the graffiti-covered wall and put my head in my hands.

Somewhere an ocean away, Tucker was probably laughing.

Asshole.

The bad thing about doing an indiscriminate drop . . . well, there were several of them: property damage, accidents, injuries, and having to carry a 120-pound sack of unconscious rage over my shoulder were the biggies. The good-news list was a helluva lot shorter, but vital: a getaway car was silly-easy to find.

I put Lyla in the back of a running Peugeot whose driver was snoring peacefully at a traffic light just outside the alley. After moving the portly fellow to the passenger side, we were on our way—but not before I'd snagged one of the tactical guy's badges. Wasn't surprised to see the MI5 designation on his ID. Britain's version of the FBI was tasked with finding internal threats to the United Kingdom, while its sexier sister MI6 got all the external, James Bondian glory.

Knowing about MI5 actually made me feel a little better. When the first dart stuck in my Kevlar, my assumption was I'd made some kind of mistake; I hadn't lost my CIA pursuit and I'd inadvertently led them right to Lyla's doorstep. But the CIA would have been prepared for me as well. The sonic suppression strategy and tranquilizer darts were the perfect loadout to capture Aphrodite, not me. Hell, the Brits didn't even know who I was, based on the cavalier way they popped me in the mouth and walked right by without so much as a hello. Somehow they'd tracked and found her, and I was just a spectator who needed to be put down before they took the real target. She'd been fortunate to have a superpowered spectator, too; otherwise she'd have been on her way to a detention cell by now, with a blindfold and gag keeping her powers in check. Somehow I doubted she'd buy that argument when I revived her.

I flipped a look over my shoulder. Even splayed in the backseat like a sock puppet, she maintained an aura of dignity and almost supernatural beauty. I wound my way through the theater district and out toward North London's residential area. The score hadn't changed; I needed a quiet, safe place to talk to Lyla, especially after witnessing her meltdown in the alley. No matter how tempted I was at the idea of her manipulation abilities becoming less dangerous, it really didn't matter if the woman wielding them was more dangerous. Tucker's mission was still the imperative: assess the threat, get her to understand the risks of her actions. But let's be honest, after I heard "Kill them all," any hope for a nice, calm risk assessment seemed like a long shot.

After ten minutes behind the wheel, the shops and bright marquees of the district gave way to row houses with manicured postage-stamp-sized lawns. I found a quiet two-story with a narrow driveway, which suited our needs perfectly. The driveway led back to a small detached garage off the street, so I killed the engine and lights and coasted my way behind the house. Leaving my snoring companions, I did what any self-respecting visitor would do—I walked around front and simply knocked on the door.

An elderly woman with kind eyes and knitted shawl opened the door. She smiled at me, which was a little surprising when you considered my black leather outfit and the way I was standing far too close to the door when she opened it. I had to be, so I could catch her when she dropped, but to her credit I didn't see even an ounce of fear right up until her lights when out. A trusting people, Brits. Kind of like Canadians, but without the irritating optimism. I swept us both inside the foyer and flicked the door closed behind me. There was a couch in a tiny, well-appointed sitting room off to the left, so I laid her down as gently as possible. I moved through the rest of the house with purpose but didn't find anyone else, which meant it was safe to bring Lyla in through the back.
CHAPTER 10

I carried her over the threshold like a sleeping bride, and the irony wasn't lost on me. For years I'd imagined what it would be like—just the two of us, no Agency, no tests—a man and woman enjoying a life together. Of course, that'd been my naïveté talking, or her power. Maybe the combination of both. Now it was my ability keeping her in my arms as we ascended the staircase to the bedroom.

I laid her on top of the quilt and her black hair spread out like a gossamer halo on the pillow, surrounding her perfect face. It was impossible to be this close and not have the old feelings, the ache inside. Couldn't help but wonder—

Do her powers work even when she's unconscious?

Maybe none of these feelings were my own—that was the problem with Lyla. You never really knew if anything you felt was genuine. She was that good. Or that bad, depending on which side of the half-empty, half-full fence you were sitting.

I plopped next to her on the bed and bent over to touch her cheek, nudging her awake. She came out of unconsciousness easier than most, probably because her brain was so amped up to begin with. She blinked, confused for a moment, eyes adjusting to the surroundings. I could see the anger start in a hard squint and then spread to pursed lips. She recoiled from my hand and bolted upright.

"You dropped me!" she growled.

"Didn't have much of a choice, Ms. Kill-Them-All."

"You . . . you violated me!"

"Please put the 'violated' card back in the deck, Mistress of Mind Control. You get no sympathy from me."

Lyla pushed me away with both arms and paced around the unfamiliar setting, arms clasped tightly over her chest.

"Where are we?" she demanded.

"Somewhere safe."

She laughed but it was laced with acid.

"Like the restaurant? You led them right to me."

"Don't get snippy." I threw the ID badge on the bed. "MI5, not CIA. They were tracking you, not me. Apparently you've attracted some government interest all by yourself. Congratulations."

My tone broadcast "raging jerk" a tad stronger than intended, but it felt warranted. Her face twisted in a grimace of anger and frustration.

"Why are you being so foul?"

"Me? Oh, I don't know, maybe seeing you try to slaughter an entire group of law enforcement officers has me a little on edge."

She dismissed me with a wave.

"Don't lord your morality over me. You've been living in a mountain resort while I flee around the globe like a common criminal."

"Boo-freakin'-hoo. I've got news for you—if you kill people, you are a criminal and damn well deserve to be run down. Tell me, is this moral flexibility new, or have you left a trail of corpses for MI5 to follow? Is that how they found you? How many people have you killed, Lyla?"

I didn't want to push so hard, but I had to know.

"Tell me why I shouldn't put you down right now," I said. "Don't you dare try to lie to me, because I'll know. I swear to God, I'll drop your comatose ass at Scotland Yard's doorstep personally."

I was terrified her shoulders would drop and she'd turn away. Instead, my question was met by wide eyes and a gaping mouth.

"No! I have not killed anyone . . . I wouldn't. I . . ."

Her hands rose and shook in frustration, as if she were trying to squeeze an imaginary beach ball in front of her chest. Then the fingers unclenched and relaxation rolled through her shoulders. She took a single deep breath and exhaled like she was trying to expel all of her anger.

"I'm tired. My frustration boiled over. I am sorry."

"Jesus, Lyla. It's not like you just borrowed the car and forgot to put gas in the tank. You would have killed every man on that team if I hadn't been there."

"My remorse has limits. You believe they would not do the same to me if given a chance?"

"They had a chance, in case you weren't paying attention. They used tranquilizer darts."

She sneered. "Yes, so they could transport and imprison me. I would have been an excellent catch. For years, the British have cried about America having unfettered access to us. They knew the United Nations backing was a convenient ploy to declare us an 'international' force. Once I was in their custody, the United Kingdom would have what every country in the world desires: their own pet meta-human."

I shook her off. "I think the CIA would have something to say."

"You think MI5 would even bother to acknowledge they had me? You give them far too much credit."

"They're our allies, Lyla."

"Good Lord, Scott! Are you really that naïve, or just that good at self-deception? Allies, treaties, pacts . . . you think any of that nonsense matters when it comes to us?"

Lyla cocked one hand on her waist and gestured the other between me and her.

"Don't you understand what we are? The CIA, MI5 . . . we're not people to them. We're weapons. Strategic assets. The planet's ultimate nonrenewable resource, because either one of us could alter the balance of power. We're infinitely more valuable than oil, precious metals . . . even uranium. And when we're gone, there will be no one left to replace us."

I raised an eyebrow. "You might be overselling my abilities just a tad," I said, but she didn't bother to acknowledge me. She started pacing the length of the bedroom, getting more wound up with every step.

"So trust me when I tell you the British would not hesitate to keep me all to themselves. And yes, they would be extremely civilized about the entire matter. They would be kind and generous jailers, until they realize I am never going to assist them. Then the polite masks come off and the hypodermic needles come out. If MI5 is feeling especially 'allied' they might be generous enough to pay the shipping costs when they mail my corpse back to the Agency."

I shook my head.

"God, you're a bigger cynic than me. As manipulative and opportunistic as it may be, I don't think the world's quite as evil as you think. The CIA left me alone for almost five years. Hell, the only reason they came to me at all is because you went rogue," I said.

Lyla stopped stalking the room and turned on me, fake sincerity oozing out like blood from a wound.

"Ah yes, your beloved CIA." She spit out each letter with contempt. SEE-EYE-AY. "Defenders of America's place in the world order. Did your red, white, and blue friends bother to tell you why I went off the reservation?"

"No," I told her. "And I never said I loved them. I'm just not convinced they're part of some mustache-twirling cabal bent on world domination."

She brushed my comment away like dog hair on a sweater. With eyes wide in the dim light, her every word was a dagger.

"Your friends in the CIA asked me to go to North Korea, but not to subdue the new despot. They wanted me to embrace him and 'suggest' he walk off a fifth-floor balcony. So much for the U.S. government's mantra of 'We don't assassinate foreign leaders in peacetime.' Comical, yes?"

I frowned, but didn't say anything.

"And do you know what the general said when I brought up that long-standing rule? He told me, 'Wake up, Lyla. There is no peacetime anymore. Modern life is just one long conflict, and it never ends.' I swear to you by all that is holy, those were his exact words. When I did not summon the appropriate level of bloodthirst in response, he had the gall to tell me, 'Besides, if it's suicide, it's not technically an assassination.' And he smiled, Scott. That man had the nerve to smile while he asked me to murder someone."

The fire died in her eyes and she slumped.

"I left the next day and decided to solve the North Korean problem my own way. Condemn if you must, but spare me the platitudes about your virtuous CIA."

I wasn't totally shocked. The Agency does what the Agency does, and sometimes those things need to be nasty. Still, Lyla had endured callous abuse of power in her own country, both before and after she'd left, and it deeply affected how she saw the world. The general should have known better than to rub her face in it.

"I understand your reaction, Lyla," I said, softer. "I really do. But where does it end? You want to keep operating on your own? You intend to change the world one country at a time, and make that old Time magazine article into reality?"

She sat back down on the bed and smoothed the wrinkles from the white fabric on her lap.

"Yes, I believe I will," she said.

Stupid. Arrogant. Now it was my turn to pace.

"So, no more pesky free will. You'll just personally write the destinies of any nation you see fit?"

Her shoulders regained strength and her posture stiffened.

"Nine nations have nuclear weapons, four more will have them soon. Two billion people starve, and the world chokes on its own filth and pollution. To paraphrase my favorite cynic—'Congrats, free will. Job well done.' "

Mocking me didn't help. I channeled all my powers of sarcasm: "But Mighty Aphrodite can change all that, right?"

She jumped up and poked her finger in my chest. "Yes, she can. I will personally tear down the world order if I need to. Countries are meaningless. Governments concerned only with their trivial disagreements, resources they can hoard, clawing up more power at the expense of others."

"It's 'politics,' Lyla. It's been around for millennia—and will be for millennia more."

"Well, I am sick of it. The useless, churning noise. All these petty squabbling mortals," she said.

Hearing the word was bad. Hearing the disdain in her voice was even worse.

"Mortals?!" I shouted. "And you're what now? A god?"

Lyla retreated a step but stood resolute. Her head ascended and she looked down her nose at me.

"Perhaps I am. I have the power of one. Just like you, I have struggled for years trying to understand why, out of seven billion people, this power was bestowed upon me. All four of us asked ourselves the same question, every day. Why would the heavens grant me these abilities? Why not my brother, or my mother, or the girl who lived next door?"

She was right. I'd asked ever since my sixteenth birthday—the day I used my mind to make the family dog fall asleep. I think it's safe to say he was only slightly more surprised than I was. Difference being, he forgot about it as soon as he saw a squirrel. For me, it was only the beginning of the questions.

"Have you ever considered," she said, "that we received these abilities because we are the only ones wise enough to use them the way they were intended?"

"What about Carsten? Was he wise? I think your divine-right theory got blown out of the water the first time he told us demons were putting poison in our scrambled eggs."

"Do not use Carsten to refute me. His was a special case. You and I are of sound mind—"

"Debatable."

"Enough," she said, swiping her hand toward me. "Regardless, the constant questioning and doubt froze me. Made me search for direction, guidance . . . for permission." Both hands flared down to her waist and sat on her hips. "That time is over. Now that I no longer do the bidding of a corrupt, power-mad government, it is time to stop asking and start acting."

"Oh my God," I whispered. "You've lost it."

"Do not speak to me like I am insane!" she roared. Her eyes seemed to rotate for a moment but then stopped. Either I imagined it or she clamped down before her ability spooled up.

"You don't understand! You can't understand," she pled. Her every breath fought through a wall of fatigue and frustration. "I am tired . . . so very tired of this . . . this . . . terminal disease I see all around us. The world suffers a long, drawn-out death, and you would just sit by and watch?! You and your comfortable life, with your idyllic American upbringing. My family is dead—victims of an Iranian government I barely escaped. And now I have the power to make that same government pay. I can make all of them pay for their recklessness. Their cruelty."

Her eyes weren't spinning, but the room sure seemed to be.

"Lyla, please! Listen to yourself ! Gods and mortals and 'make them pay.' You're mixing anger and arrogance and calling it justice. Goddammit, you sound like . . . like . . ."

"What?" she asked.

I stared at the floor. "A villain. A fucking comic-book villain. The kind the Protectors would have fought, if there were any."

She stormed from the room. "Go to hell!" she shouted as she rushed down the steps.

I chased her downstairs and caught her in the darkened hallway before she could reach the front door. I lunged for her arm and she spun around to face me. I half expected her eyes to be in full rotation and to hear the rich contralto voice, but instead I saw tears. Her shoulders shuddered up and down with sobs. I didn't think, I just pulled her tight. She was reluctant at first, but then her arms fell free from between our chests and wrapped around my torso. She squeezed and the sobbing faded.

"Everything is going to be okay," I said, even as my mind raced to figure out if I actually believed my own words.

Lyla was the first to pull back. Her watery eyes were hopeful—almost pleading. Words bubbled up to the surface, bursting from her mouth without the usual formality or control.

"When you emailed, I was at my wits' end. The running, the hiding, feeling totally alone, no matter how many people I had with me. After North Korea it got worse. But now"—and her face brightened—"now you and I can be together! The way we talked about."

I started to shake my head but she gripped me by the shoulders, refusing to let me interrupt.

"Think about it! With the two of us, I won't need to be afraid or alone . . . together we can make the world the way we want it to be. I don't . . . I can't . . . do it alone. I know that now. But we can do anything. It's what we were meant to do, don't you understand? The reason we're here."

All I could think was: This can't be the same woman. The one I'd laughed with, trained with, relied on. I thumbed away a tear from beneath her eye.

"Lyla, please . . ."

"The world will thank us for it! Every country, every person. It's like you always say: we're the good guys. They'll know it in the end."

I couldn't hear any more. My shoulders shrugged her hands off and I pulled away. Her arms remained outstretched, as if begging me to return, but I couldn't—no matter how badly I wanted to.

She was beyond reason. I couldn't help thinking of Carsten at the end.

"If you have to tell people you're the good guy, you're probably not," I said.

Her arms dropped and the hopeful face collapsed with them. She said nothing.

"Come back to America," I begged. "You can stay with me in Colorado. Rest, relax . . . think things through."

Silence. Her brow lower now.

"Don't ruin your life by going on a crusade you have no hope of winning," I said.

Her voice rumbled. "We shall see."

I stepped back farther down the hall. Her face was hidden in shadow. Where I wanted it.

"Lyla, don't do anything"—I almost said "crazy" but stopped myself—"foolish."

"Now who is the one not giving me a choice, Scott? Die quickly fighting a hopeless crusade against the world, or die slowly with you in the mountains?"

She took a step toward me. I still couldn't see her face.

"Don't." More authority in my voice than I felt. I backpedaled a few feet but my heel struck the closet door at the end of the hall. Nowhere left to retreat.

"I do not need to ask you to join me, my love," she said, her voice starting to hum.

My left hand came up.

"Stop. Let's leave the powers out of this."

Another step forward. Her mouth emerged from the shadows first, and her eyes flickered on the edge, swirling faintly. I moved my hand higher to eclipse her eyes, but I could still see her mouth. Her lips glistened.

"I no longer want to be alone. Come, lower your hand and be with me."

The waves started to wash over me, like in the restaurant, but weaker. I wasn't looking directly into her eyes, but her voice . . . the sweetness of it. The words were like golden honey.

With what was left of my free will, I made a rash decision. I flung out my fist and smashed a framed picture hanging on the wall beside me. Shards of glass sliced into my hand, and the pain gave me a precious few seconds to realize how close to oblivion I stood.

She'd never release me. She couldn't. I was questioning her sanity, which was the biggest breach of trust I could possibly make. Without trust, she could never have me at her side—not the real me. We both knew that the only way she'd let me leave this house was as her slave. One look at her eyes and I was done.

In other words, it was time to pull out the big guns.

She took one final step out of the darkness and I closed my eyes. I concentrated until I found her consciousness, the button hanging in the blackness in front of me—but then I went beyond. I'd learned over the last few years that the button wasn't an impenetrable surface; it was a gateway. A gateway I could move through, to explore the other side. As long as I could endure the pain, I could enter someone else's consciousness.

The first time, I'd thought about it as mind reading, but realized later it was a piss-poor description. Reading is passive, like when you read a book: you look, the pages give information, but you give nothing in return. This was like becoming the book, using the paper and ink to breathe. I extended my consciousness toward her and braced myself for the pain. Throbbing at first, it spiked sharp when I opened the gate and ventured inside.

Chaos. Paranoia. Fear.

Her thoughts . . . my thoughts now . . . were scattered, impossible to lock in. In the middle of the storm, I saw a small window into the hallway. My body stood there, hand outstretched, concentrating so hard I could see sweat beading on my own forehead. I heard Lyla's words, separate from her thoughts, but in here, they had no effect on me.

Be mine so I will never be alone again. I give you everything . . . accept it and be loved.

The words bounced and echoed in the space, but underneath them, I heard a deeper murmur. Soft, sinewy, it slithered through my consciousness . . . below the words, underneath the cloud of chaos. Concentrating harder made the snaking, twisting thought coalesce.

Kill me.

Down deep, maybe even below her own train of conscious thought, Lyla wanted to die. I was astonished. Worse, the shock made me lose my connection.

The force of reentering my own consciousness dropped me to my knees. My eyes opened briefly as I collapsed, and I caught a glimpse of her swirling gaze. I squeezed them shut as hard as I could and growled out a long, steady rumble from the bottom of my throat to mask the sound of her voice. Still, the closer she got, the more I risked her strongest influence, pheromones. If I rushed her, tried to be physical in any way, the first time I took a breath would be my last as a free man.

I extended again and put my mental finger on the button . . . gave the tiniest bit of pressure . . . enough to make her woozy.

"Stop! Last warning!" I shouted.

"Drop me now and you had better keep me down," she said, no hint of wooziness in her voice. "When I wake, I won't give you a chance to defend yourself. If you run, I will put my plan into motion . . . governments will pay for hunting me, people will die!"

"You won't do it! I know you, Lyla!!"

She was stepping closer. I could feel the waves intensify, coming at me like sonar pulses of warmth and pleasure. I wanted so badly to give in to them, lay myself bare so I could feel everything.

"You don't know me now! I'm so angry . . ." She began choking on the words. "So filled with hate . . . I need it to stop, or I will hurt people. You saw me in the alley!"

"I won't kill you," I said.

Her voice grew louder, more defiant.

"You'll do what you have to do! You'll save innocent lives . . . protect others. It is who you are!" she roared.

Same old Scott. Always worried about the innocent, she'd said in the restaurant when I'd sat down at her table. Now I realized why she'd allowed me to find her. Not because she missed me, not for curiosity, and not for old times' sake. She brought me to London because locked away in some part of her hyperactive, broken mind rested the most important truth of all. I was the only one who could help her, and if I wasn't willing to do so, God help me, I was the only one who could stop her.

"You're not too far gone," I squeaked before taking in a final gasp of air.

She took her last steps, reached down, and jerked me to my feet. Her arms pistoned me against the closet door at the end of the hall.

"Don't let me become a monster. Do it now! "

I cringed in her grip, eyes pinned shut, craning my neck away from her face. I held my breath and tried to fight her raw power. She spoke once more, and I felt her breath against my face.

"You'll be mine in seconds, my love. Do it of your own free will, or I will embrace you and force you to do it. Kill me and save the world. Last chance."

My finger rested on her mental button.

Aphrodite, the Goddess of Love. Full of hate and ready to set the world on fire.

"Kill me!" she screamed.

I screamed back, pushed the button, and gave her what she wanted.
PART TWO
CHAPTER 11

I know from experience that if you hold someone's consciousness down for five seconds, it doesn't get back up. Funny thing about those seconds—they last a really long time. Part of Fate's twisted sense of humor, I guess: the most important moments in your life tend to move in slow motion. Five interminable seconds between life and death. And no matter how fast reality actually moves, your brain moves quicker.

One second . . .

How many commandments have you broken?

One of my favorite college drinking games. For every one of the Ten Commandments you've broken, the modest punishment was to shotgun a beer. One of the problems with the game (and there were several): if you were a modest offender and had only broken, say, six of the ten, by the time you'd slurped down six beers, you were well fueled and champing at the bit to go break the other four. Not exactly what God had in mind, I'm guessing.

Hell, one of the best parts of the game was to listen to all of the Bud Light scholars try to remember the Ten Commandments, let alone discuss them. A lot of bleary eyes turned to me on those nights for help, not because I was Mr. Religion or anything but mainly because I held my liquor better than most. I'd end up repeating the list five times per game and usually wound up as judge and scorekeeper to boot.

If I take a pen home from work, is that stealing?

One by accident? No. A box of 'em? Yes.

If I bet on Sunday's Dolphins game, but I place the bet on Friday . . .

Yeah, uh, still not keeping the Sabbath holy.

If I tell my boyfriend he's the best lover I've ever had, and he's really not . . .

I think God sees the value of little white lies. And on a side note, you should consider an upgrade . . .

By the end of the game, the whole group is hammered and the scores all look the same. Everybody covets, everybody lies, and nobody always honors their parents. Back then, most of us had cheated on our girlfriends/boyfriends—the college version of adultery—and we sure as hell used the Lord's name in vain when they found out. And during an all-night Organic Chemistry cram session (when you've blown off half the semester's lectures) even the best of us lose faith and question whether there's a God up there listening to our desperate prayers.

But we never had a score higher than nine.

Thou shall not kill. Easiest one to remember, hardest one to break. Little words with gigantic impact, but ironically a quiet one: the words are so sacred, so unassailable that normal people brush them away without thought.

Of COURSE I haven't killed anyone.

The Sixth Commandment is so obvious, it's silly. When the scorekeeper brings it up, you laugh.

Until you break it.

Then you'll be amazed how tough it is to laugh at anything ever again.

Two seconds . . .

Carsten's death—pardon me, Carsten's murder—taught me a lot of things. First, "thou shall not kill" is only four words long. There's no "unless you have a good reason" addendum. No "it's him or me" clause. No matter what justification others try to ascribe, everything still boils down to those four words.

After Carsten died, people went out of their way to convince me it wasn't my fault—God's will, I was just the instrument, it was his time, self-defense, blah-blah-blah. I heard them all perfectly fine, I just didn't listen. I was too busy attaching the lead ball and heavy chain to my ankle—which I proceeded to drag along behind me for the next five years. Another lesson learned: if you're responsible for someone's death, you carry the guilt with you always, like really hideous luggage.

The extra weight pulls on you constantly, plus has a nasty habit of whispering in your ear whenever it wants, instantly transforming good times into bad, and bad ones into nightmares of despair.

Cardinals won the World Series? Congratulations! Murderer.

That cute girl was definitely flirting with you. Think she'd still be interested if she knew you were a killer?

Your dad died? Well, at least he no longer has to deal with the disappointment of having you as a son.

Guilt is like having your worst enemy for a best friend. He walks along beside you all day, every day, and he never shuts up. The passage of time might throw a gag on the little fucker, but he chews his way through it with glee, and he loves giving the finger to all those people who spew the god-awful "Time heals all wounds" nonsense.

I've got news for you, my friends . . . time heals nothing. The reason things don't hurt so bad after a while is that you get used to feeling shitty.

Three . . .

Then after you've spent five years carting around that heavy, miserable son of a bitch, a beautiful woman looks at you with sad eyes and says, "Does it make you feel better to know your burden is shared?" You reply, "Not even a little bit," and it's the worst kind of lie, because you're lying to yourself. It does feel better.

To know the person you loved once upon a time feels the weight, too.

To know you're not alone.

To finally hope—what time can't heal, Lyla just might.

Deep under the murmur of a Swiss restaurant, beneath the sounds of men in body armor, beyond the persistence of your own panicked arguments, you hear a soft click, a chain unlocks, and a lead ball rolls away.

Powerful stuff, self-forgiveness.

Four . . .

I stand in a dark hallway, one second from killing a human being. Again.

The lead ball's rolling back toward me, now the size of a boulder, with jagged spikes like a World War II ocean mine. My old friend Guilt peeks out from behind the metal behemoth and he can barely contain himself. With a smile like the Cheshire Cat, he's holding the manacle at the end of the chain, clicking it open and shut, open and shut. His gleaming eyes tell me all I need to know: I put those shackles on, they're never coming off.

I look at Lyla's unconscious body and consider her threats to enslave me, but they pale next to my gremlin with the big metal ball. I picture myself chained to the mine as it yanks me below the waves. The weight drags my clawing, screaming body down into cold, dark depths, where I finally understand a fundamental truth.

There are worse things than being enslaved.

I never get to five.
CHAPTER 12

Lyla didn't die, thank God, but she didn't wake up, either. She slept, for twenty-seven straight hours.

The first hour was a little tense. Concerned that my efforts might have triggered an unintentional coma, I did a lot of watching and fretting. It wasn't so difficult to believe; this was unexplored territory. With the exception of Carsten, I'd never subjected anyone to a prolonged break in brain function—coming so close to the five-second barrier might have consequences.

Luckily, after an hour of nervous staring I caught the first flickers of movement. Her eyes moved side to side underneath the lids, a telltale sign of REM stage onset. In short, she was dreaming.

After that, my vigil got a lot easier. Her deep slumber even allowed me to take care of some outstanding housekeeping activities. I drove our getaway car a couple of blocks down the street and around the corner before placing the owner back in the driver's seat. After buckling him in, I roused the guy with a couple of hard knocks on his window and explained I found him asleep at the wheel as I strolled past the car. He had more than a few moments of disorientation before thanking me and driving off. I saw his brake lights flash and the car lurch forward in short stutters as he no doubt tried to figure out where the hell he was. The only lasting effect of his missing night would be a strange story to tell his wife and friends.

I couldn't help but whistle on the walk back to the house. Sometimes it's fun to have superpowers.

Before the sun came up a few hours later, it was time to wake our host as well. Just as prim and proper as I hoped she might be, Mrs. Alice Barstow (husband deceased) was forthcoming about herself and surprisingly accepting of my presence, even before I explained the situation.

"Dear boy, you could have just asked to come in, you know," she said from the couch after straightening an afghan over her lap.

I nodded and chuckled. "I guess I'm not accustomed to dealing with agreeable people."

Alice chuffed and adjusted the shawl around her small shoulders. "Welcome to the U.K., then, my young friend. Although not all Englishmen and women are as steadfast as this one," she said, thumbing in her own direction.

"Of that I have no doubt."

"So why does a superhero sweep into my home and render me unconscious?"

I was taken aback. "You know who I am?"

Her eyes sparkled. "Of course, dear. I watched the BBC special like the rest of the country. You're the American who can put people to sleep. I'm only glad you neglected to make my nap permanent!"

"I would never do such a thing," I said, the irony of the last few hours not escaping me. "As for why I'm here, it involves the person who is currently asleep in your master bedroom. I apologize for the intrusion and the inconvenience."

She waved a hand in the air. "Nonsense! It's the most excitement that bedroom's seen since my Edward passed."

My face reddened. "Ma'am, I assure you . . ."

"Ha! So easily flustered, you superhero lot."

Without question, Mrs. Barstow handled forced unconsciousness better than most.

She listened to my predicament and the fact that my guest and I required transportation out of the city, to which she had a solution: borrow her car and be on our way. Since I'd already been leaning in that direction, I expressed my sincere thanks and promised (against her arguments) to compensate her for the favor. I told her there'd be money hidden under the driver's seat when the police found her car. My only request was that she not mention me or my traveling companion when she reported the vehicle stolen. She frowned and slapped my hand, as if to say Silly boy, I would never.

We sat silent for a few moments, as I plotted out the immediate future. The longer I thought, the more limited my options became. I liked her, and she seemed honest, but . . .

My reluctance to open my mouth spoke volumes.

"You don't trust me," she said. A statement, not a question.

"It's not that I don't trust you, Mrs. Barstow . . . it's more like I can't afford for you to have a change of heart. I'll have to put you out for a few hours." I considered potential destinations for a second. "No more than eight. After that, you can call whomever you want, and tell them whatever you'd like."

She took it like a champion. "Well, then, the stakes are quite serious in order to question the word of an old woman, aren't they?"

"They are, ma'am."

She held her head high. "Then do what you must."

"Well hold on just a second. You're not going to the firing squad. Would you like a glass of water first? Or a bathroom visit?"

She glared at me, but there was no malice in her stare.

I raised my hands in surrender. "Hey, just asking!"

Her expression softened. "I'll be fine. I shall lie back and think of England . . . although I assume it won't be as unpleasant as all that?"

I raised an eyebrow. "It wasn't the first time, was it?"

"I suppose not."

She lay on the sofa and positioned a pillow under her head. She exhaled and gave me a beaming smile. "This is the most exciting thing to happen to me in years, you know?"

"Believe it or not, me, too."

"May I ask you a question?" Her voice was much softer now. I nodded. "The telly says you're the master of sleep—can you control people's dreams as well? If so, I would very much like to dream of Edward, if it's not too much trouble."

Her face was so kind, so full of hope, I didn't have the heart to tell her the truth.

"I'll do my best."

She clasped one of my hands between her own wrinkled palms, warm to the touch. "Thank you, dear. And good luck on your adventure."

I raised one of her hands to my lips and kissed the back. The skin was soft and smelled like honeysuckle. "Thank you, Mrs. Barstow."

I dropped her and she immediately fell into a heavy slumber, a smile still on her lined face. I watched her sleeping form for a moment before easing off the couch to check on Lyla. She was as before—sprawled out while in the midst of twitchy-eyed REM sleep.

I yearned to leave her in Mrs. Barstow's bed for as long as she needed, but once again I was starting to detect the far-off baying of sniffing bloodhounds. My dropping an entire city block seemed like a victory at the time, but with benefit of hindsight I was discouraged and irritated. Blanket wipes were a double-edged sword: increased area of effect meant a sacrifice in control—I couldn't determine how long anyone's unconsciousness would last. Most of the victims, MI5 and civilians alike, were probably awake within twenty minutes; others, an hour at most—which meant government spooks were already fanning out, searching. Wouldn't take long for Britain's internal security force to rebound from our alley rendezvous; although my presence came as a surprise then, it wasn't anymore. They'd be looking for Aphrodite and Knockout, and plan accordingly. It also meant I could forget about the airport, trains to Europe, or any other conventional means out of the country. There was only one method available and one direction to point. It was time to put as much distance as possible between us and the city of London.

I carried Lyla and a couple of blankets down to Mrs. Barstow's beaten-up Jaguar and tried to make her as comfortable as possible in the backseat. Then I settled in for the long drive north to Scotland.
CHAPTER 13

Dawn and the M1 highway both arrived clean: no clouds and little traffic to slow us down. Running away might not be a heroic endeavor but in this case it was the right tactical and strategic move. As I wound the Jaguar over rolling hills toward Edinburgh and my worries of MI5 lessened, I started to question what I was running to. More important, every furtive look into the backseat at Lyla's snoring body made me wonder something just as important—the condition of who I was running with. No matter what choices presented themselves over the next few hours, how many of the decisions to be made were still going to be mine? Bottom line: Lyla could wake at any moment, and I could be a lovesick minion five seconds after the fact. With every stolen glance into the backseat, I half expected to see golden swirling eyes peering back at me.

Her eyes never opened, though, and after six hours on the road I rolled through the center of the capital of Scotland with my faculties intact and under my own control. First order of business was to find someplace safe for Lyla, where she could sleep undisturbed for as long as needed. I drove away from Edinburgh proper, with its massive stone fortress atop the sheer cliff face rising out of the town center, and searched for an area beyond the crowded bustle of the main drag, Princes Street.

The outer ring of the city had plenty of bed-and-breakfasts, and before long I rolled up to the Lairg Bed & Breakfast, a gray-stonework three-story that looked quiet and comfy, and, most important, sat on a street offering multiple directions for a quick escape.

I parked on the street and took a moment to crack open the heel compartment of my left boot, silently thanking my own laziness at not cleaning it out when I threw all my gear into the leather trunk five years ago. An emergency bundle of cash, crinkled and curved into a permanent wad, lay waiting. I squeezed the majority of the bills through the neck of my empty soda bottle and stuffed it under the front seat for Mrs. Barstow. When the car was eventually towed, the plate would get linked back to her.

There was enough money left over for lodging, and the man at the desk was so happy to be paid up front, in cash, he didn't even ask to see my ID when I gave him the wad. Yeah, the daily rate was probably a lot less and he pocketed the difference, but hey—can't put a price on privacy. He was even gracious enough to enjoy a ten-minute catnap slumped over the front counter, which meant no one saw Lyla being hefted through the front door and up the steps to our room.

Again, it does not entirely suck to be me.

After tucking her into bed, the fatigue of the past forty-eight hours pounced on my back like a heavy jungle cat—I hadn't had any sleep since the plane ride from the States, and only when movement stopped completely did I realize how much I felt like cooked-over ass. Just then, the proverbial lightbulb went off in my head and I bolted from the room down to the front desk. I shook my helpful money-skimming desk clerk awake and asked him about the nearest Internet café.

Within minutes, I trotted through the front door of Cleopatra, a local coffee shop/computer workstation nirvana, less than a mile from the Lairg. To be honest, I was a little shocked Internet cafés still existed—clearly I'd been prejudiced by the American drive to have broadband access in every home—yet here one was, the rich aroma of coffee counterbalanced by the sharp tang of copy paper from an industrial Xerox machine in the middle of the space. In my excitement I had to ask for a workstation twice—at first I thought the kid at the counter couldn't understand my accent, but realized later it was simply because I was speaking too fast.

I logged on to both WebMD and Wikipedia and read all I could about sleep deprivation. Some I knew already, other pieces I suspected. Quite a bit of the information was worse than I thought: governments employing deprivation as a quasilegal way to soften and interrogate prisoners, idiots pushing the boundaries of human endurance resulting in psychosis, and even extreme examples resulting in fatalities. I knew how shitty I felt from a whopping two days without sleep—but what about Lyla? Three months and never getting more than an hour's worth each night? My God, that was tantamount to torture.

Although I could only guess at the long-term effects of such an extended period, excitement swelled in my chest with every word I read. The symptoms of severe deprivation read like a shopping list of Lyla's behaviors: depression, irritability, paranoia, anger, delusional thoughts. All of them pointed to a singular cause for her mental break, and even better, gave me hope.

If her anger and despondence were no more than symptoms of sleep deprivation, it meant two things: one, she might fundamentally still be the woman I remembered, and two, it wasn't too late. She could be cured . . . she didn't need to be a danger to herself, me, or the world. But my brief surge of optimism depended on the answer to one simple question: what would Lyla be like after getting the sleep her body so desperately craved? The future of the planet literally depended on that one unknown.

I didn't walk back to the bed-and-breakfast. I ran.
CHAPTER 14

Took until nine o'clock the next morning for me to get the answer.

I'd spent the previous night in the overstuffed bedside chair, splitting time between watching Lyla and trying to keep my own brain from succumbing to fatigue—mostly in vain on both counts. By the time my chair was bathed in uncomfortably warm sunshine, I gave up the vigil and staggered into the bathroom to shave and brush my teeth. The toothbrush froze in my paste-coated mouth when I saw Lyla's reflection glide past me in the mirror. I spun in surprise, caught my toothbrush on the doorjamb, and nearly gagged myself to death in what would have been the most pathetic superhero demise of all time.

I half expected Lyla to still be tucked away when I turned to the bed. It was empty, though. I hadn't imagined it. She was making her way, wrapped in the bedsheet, to the French doors that opened onto a small balcony overlooking the cobblestone approach to the Lairg.

"Lyla? Are you . . ."

Just the sight of her made the question die in my throat. She stood at the open doors, peering at row houses across the street. The white sheet entwined her tanned body, falling across her torso like a toga, leaving one shoulder gleaming in the bright sunlight. She was frozen in place like a statue, the folds in the sheet as crisp as chiseled marble. Lyla couldn't have looked more like her namesake unless Cupid himself burst through the doors to hover around her with a bow and arrow.

I'm not sure how long I stood there, but let's be honest, any amount of openmouthed, toothpaste-encrusted gaping is too much. Finally, the spell broke when the statue moved; Lyla's head rotated to one side enough for me to see half her face. The skin, brilliant. The dark circles gone. And the eyes I'd been so afraid of ? No rotation, no angry glare. One corner of her mouth curled in a grin. My hopes rose as she turned fully in my direction; in a word, she looked . . . tranquil.

"How do you feel?" I asked, voice quieter than I expected.

"I-I don't know," she stammered.

"Is that a bad I-don't-know, or a good one?"

The smile spread across her features and long, dark lashes batted over hypnotic eyes. "I am well. So well, I'm having trouble putting the feeling into words."

I blew out a hard exhale. That's a good sign. "You had me worried. In fact, worried might be too weak. Scared shitless is a little closer to the mark."

Lyla turned back to the balcony, surveying the street. "Where are we?"

"Scotland."

"More precisely?"

"Edinburgh."

"For how long did you put me down?"

"You've been unconscious for more than twenty-four hours, but I didn't keep you down. You slept the entire time."

"But you dropped me, yes?" The question drifted over her turned shoulders.

"Yes." I dragged a forearm across my foamy mouth and found a seat on the bed. "How much do you remember?"

She turned back and sat in the chair near the doors, the one I'd spent all night on. She clutched arms around her chest as her eyes wandered the unfamiliar surroundings. Wasn't surprising, given what I'd done to her. Sometimes I forget how invasive the act of shutting someone down really is. Having no control over one's own consciousness . . . the essence of vulnerability. You feel helpless when you know it's coming. And after? Well, I guess violated is an accurate word. Awful, but accurate.

"I remember enough. The alley. The argument . . ." Her voice trailed away.

"You weren't yourself. I think sleep deprivation had a lot to do with it."

Doubt crawled over her expression. "You think or you hope?"

It was about 25 percent think and 75 percent hope, but her expression told me Lyla's mental footing was shaky enough as it was. No need to let honesty chip away more of the foundation.

Keep her calm and relaxed.

"Both, but one thing I know for sure—going months without any REM sleep can gum up the works pretty badly."

It was worth thirty seconds of blinding pain to find out just how much. Reaching out to her mind felt like plunging a long needle into the soft skin between my eyebrows; a shocking jolt when I moved past the threshold, followed by an angry burn, one which transitioned from Ben-Gay to welding-torch intensity in a frightening hurry. The longer I stayed in Lyla's mind, the deeper that needle was gonna slide into my skull, but I had to know just how much of her breakdown was due to her physical state, and how much was mental. Physical I could help with, especially since I knew an extra-hard push could put her to sleep. If Lyla's issues were mental, on the other hand, we were one bad conversation away from being right back in that hallway.

As I moved through the gate into the sea of consciousness beyond, my uncertainty gave way to wonder, then overwhelming relief. The maelstrom of turgid thought was simply . . . gone. The surface of her mind was placid and calm. Not everything was clear—her cognitive patterns were still clouded with uncertainty and a little fear—but fishing below the glassy surface of her thought stream was simple compared to the experience in Mrs. Barstow's hallway. Then, all I could hear were whispers. Now her mental words sounded like they were coming through loudspeakers.

It's as though an obscuring film has peeled back from the surface of my eyes. Colors, sounds, smells—everything so rich and textured now. Is this how it was before? It's been so long, I feel like I'm experiencing everything for the first time. Like I've been reborn—why does Scott look like he's in the middle of a bowel movement?

I looked back through the gateway and saw my own body wound up in a grimace, enduring the spike piercing my forehead. And I'll be damned if it didn't look exactly like I was taking a king-sized shit.

I let go of Lyla's mind, and took a deep breath as the pain cut off. I couldn't tell if the tears welling in my eyes were from agony or relief. Either way, I didn't care because the sane version of Lyla was back.

At least for now.

"What's wrong with you? Are you all right?" Her face showed genuine concern.

I waved her off but couldn't suppress a smile. "A bowel movement? Seriously?"

She paused, uncertain—her brow scrunched up in confusion. "Bowel . . . how . . . how do you know that's what I was thinking?"

"Two pieces of good news. One, I think you're going to be fine. Two, I can read minds. Surprise!" I extended my arms with a flourish and gave her my best magician's "Ta-dah."

Her eyes narrowed to suspicious slits. She readjusted the makeshift toga across her chest. "Then you and I have a great deal to discuss, Professor Xavier. And unless you want to leave this room in nothing but your underwear and clucking like a chicken, I want to know everything."

Lyla may have looked angry, but I didn't have to read her mind to know better.

"I'm happy to tell you anything you want to know," I said and turned to the closet to fetch her white dress. "But over breakfast. We'll find a place nearby. You've slept for more than twenty-four hours . . . you've gotta be starving."

"More thirsty, to be honest," she said, extricating herself from the chair.

I draped the St. Moritz dress over the bed in front of her. "Might want to change."

Lyla sniffed herself and groaned. "I'm repulsive. I need to shower first." She plucked the dress from the bed and moved past to the bathroom.

"Yes. Repulsive. First adjective that comes to mind," I called out after she closed the door.

She replied, but her words got lost in the patter of water.

Probably better that way. Flirting with Lyla, even after five years, was second nature, but I had a stronger imperative, one that hadn't vanished just because I wasn't under imminent threat of embrace.

Observe, assess, decide.

Tucker's voice haunted me almost as much as Lyla's potential psychosis. The CIA wasn't known for its forgiving nature, and they had a helluva long reach. They'd demand more proof than I had right now. And until I got that proof, the best plan was to spirit Lyla away from the Agency and any other prying eyes.

As far as the Goddess of Love went, her astonishing turnaround was more than a couple of steps in the right direction, but I had no idea if it would last. Yeah she seemed fine, but let's be honest: five minutes after he woke up in the morning, Jeffrey Dahmer's mind probably looked like a pastoral meadow, too.

Best to just keep near, watch close, and see whether or not the woman I remembered was still the one running the show.

Lyla seemed fine.

Sitting in the bathroom to give her some privacy to get dressed, take a guess which one of those three words affected me the most.
CHAPTER 15

When you're desperate to feed and water a dehydrated woman in a quiet, semiprivate locale, few places in the world are as accommodating as the United Kingdom. If blindfolded, spun in a circle, and ordered to throw a rock in Scotland, you've got about a 75 percent chance of hitting a pub. We found one nearby called Ryries, and settled near the back, surrounded by dark wood and the smell of char-grilled burgers. Lyla downed three glasses of water and inhaled a plate of smoked salmon before she bothered to ask any questions.

She quizzed me about the sleep deprivation first, then the account of how we wound up in Edinburgh. She nodded in the right places, asked the expected follow-ups, but I could tell it was all preamble. What really intrigued Lyla had nothing to do with her.

"So you can read minds?" Her bemused expression stared over the lip of her fourth glass of mineral water.

"Yup."

"And this is something you felt unnecessary to discuss at St. Moritz?"

"Before I knew you weren't bat-shit crazy? Yeah, probably safer to keep that stuff to myself."

"Does the CIA know?"

"Nope. But they were awfully interested to see if I'd 'evolved.' Apparently Blaster's got them all in an uproar."

She leaned back and shook her head as she stirred the lemon to the bottom of her glass. I felt like I was on the wrong end of an inside joke.

"What?"

"Diego. He always loved the attention," she said.

"Can he really turn himself into energy?"

She nodded. "He can now be an ass at the speed of light."

"They told me he was 'off-world'—made him sound like some sort of galactic voyager."

"Hardly. He just says that so the Agency won't bother to look for him. I doubt he'd have much use for space travel."

"Why?"

"There are no preening nineteen-year-old girls in deep space," she said with a wry smile.

For a moment I mistook disappointment for jealousy. "You and Diego weren't . . ."

"Good Lord, no. I'd sooner date the general. It's just . . . after you left, he was the only person I could talk to. But Carsten . . . his death affected Diego even more than me. He grew cold. Arrogant."

I raised a single eyebrow.

She laughed. "More arrogant."

"I'm surprised you didn't talk him into joining you on your CIA jailbreak. Diego never had much love for being cooped up and told what to do."

"True, but subtlety has never been one of Diego's strong points, and my activities require a certain amount of discretion. Mister Sturm-und-Drang can't sit still long enough to listen to my plans, let alone assist with them."

"So he still works for the Department of Defense, all by himself ?"

"When he sees fit."

"I know Diego—he probably thinks you abandoned him like I did," I said. Felt nice to have some company on Sparky's hate list.

Lyla shook her head. "Sorry, but only one of us at this table has Diego's undying contempt, and it's not me. I check in with him every week, see how he's doing. We're the closest thing to . . ." She paused, searching for the right word. ". . . family . . . either of us has." Her eyes drifted, then refocused on me. "But enough about Diego. You're stalling. Tell me how you came to read people's thoughts."

I ate the last chunk of my burger and made her wait while I chewed. Exasperated, she flopped against the wooden back of the booth, motioning for me to hurry.

"No dramatic awakening," I said when I finished. "Wasn't like the clouds opened and a ray of light shone down."

Lyla pouted. "Disappointing."

"It started with a woman in a diner. A sad woman I noticed in another booth. She was complaining about insomnia to her husband. Made me think about the nature of what I do . . . are some people's consciousness buttons harder to press? Can they get stuck?"

"Interesting. I've never considered it."

"After months of rabid insomnia, I'd imagine that's all you could think about. Anyway, I reached out to her mental button . . . not to press it, just to look. To examine up close. The longer I looked, the closer I got. Eventually, I just popped through to the other side."

"And you could see what she was thinking?"

"More like hear. Almost impossible to detect at first, but I got better over time. Practice, perfect, you know the drill."

The waitress brought me a refill and we paused. When the woman walked away, Lyla leaned over the table and spoke in a hush. "Read her mind. What is she thinking?"

"What am I, a Vegas act? I don't ask you to embrace her and make our meal free, do I? Besides, it's not like dropping someone. Entering a person's mind causes pain."

"To you?"

I nodded. "A lot. Enough that I don't do it unless I have no alternative."

"I'm sorry. I did not realize. That must be frustrating."

The pain wasn't frustrating. Hell, I was thankful for it. The fact that mind reading required total concentration and personal sacrifice meant the power wasn't casual. I could choose when to use it, and it wouldn't overwhelm me. Think about it—how much do you really want to know what people think of you? And an even bigger question—would anyone else want to be around you once they knew what you could do?

Lyla's eyes were full of wonder at the novelty of my ability. But that's the trick about novelty: it wears off. If she didn't know about the eye-splitting pain, eventually she'd be worried I was scanning her brain all the time. Within days, she'd want to be anywhere in the world but next to me. And while I looked at her across the booth—the smile, the eyes focused on mine—I was very interested in keeping Lyla next to me.

When the waitress collected my plate and left the bill, I got a small jolt of panic.

Lyla noticed. "What's wrong?"

"I might actually need you to embrace her for the meal."

"Are you serious?"

I leafed through the last of my emergency cash. "Not really, but we are dangerously short. I've got enough for the bill and maybe a change of clothes for you."

"This is one of my favorites. You don't approve?"

"Oh yes, I approve. Not exactly practical, though. I don't suppose you've hidden cash anywhere on your person?"

"I rarely pay for things."

"Nice," I said, although my tone wasn't. "You realize you've probably gotten hundreds of people fired by doing that? No, we pay our own way from now on."

"Since you mentioned 'from now on,' what exactly is the plan?"

"We talk to the CIA and get them to call off the dogs."

"And if they choose not to?"

"We need to be prepared to run. For that, we need real money. Cash. Credit cards are like sending up emergency flares every time we use them." I scooped up the bill. "Let's get you some non-goddess clothing, then work on finding a more substantial source of money."

"Pray tell, where will we find such a thing?"

I winked. "Oh, I know just the place."
CHAPTER 16

I don't have a gambling problem.

Fear of commitment, problems with authority, trust issues, chronic pessimism—those I have tons of. But gambling? No way. The tough part is it took me seven trips to Vegas and about fifty thousand dollars to figure out I didn't have a problem with gambling. My issue is that you can't call what goes on in most casinos "gambling."

Gamble implies a certain amount of, well, uncertainty—but also fairness. You don't know what's going to happen, so you bet against another guy who also doesn't know what's going to happen. Wagering on the Super Bowl, playing poker, filling out an NCAA basketball bracket: all examples of the noble practice of gambling.

But when you walk in the door of an establishment with bright lights, no clocks, and an army of slot machines, my friend, you are no longer operating in the realm of uncertainty. The pit boss with the alligator grin knows exactly what I mean. He smiles because every game in the place is rigged. He smiles because he understands human nature. Most of all, he smiles because of the powerful ace he's got tucked up his sleeve—a little thing called "math"—and math is one mean motherfucker. You might land one or two decent punches, but going toe-to-toe with the odds is a fifteen-round fight, and math never gets tired. Bottom line: the longer you play, the more money you lose.

Which is really what they should call it: "losing." I have a hunch the marketing people might object: Hey, honey, let's grab dinner at the casino and go losing! But what it lacks in pizzazz, it makes up for in accuracy.

I don't have a problem with gambling. Legalized losing, however? Pisses me off.

And even though Lyla might look at me like I'm a petulant child when I suggest it, I don't suffer a big moral dilemma about stealing from a casino.

We barely made it out of the cab before the eye rolling began. "I should have expected this," Lyla said.

"Don't start. We need money, and casinos have it. It's not my fault this is the easiest way to get a few thousand dollars without ending anyone's career."

We stared across Rutland Street at a beautiful seventeenth-century stone church, steeple piercing blue sky above intricate restored stained-glass windows. A former place of worship, now occupying a spot several rungs lower on the moral ladder.

"Besides, anybody who converts a church into a casino is begging for a karmic enema," I told her.

I reached down and took her hand in mine, a simple gesture made complex by our history. A sideways glance and raised eyebrow were her only responses.

"What?" I said. "We need to look like tourists, not like we're doing surveillance on the place."

Might have been my imagination, but I could have sworn she squeezed a little tighter. For my part, weird as it sounds, just the act of holding her hand made my pulse race and sent a tingle up my vertebrae. Standing on a street corner, praying she enjoyed holding hands as much as I did, hoping she wouldn't be the first to break the bond—God, I was an overthinking eighth-grader again.

Not to be outdone, my inner cynical bastard ran right over to beat the crap out of the junior-high romantic fantasy—whispering "Kill them all" in Lyla's voice with every mental punch.

"Not too big, can't have very much in the way of security personnel," I said, staring at the Livingston Carmel Casino. "Not like in the States."

"How do we want to do this? Embrace a dealer, get them to give me some chips?"

I shook my head. "I think it's probably better you sit this one out."

"Why, pray tell?"

"How long have you been in the United Kingdom now?"

"I'm not sure, more than a week, perhaps two."

"If MI5's been stalking you that long, I'm sure they've circulated your file around the country. Most casinos have facial pattern recognition software—analyzes every single person who walks in the door, then runs the file against a red-flag database. Known felons, cheaters, card counters—if any patron comes back as a match, the software forwards an alert to security."

She scoffed. "The United States government is scared to death of me. I think I can handle a casino security force."

"I have no doubt. But in this case, your file gets a little more priority than a guy cheating at blackjack. The alert would probably bypass the casino staff entirely—MI5 gets a direct feed and in ten minutes, guys with those goddamn sonic things will be all over the place."

I felt her hand quake as she shuddered at the memory.

"But I doubt they've had time to spread the word on me. They'd have to contact the CIA first, ask for my file. With me on the hunt for you, I doubt Tucker and his boys would have any desire to respond quickly."

"Tucker?"

"Yeah. New guy. Met him in Colorado. Douchebag."

"I hate that word."

"Colorado?"

She squeezed my hand for real. "Very funny."

I winced. "Yeah, well, withhold judgment until you meet him."

The side doors of the church now served as the casino's main entrance, and they banged open while we were talking. A young couple staggered out onto the sidewalk—three sheets to the wind before two in the afternoon. His pale, bald head shone in the rare Scottish sunshine. Even from across the street I could see the large gap between his two front teeth in the center of a drunken smile. With his soccer jersey and ripped jeans, he looked like a stereotypical soccer hooligan, ready to start a drunken brawl at the tiniest offense. The only potential problem with brawling would be his size—he was five foot six on his tiptoes, and scrappy only gets you so far when you weigh a buck-fifty. His companion was a pretty brunette, with a too-tight shirt and too-short skirt, both garments competing to see which could reveal more skin. The inebriated couple stumbled to the cab stand in front of the casino.

"Then I suppose it is up to you," Lyla said. "Drop the entire place once you're through the doors?"

"Nah. Only thing I'd be able to do is grab chips from the tables. Actual cash is locked behind cashier windows. Can't shut everybody down unless I have keys to the back room or know the passcodes, if they've got digital locks on everything. And I really don't want to be frisking unconscious security guards for twenty minutes, waiting for the police or MI5 to show up. No, we have to be more subtle than that . . ."

A black cab with fat fenders and suicide doors pulled up to the taxi stand, looking like it was driven right out of the 1940s. The couple commenced drunken negotiations with the driver, but only managed to send the cab speeding away without them, the hooligan yelling "Fuck you, ponce!" in its wake.

"Such a gentleman," Lyla noted.

"You're jealous of her. I understand."

The brunette yanked on her companion's arm, pulling him back onto the curb. "It's your fault, Nathan! You're pissed . . . ," she started, and before she could finish, the hooligan backhanded her straight across the face, hard enough for me to hear the smack from the other side of the street.

"Fuck off, Charlotte! Don't talk back!" He screamed the words as she recoiled from the blow, cradling her face in her hands. He cocked his other arm to hit her again, and even as my own anger overwhelmed the shock of casual violence, Lyla dropped my hand and launched off the curb.

She stalked directly toward the couple, intent on ending the assault her way. I knew that Nathan had a very real chance of finishing the day in a hospital bed, with self-inflicted wounds. And that's if he was lucky, because Lyla could do worse.

I caught up to her only a few feet before she reached them. The hooligan hadn't followed through on the second punch, but he looked angry enough to launch another strike at any moment. For the second time in as many days, I grabbed Lyla by the crook of her elbow and spun her away.

"Waitwaitwait . . . just a second. Don't do anything yet," I begged her. An idea ricocheted around in my brain, formed halfway along my panicked street crossing.

Her eyes were on fire and she spat the words. "That man is going to pay!"

"I know, I know! I couldn't agree more . . . but we can use him. I've got an idea."

Her body faced me, but her head twisted back toward the couple—burning death rays at the hooligan. He shoved the brunette and returned to the cab stand, fuming.

"Do you remember the UN party at Ellis Island? When we wanted privacy?"

If she heard my words, she gave no indication. She was much more intent on the brawling couple, and probably imagining what manner of horrors she could inflict upon Nathan.

"Lyla!" I shook her by the shoulders. "Do you remember Ellis Island? When we needed a distraction?"

She turned back and her face lost the scowl. The memory came to her, and it took only seconds for the smile to start, but it was her scary smile—the one Godzilla gives right before he descends on Tokyo like a fat guy at a dinner buffet.

"Rocky Balboa?" she said.

"Abso-fucking-lutely," I replied.
CHAPTER 17

Five minutes later, a subdued Nathan and I walked through the doors of the Livingston Carmel Casino.

As instructed by Aphrodite, he went in first and paused by the coat check window. Walking toward him, I couldn't help but be impressed by the evolution of Lyla's power, which used to make people seem more like high-functioning vegetables when she turned on the juice. Nathan looked a lot less surly than before we approached him on the street, but for the most part he seemed, well, completely normal. For an abusive scumbag, anyway. I made sure to keep my body turned away while I fiddled with my wallet; no need for any of the folks watching the security cameras to think we were together.

"Hello, Assface," I said when I got within whisper range. "You ready?"

"Aye, guv-nah!" He was way too happy.

"Shhh, idiot! We're not supposed to be together."

His bald head and beady eyes dropped toward the smoke-colored carpet. "Sorry, sir."

"You remember your instructions?"

"Miss Aphrodite says I'm to follow your lead. I do whatever you say, no exceptions."

"Good boy. Now stay here and sit tight . . . I need to have a look around first."

I left him and descended five steps into the sunken gaming floor of the casino. Standard layout: the farther you got from the door, the less profitable the game was for the house. The slot machines near the entrance, video poker next, and in back, my target—the blackjack tables. Each table had row upon row of colored chips, tens of thousands of dollars' worth. Lyla and I didn't need a ton of cash—a couple of thousand would be plenty—which meant I had to somehow find an opening and palm three or four of the five-hundred-British-pound orange chips. Provided I could grab them, get to the cashier window, and exchange them, that'd be the equivalent of almost three thousand U.S. dollars.

Easier said than done, of course. Couldn't just sit down at a table, drop the dealer and other gamblers, then help myself—all the tables were close together, and the other dealers and gamblers around me would certainly notice in a hurry. Not to mention every camera in the place would instantly zoom in on my table, and security would be very interested in the one guy not unconscious in the middle of all the chips.

No, I needed to be invisible for this job, and since I lacked that particular power, I'd have to settle for the real-world version of invisibility: make certain all eyes (both real and electronic) were looking at someone else. As far as security went, it took only a brief extension of my consciousness to "see" where they were; behind the dark wooden door near the restrooms marked MAINTENANCE, I could detect eight different mental buttons in a tight area. Another room close to the cashier windows contained a group of four people, but this room had no door leading to the casino floor. Didn't have to be a rocket scientist to realize this was the counting area. You want the room with all the cash to be as secure as possible, with no way for a thief to access it directly from the casino. If you're designing a security/surveillance room, on the other hand, you need to be damn sure your people can rush to the gaming floor in a hurry if needed. The maintenance door was therefore my focus. I just needed to make sure the distraction cleaned out the entire room, so no eyes were on the cameras.

And that's where Nathan came into the plan.

I circled back to the front and saw him still standing quietly, eyes darting around the room seemingly at random. I ambled up near the coat check, whispering without looking directly at him.

"You see that door across the way, labeled 'Maintenance'?"

"Yeah."

"See the security guy with the walkie-talkie standing just off to the side of the door?"

"Course."

"I'm going to the blackjack table near the back with the blond dealer. When you see me sit down, I want you to walk over there and ask the security guard for the time."

"That's it?"

"No. As soon as he looks down at his wristwatch, I want you to punch him right in the face."

He nodded a little too enthusiastically. "What then?"

"Nothing. Don't hurt any gamblers, and don't run. Just stand there and defend yourself."

Nathan turned and finally showed the eyes of a lovesick minion. "Then Miss Aphrodite will be happy with me, yeah?"

"Oh yes, Nathan. Aphrodite will be very happy," I said, and wow did I mean it.

His gap-toothed smile made me sick to the stomach, but knowing his smile would have a few more gaps in it come morning made the asshole's enthusiasm easier to take.

"Wait until I sit down, then do as I asked. And remember everything Aphrodite told you."

He popped a fist into his open palm and shifted his weight from foot to foot in the throes of nervous energy. "Roight. Ass-kickin', comin' up!"

Nathan was as good as his word—no sooner did my butt hit the seat than he fired away from the coat check area, loping bowlegged toward the security guard, arms swinging in exaggerated half circles as he closed the distance. When the guard noticed his approach, I could see the guy tense up as a wild-eyed hooligan came at him. The man outweighed Nathan by at least sixty pounds, but was unprepared to have a nutjob in a Manchester United jersey stalk right up to his face. He seemed relieved and surprised when Nathan asked for the time, but that was nothing compared to his utter shock when the little man reared back and delivered a haymaker to the guy's jaw.

Security Guard #1 went down in a heap at Nathan's feet, knocked out cold from a single punch. A woman at a slot machine screamed in surprise, and from across the casino, another security guard heard and came running. Nathan stood his ground like I told him, bobbing from side to side, looking like a miniature Golden Gloves contender shadowboxing before a bout. Security Guard #2 slid to a halt right in front of him, drew the metal baton from his belt, and gave the hooligan a final chance to calm down. This gave Nathan just enough time to fire a straight left jab into the larger man's nose, which again put the guard down in one shot.

The hooligan let out a short cry of victory, then stared at his own fists with equal measures surprise and elation. He yelled, "Who's next, ya cunts?!" at full volume, which I felt earned him a few knocks to the face. I made sure the next guard did not go down on the first punch and let Security Guard #3 tag Nathan in the mouth at least twice before dropping him on the hooligan's first decent hook. The maintenance door opened soon after, and I messed up a little on Guard #4, the first man through the doorway. He went down even though Nathan's wild right uppercut missed the guy's jaw by at least six inches.

In my defense, it's tough to judge punches from forty feet.

By the time I dropped Guard #5 on a weak body blow from Nathan, I was feeling a little guilty. Three more guys through the door swarmed my remote-control Muhammad Ali in a rush, and I let Nathan fend for himself as I turned my attention back to the table.

As expected, nearly everyone—patrons and dealers alike—was enjoying the show. With one exception. The goddamn pit boss was doing exactly what he was supposed to do: keeping his back to the fight, and staring like a wary eagle at all five tables under his watch. He was even muttering, ". . . the tables . . . the tables . . . ," to his dealers, reminding them to tend to their racks. Lucky for me, he was being quiet; not a good idea to let the customers know you think they're a bunch of potential thieves. None of his dealers heard him, and a couple even started moving out of the blackjack pit, trying to get a better look at the festivities. The pit boss's gaze never wavered. He kept rotating his head, looking at every table, every gambler, which was bad. Putting him down would risk another scene, and most likely lead to every gambler in the pit taking advantage like I was planning. If the blackjack area turned into a free-for-all, the casino would simply close the cashier window and not allow anyone to cash in chips until the security tapes could be viewed and logged to determine who stole what.

I heard another yell from behind and turned to see how Nathan was faring without my assistance. Surprisingly, he was not in custody and was still conscious. I caught a glimpse of him firing a kick into a guard's crotch just as two more rammed him into a slot machine. I realized that at the rate the fight was developing, a lockdown might be inevitable, so it was either act now or abort, and I'd put far too much effort into the operation to bail with my hands inches from the money.

I put a gentle "tap" on the pit boss's mental button, just enough to make him woozy. He staggered in place and angled away from my table as he tried to find his bearings. The dealer nearest to him said, "Frank? You all right?" and then had to step close and prop the man up before he fell.

I shot up out of my chair, put a hand on the table to steady myself, and pointed with my other, saying, "Is he okay?" Every head in the pit twisted in the direction of Frank and the dealer.

Commit.

My table hand floated the last six inches, plucked a few orange chips, and slid them to my jeans.

Frank took no more than three seconds, shook his head, then yelled "I'm fine! Mind your racks!" Within five seconds, he was back on sentry duty, totally focused. My plan worked perfectly. No scene, no run on the tables, and I was on my way to the cashier window.

You'd think nothing on earth could distract me from going directly to the cashier, but amazingly, you'd be wrong. When I noticed the force of nature moving along the far side of the casino, taking a direct route toward the brawl, all I could do was stand and marvel.

I immediately dropped the two guards rolling around on the floor with Nathan, who struggled free from the bottom of the pile. He sloughed the guards off like a layer of dead skin and stared in wonder at the surroundings once he gained his feet.

The area by the maintenance door resembled an eight-year-old girl's bedroom floor, except instead of Barbies, the carpet was strewn with Security Guard Ken dolls. Nathan went about methodically counting each unconscious body, no doubt so he could brag on his glorious victory to his buddies. Or at least, he tried to count them, until he saw the monster rising up out of the sunken gaming floor toward him. To be honest, I'm surprised I couldn't feel impact tremors every time the guy took a step. He reminded me of Carsten—had to be at least six and a half feet tall, weighed on the far side of three hundred pounds, and none of those pounds were wasted. He was squeezed into the biggest security uniform they probably made, and it simply didn't have enough fabric to cover all the muscle. People scattered as he approached, but even this security hulk, with his size and power, took pause when he saw Nathan in the middle of literally piles of unconscious bodies.

The hooligan, empowered by his stellar performance against a horde of opponents, didn't seem too worried.

"Oi! You wanna go, big boy? Think you'll do better than your mates here?"

The hulk seemed to mull it over while Nathan did his shadowboxing routine, totally confident he could handle any man who stood against him.

"C'mon!" Nathan dared. "Gimme all ya got!"

Not wanting my little hooligan to be disappointed, I picked that precise moment to wake up the ten security guards lying all around him.

And lemme tell ya, they were pissed.

Nathan's eyes got huge and his hands dropped lower as the crowd of security guards stood and advanced on him in a semicircle, the hulk in lead position. Just before they lunged as one, I heard Nathan whimper, "Hold on now . . . just a minute . . ." It didn't help.

The beating commenced while I was in line at the cashier, and was still technically going on when I walked past on my way to the exit, although by then, the guards' hearts weren't really in it anymore. Sirens approached, and Nathan was a crying mess curled in the fetal position. When I got to the doors, Lyla was waiting just inside the entrance with a look of utter glee on her face.

I snapped at her, "What did I tell you about coming in?"

"I wanted to see this," she said. "It appears Nathan doesn't take punishment as well as he dishes it out."

"Does anyone? C'mon . . . I got the money, let's put some distance between us and those sirens." She didn't move right away . . . I had to physically pull her away to take her gaze off Nathan's broken body.

As we walked briskly toward a taxi stand down at the end of the next block, I said to no one in particular, "His girlfriend, what was her name? Charlotte? Bet she'll be the one who bails him out. Pathetic."

Lyla cackled under her breath. Head down and hands stuffed in jacket pockets, she said, "We had a talk while you boys were gambling. Charlotte now believes any man who lays hands on her needs to be reported to the police immediately."

"Damn, you'd make an excellent therapist."

"Not really. If anyone beats her again, she now believes the appropriate response is to wait until he's asleep and superglue his hands to his penis."

She hailed a cab and slipped inside. I followed, saying, "Not very Goddess-of-Love-ish, y'know."

"As my favorite cynic likes to say . . . sue me."

You'd think requoting my own best lines would make me proud of her, but I wasn't listening.

Later, when I had quiet time to think, I understood why I had trouble concentrating in the aftermath of the Rocky Balboa robbery. I kept focusing on the image of Lyla's face when she saw the results of our operation. Yeah, Nathan got a well-deserved dose of street-level justice, and I'm not ashamed to admit I was satisfied. Aphrodite, though? Entranced, eyes wide, wet lips parted, and a predatory smile scary enough to frighten children . . . made me shudder.

She liked it a little too much.
CHAPTER 18

After currency exchange, our take from the casino was almost four thousand dollars, more than enough travel money if contact with the CIA went south. I didn't plan on things not going well, but it still felt good having the money as backup. We made a brief stop on Princes Street at an electronics store where I snatched up three prepaid cell phones and some battery packs.

We then headed to the Waverley rail station and bought two tickets to London, but not on the express. I wanted to make sure there were several stops along the way. After we tucked into a couple of seats in the emptiest car, I popped a battery pack into one of the burner phones. Once the train rumbled out of the station I started dialing the only number I remembered from my days on the reservation. Lyla's hand rested on mine before I could complete the call.

"Are you sure you want to do this?"

"What? Of course I am . . . I have to tell them you're not the threat they imagine. Why wouldn't I?"

She twisted and leaned in. Her dark eyes searched mine and her hand grasped my forearm with reassuring pressure. No swirling eyes or mesmerizing voice, but my stomach's reaction was an immediate attempt to fight its way up the esophagus and out of my mouth. It was a one-two gut punch to realize she could still have that effect on me.

"We don't have to call them, you know."

Her expression was hopeful, almost pleading . . . like in Mrs. Barstow's hallway, but without all the crazy. My initial impulse was to say whatever I needed to make her stay hopeful, but delusions wouldn't help either one of us.

"Lyla, we have to. You weren't there . . . they were considering sanctioning you. If I don't call, you can guarantee that hit order will get signed off as a double feature, including yours truly," and I thumbed in my own direction. "And I'm too pretty to die."

She fired off a final salvo. "I no longer feel like a paranoid wreck. And with your help, I will finally be able to sleep, every night. We're together, we have enough money to travel . . . we can find a place for ourselves. We don't need the CIA's permission, or anyone else's for that matter."

"Lyla, it's not that simple. They won't just forget about us. And yes, being with me would make running easier—resting, too—but we'd still be fugitives. You want to feel hunted, real or imagined, every single day of your life?"

And of course, the other tiny problem that hadn't stopped playing Whac-A-Mole on my optimism since she'd woken up at the Lairg.

"Besides, up until two days ago, we hadn't spoken in almost five years. Not to mention when we finally did see each other, you turned St. Moritz into a shooting gallery. Now you're ready to run off with me forever? I gave up thinking about forever with you a long time ago."

The moment the words blurted out, I regretted them. But now they were out there, raw and exposed, floating between us. Lyla jerked to face the seatback in front of her, stunned. I stared, waiting for a response. Instead, her hand pulled away.

"Make your call," she said.

"Lyla, I'm sorry, I didn't . . ."

She bolted into the aisle without looking back. "I need to use the restroom."

I watched her zip through the door and out of the passenger car, much faster than necessary.

"Asshole," I grumbled, and I sure as hell wasn't talking to her.

The only beneficial part of our conversation was it put me in the perfect mood to talk to the CIA.

—

"Central Intelligence Agency, how may I direct your call?"

"Hi, I need remote authentication, access to—"

"Sir, this is the main switchboard, I have no idea what that means."

"Okay, then just transfer me to Special Projects, please."

"I'm sorry, sir, there is no department by that name."

"Well, there was five years ago."

"I'm sorry, sir. Is there a different department you'd like me to direct you to?"

"Ah, how about a specific name? Last name, Tucker."

"That's all you have?"

"Yup."

"Sir, my directory shows twenty-seven different listings for that name."

"Arrgh. How about Reyes?"

"Twelve listings."

"Jesus Christ."

"No listings."

"Funny. Gimme whatever division General Barrington runs."

"Sir, I'm not familiar with that name. The CIA is not part of the military, it's a civilian agency that reports to the director of intelli—"

"Oh, for God's sake, don't read me the fucking mission statement. How much stuff can change in five years?"

"Well, I was in high school five years ago, sir, so I wouldn't know—"

"Holy shit, please stop. My name is Scott McAlister. I'm better known as Knockout and I was a field operative in Special Projects. They made comic books and TV shows about me. Look it up on Wikipedia. I need to talk to someone other than a smart-ass operator."

(five second pause)

"Please hold."

—

It takes roughly forty-five seconds to identify the location of a cell phone in the United States. To triangulate a cell phone without GPS, more like three minutes. A non-GPS phone in a foreign country? Roughly eight minutes. I was on hold for eight and a half. A different operator finally picked up the line, and this one was a little more on the ball.

"Authenticate."

"Holy crap, finally! This is Sierra Mike, one-one-four. Need routing to Tucker in Special Projects."

"Special Projects no longer exists, but I'll get you to Tucker. Hold the line."

After a series of electronic clicks and clatters, and thinking I'd been disconnected twice, his voice finally came on the line.

"Mr. McAlister. How nice of you to call." Sounded like he was talking to a telemarketer.

"Hello, Tucker. You're a difficult man to reach."

"Would have been easier to reach me if you hadn't ditched surveillance in Switzerland."

I laughed. "How is my buddy Rodney? Hopefully his boss wasn't too hard on him."

Tucker sighed. "Agent Templeton has been suspended, but I'm sure he'll recover."

"Good to hear. So . . . how are things?" I made my voice as infuriatingly upbeat as I could.

"Things are simply grand, Mr. McAlister. I'm enjoying the unseasonably warm English summer as we speak."

"And what are you doing in Merry Olde England?"

"I'm currently in between shouting sessions at Thames House in London."

"Aha, and how is MI5 headquarters? Are they angry?"

"I think it's safe to say they are . . . peeved." I could hear jostling of his phone. "Just a second, trying to find a quiet place."

After he had, his tone got 50 percent more serious. "I don't appreciate when my field operatives ditch surveillance, take out entire tactical squads, then vanish."

"Which pisses you off more, my vanishing act, or that MI5 found Lyla all by themselves?"

"They're both high on my list. It's taken three hours of demeaning ass-kissing to talk the director of MI5 down off the cliff. He's a tad miffed, not to mention surprised the U.K.'s biggest ally didn't bother to tell them we had rogue operatives running around his country. Speaking of Ms. Ravzi, what's her status?"

"Alive and well. And substantially less maniacal."

"What?"

"She was suffering from pathological sleep deprivation. Paranoia, high stress, panic. I'm working with her on it."

I heard him breathe a sigh of relief. "So she thinks North Korea was a mistake?"

"Oh, God, no. She still wants to change the world, but she knows there are better ways to do it. In short, she's not the threat the CIA thought she was."

Tucker's voice changed to a whisper.

"We have to meet. The prevailing winds are blowing in a different direction now . . . I need to brief you both."

"Just because Lyla is thinking clearly doesn't mean she's rushing back into the CIA's arms. Consider this a polite 'thanks for the memories' call. She'll leave the global intrigue and parlor games to you guys from now on—and so will I. I just need you to call off the dogs."

Tucker's voice morphed into a hiss. "That is not going to happen, Mr. McAlister. You don't get to run off into the sunset with the girl . . ." He paused for a moment, and when he continued, the voice lost some of its edge. "I'm serious, I need to brief you and Ms. Ravzi as soon as possible. Trust me, she'll be thrilled when she hears what I have to say."

"I doubt it." As I said the words, the door at the far end of the compartment slid open and Lyla appeared. By the time she got back to the seat, her composure was fully restored.

"Look, I'm not going to argue with you," Tucker continued. "People are listening. I'm not on an encrypted phone and I damn well know your line isn't secure. If we don't meet, I won't be able to guarantee anything. Least of all your safety."

"And if we do meet?" Lyla immediately started shaking her head. I covered the mouthpiece and gave her a hard look that radiated a mixture of calm down and back off.

"If you listen to what I have to say and you still want out, I'll support it. No pursuit," Tucker said. God, I wished I could tunnel through the phone and probe the truth behind his bullshit. I could only read him if I stood in front of the man one more time. I took a single look at Lyla, then turned to the window.

"Fine. We'll meet," I said. An exhale of disgust emanated from the seat next to me. I paused, considering. "But we do it my way. Give me your direct cell number." He did, and I dialed it into the burner phone. "I'll call you back in a minute." I heard the beginning of "Wait!" before I punched END. I admit it was pretty satisfying hanging up on him.

One look at Lyla brought an end to my short-lived satisfaction. With arms now tightly folded across her chest, her pout qualified as DEFCON-1. "Really?" was all she said.

"Trust me. The only way I'll know for sure what their plans are is to be face-to-face. It'll be okay, I'll do it alone . . . no way am I putting you anywhere near Tucker."

"That does not make me feel any better."

"Don't worry, tactical thinking is one of my strengths." This resulted in another exhale steeped in disgust. "Hey, I'm not bragging. I've read my own file," I protested, then turned again to the blurred scenery flashing by. Within five minutes, I knew exactly what we were going to do. Took another ten before the train approached the first stop outside Edinburgh, still a good three and a half hours from London. As we slowed, I punched in Tucker's number and kept him on the line barely ten seconds.

"Can you get access to a military helicopter? A Seahawk or something equivalent."

"Yes."

"Be ready tomorrow morning at nine a.m. And make sure the thing's gassed up."

I hung up and transferred his cell number to one of the other burner phones and tucked the original in the seat pocket in front of me, making sure it was still powered on. A disgruntled Lyla and I got off at the stop, went across the tracks, and reboarded a northbound train. If any agency, CIA or MI5 alike, was in the process of tracking my phone, they were more than welcome to pick it up when it arrived at King's Cross station in London.

Me and Lyla? We were headed back to Edinburgh.
CHAPTER 19

Important lesson all men learn at one point in their lives: buying an expensive meal at a trendy restaurant carries absolutely zero guarantee of improving an angry woman's mood. The beneficial corollary to the rule, however, is that such a meal rarely runs the risk of making things worse. That said, Lyla and I went to the trendiest, most expensive place I could find on short notice.

The Ocean Mist—a hundred-foot, glossy white converted warship permanently docked as a floating restaurant along the waterfront in Leith—was the perfect selection. From the outside, she reminded me of a current-day Raquel Welch: older, yet still magnificent. She was built in World War I, a minesweeper whose hunting days ended almost ninety years ago. Not exactly the obvious choice for an elegant dining experience, but if I've learned anything from telepathy, outside appearances can be deceiving.

Once below deck we were surrounded by opulence; booths covered in cream and brown leather, a floor of flawless polished wood, and cool blue lighting tracked all along the periphery of the room at the ceiling. The portholes were the only things reminding us we were actually on a boat. The Ocean Mist was obviously big on the tourism circuit: I heard four different languages spoken by diners as the maître d' led us to a table, which suited my secondary mission objectives, too.

As far as soothing a woman's mood—and another corollary to my original rule—a really nice bottle of wine can't hurt. After a glass of something French, pricey, and impossible for me to pronounce, Lyla unwound enough to have a normal conversation.

"I assume you have a plan to avoid being assassinated by the CIA?"

Okay, so maybe not exactly normal. A surge of panic hit as I judged the distance between us and the surrounding tables.

"Let's keep it down," I said, lowering my voice to a whisper. "No, I don't believe Tucker's trying to draw me into a killing field. If I did, you really think I'd sit you on the sidelines? I'd want you there to watch my back."

"Why not let me come, then, if you're not worried about being terminated."

"Oh, I'm worried—just not about me. I've been a loyal soldier in my cozy retirement cell for most of the last decade. I think Tucker still sees me as an asset. You, on the other hand . . ."

"A rogue element and a liability," Lyla announced. She wore the phrase like a badge of honor.

"Yep. I know you're fine now"—I swallowed back the vomit-surge of doubt—"but my guess is Tucker won't take my word for it. Until the CIA knows for sure, best not to provide any trigger-pulling temptation."

"Agreed, says the woman in danger of being shot." She poured her second glass of wine with a grin.

"And remember, Tucker's got an assignment in mind. Something to give us the opportunity to prove you're not an unstable risk. Not that you'll care, but he said you'd like it."

"Consider the source. I am not hopeful." She swirled her wine under the lights, staring into the murky red.

"Doesn't matter. If we prove you're not a liability, plus do the government a favor, we get to walk away. Hell, even if we pass on the job, he promised no pursuit."

She squinted in the low light. "Do you really believe that?"

"Why wouldn't I? That's exactly what happened five years ago. They left me alone after I . . ." My voice lost momentum.

She leaned back. Carsten's shadow hung over the table for a solid ten-count. Lyla broke the silence with "Fair enough. What is your plan?"

I perked up and leaned forward—couldn't sit still if I tried when it comes to planning. I do love the tactical stuff.

"Well, first of all, sit back and enjoy your dinner. Thanks to the Livingston Carmel, we can even splurge for dessert. Afterward, we're going to work the tourists over there," and I motioned to the crowd of terminally trying-too-hard European hipsters congregated around the black marble bar. "Mingle and find someone traveling tomorrow . . . make sure they have a cell phone."

"And?"

"Aphrodite is going to give them an easy mission. Tell whomever you choose to stand by tomorrow morning and wait for our call. Give them Tucker's number. When we call, they need to relay a text message to Tucker's phone. That's all. Then we rent a car and drive north to Inverness tonight."

Lyla crossed her arms and looked at me, one eyebrow lower than the other.

"You're not going to tell me the whole plan, are you?"

I picked up the wine bottle and poured my own damn glass.

"Where's the fun in that?"

—

"You want me to do what?"

Tucker's voice had a beautiful combination of disbelief and frustration; he sounded like a teenager whose father tells him to mow the yard on a Friday night. Made my morning.

"I want you to fly to the Inverness Golf Club in northern Scotland. Shouldn't take you more than three hours by chopper. Less if you've got a fast one."

"I just got done flying two hours to Belfast in Northern Ireland because of the text message you sent me at nine o'clock! You're not here?"

"No, silly man. Tell your sniper teams and tactical guys to pack up their gear. Oh, and while you're at it, call off whatever dogs you have tracking the phone of the sender. It was a nice woman from Belfast whom Lyla met last night at dinner."

I heard Tucker grumble "Inverness" to someone nearby, presumably his pilot. Voices were muffled, like Tucker put his hand over the phone, but I could still make out the response.

It's a hike, but we've got enough fuel.

He uncovered the mouthpiece. "You understand I have a mission for you, correct? That we're not interested in shooting anyone?"

"Yeah, well, Lyla wasn't a big believer in governmental goodwill before MI5 ambushed her. Do yourself a favor and roll with the punches. I'll come out when I see you get off the helicopter."

"Why a golf course, of all places?" It was more whine than question.

"Because it's wide open, public, and of course my father's favorite reason."

"Which is?"

"Because I said so."

I punched END and gave my best smug expression to Lyla. She was pacing the boat dock next to me, jet-black hair swept up in a ponytail. It bounced against her white sweater with each step.

"Happy with yourself ?" she asked, but the smile betrayed her. She wasn't angry anymore—hell, she loved making the CIA jump through hoops even more than I did.

"Like you need to ask. You hungry? Might as well get some lunch while we wait for him to get to Inverness."

"And I get to hear the rest of the plan?"

"Maybe."

Her eyes flashed golden spirals for an instant. "Do you wish to introduce yourself as 'I'm a pretty, pretty girl' to every person you meet for the next year?"

"You really don't fight fair." I turned and tromped down the wooden planks toward the parking lot. We crunched across fresh gravel to the rental car and I looked at her over the roof as we opened our doors. "You better be nice, or I won't put you to sleep tonight," I said.

Lyla lost some of her enthusiasm for banter. "Scott, I hope we are still breathing by tonight. Sleep is the least of my concerns."

I looked at my watch. In less than two hours, I'd be face-to-face with a man who had no love for either of us, almost unlimited technological resources, and the financial backing of the most powerful government on earth. When he touched down, life was gonna get hectic in a hurry.

Crazy thing was, I couldn't wait. Yeah, my heart was pounding, my breathing was shallow, and I had a creepy dark tickle along my spine. But each breath invigorated rather than drained. The adrenaline buzz making my fingers shake wasn't born only from fear—there was excitement, too. Movement, planning, action . . . being in the world instead of hiding from it.

Retirement, isolation, boredom? Over.

I was alive again.
CHAPTER 20

Lyla got the call when we'd returned to the boat dock after lunch. I was behind the car with the trunk open, making a hasty change into my Kevlar and duster combo without anyone seeing from the road.

"Calvin?" I asked her.

"Yes. He says the helicopter just landed. A man in a naval uniform is waiting near the eighteenth green."

"Nicely done, Calvin. See? Didn't need your fancy mind control for that one. Slipping twenty bucks to a golf course employee works just as well. Time to go."

We walked the long dock that extended out over the dark waters of the lake. When I reached the speedboat and bent down to untie the bowline I noticed she wasn't with me anymore. I turned back to find her a few paces behind, hands thrust into her jeans pockets, wearing a look of genuine concern.

"Be careful, Scott. I know you think you're clever, but this . . . all this," and she motioned to the lake and beyond, "you think of it as a game. They do not."

I tossed the bowline up onto the boat and tried to remember how a confident expression should look. "Have a little faith, will ya? What could possibly go wrong?"

She hugged herself and shivered. The breeze off the lake might have been bracing, but it wasn't that cold. Joking her fears away was no longer an option. I split the distance between us, but couldn't bring myself to go all the way in. Our friendship, relationship, battleship . . . whatever kind of "ship" label you wanted to apply . . . wasn't there yet. Doubt and time have mass and they pile on like lead weights. Makes it tough to move even when you want to.

"Don't worry," was all the reassurance I could come up with. "I'll be back soon. Just be ready to drive like Danica Patrick if you see me coming back balls-to-the-wall."

I boarded the boat and punched the starter. While the motor gurgled to life I made the call. Tucker picked up on the first ring and he wasn't happy.

"Where are you?"

"Just listen. No more games. I'm ten miles southwest of your position, waiting at Castle Urquhart. You have six minutes to get here. Any longer and I'm gone."

With no time to be angry, his voice settled for panicked. "Wait! I don't know where that is . . . how will we . . ."

"Fly southwest. It'll be hard to miss the long narrow body of water . . . castle's on the northern shore, halfway down the length of Loch Ness." I checked my watch. "Five minutes, fifty seconds." I ended the call and tossed the phone in the loch. If Tucker and I were going to talk again, it'd be face-to-face.

I babied the motor and pulled away from the dock, looking across the mile of water separating me from the castle. I'd beat him there by at least three minutes. Once clear of the dock buoy, I opened the throttle and the engine roared. As I left the relative safety of the southern shore, I resisted the urge to look back at Lyla. Wouldn't have done either of us any good.

—

Loch Ness is twenty-three miles long, but less than two miles wide—a deep sliver of a lake filled with peat-clouded water that looked black in the flat light of an overcast sky. Miles of forbidding, ancient trees rose up along its banks and only seemed to grow as I skimmed across the loch. Regardless of whether a prehistoric monster lurked in the deep beneath the boat, one thing was certain: Loch Ness was creepy as hell.

Castle Urquhart only added to the impression. The people who built it couldn't have picked a more central location to survey the loch if they'd had satellite imaging back in the 1200s. The castle's rocky point jutted a hundred yards into the loch at almost its exact middle. Only one tower remained, and it looked like it had been on the receiving end of artillery fire—Urquhart was more ruin than castle at this point. The rest of the site was low rock walls laid out in a figure-eight formation, surrounded by lush green grass.

I tied the boat off at the small dock adjoining the ruins and made my way up the stairs to the largest open area within the outer keep walls. The walls themselves were no more than crumbling collections of rocks with irregular openings spaced along the perimeter. Visitors and tourists milled about the different sections, taking in the panoramic views the castle offered of the loch.

Urquhart was the perfect place to counter an ambush because of one excellent reason: Loch Ness's unusual shape made it impossible to cover our position quickly. There was only one road bordering the loch on the northern side and it wasn't exactly a superhighway. Even if Tucker got on the horn seconds after I hung up on him, no convoy or assault team would be able to make it from Inverness to the castle by land in less than a half hour, let alone the six minutes I'd granted. If they flew in an armed team on another helo, they'd be easy to spot—nowhere to hide in the wide-open valley—and I'd drop the pilot and send the whole chopper into the loch if it came down to that. Finally, once the meeting was over and I retreated across the narrow channel back to Lyla, any pursuer without a boat (and a waiting car on the other side) would have to drive all the way down around the loch's southern edge. Good luck catching Lyla and me when we've got a twenty-five-mile head start.

I checked my watch: two minutes to deadline. Within moments, I'd be able to hear the rotors and it would be game on. Unfortunately, two minutes is more than enough time for shit to go sideways.

"Is that Knockout?"

A tourist—an American, judging from his bright yellow shirt, New York Yankees cap, and bulging gut—pointed at me from an opening in the wall. Two women with him stared along the direction of his raised arm, and within moments three more groups from different areas of the ruins joined them.

"Dammit," I grumbled below my breath. It was my own fault for wearing the duster and not bothering to use a hat or sunglasses. I wanted my gear for the protection it provided, but now I realized it was a huge liability. Curious fans made it impossible to focus on my surroundings, let alone have a discussion with a guy who probably wouldn't mind firing a tranquilizer dart or 5.56 mm bullet in my neck given the opportunity. Obviously I'd given too much thought to the setup, and not enough to Murphy's Law.

I heard the rotors and twisted north to see Tucker coming in heavy. With less than sixty seconds to go, the big U.S. Navy chopper was plowing down the length of the loch, nose dipping within twenty feet of the black water. The wash from the rotor blades blew concentric circles into a large wake trailing behind the fast-moving helo. As if on cue, twenty tourists began the tentative movement that would eventually end with me being completely encircled. When the chopper reached the castle's grounds and pulled up hard to set down for landing, I had few options left.

No choice but to drop every tourist on the knoll.

From the air, my section of Castle Urquhart must have looked like the Jonestown cult on first flyby. People of all shapes, sizes, and garish tourist outfits lay in heaps all around the knoll. Probably minimal injuries, although I couldn't be certain; I hated taking the risk, but didn't have time to dwell on it. I could already feel Tucker preparing a Kool-Aid joke at my expense.

The helicopter set down just outside the keep wall but on slightly higher ground, so I could see the entire chopper above the makeshift rock barrier. The pilot killed the engine, which was a good sign; if Tucker was planning on things getting nasty, he'd want the helo spooled up on low power ready to lift off at a moment's notice. The side door slid open and a familiar duo jumped out and walked down through a gap in the wall. Despite the high pressure and stakes, seeing Reyes in a gas mask was still enough to make me laugh out loud. Tucker wasn't burdened by any anti-Knockout gear, but he was wearing his aviator glasses and a full dress-black navy uniform. The name on his chest tag read FORD. Ford/Tucker walked up the knoll to me while Reyes kept his distance.

"Nice outfit. You're a lieutenant commander in the United States Navy?"

"I am today." He removed the glasses and folded them into a breast pocket. "If you need to appropriate a helicopter from an aircraft carrier, it helps to be in the navy."

"So I'm guessing Ford isn't your real name?"

"No more so than Tucker."

"You guys and your cloak-and-dagger routine." I looked over at his towering companion. "Good to see you, too, Reyes," I called out to the big man. He carried a briefcase handcuffed to his right wrist and was talkative as ever.

"He can speak, right?" I asked Tucker.

"Certainly, however, he's a little angry with you."

"Still upset about Colorado?"

"I'm sure, but even more irritated about today. You interrupted a weekend trip with his new bride."

I caught myself staring at his prodigious size. "God, I hope she's a stout woman."

"Hardly. Quite petite and fetching, if I may be so bold."

I thought Reyes bristled at the commentary, but it could have been my imagination. Tucker looked around the perimeter of the knoll, wandering a few steps with hands in his coat pockets.

"Interesting location. And thank you so much for flying us all over the United Kingdom as a warm-up. The American taxpayers wouldn't approve of the fuel bill you've racked up on their account."

"How many tactical guys did you have to abandon in Belfast?"

He smirked when he turned back. "Fifteen." When I shook my head, he merely shrugged his shoulders. Hey, nature of the beast . . . whaddya gonna do?

"Money well spent, then," I said. "Did you manage to get anyone to the golf course ahead of time?"

"A couple. You know, they weren't a hit squad. They were there for containment. More for your protection than ours. A reminder: MI5 is still hunting the two of you. Leaks happen . . . there's always a chance they could have interrupted our rendezvous."

"Thanks for your concern, but let us worry about the Brits."

"Speaking of 'us,' I take it Ms. Ravzi will not be joining us today?"

I nodded. "Lyla is a little gun-shy at this point. She sends her regrets."

"A shame. I was looking forward to meeting her."

"You really shouldn't. I don't think she's a fan."

With no comeback loaded in the chamber, he only stared back. When I couldn't take the silence any longer, I forged on.

"So things are different at Langley now?"

"Yes. My previous orders to recruit you in collecting Aphrodite came from the section chief of national intelligence. Since then, the North Korea analyst's summary made the bedside reading list of the deputy director himself. Director Shepherd has apparently become a progressive in his advanced years. I blame it on the upcoming nuptials of his granddaughter . . . he wants a safer world for his great-grandchildren, a legacy for the family name, etc." Tucker waved a hand in contempt. "Regardless, to put it in terms you enjoy, Director Shepherd is a fan of Ms. Ravzi's exploits. In fact, he wishes to give her a broader mandate and has ordered us to assist."

"Assist in what, exactly?"

"He wants Ms. Ravzi to go home. To Iran."

My jaw dropped.

"Are you serious?"

"Quite."

"He wants her to embrace who, exactly? The Ayatollah, the mullahs, the president? You'd need all of them to accomplish what she did in North Korea. That's a tall fucking order!"

"Again with the dramatics. Nothing so ambitious. We want to use her talents in her home country, yes, but on a much smaller scale."

"You have no idea what you're asking. Lyla was abused and tortured before she escaped Iran as a teenager. Her family was murdered. Now you want her to go back? Like it's no big deal, like she's popping over to Paris for a day at the spa. Let me answer for her: fuck you."

Tucker dismissed my answer outright. "Stop being childish. You know she'll want to do this. She'd love nothing better than to strike back at the country that killed her family. I'd be shocked if Iran wasn't next on her save-the-world itinerary regardless. You're a sharp tack; think about it."

Oh, I was going to think about it, all right. With his thoughts. I was so pissed-off I didn't care how much it was going to hurt. I let the needle plunge into my forehead and for once, the pain didn't surprise me at all.

Tucker's mind did, though. It was different than any I'd entered before. At first it seemed like Lyla's sleep-deprived nightmare dreamscape: roiling clouds and tumultuous thought streams pulsing away. But cascading through the streams I saw an overriding sense of order where Lyla had barely corralled chaos. Tucker had discipline. He maintained parallel conscious thought, on many levels, running different scenarios, different plans . . . all the time. I couldn't focus on just one. The longer I tried, though, the longer my real body in the outside world remained silent. As an increasingly befuddled Tucker wondered why I was in a trance and not speaking, his parallel thought streams began to merge, creating one overriding attention point for his thoughts . . . a single train of consciousness that proclaimed his real focus loud and clear.

Is McAlister retarded?

In spite of how I looked, I wasn't ready to give up my link yet. I needed to know more. Maintaining a foothold in his mind gave me barely enough control of my own body to utter a few words.

"Sorry, I need a sec," was all I managed.

You're pathetic, his thought stream projected. Nothing compared to Aphrodite. You win the Genetic Lottery and get to associate with gods. A court jester to the queen.

I knew he didn't like me, but that seemed overly harsh. Especially from a midlevel field operative with no idea what real power was. And if he wanted to see real power, a court jester like me could do it. I bored in hard, trying to pick up the stream beneath the insults, find out what he really wanted. As I did, I heard a faint murmur.

My God. He can do it. He can really do it—

Then his mind screamed out like a loudspeaker: Ba-da-duh-dah-dah-dah! HEY! Duh-dah, duh-dah!

The sudden intensity and volume severed the link and I was staring back at Tucker through my own eyes again. Took a few seconds for the searing pain to dissipate, and all I was left with was anger at the pompous prick. Fuck him.

" 'Rock and Roll, Part Two,' by Gary Glitter?" I waited to see the surprise in his face, the look of astonishment at what my pathetic self could do. For just a moment, I wanted to bask in his fear. See what I'm capable of now, you piece of garbage, I thought.

Instead, he grinned. Smiled like he'd just won first prize.

Shit.

"Well, isn't that special. Knockout can read minds now, can't he?"

He'd played me. Suspected I was hiding something, and used my bruised ego to flip over the cards and show my entire hand.

Goddammit, I can be a first-class idiot.

Tucker noticed my jaw muscles contract. "Come now, don't grind your teeth on my account. The lab boys estimated a thirty-eight percent probability your sleep-induction power came from mental projection rather than pheromones. Provided that was the case, there was an eighty-five percent chance your ability's evolution would include telepathy."

"Is that right?" I grumbled, still disgusted with myself.

"I bet on telekinesis in the office pool. You've cost me five dollars." He motioned to Reyes. "This means you can take off that silly mask." Reyes made no move to do so. Obviously he was of the better-safe-than-sorry school of thought.

Anger overwhelmed my patience. "We're done here. I listened, and the answer is no. Run the world without us." I pivoted to walk back to the boat and heard the click.

"No, Mr. McAlister, I don't believe we're finished," Tucker said.

I turned to see Reyes with a .45 pointed at me. Were they kidding?

"Seriously? Like I can't just drop both of you right now and walk away? Your lackey thinks it's a good idea to pull a gun on me?"

"Relax, he won't shoot you. That was just to get your attention." At a sideways glance from Tucker, Reyes slid the gun back inside his suit jacket. "I'm the real obstacle you should be worried about."

I advanced on the smaller man with quick steps, saying ". . . what exactly do you think you can do . . ." and he brought his hand up out of his uniform coat pocket. I was less than five feet from him and in the precious seconds it took my brain to realize Tucker held a fragmentation grenade, he pulled the pin and tossed it away. The live grenade sat in his closed fist, safety lever depressed. If his grip released, I'd have less than three seconds before detonation. I'm a pretty fast runner, but not that fast.

"Go ahead, Knockout. Drop me."

"What do you want?" I said, eyes on his fist. I took a hesitant step backward, and he countered by stepping forward. Maintaining the kill zone around me guaranteed his consciousness.

"You know what I want," was his measured reply. "Accept the mission I'm offering, go to Iran, and do what you're told." He kept coming and I stood my ground. His voice got colder as he got closer. "I am sick of dealing with coddled children playing comic-book heroes." In three steps, he was face-to-face with me and the grenade pushed against the titanium chest plate beneath my shirt. "You are a tool, McAlister . . . nothing more. No different than a missile in a silo. You don't get to decide when you launch. The grown-ups do."

"And what happens when we do this job for you? Do we walk away then?"

His eyes flicked back and forth between mine. They seemed to relax for an instant as he took a step back. "Of course."

"Wow, I so don't believe you."

"Why don't you try reading my mind, then?" He looked smug in the knowledge he'd been able to shout me out the first time.

"Maybe I don't have to." My head twisted to Reyes.

If Tucker's thoughts had the detailed, intricate workings of a Swiss watch, Reyes's brain had the complexity of a seesaw. It was like watching a brightly lit movie with zero subtlety. And to top things off, it was a porno.

His thoughts focused on a lithe blond woman, writhing and moaning beneath him. Carmen . . . Carmen . . . Carmen echoed through his mind like a metronome. Someone was mentally still on his romantic weekend getaway. Useless.

When I looked back at Tucker, he was completely at ease.

"Violate Mr. Reyes as you see fit . . . he has no knowledge and even less control over your destiny. Unlike me." Tucker motioned to the big man, who unlocked the briefcase and walked it over. After delivery, Reyes retreated out of the kill radius with a kick in his step.

Tucker shoved the case at me with his free hand. "If I recall, you're fond of dog metaphors. So go be a good little doggie and do what I say. Oh, and in case you get any urges to simply vanish over the horizon with Ms. Ravzi, I should warn you . . ."

My eyes switched from the briefcase back to Tucker's malicious grin.

". . . the gloves will come off. If I don't hear from you within one week, I will sign the TOS order myself."

Terminate on sight. No arrest. No jury.

". . . and it won't just be a CIA directive. It'll go to every agency, every ally, and probably a few enemies, just to be safe. I'll put a price on your heads so high, it'll make the bin Laden bounty look like cab fare. I'll even smile while I do it."

There was nothing I could do but accept the case and fume. Tucker needed to be dealt with, but today wasn't the day. Before I could whip myself into a complete frenzy, Tucker's head tilted to the side and his gaze fixated on the horizon. Five seconds later he turned all the way to Reyes and I saw the tiny microphone jutting out of his left ear.

"Get to the chopper," he ordered his partner before smiling at me. "It appears MI5 has located Ms. Ravzi. They are on their way to your pickup point."

"But how . . ."

"You called me as soon as I got off the helicopter at the golf club in Inverness. Someone told you I'd arrived. I assume the Brits found your lookout."

And Calvin had Lyla's cell phone number . . .

Jesus. She left her phone on. They'd had enough time to triangulate her exact position.

"Dammit! How did MI5 even know about Inverness?"

"Because I called them. Extra motivation for you to abandon Scotland and accept your mission. Run along now. You've got to take Ms. Ravzi and get out of the United Kingdom. I'd offer you a ride, but sadly, I don't feel like it. My mission was to brief you, not help you."

Tucker took a couple of self-satisfied steps backward, granting the permission I needed to turn and sprint for the dock. When I started the boat I heard his discarded grenade explode in the loch fifty yards to my left . . . he hadn't been bluffing. I didn't wait to troll away from shore before punching the engine to full power. The boat rose out of the black water and shot up to speed. Despite the scream of the motor, I heard the navy Seahawk rotors spin to life. The chopper passed over my head by the time I hit the midpoint of the loch.

I prayed Lyla was ready to run, because I was coming in hot.
CHAPTER 21

Docks are for pussies.

I rode the boat right up onto shore and was running with the briefcase before the speedboat stopped moving. Lyla must have seen the king-sized wake kicking up behind me on the loch, because the car was idling and the passenger door was already open.

"What's wrong?" she yelled through the window when I got close.

I slammed the door behind me yelling, "Go! Go! MI5 is coming! Dump your phone . . . they're tracking the signal."

"Shit!" I honestly couldn't remember if I'd ever heard her cuss before. She clawed at the center console, found her phone, and threw it past my face out the open window. We spun out of the gravel lot and headed south, directly away from Inverness. Both of us scanned the mirrors for pursuit, expecting to see a caravan of military vehicles, but none looked back. Lyla kept the pedal to the floor, quickly reeling in and passing the only car within a half mile ahead. The road along the southern contours of Loch Ness mirrored the water's edge, so it was a pretty straight shot for more than ten miles—but it didn't mean I had a perfect view forward and back. We were still in heavily wooded terrain and the road wound back and forth as it clung to the shoreline.

Lyla's eyes were full-on saucers while she negotiated the curves, but on the straightaways her gaze would flick back to the mirrors.

"I don't see anything." Her voice was stern, not panicked. "You?"

"No, but they've gotta be back there . . ."

I twisted full around to see out the back window and realized we hadn't been looking high enough. About a half mile behind and above, a small black helicopter shadowed our path. My desperate hope for the pursuit to be Tucker's sadistic version of a joke wilted. I lowered my gaze to the twisting ribbon of roadway unspooling behind the car, and within seconds two SUVs got close enough for me to see.

"They're coming," I told Lyla. The whine of our econobox's four-cylinder engine was pathetic; no matter how good Lyla was with the car, two powerful SUVs were going to catch up fast.

Too bad for them.

I scrambled into the backseat so I could concentrate and get a better look. Lyla kept plowing ahead, but she knew what I was going to do.

"How close do they need to be?" she said.

"Not sure, never done it from a moving car before. Hundred feet, maybe less . . . the motion makes it hard to lock in." Finding someone's specific consciousness in the distance was like trying to identify them in a crowd. Bouncing around turns and up over bumps in the road made it tough. Sending out a blanket wipe, dropping everyone in the vicinity, was easier but the range was a lot smaller; they'd need to be close enough to shoot at us—closer than I wanted.

Lyla eased up on the gas and the first SUV gobbled up the distance between. The second vehicle dropped back to give the leader room to engage. I closed my eyes. I could see the buttons far off, jumping and jostling with the terrain. Found the driver, he was coming into range.

Still hazy. Just a few more feet . . . almost there . . .

Before I could lock in, the rear window splintered in a web of cracks and the interior of the car exploded with high-intensity sound waves. Just as bad as the alley behind St. Moritz, but with the bonus challenge of trying not to crash at fifty miles an hour. I couldn't even hear my own scream.

The car zigzagged violently in the road. I turned to the front and saw Lyla fighting for control—one hand on the wheel and one clutched against an ear—as a curve to the right came at us way too fast. The approaching tree line gave her enough willpower to grip the wheel with both hands and force the car into the curve, kicking up a curtain of gravel from the shoulder. As we cleared the bend, our pursuers lost line of sight and the sonic suppression cut off like somebody had pulled the plug. Lyla kept the pedal down, moving with a purpose as the road straightened. Within seconds the first SUV came around the curve and I knew the ultrasonic assault was closing in. Less than a half mile ahead another bend in the road waited, this time to the left.

"Get to that curve! Clear it and stop—"

The piercing sound waves cut me off, but this time Lyla was ready. She ducked in the seat and intentionally jerked the wheel from side to side, careening across the two-lane road. The sonic waves lessened, then charged back, then faded. Our pursuers couldn't focus the beams as Lyla swerved, which was unfortunate news for the lead SUV: Lyla could drive, and I could do worse.

We dove into the turn and she braked hard—not all the way to a stop, but enough to ensure they'd be right on top of us when they followed. I took a deep breath and cleared my head. Lyla saw a flash of the SUV grill as the driver gunned it out of the curve and she yelled, "Now!"

The blanket wipe emanated from me in a circle, pulsing in all directions for a hundred feet. Couldn't go full power because I had to devote enough focus to keep Lyla protected and awake, but it was enough. The driver of the SUV had barely begun his brake-and-swerve maneuver to avoid hitting us when he went unconscious, and the vehicle was too top-heavy for the sudden change in direction and speed. It went up on two wheels and screeched past us into the foliage bordering the loch. Lyla barely waited for the SUV to come crashing down before hitting the accelerator and launching forward again.

"No! Wait! I can take care of the second SUV from here!" I yelled, but she was reacting, not planning. "People chasing" equals "keep running." When the second vehicle made it around the bend and saw the wreck, they started shooting at us, too . . . but not with sonic suppressors anymore. I saw muzzle flashes from both sides of the vehicle and heavy metallic thumps sounded all around me. When the back window exploded inward, I was already hunched down on the floor behind Lyla. We weren't going to hold together long against machine guns.

"Same thing! Get to the next curve and I'll take them out!"

Lyla grunted and kept swerving in the road, trying to minimize our target signature. More pops hit our car but less frequently now. By the time we reached the next curve, I didn't hear any weapons fire at all. We made it through the bend and stopped hard, brakes locking up as we skidded. I cleared my head and waited.

Nothing. No pursuit.

The idling engine labored almost as much as our breathing. When I peeked above the backseat, tiny pieces of window glass slid off the shoulders and neck of my duster. Lyla craned around and looked, too.

"They're not following," she whispered.

"They must know we're waiting."

"How?"

Then I noticed the familiar sound. "The goddamn helicopter. They're communicating with the SUV, telling them we've stopped around the bend. If we take off, they'll tell the SUV to start up after us again."

"And until then they just wait?"

"If we're lucky. If not, everybody but the driver gets out and cuts through the woods toward us, guns blazing. I think they're beyond playing capture-the-fugitive now."

"I hate helicopters," Lyla said. She grunted and stared out the rear window. "Should I throw it in reverse and get you in range the hard way?"

"Can't risk it. If we back around that curve and they're less than a hundred feet away with those damn machine guns trained on us, we'll be cut to shreds."

With no immediate good option, our indecision and lack of movement became painfully noticeable; waiting to be ambushed is a terrible plan. My tactical brain must have sympathized, because it finally spoke up.

Stop reacting. Go on offense.

I assessed our immediate surroundings. No cars coming from the other direction. We were cockeyed, pointed toward the forest side of the roadway. On the loch side, water was at least fifty feet away, with thick brush in between. Trees to the forest side were meaty pines, tall and close together. Ones bordering the road were of the hundred-year-old variety, with boughs sticking out more than ten feet; they completely covered the shoulder from above.

Perfect.

"Start rolling but drift to the shoulder by those tall pine trees . . . make the chopper believe we're gonna run. When I jump out—punch it. Go like crazy."

"Jump out? If the helicopter sees—"

"Get as far under the branches as you can. We're already pointed that direction. No way they'll see through that cover. Just don't stop! If you stop, they'll know."

Lyla nodded and started her roll.

"Faster! Don't baby it, we gotta sell this."

When she got to the side, Lyla picked up speed. By the time I cracked the door, we were going almost fifteen miles an hour. Fifteen might not sound fast, but the next time you roll down a neighborhood street, open your door and look down at the moving asphalt before you call me a wuss.

I sucked in a breath and jumped, tucking into a roll as I hit. Took me a good twenty feet to stop skidding, but I was on the dirt beyond the shoulder, safely under the trees. And thank God for the duster—I now understand why motorcycle owners love leather. I scrambled on all fours into the tree line, glancing briefly back at the car. Lyla was off and running. She burst back into the center of the road, and before I had time to consider whether the plan would work, the tires of the second SUV squealed as it started around the corner after her. Before the vehicle cleared the bend, I took a few quick steps out from under cover. They didn't notice me until it was too late.

The look on their faces was worth jumping out of a moving car.

Five surprised assholes stared back when I lifted my imaginary gun and pulled the trigger. Put all five of them down, and SUV #2 coasted into the brush, crunching against a tree stump short of the loch.

I jogged over to the vehicle and examined our pursuers close up for the first time: all were decked out in tactical body armor and everyone but the driver had an SA80 assault rifle with a sonic suppressor slung under the barrel. Both front-seat occupants probably had broken noses and needed stitches, but they'd live. I pulled my head back from the driver's-side window when I heard Lyla return.

"Everything all right?" she said after hopping out and surveying the accident.

"Yeah. There'll be some headaches and a few bumps and bruises, but looks like everyone's okay."

"I don't care about them. I meant you."

I waved her away. "Yeah, yeah. Fine. Worked just like I planned . . ." My voice trailed off and she caught me staring out at the loch.

"What is it?"

"Nothing, just realized that's the first time I've gotten to use that sentence in the last four days. It's nice for a change."

Lyla was already looking up at our new immediate problem.

"Guess it doesn't matter, though, if he's still spotting us," I said, following her gaze. The chopper hovered far above. The pilot was no doubt calling in the situation and asking for more backup; no way was he flying in for a closer look. Lyla squinted upward and circled around to the other side of the vehicle. I heard her open the SUV's passenger door and rummage through the front; when she came back around, she carried an SA80 by the barrel in each hand. She tossed one to me in midstep, then the Goddess of Love stalked to the middle of the road and hefted an assault rifle to her shoulder.

"Lyla, what the hell?"

She pointed the rifle at the stationary helicopter and I remembered her thirst for violence in the casino. We could justify all we'd done so far as self-defense, but laying down machine gun fire at an innocent spotter was a step beyond.

"Lyla, do not shoot that helicopter!"

She turned her cheek far enough to smirk at me.

"Relax. I think it's time someone from MI5 experienced these noisemakers for themselves, don't you?"

An intense burst of relief washed over me—like when the flashing red and blue lights illuminate your rearview mirror, then pass by as the cop chases somebody else. I pulled the secondary trigger on the black plastic tube underneath the main barrel of the gun, then trained the SA80 on the chopper, some five hundred feet above. I couldn't hear anything, but that was the point of the sonic suppressors—completely safe to fire, completely awful to be fired at.

At first, nothing happened.

"Maybe mine's broken," I said, barrel pointed at the sky.

Lyla lowered hers to check the trigger, then tried again. "Perhaps the helicopter is too far—" she started.

There was no need to finish. The helicopter bucked and went into a nosedive, then leveled off above the treetops. We followed the movement with the suppressors, and again the chopper reeled away like a mosquito chased by a can of repellent. The pilot dipped, dived, climbed, anything he could to escape the pummeling. Lyla giggled while we played chase-the-chopper with our fearsome noisemakers. After a minute of sonic torture, the pilot decided he'd had enough; the helicopter powered into a hard climb and peeled back toward Inverness. I lowered my weapon and released the trigger. Lyla was in the middle of the road, beaming at her shiny new toy. She caught me staring, so she walked back to the car, ejected the magazine, and tossed the rifle in the backseat.

She put her hands on her hips and demanded, "I'm keeping it."

I laughed and tossed mine in the grass by the SUV. When I got back in our car, I saw Tucker's briefcase still lying on the floor of the front passenger seat, which took the edge off any victory dance. Still, ten more miles until a major interchange in the road—once there, we'd be untraceable. Couldn't help but feel a little invincible—Knockout: 2, MI5: 0.
CHAPTER 22

We exchanged our bullet-riddled car with a pleasant Scottish couple three miles before the interchange. One of the perks of having Lyla around. I have to knock people out, which, as several MI5 personnel will attest, makes auto and health insurers cranky. When Aphrodite needs to swap vehicles? A wave, a roadside stop, a dose of the hypno-eyes, and everyone comes away unharmed with smiles all around. Hell, she even let me drive.

I thought I'd need the entire three hours to Edinburgh to convince her that Tucker's mission was our only chance of getting a fresh start—although just how fresh was up for debate in light of the grenade corsage he'd tried to pin on my chest. Turns out all Lyla needed was one word. As soon as I said "Iran," she couldn't pop open the case fast enough. But as Lyla read through the documents, sighs and grunts revealed the dampening of her initial enthusiasm.

"They want us to sabotage the Iranian nuclear program," she said.

"You sound disappointed."

"Any steps to weaken the regime are welcome, but this . . . this is not enough!"

She punched the glove box, and the car swerved as I jumped in surprise—not only at the sound but the violence of it. She flexed her miniature fist of fury a couple of times before propping an elbow on the doorsill.

"Half measures," she said under her breath. The road ahead drew Lyla's empty stare for a moment and she feathered her ponytail between sore fingers. When she spoke again, it was louder, more forceful. "No different than before. Sneak me into Algeria to broker a cease-fire, when I could just as easily end the war altogether. But nooooo . . . that would be against policy. Order Diego to destabilize Pakistan's electrical grid to send a 'message.' A mysterious avalanche blocks North Korean troop movements and Carsten giggles because it is fun. We were pathetic then, and this is pathetic now. I can do so much more !"

I sucked in a deep breath to begin the long monologue—you know, the one where I pick apart her argument, assure her that Tucker's plan is our ticket to safety, tell her she needs to relax—all the sanctimonious crap that all people—scratch that—all men think is the perfect strategy to calm someone down. But before I could utter any of my gold-plated advice, a last-second burst of common sense intervened and reminded me how things work. Not in my overrational, A+B=C imagination but in the real world of relationships, where A+B often equals "fuck you."

Experience taught me that the only message I'd actually manage to get across is: your feelings don't matter and I'm smarter than you. I won't go down in history as a rocket scientist, but let it never be said Scott McAlister doesn't learn from his mistakes.

Eventually.

"You're right."

Lyla twisted toward me. "What?"

"You can do more. We can. One day, we might. But right now, we need to focus on making it to 'one day.' And that path goes through Iran."

She grunted and slumped down, clamping her arms across her chest. After a long look at the passing countryside, she issued a tired "All right."

Her tone reminded me how heavy my hands felt on the wheel; the adrenaline high from the meeting and the chase was fading into exhaustion. If I was feeling it, Lyla had to be as well, but she didn't have the ability to nod off whenever she liked. Maybe I'm biased, but there are few things in life as calming as a well-timed nap.

"Would you like to sleep? Some rest before Edinburgh?" I offered.

"Please."

"Lean the seat back, let Knockout do his thing." Within seconds, she was out.

Much better than a monologue.

—

I cursed myself a couple of times for offering up peaceful slumber so quickly; if anything, Lyla's condition made her the perfect designated driver. Me, on the other hand? I fought an annoying three-hour battle against fatigue the whole way to Edinburgh; one of those slap-yourself/play-mental-games/listen-to-loud-music marathons. At one point I plucked part of the file out of Lyla's lap and stole a few glances in between curves of the A82 through Trossachs National Park. I hadn't peppered Lyla with questions about the mission before, mostly because I assumed it was a straightforward "find a couple of guys, do mind-control mojo, get outta Dodge" kind of thing. The Agency has a way of taking those three simple steps and turning them into an encyclopedia-thick dossier, though. Dry, boring stuff. There comes a point after your fourth fatigue-induced panicked mini-swerve, however, when you will give even the most boring file a look-see.

Turned out the objective was more than a couple of guys: seven, to be precise. The seven scientists who formed Iran's atomic brain trust. They'd all played major parts in design, construction, and implementation of twin reactor facilities. Now the scientists were mission-critical pieces in the two big-boy steps of nuclear club membership: creating weapons-grade plutonium and fashioning it into a bomb. The ultimate piece of the nightmarish puzzle was an intercontinental ballistic missile capable of delivering the device anywhere in the Western Hemisphere, but according to the file, Iran was a decade away from launching anything so powerful. Still, even without an ICBM, building a crude atomic bomb was a line Washington wasn't willing to let Tehran cross. You didn't need a billion-dollar rocket to kill millions; a guy with a twenty-dollar-a-day rental van and a low-yield nuke could ruin Manhattan's day just fine.

And the Iranians weren't stupid. If seven people hold the key to your country's nuclear future, you don't let them eat lunch together in an open-air market. Each man worked in a different location, each had his own security detail, and they collaborated via Internet to get their work done. The whole setup was designed to prevent what Lyla and I were assigned to do: get to all of them.

But with our combined abilities, the tough part wasn't getting to these guys, but how long it would take. Provided the intel in the rest of the thick dossier was solid, we'd be in and out in two weeks, tops. If the information was out-of-date, inaccurate, or simply a bunch of bullshit thrown together by a clueless junior analyst, three weeks was more like it. Bottom line: when you have an asset who can speak the language, blend in seamlessly, and wear a head-covering hijab to hide her identity in broad daylight, the mind-control stuff is almost icing on the cake. Having me along for the ride was overkill, unless . . .

Unless the whole operation was an elaborate trap.

Set us up on foreign soil with no backup and a huge file of false intel to walk into an ambush. If I was setting me up, that's probably how I'd do it. If Tucker went rogue and continued his streak of ratting us out to the local authorities, the mission's success wasn't guaranteed, nor was our ability to, well, stay alive. It was really the only thing to give me pause.

The longer I stewed about it on the drive to Edinburgh, though, the harder a betrayal was to believe. Basic strategy stacked the deck too high in our favor:

The Iranians had spent years hardening their nuclear infrastructure.

The program and facilities were buried in bunkers with heavy defenses.

The United States had vacated Iraq and most of Afghanistan, so they had no forward bases in the region.

Iran had a real army, which would fight back.

These facts meant ending the Iranian nuclear threat militarily would take an operation bigger than the Iraq War and the Afghani occupation combined—which would run up a tab somewhere in $800 billion territory. Not to mention how bad it would piss off Iran's two biggest allies, Russia and China, who weren't exactly wearing matching friendship bracelets with the USA to begin with. Last but not least, an invasion would generate fun-filled stats, like somewhere in the neighborhood of forty thousand dead American soldiers.

Or the CIA could spend three grand on two coach tickets to Tehran and roll the dice.

When you got right down to it, we were too damn cost-effective to kill.
CHAPTER 23

Uncle Sam (Uncle Tucker?) was nice enough to put an Agency credit card in our mission packet, so once we got to Edinburgh and dumped the car, I let Lyla indulge some of her shopping desires. Nothing too elaborate, but we both needed a few changes of clothing, as well as specialized garb for her. The traditional Islamic stuff took a while. Trust me, shopping for a niqab and hijab in Scotland is like a Boston fan trying to find a Red Sox jersey outside Yankee Stadium. Thankfully, a helpful cabdriver from Oman pointed us in the right direction.

There were other gifts buried in the briefcase, too. A small contact lens case with Lyla's "celebrity contacts" was a handy addition. She used to wear them along with a blond wig as part of her street disguise when she wanted a quiet night out. The contacts changed her eye color to an unremarkable brown. The change didn't detract from her loveliness one bit, but since her eyes were such a well-known part of her image, the lens dissuaded most potential gawkers in mid–"Hey, isn't that . . . ?"

The big prize of the briefcase came at the bottom, wrapped in plastic and wedged between foam inserts. When I saw the glint of silvery metal, I became a ten-year-old at Christmas again. The one thing I missed from the old days: a tactical gauntlet. Back then, each of us had one, and they were mostly for show, but it was a helluva show. The gauntlet was a combination smartphone, secure video-comm link, and mobile computer, engineered into a ceramic/titanium cuff that slid over the wearer's forearm. On the back of the device was a layer of pressurized gel; once you put the gauntlet on, a button below the small video display inflated the gel and fitted the cuff snugly to the contours of your forearm. It felt like a part of you—a Wi-Fi, satellite-enabled, all-the-information-you-ever-wanted, kick-ass part of you.

So I like gadgets. Sue me.

Problem was—only one device in the case. When I looked at Lyla, she must have noticed the drool.

"I'm not wearing that silly thing. Consider it yours."

When I felt the gel squeeze my forearm, I'll admit: pure tech-boy bliss. Damn, the gauntlet was so freaking sweet. Only downside was my sleeve was loose enough to slide over and cover the device completely. No one would even know I was the coolest man alive. Lyla laughed when she saw me preening with my newest toy.

"You are ridiculous."

"Says the woman who looked like she was gonna cry when I made her leave her machine gun in our stolen car."

"Touché."

By 4 p.m. we were back at the Lairg to throw our new acquisitions into travel backpacks and change clothes. I had a pang of longing when I stuffed my torn, scraped duster into a pack, but it needed to be put away. From now on, low profile was more important than badass.

After we packed it was time to leave Scotland, but not in the usual way. The airport was definitely off-limits. As soon as MI5 got wind of us in Inverness, there was no question every airport and train station in Scotland would be crawling with undercover personnel. Not to mention red flags installed in every computer, every passport ID file, and every security system in transit stations all over the northern United Kingdom. All conventional methods of travel out of Scotland would be monitored.

Except one.

We took a taxi down to the waterfront and got dropped off near the largest pleasure boat harbor the cabbie knew. The weather had cleared and row upon row of private boats now swayed before us, bathed in late-afternoon sun. Several were magnificent sailboats with masts stretching high above, but we were much more interested in the motor yachts toward the end of the pier. The big ones, with five-hundred-plus-mile range. Didn't take long to find one with an owner on board: the Aileana, a gorgeous sixty-footer. She was owned by a jovial Scot named McTavish, who was only too happy to talk to a pretty lady. He didn't seem nearly as enthused with her skittish companion, who was starting to imagine assault teams moving in the shadows of the pier. I couldn't relax when we were so damn close to getting beyond MI5's grasp. Still, Lyla was our ticket to ride, and when McTavish revealed that the Aileana was fully fueled, she turned on powers beyond charm.

An hour later, we cleared the cape at North Berwick and headed into the North Sea. McTavish brought the helm around south and belted out a hearty "Well? Where do ye want to go?"

I said, "Is Amsterdam too far?"

"Not a problem, lad. Only a wee four hundred miles from here . . . can have ye there by mornin' so long as yuir willing ta take a shift at the wheel tonight."

Done and done. The risk of anyone looking for us on the Continent was low to begin with, but if you had to pick a country to enter illegally, might as well be the Netherlands. I'd never been, but you gotta figure port security isn't quite so tough in a country where it's legal to buy marijuana brownies at Starbucks.

In the end, we didn't have to worry about security, port or otherwise. Rather than go the long way east around the peninsula and down into the Amsterdam harbor, McTavish suggested a shorter route. He cruised directly to the nearest shoreline under cover of darkness and dropped anchor a hundred yards off the coast. We were near an empty part of the wide peninsula that protected Amsterdam from the open sea. A large national park occupied this section, which meant lots of trees, no lights, and even better, no people. McTavish took us to a secluded beach on the rocky shore in his landing craft, a ten-foot dinghy with an outboard motor. I slipped him a chunk of our casino cash in return for his help. From the beach, the gauntlet's GPS got us to the main road running through the park. By sunrise, we were nothing more than two hikers with backpacks, happy to accept a ride from friendly strangers who were (after a brief talk with Lyla) also on their way to Schiphol Airport, west of Amsterdam.
CHAPTER 24

Once in the car, my stress level practically evaporated. Airports, however, have a funny way of concentrating that vapor and raining it back down on you in buckets. Especially airports where you don't speak the languages you hear coming from all directions. While a part of me always liked the thrill of new places, a much bigger part focused on the current reality: unfamiliar meant unsafe. Ask a blind guy. Running is dangerous when you don't know what's around the corner. We bought our tickets with the fake documents provided in the CIA goody bag, but I knew I wouldn't be able to fully relax until we were on that plane.

I muttered my disbelief out loud. "The only place I'll feel safe is on a one-way flight to Iran."

"What?"

"Nothing. Just wanted to see how crazy it sounded out loud."

"And?"

"Yep. Pretty crazy."

"Welcome to my world," Lyla said.

She stood in front of me in the security line, examining her fingernails and rolling her head to stretch her neck. It was hard not to marvel. I was coming up on six straight days of constant pursuit, and it wore on me like heavy chain mail. She'd been at this for how long? A month? Two? She looked like she was getting on a plane to go to Euro Disney. Granted, a good night's sleep had something to do with it, but I couldn't take all the credit. Lyla was simply better at this stuff than I was . . . dealing with stress, remaining calm. It'd be a long time before I forgot her grabbing those rifles and taking out the chopper: Oh, here we are . . . problem solved. Nice gun. I'm hungry, let's eat.

"What?" She'd noticed my stare.

"Uh, nothing. Just thinking."

"Well, gawk less when you think. It's embarrassing."

"You suck."

"You wish. Don't worry about the security scan, I'll take care of it."

"What do you mean?"

"The gauntlet. Keep it on—walk through the scanner."

I'd forgotten about the gauntlet completely. "It's gonna set off the detectors."

Lyla brushed my complaint away. "I said I'll take care of it."

Sure enough, the metal detector buzzed the moment I walked through the empty doorway. Security made me walk through again, with the same result. When the guy pulled me aside for a wand check, Lyla went, too.

The guard protested in accented English, "Please, miss, return to the line." A man accustomed to wielding power over annoying travelers, the guard stiffened and put his arm up to block her. Lyla looked like a harmless wife, clinging to her husband. Once she drew close, she was anything but.

"I do not need to return to the line." I could hear the vibrato of her voice. Even with her hypno-vision neutralized by the contacts, she had more than enough power to go around. The guard's eyes didn't glaze over; they melted. His body and stance, though, remained just as before. The change was unnoticeable unless you were staring directly at him.

"You don't need to return to the line," he said. Stone-faced.

"There is no problem here. Wave your wand over his body without pressing the button," she whispered. The guard did as she commanded. "Now tell him he is fine and to have a nice flight."

He nodded. "You're fine, sir. Have a nice flight," he said, then waved us through.

The five seconds it took to get outside earshot of security was one of the longest waits of my life. I could barely contain my enthusiasm. In the past, the power of her voice alone wasn't nearly so effective. The guard's embrace had been instantaneous, but even better, it didn't overwhelm the poor guy. I knocked shoulders with her as we walked toward the gate.

"Tell me you just Jedi-mind-tricked security."

"You are a child," she said, but she was grinning.

"Tell me you just Jedi-mind-tricked security!" I repeated it three more times before she bumped my shoulder in return.

"I Jedi-mind-tricked security." The smile spread over her features and she laughed.

Men throughout the terminal did double takes as we walked down the concourse. Judging from the fiery glances of their significant others, there'd be some chilly evenings in store for the onlookers. Without reading their minds I knew what every one of the gawkers thought:

Daaaamn.

As I stopped by a water fountain, one guy came up to Lyla and started spewing a stream of "beautiful"-this and "bella"-that, only to finally scamper off as I returned and put my arm around her. He had no idea he'd dodged an entire clip of bullets. Lord knew what kind of humiliation Lyla had in store for him if he'd carried on.

I wasn't with Lyla like he thought, not anymore . . . but, God, I was beginning to notice how easily the old feelings overwhelmed the memory of despair and the ever-present doubt. I felt like I did seven years ago—the very beginning—when I walked into a meeting room and realized I was in serious, serious trouble.

—

"They're an unusual bunch," the general says with his hand curled around the doorknob. "But I'm sure you'll be fine." He's trying to be reassuring, but he sucks at it. My hunch is he'd say the same thing before ordering a charge into No-Man's-Land. I've been a CIA Special Operations field agent for approximately fifteen minutes, and I'm about to meet the team he says I'm supposed to lead.

"Ravzi arrived yesterday, finished her physical and paperwork this morning. She's got a ten-minute head start on meeting the others."

"Ravzi, the mind-control chick." I repeat her name because I'm trying to remember it; didn't know she existed until fourteen minutes ago. The others were all over the Internet and TV, worldwide celebrities, but Ravzi's a mystery.

The general's hand falls away from the knob. "If I were you, that'd be the last time I call her a 'chick.' "

I nod, but it's too enthusiastic.

"Couple of things to remember: Ravzi doesn't like to be touched. Keep your distance and let her approach you."

"Got it." I'm staring at the door, eyes open so wide they hurt.

"And whatever you do . . ." The general grabs the knob again but doesn't finish the sentence until I turn to look at him. "Don't hit on her."

"What?"

"No flirting. Don't compliment her. If she doesn't know you, it pisses her off."

He opens the door. The space is big, filled with rows of long rectangular metal tables and folding chairs, like a high school cafeteria. The screech of bending metal yanks my head to the left and the general growls a tired "What the fuck?" I get the feeling he says it a lot.

The largest man I've seen in my life is sitting on the ground twenty feet away. He's wearing a T-shirt and overalls big enough to fit a silverback gorilla. His back is turned so I can't see his face, but it's easy to see what he's doing. He's methodically pulverizing one of the tables—wrenching the legs under the flat surface, then folding the surface in half, then half again—until he has a jagged, deformed cube of metal between his huge hands. Three other table-cubes are stacked by his side.

The general shouts, "Walker!"

The giant's head turns. I expect to see an ogre's face, contorted in rage, but I don't. His features are young, clean-cut. A mop of unruly brown hair sits atop his gigantic head. When he sees us, he lights up like a golden retriever. The giant bounces to his feet and rushes over, but his walk is strange; an exaggerated bowlegged gait and he keeps reaching back and pulling at the crack of his overalls as he comes. When the hulk stops in front of us, the general notices the sharp odor.

"Walker, what the hell is going on? What's that smell?"

A goofy smile curls on the giant's face. He declares with pride, "I made boom-boom!" Then he turns to me and says, "Hi! My name's Carsten, you wanna play blocks with me?" He motions to his collection of crushed tables. I'm using every single molecule of willpower trying not to laugh. I look at the general.

"Uh, is he always like this?"

The military man is not amused. "Goddammit, no. He must have—"

The loud snaps coming from our right cut him off. In the corner stands a thin man dressed completely in black. Boots, jeans, and a button-down oxford shirt with the sleeves rolled up. His hair is almost as dark as his clothing, and it's long—Harlequin Romance book-cover long—and it droops over his face. I should say "what's left of his hair" is long because he's losing it fast. He grips thick hunks, pulls them taut with one fist, then uses a finger from his opposite hand to fire miniature bolts of electricity to sever the locks from his scalp. Each time he releases a tiny bolt I hear a pop like a loud finger snap. The smell of burning hair is pleasant compared to whatever atrocity oozes in the giant's underwear.

"Mendoza!" the general shouts. "What in the fuck are you doing?"

Fabio is muttering something in between giggles, but I can't hear him. When I walk closer, I detect an almost incomprehensible stream of words.

"Shelikesshorthairhavelonghairneedshorthairneeditbad . . ."

All the while, he's vaporizing chunks of his mane and cackling in joy at the progress. I look at the general and my expression speaks louder than the pops.

What the hell is wrong with these guys?

The general issues a grunt of tired frustration. "Goddammit. They hit on her."

I finally notice the small woman sitting on a table farther back in the room. She's parked on the edge, hands curled around the lip of the table, and her legs kick back and forth in slow rhythm. She's still wearing the light blue surgical scrubs from her physical and her hair is perched in a high ponytail. She has the chiseled cheekbones and pointed chin of a model; reminds me of the women you see on magazine covers, but in real life, no Photoshop. Some of her dark hair has escaped the ponytail and the fugitive tendrils wind down to rest in the tan hollows of her neck. I've never wanted anything in my life as much as I want to be closer to this woman, but it's not desire driving me.

It's awe.

Without knowing, I take slow steps forward until the multicolored eyes stop me. They might be astonishing, but even in my state of slack-jawed admiration, I can tell they aren't happy.

"I'm Lyla," she says in a delicious British accent.

A full five-count passes before I blurt out, "Nice to meet you."

A tiger shark's smile lurks below swirling eyes.

"Go ahead," she says. "Tell me I'm beautiful."

—

"It does not bother me as much as it used to," Lyla told me in the boarding line.

"Only woman I know who hates being told she's beautiful."

"Being told never angered me. It was always about the person doing the telling."

"Would it bother you if I said it?"

She cocked her head and pursed her lips, as if considering the question. The decision was either loaded with complexity or Lyla just wanted to screw with me; I gave both options fifty-fifty odds. Finally she walked another step forward in line saying, "It would not."

"Good. Because I think you're a solid six out of ten. Six and a half with your hair down."

She turned halfway and winked.

"You're not so bad yourself, McAlister."
CHAPTER 25

My seat was awful. No one likes getting a boarding pass with a number higher than 30. And when you buy your ticket an hour before the plane leaves, airline karma guarantees a middle seat next to an offensive lineman. Lyla got lucky; she was next to me on the aisle. After we got situated, I grabbed a magazine and tried not to think about the rotund man spilling out of the window seat to my left. Lyla didn't notice until we were airborne.

"At first I thought you were leaning toward me," she whispered. "Now I see you're leaning away from him."

The encroaching blob in 36A left me banterless.

"You've had enough ego boosts the last couple of days. You'll live."

"Would you like to sit in first class?"

"Sure, but they said the flight was full." For her reaction, I may as well have said "I can't drive fifty-six in a fifty-five-mile-per-hour zone." Once I understood, my reaction was automatic. "Do it."

Five minutes later, two people from first class switched seats with us. I stretched my legs and relaxed while Lyla talked the flight attendant into bringing us some champagne. I hadn't gotten a lot of sleep on the Aileana, so I looked forward to using the Frankfurt leg to get some rest.

The bubbles in my champagne were hypnotic. The first sip was good, but after the second, the guilt started. Lyla recognized my expression and didn't hesitate to call me on it.

"You're upset with me because we moved up here, aren't you? You asked me to do it."

"I'm disappointed in myself, not you."

"More of your 'slippery slope' nonsense." She grabbed the in-flight magazine and ripped through the pages without reading.

"Now it's nonsense? I remember when you were more serious about restraint than I was."

"I am more experienced now."

I said, "I guess I'm still naïve," and closed my eyes.

—

Since my heroic coming-out party seven years ago, I've had literally hundreds of people ask me the same question. Some blurt it out first thing and some wait for a logical time to work it into conversation. Others are too afraid to ask, but I imagine the question balling up behind their eyes; jamming up the works, becoming thornier and more difficult to extract every second it goes unasked. The question is a nasty clog threatening to shut down brain function unless they ram the blockage through nervous lips:

"What's it like to have superpowers?"

Can't really blame them, because the four people in the most exclusive club in the world were no different. We asked each other the same damn thing; the difference was our versions were a bit more specific.

"What's it like to lift someone else's car out of your parking space?"

Carsten: "Awesome."

"What's it like to fire a lightning bolt into a cow?"

Diego: "Messy. And awesome."

"What was it like turning Rush Limbaugh into a liberal?"

Lyla: "Be quiet, I'm reading. [Five second pause.] Incredibly awesome."

No matter who asks the question, my stock answer is "It does not suck." It might get a laugh but people tend to walk away with a look of disappointment. They know I'm holding out on them. Don't misunderstand; I'm not lying when I answer that way, but there's a big difference between not lying and telling the truth. I soft-sell the answer because people don't want to hear the truth.

Having superpowers is scary.

Not because you don't know how you got them. Or why. Or even if they'll magically disappear one day. It's scary because as soon as you know you have them, your life becomes a 24/7 festival of temptation.

If you don't believe me, think about it: why do you work? To get money to pay the rent. Why do you pay rent? Because if you don't, the landlord kicks you out. If you don't leave, they send a bunch of cops to make you. The end of this chain leads to: you're broke, homeless, and you die. That's why you contribute, why you have a job and pay bills. It's the way society functions—the social contract humanity signed when we agreed to leave the caves and build a few huts.

Problem is, the contract doesn't apply to me. And yeah, I understated it the first time I talked to Tucker. I can get money anytime I like. I can't be arrested, threatened, or pushed around. I can do whatever I want. But I don't, and the reason is simple: I'm afraid.

Afraid that the first time I use my abilities for selfish reasons will be like balling up a handful of snow at the top of a hill and giving it a shove. Each push after that, the ball gets easier to roll and harder to stop. Pretty soon it's flying downhill and crushing anything stupid enough to get in the way.

Might sound crazy, but if the devil exists, he's a physicist by trade. He knows gravity and inertia will steamroll morality every time—and all he needs to do is deliver that first little push.
CHAPTER 26

I slept all the way to Frankfurt plus half of the six-hour leg to Tehran. When I woke up, Lyla was curled in her seat, facing me.

"Feel better?"

I didn't need to pound her over the head with my moral crisis any further, so I just let it go.

"Yeah, I do. Sorry I was pissy before. This may sound incredibly self-serving, but sleep really is the best medicine."

"Don't be sorry. Your heart is in the right place." She grasped my forearm and gave me a reassuring squeeze.

Wait . . . something doesn't feel right . . .

I jerked my arm away and grabbed at the sleeve with my other hand.

"It's all right," Lyla said, trying to calm me down. "Here . . . you didn't even stir when I removed it." She took the gauntlet from the leather seat pocket in front of her and handed it to me. "Did you know the device actually has a flight mode? Such ingenious scientists the CIA employs."

"Did you turn it off ?"

"Yes. I also gave the briefcase a more thorough examination on the way to Frankfurt."

I checked the space under my feet where I'd stowed the case. It was gone.

"Where . . . ?"

"Don't worry, the files are in my backpack. I found a GPS tracker sewn into the briefcase lining," she said. I told her about the pair in my clothing I'd disposed of back in Switzerland. "Well, they can track the case all they want now. One of our fellow first-class passengers changed planes in Frankfurt. He's on his way to Kazakhstan with a lovely new briefcase."

I laughed. "I hear the opium routes through the mountains are beautiful this time of year."

"One more thing . . ." She plucked the gauntlet out of my hand before I could slip it on. ". . . although it's simple to turn off the normal GPS connection by switching to flight mode, I suspect there is an ambient tracker contained within the shell."

"The Agency loves redundancy," I said. Unfortunately the cuff was welded at the seams. Most high-tech CIA gear was designed that way; made the device impossible to disassemble without breaking. They'd always have a way to track us, which was no big deal as long as they played by the rules. If not, I sure as hell didn't like the idea of them being able to pinpoint me within twenty feet.

I groaned. "That sucks."

"Hold on." Lyla unclipped her belt and hopped into the aisle, taking the gauntlet with her. She disappeared behind the flight-attendant curtain near the front of first class but returned in less than a minute. When she sat down Lyla passed the device to me and said, "We should be fine." Judging from her look, she was pleased.

"Um, okay . . . not to be skeptical or anything, but what did you do?" The metal surface was warm but otherwise unharmed.

"Ambient-energy trackers are wonderful devices. So easy to power, even easier to overload. Two seconds on high in the galley microwave should be enough."

"You nuked my gauntlet?"

"Two seconds won't hurt the regular electronics. The trackers are designed to sip tiny amounts of power. A burst of high-energy microwaves beamed right down on them is too much to handle."

I looked at her with a mixture of surprise and awe. She only saw the surprise.

"What? Pretty girls read books, too."

"You read that in a book?"

Her head dropped in fake embarrassment. "Sadly, no. I watched Spycraft on the Discovery Channel. Remember, I haven't been sleeping."

"God, you're a formidable little thing, aren't you?"

"Do not forget it."

She curled her legs under her butt and nestled down into her seat facing me again. The mischievous grin made Lyla look magical, almost elfin.

"Pretty happy with yourself, aren't ya?" I asked.

She didn't respond, just stared back joyously. I remembered her sullen, empty face when I saw her for the first time at St. Moritz; the difference now was stunning. She was vibrant, playful. Alive.

"You know, we've been together for almost five days and barely had quiet time to talk . . . ," she said.

"Because of all the running and the shooting?"

"They do make it difficult. Tell me about you, about your life in Colorado."

"What do you want to know?"

"Do you have a girlfriend?" She stretched the "girl" like she was in middle school.

"Skipping right to the good stuff, huh? Yes, I have a friend who is a girl."

"Be serious. What is the name of this friend-who-is-a-girl?"

"Cassie."

"Is Cassie pretty?"

"I think so."

"Pfft. That is no answer. Is she prettier than I am?"

I tilted my head at her and scrunched an eyebrow. "Like that's possible." She squiggled in her seat. "How about you?"

"Shhh. We're talking about you and Cassie. Are you sleeping together?"

"I am so not answering that question."

"Which means yes." No more squiggle. "Do you love her?"

"God, no. It's not like that at all. I'm just . . . it gets . . ."

"Lonely," she whispered. "I understand the feeling well. Does she love you?"

"I don't think so."

When I was hungry, Cassie was a great person to share a meal with. We'd see movies when we were bored. When I couldn't stand the emptiness any longer, we'd share a bed. But the emotions of those moments never lasted much beyond the acts themselves, not for me and I was pretty sure not for her, either.

"You've never read her mind to be certain?"

"Nope."

"Because you don't believe it is proper?"

"Partially. Also because mindreading hurts like a son of a bitch."

She turned to face the seatback, calm and quiet in her thoughts. Her silence lasted so long I thought I'd said something wrong. Wouldn't have been the first time—might as well put toothpaste on my shoe for as many times as my foot ends up in my mouth. For once, I was wrong.

"Evolving power has come with a physical toll for both of us," she finally said.

"Yep. At least I can help with yours. Speaking of your power, the trick in the airport blew me away. The security guard won't have any remnants of a hangover? He won't pine for you?"

"Not at all. I used my voice alone. He'll believe he let you go because you passed, not because he was obeying my wishes. In fact, I doubt the guard will remember me—no more than any other passenger he's been in contact with today. That's the beauty of using only a portion of my ability."

I whistled. "Pretty sweet. I'm glad that voice voodoo doesn't work on me."

Her eyebrows pinched. "What do you mean?"

"I felt your power back in London. I can sense when you turn it on, can feel it in waves before you kick it in strong. Kind of like an early warning system. Must be related to my own evolution."

She looked amused. "I don't think you are as immune as you believe. In London I was asking you to do something contrary to your morals. It's always taken more power and longer exposure to get someone to betray their conscience . . ."

". . . which makes me seriously doubt the moral fiber of airport security," I finished.

"Joke if you must, but casual conversation using only the power of my voice is enough to get someone to answer questions they normally wouldn't."

"All right, all right . . . I give." I saw no need to wave my partial immunity in her face so I picked up the in-flight magazine. She didn't wait long.

"Do you think of me when you sleep with Cassie?"

"Yes. And stop trying to use mojo on me. I have no secrets. I'd tell you anything."

"Do you secretly wish my breasts were larger?"

"Of course. I love big boobs."

What? Did I really just say that out loud? Well, I'm just being honest, doesn't mean . . .

"Who do you think of when you masturbate?"

"Depends. You, Salma Hayek, my seventh-grade math teacher . . . Hey, waitaminute . . ."

"If you had to be with a man, who would you choose?"

"No question, Hugh Jackman . . . dammit!"

I crossed my arms and fumed at the tray table in front of me. Lyla didn't say anything but her shoulders bobbed up and down in my peripheral vision.

"I think I've made my point," she managed to blurt out between giggles.

"Well done," I grumbled.

"Hugh Jackman?"

"Shut up."

"He is very attractive. Can sing and dance, too . . ."

"I dislike you."

"Well, then, perhaps you should call your old math teacher."
CHAPTER 27

Our arrival in Tehran's Mehrabad Airport was wonderfully uneventful. As frustrating as Aphrodite's voice-activated truth serum was on me, her power was a spectacle to behold on others. Passport control waved us through without any identification. Lyla had the guy hold her passport over the deactivated scanner, just in case anyone monitored our interchange on video. The customs inspector pulled us over for a random check, only to apologize and direct us to the taxi stand after a brief discussion with Lyla, who had donned an ankle-length black skirt and her niqab in the airplane bathroom. The niqab was a combination head wrap and facemask, designed to cover a woman's upper body completely, leaving only a thin slit for her to see through. No one would recognize an expatriate meta-human in the getup; hell, I could barely tell she was a "she." Her only visible parts were hands and eyes, and with the contacts Lyla looked exactly like any of the other 15 million Persian women with dark brown eyes.

Well, maybe a little taller.

Once outside, we rode separately. Although she was disguised almost to the point of invisibility, I wasn't. A woman in a niqab won't draw attention, but one walking around in public with a blond white guy might as well have a siren on her head. After a lifelong wait, I finally got to slide into a taxi and say, "Follow that car." It's not nearly as cool when the cabbie doesn't speak a word of English, though.

Lyla selected a hotel near the Grand Bazaar, south of the city center, one popular with European travelers so I wouldn't stick out as much. The place had an over-the-hill-but-fighting-it vibe, a sort of desperate luxury. An ornate fountain stood watch in the courtyard but the thing looked like it'd been thirsty for years. Inside, there were gold-leaf tapestries hung on the main-floor walls, but the designs faded and frayed at every corner.

The lobby wasn't crowded, but a handful of people milled about the entrance and the small restaurant connected to the hotel. Lyla's amorphous black blob waited near the doors while I visited the front desk. A woman in traditional Muslim dress would draw notice checking in to a hotel by herself, let alone with a foreigner. Lyla had warned me any citizen we ran into could be a problem, so we had to be vigilant every moment we were in public.

The Basij, Iran's volunteer "morality police," were everywhere and nowhere at once: 10 million people—roughly 12 percent of the country—whose primary goal was surveillance of public life. Basiji policed all manner of suspicious behavior, from antigovernment rallies and demonstrations all the way down to ratting out people receiving "indecent programming" via satellite dish. It wasn't uncommon for an enthusiastic morals cop to flag down a woman without a headscarf or a teenager on a street corner listening to forbidden Western music on headphones. Imagine an overzealous neighborhood association president—the guy who runs around with a ruler checking the height of your lawn—threatening legal action at every turn. Now give him a gun.

The Basij especially enjoyed monitoring improper male-female fraternization. In America, improper meant "having actual sex on a public street, not during Mardi Gras," but in Iran it meant "being seen in public with a woman not related to you." If anyone in the lobby was a Basiji, I guessed they wouldn't believe Lyla was my cousin. Definitely put a crimp in our ability to travel together. No idea if anyone in the room gave me anything other than token interest—and it wasn't worth the pain of finding out the mind-reading way—but check-in was no different from your average Holiday Inn.

I went to our third-floor room and waited. When Lyla came in, her niqab was half off before she even made it to the bathroom. A variety of bumps, stomps, and exclamations came from behind the door as she peeled the restrictive garment away.

"I had forgotten how much I detest these things," was the only sentence I heard clearly enough to understand. I stood inches from the door to speak back.

"I didn't see as many of them on the street as I thought I would."

"The niqab is not as common here as in the south . . . eeek!"

"What's wrong?"

"My hair! Repulsive."

"Hot under there, huh?"

"You think?" Tehran baked under 95-degree July heat and being inside didn't shave much off the number. Sweat dripped from my underarms and I felt more pooling in the small of my back. I could only imagine how much worse it was for Lyla, buried under folds of black cotton. The door swung open and she pushed past me in a T-shirt and shorts to get to the balcony. She pulled on the French doors, flapping them open and shut like wings, drawing a dry breeze into the stifling room.

"Praise God," she said. "I cannot believe I spent five years wearing one of those evil things."

From outside the open balcony doors, a voice over a loudspeaker broke into song. The words were chanted, punctuated with bursts of emphasis. I walked past her bent-over, panting form to have a look. Other chants from distant voices drifted in; the singing radiated throughout the network of narrow street corridors forming the Grand Bazaar.

"What's going on out there?"

Lyla backed away from the doors and sat on the edge of the bed. "It's the azan. The call to prayer. Mosques broadcast it five times a day."

When the voices stopped, I turned back to the room; Lyla stared through me at the city beyond. Judging from her face, memory packed a more serious punch than heat.

"Are you okay?"

She feathered dark hair behind her ears. "Yes, I just . . . it's been a long time. This is more difficult than I expected."

"It's been, what, ten or eleven years since you left?"

"Fourteen. I was seventeen years old when my parents smuggled me out to England."

Lyla's chin dipped to her chest. I didn't know much about her experiences in Iran growing up, but I knew enough not to push her for more. Back when we were a couple, I'd used up all the ways I could think of to ask, and the only success I'd achieved was in pissing her off. I knew her family was dead, and I knew the government was responsible. Whatever they'd done to her directly was . . . bad . . . but she never wanted to elaborate. To be honest, I'm glad she was secretive about that part. Whatever the truth, it was the kind of thing someone who cared about her didn't want to hear.

I gathered up her niqab from the bathroom floor and folded it into a manageable pile. When I placed it on the bed next to her, she glanced over.

"My parents hated the niqab. They called it a useless relic of a closed-minded society."

"Then why have one?"

"I didn't for many years. Not until I turned twelve. Baba said it was a crime for his lovely daughter to wear a niqab, but better than the alternative." Her face softened at the mention of her father.

"The alternative?"

"He saw how men were beginning to look at me. When my powers began to manifest. I had no idea. I played with my friends, ran through the streets oblivious. But he noticed the stares . . . the way strangers were drawn to me. And in the beginning, I had no idea how to control the power, nor the people it influenced. It was a dangerous time for me. For the entire family. Covering me up was the only reason I made it through my teens in Iran."

"You hiding behind the niqab, him living in fear of what might happen if someone got too close—unfair for both of you," I said. "But it sounds like your father was a very smart man."

She fingered her dangling necklace. "Yes. He was."

"If you'd grown up in America, he would've been the guy sitting on his front porch with a shotgun during your high school years, scaring all the boys away." I hoped for a smile, but none came, so I started unpacking and left her to her thoughts.

No need to make things worse by talking. There wasn't a whole lot an idiot like me could do to make Lyla feel better anyway. My mom and dad were alive and well, no one assaulted me during my childhood, and I grew up in Indiana. What the hell could I possibly say?
CHAPTER 28

Lyla hid in the bathroom when room service delivered our dinner that night; made no sense for her to embrace every single employee we ran across. We ate a dish of rice and lamb, flavored with saffron and other spices. The golden crispy rice at the bottom of the bowl was so good I finished off the remnants with my fingers like a barbarian. One of the best things I'd ever tasted, and Lyla blew it off like it was Uncle Ben's.

"Please. Tahchin from a hotel? You might as well microwave a pizza and call it Italian cuisine. After we finish this mission, I will take you to a place with real Iranian food." Lyla folded her napkin and placed it in the center of a spotless plate.

"For such a discerning critic, you certainly ate your fair share."

"I am merely happy to see a room-service menu with options other than hamburgers and chicken fingers."

Unconvinced, I went to the bed, where the info on our seven targets lay waiting in neat stacks. I had been happy to find digital copies of all the files on my gauntlet as well. The device made studying the information easier, particularly in the bathroom. The first time I'd tried to take one of the hard copies into the john, Lyla had almost melted down. Telling her I wasn't planning on actually wiping my ass with the files did not help. Still, I'd gathered enough info from both digital and hard-copy resources to build a strategy.

"All right, ready to dive in? I've got a solid plan for us," I said.

"With no input from me?"

"Hey, I'm the strategy guy. You're the muscle."

"I see." Her frown and crossed arms spoke more words than her mouth.

"C'mon, I'm only kidding. It's my plan, but it's both of our asses. Don't be shy about offering your advice," I said. "First off, I'm thinking we need to start in Shiraz."

"Shiraz? That's nearly a thousand kilometers from here. Why do you want to start with the farthest target?"

"If we start wide, then work our way back to the capital, we'll be better positioned for extraction."

"But two of the scientists are right here in Tehran. Not in the same facility, granted, but . . ."

"Doing them now runs the risk of being spotted here, where there are more eyes than anywhere else in the country. Why not wait until we're ready to bolt, finish them, and leave right after?"

She sighed. "I suppose."

"After Shiraz, we go to Isfahan for the two reactor specialists, then Kermanshah, then Tabriz. After, we can circle back to Qom and Tehran to finish up."

"And how long will this cross-country tour last?"

I paced around the bed, silently calculating the days on my fingers. "At worst, two weeks, but we might be able to do it in ten days if we get lucky."

"Two weeks? Are we walking?"

"Ha-ha, smart-ass. Safe move is to avoid places with video surveillance, which means airports and train stations aren't good options. We'll rent a car."

"I can't drive. A woman traveling alone will draw attention from the Basij."

"Right, so I'll do the driving . . ."

"But I can't be seen riding alongside a foreigner . . . ," she said.

". . . which is why you'll have to lie down in the back whenever we're on the road."

Before the sentence was finished, Lyla was on her feet. "You want me to spend two weeks curled up in the backseat of a rental car?"

"Maybe only ten days—y'know, this plan sounded a lot better in my head."

"I am sure it did, Strategy Guy."

"Easy, Ms. Spycraft," I growled. "You've read the files, what's your alternative?"

I dropped into the bedside chair and relinquished command. Lyla happily took the reins and stalked around the room, biting a long thumbnail and chewing on her thoughts.

"We need to bring all of them to one location," she said.

"Well, yeah, that'd be great. Why don't we just email them and ask nicely? That's my point: the Iranians keep the scientists apart for a reason."

"But there has to be something that would cause them all to be brought together. A threat, for example. One man controls all of their protection details, yes?"

"Yeah, gimme a sec." I grabbed the nearest file stack and looked through the information in the summary sheet. "Plainclothes units from the Revolutionary Guard provide protection for all the top-level scientists. Most of them are on loan to the Atomic Energy Organization from special forces." I skimmed ahead until I found the organizational chart. "Head of the detail is a guy named Amir Harandi."

"Why not go for him?"

"I already considered it, but intel says he's a ghost. No picture, no location. After the Israelis blew up one of Harandi's prized protectees last year, his whole detail got the black-ops treatment. It'd be harder to find him than the scientists."

She considered the problem for a moment. "Go higher up the list. At some point, there has to be a general in the Revolutionary Guard overseeing surveillance and protection. The Guard is the only group the Ayatollah would trust to protect his nuclear program."

I scanned the documents. "Two levels up. Harandi's boss's boss is a general attached to the Revolutionary Guard."

"Where is he based?" When I looked up, my expression answered before my mouth could. "He's here, isn't he?"

"Yep. General Mahmoud Ahmadi."

"And generals based in the capital don't have to live on military bases. He probably has a home in northern Tehran, doesn't he?"

"Don't know, file says he lives somewhere I can't pronounce. E-L-A-H . . ."

"Elahiyeh," she finished over me. She was in full-on eureka mode now: eyes wide, thumbs rubbing against her index fingers, lips spitting out words almost as fast as her mind generated them. "The high-end district north of the city, full of mansions, gardens—only the rich or most favored live there."

"Yeah, but a general?" I said. "Don't you think he'd be too hard to get to . . ."

"That's why he's perfect. An army general oversees much more than a single security detail; he'll be too detached from the day-to-day operations of Harandi's team to need more protection than a normal general. At the same time, he's so far up the hierarchy, Harandi will obey his orders without question—without getting verification from anyone else."

"So if the general were to tell Harandi all of the scientists were needed in Tehran . . . ?"

"He could deliver them to our doorstep." She let out a victory grunt and pumped a tiny fist in front of her. "We are using my plan. It's better than yours."

"I don't know if better is the right term. Both plans accomplish the mission goals . . ."

"Except mine is faster, easier, and carries less risk."

"Yeah, well, if those things are important to you." My grumbling was authentic, but halfhearted. I'd underestimated not only Lyla's sense of the lay of the land, but also her abilities in the field—her powers weren't the only things that'd evolved over the years.

No one likes being upstaged, particularly at the one skill they prize, but I recognized that I'd screwed up. Lyla's plan was better, and it meant she was even more formidable than I first assumed. If we stayed on the same page and if Lyla didn't let a lifetime of bad memories entice her into seeking payback . . .

This mission could be a goddamn cakewalk.

"All right, Ms. Ravzi. We do it your way."
CHAPTER 29

The next morning I took a reconnaissance trip to Elahiyeh. The taxi ride up north was an eye-opener in more ways than one. A blanket of smog spread over most of central and southern Tehran, generated by 10 million cars and motorcycles, trapped in place by the Alborz mountains to the north. Many of the pedestrians covered their faces with handkerchiefs as they scurried along the sidewalks, and the face coverings had nothing to do with the morality police; the brown haze made it tough to see and even tougher to breathe. As the cab drove north, though, the elevation took a gradual rise and we climbed out of the city's heat sink. With every block, the air and scenery got a little less disgusting. Gone were the dingy side streets and kebab vendors, replaced by tall condominiums and eventually large homes set back from the road, fronted by sprawling gardens.

The section of Elahiyeh where Ahmadi lived was ritzy to say the least. We drove by a half dozen foreign embassies, and each one looked like a palatial estate. I activated the GPS on the gauntlet when we turned off of the highway so I could tell how close we were to our destination. When we got a block away, I switched the gauntlet's screen to video-camera mode and grabbed the handgrip at the top of the window to my right. The position allowed the camera to point directly out the passenger-side window so I could record the approach. I'd given the cabdriver the wrong address on purpose, so when he got to Ahmadi's street, he'd have to drive past the general's house in search of a higher street number that didn't exist.

The cabbie slowed to check addresses, so we came to the general's house at a crawl. Two guys in black suits and sunglasses stood outside wrought-iron gates blocking the driveway entrance. The house sat at least fifty yards beyond the gates, not quite palatial but certainly on the high side of luxurious. Iranian military life obviously had perks; General Barrington would have soiled himself to live in Ahmadi's mansion.

When we got close to the driveway, one of the two guards took a lazy step toward the street and motioned for the cabbie to keep going. The wave opened his suit jacket enough for me to see the submachine gun hanging underneath. The other guard eyeballed me as we passed, but I was partially hidden behind my upright arm. I'd use the recording later for in-depth snooping, but for now, I was just a guy in a cab not even bothering to stare back.

We got to the end of the block and I told my driver I must have gotten the address wrong. "Can we go back to the hotel? I need to get the piece of paper with the correct address. Can't believe I came all the way out here without it."

The driver's eyes narrowed in the rearview mirror and for a moment I couldn't tell if he was suspicious or just really bad with English.

"You use me to drive back here from hotel when you get paper?" he said.

"Uh, I guess so." He had a puzzled look on his face. Definitely bad with English. "Yes, you can drive me back when I get the address."

When he heard the magic word, the cabbie's face burst into a smile as he mentally banked the large fare from another round-trip to Elahiyeh. He could think whatever he liked. I had what I wanted: video surveillance without having to set foot out of the car, plus the simple fact of those two goons outside the gate.

No one guards an empty house.

—

"Well, did you get what we needed? And why didn't you call me from the car? What was the point of buying more prepaid phones if you won't use them?"

Lyla's frustration at letting me go alone for surveillance was more than evident.

"Practicing your interrogation techniques for later? If so, gotta say—you suck. One question at a time, please."

"Someone is grumpy. Things did not go well?"

"Nah, they went fine. Up until I gave the cabbie the impression I was going to use him for a return trip to Elahiyeh. He was pretty pissed when we got back and I told him I changed my mind.

Her eyes flared and a huge smile spread over her face. "That was you outside? I heard the driver yelling from in here!"

"The guy had lungs, that's for sure. Course it's hard to get offended when I can't understand him. He started off cussing me in English, but I laughed when he called me 'a cow of a man.' Then he switched to Farsi and raised the volume."

She made a weak attempt to cover her snicker.

"What? Could you hear what he was saying?" I asked.

"Um . . . yes."

"Well?"

"He, uh, called you an idiot."

"Is the Farsi word for 'idiot' a paragraph long? Because he yelled for a while."

"A polite translation."

"Nice. Where are the morality police when you need them?" I removed the gauntlet and tossed it to her. "Feel free to take a look; I recorded the approach. Doesn't seem too bad. Two guards at the gate."

She spent a few minutes playing the footage in a loop before handing the device back.

"So we go tonight?" she asked. The anticipation in her voice made me grin.

"Yep. We'll wait for dark. Only saw one light pole on the street and it's four houses down. Should be easy to get close enough to the gate for you to work your mojo."

"And we pray Ahmadi is there."

"If not, I'm sure one of the goons would be thrilled to tell you all about the general's schedule."

"I am nothing if not persuasive."

—

We spent the rest of the day lounging around the room, reading briefs, and trying to relax. I caught a short nap but Lyla wanted nothing to do with sleep. Didn't surprise me; she was finally taking a first step fourteen years in the making. Ever since the day she'd left, and probably before that, she'd dreamt of changing the face of her home country. We'd talked about it back during our UN days, when we were both idealistic. Cynicism had long since extinguished my change-the-world fire, but Lyla's still burned brighter than her dazzling eyes.

She was dressed and ready to go a full hour before sunset.

Watching her pace the room and roll the kinks out of her neck brought on a flood of memories. Different countries, different hotel rooms, but always the same Lyla in the moments before action . . . amped, focused, and ready to go. During our tenure with the UN, covert activity had been the only time either one of us ever felt free—on our own, with no scientists, no prying questions, no invasive tests. Granted, our "freedom" had been a temporary illusion, but in the middle of an assignment, the mirage disappeared behind the mission. We'd learned to focus on the only two things that mattered: the objective and each other.

Even now, years later, the same process took hold. The slow dissolve just happened: Lyla's psychotic raving, Tucker's threats, the future's uncertainty—all washed away. All that remained was a mansion in Elahiyeh.

And Lyla.

Outfitted in black cargo pants and a streamlined black turtleneck, primed like a sprinter waiting for a starter's pistol to set her free. The same as before, yet so different. More powerful, more capable now . . . and still so goddamn attractive.

I shrugged the Kevlar top over my shoulders and positioned the interwoven titanium plating directly over my chest. I stared at her formfitting clothes and before I could stop myself, said, "I'm concerned that shirt won't allow sufficient blood flow to your brain."

Lyla paused and removed a hair tie from her wrist. She bit on it while she bundled her hair into a ponytail.

"Loose clothing makes noise when I move. Tighter means more stealth," she mumbled with the band between her teeth. After she pulled her mane together in a gleaming black sheath, she threaded it through the band. "I'd be more concerned that my tight shirt won't allow sufficient blood flow to your brain."

It was unnerving to see how quickly we could jump back into our old pattern of back-and-forth. Not the smartest play, considering the stakes, but flirting with Lyla was like slipping on a comfy leather jacket: warm, cozy, and felt right. And it wasn't just a relic of the old days, either. All that we'd fought through and experienced since London had only intensified the allure. Made me want the flirtation . . . to see how she'd respond. For a few moments, at least, until I remembered the one constant when it comes to playful banter: there's always an undercurrent of desire beneath the words, and desire clouded everything.

Get a grip, McAlister.

"I'll be fine." I pulled the scraped-up duster out of my pack and flung my arms through a little harder than necessary.

If Lyla was fighting any similar internal battles over our relationship, she certainly didn't show any signs. "We should go," she said after turning to the balcony doors. "The sun is setting."

"How do I look? My duster's seen better days, but at least the rest is intact."

She turned and sized me up. "You look perfect. Knockout. Just like the Protectors' Time cover." Before I could crack a joke about my alleged perfection, she donned her new black nylon jacket and narrowed her eyes. "If you thought I was going to wear the toga, you're insane."

We shuffled toward the door, both of us checking pockets, comm hardware, and key cards as we stepped. When I put my hand on the knob, I took a final glance at Lyla.

"Wait, your hijab."

She could get by without a hijab at night, but the Basij would be all over a woman without a head covering. Dealing with nosy interlopers in the lobby or the street wasn't worth the hassle. Lyla rolled her eyes and went to snatch the headdress from the bathroom. She wrapped the fabric over and around her hair until only her face was visible. The movement was so fluid and practiced, she looked as though she'd never left the Muslim world.

She walked back to me. In the chokepoint near the door, we were only inches apart. I could smell her; no idea if it was pheromones or perfume. Guess it didn't matter, because either way, I was intoxicated.

"How do I look?" she asked. Softer than it had to be. She ran her fingers over the little stitch holes on my chest plate where the P was once sewn.

"Iranian."

Her hand fell away. "Not for long."

I twisted the knob and we were off. I went out front alone to hail a cab, while Lyla took the freight elevator down and waited in the rear for a pickup. After slipping into the taxi, she removed the hijab. The cabdriver gave a disapproving look in the mirror, but it didn't last long after some reverberating words from Aphrodite's mouth. He was a model driver afterward, but the journey wasn't any more relaxing because of it. Lyla stroked her ponytail and stared out the window, eyes focused on the birth of a noisy, crowded evening in Tehran. She didn't say a word the entire trip north to Elahiyeh. I assumed she was mentally psyching herself up for the work ahead, but my own silence didn't sprout from such noble roots. Her last three words in our room bounced inside my head, demanding attention.

Not for long.

The rational part of me thought the words simply meant the hijab was coming off as soon as possible. The other part of me . . . the cynical bastard . . . heard the tone, the finality in her voice, and those three short words sounded like something else entirely. Like after she was finished, no one would ever have to wear a hijab again if they didn't want to.

Like she was going to change what it meant to be Iranian.
CHAPTER 30

The approach to General Ahmadi's mansion was easier than expected. The cabdriver dropped us off one block over and we walked the rest of the way, approaching on the sidewalk leading directly to the stations of the gate guards. When we got within fifty feet of the pair, the closer one turned and took a couple of steps our way, motioning for us to cross the street and give a wide berth. He didn't yell until forty feet and the submachine gun didn't emerge from his jacket until thirty.

I didn't want to drop him because it would make our approach across the mansion's huge front yard much more dangerous. If other guards lurked on the porch or the roof, and they lost sight of the gate goons, they'd be on high alert. At that point, the world's most powerful beings could be taken down by an AK-47, a night-vision scope, and two bucks' worth of ammunition, just like everybody else.

Still, restraint has limits; when the gun popped out, I was seconds from saying "screw it" and dropping both goons regardless. Lyla's voice changed all that. Her stream of Farsi was beyond my comprehension, but the resonant tone I understood very well. The guard lowered the weapon and happily came toward us without reservation.

Sucker.

Before long, he motioned for his partner to join us. Lyla and the two men exchanged some rapid-fire information I had no chance of translating, but it didn't matter. We had two new best friends who were more than happy to escort us to the front door. Lyla made one stay at the gates for appearances while the other accompanied us with his radio in hand.

Once past the gate, Lyla motioned to our new friend and whispered, "This is Fahrook. He says the general has one bodyguard stationed inside the house, and two more men outside. One walks the perimeter, one on the roof." I searched the roofline and boundary of the mansion as we crunched along the small-pebble driveway bisecting the front lawn. The building was a neoclassical knockoff—three stories tall, flat-roofed, with a large curved veranda around the front door, fortified with massive white columns. Made me imagine we were infiltrating the White House.

"The place is too big for me to blanket wipe if things go bad," I said. "Have Fahrook tell everybody to report inside; we need all of them together."

Lyla snapped instructions to our escort, which he followed immediately. By the time we reached the half circle of granite steps leading up to the veranda, the outside patrolling guard had already beaten us to the entrance. He opened one of the tall doors to the mansion and a rectangle of light slashed down the stairway to greet us. Fahrook went first and shielded us from view as we entered; no one gave more than a cursory glance until after we cleared the threshold. Once the maid, another guard in a black suit, and a guy in a military uniform reached the foyer, though, we were the center of attention in a big hurry—and I say "we" but really it was all "she," because everybody in the room was staring at Lyla.

Fahrook started talking—my guess was an introduction—but the words died in his throat when the black suit, the outside patrol guy, and the soldier went for their guns. The tactician in me knew I had to spool up the juice and drop them at once, but the only things that emanated from my body were the words "Oh shit." Thankfully my surprised stupor didn't matter, because Lyla took charge. With no contact lenses in place and within the relatively confined space of the entryway, she was free to use the whole spectrum of her power. She didn't even finish her sentence before everyone placed their weapons on the marble floor of the foyer.

I took a deep breath and let the tingling in my spine dissipate. It was clear our Iranian friends recognized her right from the get-go. They'd drawn on us so quickly, if it weren't for Lyla's mind-control burst, I doubt I would've been able to drop the shooters before they fired; a nice yellow flag that I had to be a little quicker on the draw from here on out.

"Jenral Mahmoud Ahmadi?" Lyla asked the uniformed man in front of her. He was dark-skinned, balding, and sported a short full-face beard. No idea how old the soldier was but if the beard was any indication, the black whiskers were losing the war to the white ones.

His dumbstruck, lovesick expression nodded. Lyla launched into her set of planned instructions: lock down the house, gather every member of the family and household staff so she could embrace them as well, and lastly, obtain a quiet room where we could discuss the finer points of bringing in our nuclear scientists.

The general responded to her instructions with a barked command to the maid, who scurried away. Another quick order and Fahrook trotted out the front door, presumably to fetch his gate partner. The general's other bodyguards exited in different directions, tasked with mini-missions of their own. Lyla pulled Ahmadi off to the side, the two prattling back and forth in animated Farsi, leaving me to admire the mansion alone.

Two short marble steps led down from the foyer into the central hub of the main floor—a wide-open circular room, with hallways branching off into the wings of the home. In between the hallways along the curved walls were impressive paintings and elaborately carved wall sconces. The middle of the space, though, greeted visitors with the most spectacular visual: a lush, ringed garden in the center, at least thirty feet across. It was filled with ferns, small palm trees, and flowering plants. The high ceiling two floors above was a glass dome, which turned the entire space into a naturally lit atrium. The space must have been even more impressive in the daylight.

Upon closer inspection, the sconces were unique—each one carved in dark wood, depicting different animals—a lion, an elephant, and a camel were the three closest to me. I was moving on to the next set of three when Fahrook came back through the front door with his buddy from the front gate. Within moments, the other two bodyguards returned to the atrium and walked over to Fahrook. Lyla summoned all of them to the far side of the atrium with a single word. Soon she, Ahmadi, and the cluster of bodyguards quietly conversed among themselves.

My participation wasn't necessary. Hell, it wasn't even possible. I didn't just have a language barrier when it came to Farsi; I had the linguistic equivalent of the Great Wall of China. I don't mean to be overly harsh; my handle on the Iranian tongue was the exact same as my pathetic grip on French, Spanish, or German. I could utter a single phrase of each: "I don't speak [insert foreign language here]." Hey, at least I get points for consistency.

For no other reason than that I wanted to, I walked to the other side of the garden to listen in. I stood behind the men facing Lyla so she could see me at the rear; nodding at every pause, cradling my chin between my thumb and forefinger, muttering "mmm-hmm" and giving subtle agreement to every scholarly point. Took five seconds before she couldn't handle it anymore.

"Please go away!" she said between chuckles.

I smiled and backed off, leaving the four guards and the general as her only audience.

Four guards . . . Wait. Two at the gate, one inside, one patrols outside, and one more . . .

The smile evaporated. I twisted back to the group and stepped close. "Where's the other guy?" My words trampled over their conversation. None of the men looked over—they were totally focused on Lyla—but she heard the urgency in my voice.

"What other guy?"

"The fifth guard," I demanded. "The guy on the roof . . . where the hell is he?"

Lyla hurriedly translated for the others, but the general was already barking an order at Fahrook . . .

I almost turned to go for the door when I saw the red dot bounce on Lyla's chest. Panicked, I squeezed my eyes shut and grunted out the strongest blanket wipe I've ever done. Everybody dropped toward the floor, Lyla included. As she slumped, the red dot winked out. I knifed between the falling bodies and caught her before she fell. From above, I heard a crash of glass, followed by crackling branches and a heavy, hollow thump in the garden dirt. A metallic clattering against the polished floor next to the garden signaled the arrival of the roof guard's laser-sighted rifle.

Lyla's skull lolled back over her shoulders. I knelt and cradled her from the side, easing her head into the crook of my arm. I brushed the backs of my fingers against her cheek until the golden-green eyes flickered to life. When they focused on me, I smiled and said, "Found him."

—

Roof Guy owed his life to the garden.

Falling through a glass-dome skylight into a collection of trees, plants, and loosely packed soil isn't exactly a pleasure cruise, but it's a helluva lot better than pancaking onto cold, hard marble from thirty feet. The quick diagnosis from Fahrook (a former medic): a broken arm, a concussion, and probably some busted ribs, but he'd live. The truly amazing thing about our meteoric friend wasn't that he survived, but what he taught us about Lyla's power after he crash-landed.

Once Roof Guy regained consciousness, he moaned and thrashed around the garden in pain. The wild movement only helped to grind his ribs against one another, which made the moans boost into short-breath screams. Lyla rushed to his side and turned on the juice, but Roof Guy wanted nothing to do with her. She whispered, yelled, cajoled . . . he responded by spitting and shoving her away. We had two guards pin him down and hold his head in place so he had to stare at her. When he refused to open his eyes, we had Fahrook do it manually with his fingers. Lyla spun her irises and gave him the sweet talk up close and personal. Still nothing.

I should have known. I'd used the temporary pain of punching the glass picture frame in the hallway of Mrs. Barstow's home to distract me from the Aphrodite Effect before, which it accomplished, if only barely. Never occurred to me to take a thirty-foot drop to try to escape.

Frustrated, Lyla turned to me. "I have seen this before, but only from my own family members. They were immune. And Carsten, at the end."

"Well, then, you're either related to this guy, or it's gotta be the injuries," I said. "High pain levels must shield him from whatever you're throwing his way."

She chuffed in disgust and stood up. "We still need to know if he alerted anyone. If the pain is blocking me, we need to eliminate it. I'll ask Ahmadi if he has any painkillers."

The general was lurking nearby. Without translation, he said, "Bale. Morfina. Upstairs."

"You speak English?" I asked.

He answered by holding his thumb and index finger about an inch apart. A little. He barked at one of the guards and the man took off down a hallway, presumably toward the stairs. I turned my attention back to Roof Guy.

"I guess I could read his mind. He can't hide his thoughts."

Lyla's mood improved. "Yes! Although I know it's painful . . . are you certain you want to try?"

"I can handle it—trust me, it's nothing compared to what this guy is feeling right now." I knelt at the injured man's side to make the attempt, but in moments I was back on my feet. "Yeah, we're gonna need to wait for the painkillers."

"Why?"

"Not like this should be a newsflash, but apparently Iranian people think in Farsi as well as speak it. Especially when their pain level is dialed up to eleven." I grabbed Fahrook's radio. "I'm gonna hide out front near the gate, in case a response team comes." I shook the walkie at her. "Call me when you've got him calmed down enough to try again."

I jogged down the driveway and took up a vantage point just behind the right-hand stone pillar of the front gate. It offered perfect line of sight to the left, down to the corner. The connecting street led to the highway, which was the obvious direction a response team would take. If they came, I could jog down the length of the ten-foot fence bordering the estate, unseen from the street, dropping anyone within range. A great fallback, but one I hoped we didn't need.

In the end, we didn't. After a nail-biting half hour, Lyla's voice came over the radio. "He's okay now. As soon as the pain meds kicked in, he took the embrace. No one is coming."

I muttered, "Whew," and ran back to the house.
CHAPTER 31

The next twenty-four hours went pretty well, up to a point.

The general made some phone calls and finally pinned down Amir Harandi. Our assumption was correct; when the man controlling protection for critical nuclear personnel gets an order from the general in charge of VIP protection for the entire nation, there's not a lot of pushback. Our cover story was excellent—General Ahmadi had obtained evidence that one or more of the scientists had been "turned" by the Mossad—because Harandi bought it immediately. I'd planned to use our own lovable CIA as the fall guys, but Lyla called an audible and went with the Israeli intelligence agency. Like so many of her ideas since our arrival in the Middle East, it was pure genius.

Although Americans like to think we're the badass kings of international espionage, Lyla knew enough to approach the threat like a Persian. While Iranian intelligence may worry about the CIA, they fear the Mossad. Before Ahmadi made his calls, I asked him about the difference between the two.

His translated response was "Americans brag loudly about satellite reconnaissance and economic sanctions. The Israelis come for you with C-4 and F-16s and don't say a word."

Within an hour, all seven scientists were on their way to the mansion. Each of the nuclear specialists was guarded by a three-man team, which meant the general's not-so-humble abode would soon host almost thirty guests. That's a lot of manpower to handle, not to mention they were all going to walk through the door with their suspicion meters already on full. The break in routine would make the goons edgy and the scientists nervous; not exactly a recipe for the calm discourse we wanted to have. Luckily, since each team was inbound from a different part of the country, they wouldn't all ring the doorbell at the same time. One problem down, though another remained: 75 percent of our arriving guests would be heavily armed.

The general ordered Fahrook and his boys to take each man's sidearm upon arrival. I initially doubted the willingness of trained, ex-special-forces bodyguards to hand over their weapons, but Ahmadi said it was standard practice when entering a commanding officer's home. My raised eyebrow of doubt prompted him to wink. We may have been from vastly different cultures but the general admitted to sharing a common sensibility. We both knew any soldier who hands over his gun with a smile is grinning for a very good reason—he's got another.

In order to avoid any last-second drawdowns with backup weaponry, we used a simple process. Fahrook and his men escorted each group to the general's study, near the back of the massive home. Every foursome took seats in front of Ahmadi's imposing mahogany desk, which faced the door. When all four men were safely tucked in their wingback chairs, Lyla and I entered the room from behind. Her persuasive voice corralled each team before they even had a chance to turn around. No last-second heroics at the sight of us, which suited me just fine. Also, the plan was a hell of a lot easier than rendering each group unconscious upon arrival, then searching prone bodies for weapons. No muss, no fuss.

One by one, the atomic quartets arrived and ran into Aphrodite's warm embrace. Took almost a full day of sporadic deliveries but by sundown the following evening, all seven men and their security entourages were under Lyla's direct control. Soon after, we hosted an action-packed meeting in the dining room, where she encouraged the scientists to brainstorm the least visible, most effective way to fuck up their life's work. Have to admit, even though I couldn't understand a word, watching our Benedict Arnold think tank in action was the pinnacle of entertainment. The scientists acted like wheel-and-deal bazaar vendors—argue fervently, shake their heads, walk away, then come back with a smile as one of their counterparts forwards another idea.

The bodyguards lingered nearby. The men talked quietly and played cards in groups—either they couldn't understand what their charges were discussing, or they just didn't care. The guards' instructions from Lyla were to continue their duties and never discuss the meeting or our presence, which seemed like the most efficient way to handle hired muscle.

The general's cook slaved over dinner for the entire houseful of men, and by the time dessert plates slid onto the tables, our traitorous eggheads had come up with a workable strategy. Lyla didn't give me all of the specifics, but it involved tweaking the math just enough to lower yields and make it look like the enrichment process wasn't working. They'd work fruitlessly for a year or so before fixing the problem, only to have additional issues working on the implosion sequence that initiates nuclear fission . . . blah-blah-blah.

I didn't completely understand what the scientists meant, but that was the beauty of our gambit. Government minders, politicians, and army officials were no different than me—none of them would know why nuclear development was taking so long. And since Iran's leaders kept the scientific core of the program apart and under strict guard, no one could possibly suspect the entire team of collusion.

It's not like the Ayatollah checks anybody's math.

Blame would flow like water toward the path of least resistance: the program's parts suppliers—Russia and China—for faulty products and poor workmanship. The Iranians' core national belief that the industrialized world, allies and enemies alike, secretly wanted their program to fail would play nicely into our strategy.

Once the powers that be got tired of waiting, or even remotely suspicious, our group of saboteurs would put the program back on track—but only long enough to orchestrate an epic failure during Iran's first full-on atomic bomb test. Nothing too destructive, just a botched explosion that results in the irradiation of the testing grounds, and sends the program back to square one. After that, the CIA could work on a mass defection if they wanted . . . extract the whole bunch out of the country in one fell swoop. Iran would replace them, but the damage would be done.

The lead scientist, Hooshmand, brought over his clipboard with a piece of paper covered in scribbles: numbers and projections gathered from his colleagues. He told Lyla the group estimated the process would set the Iranian nuclear program back almost ten years, and the dude had a mile-wide grin plastered to his face when he said it.

Not bad for a day's work, eh?

But in the midst of our great victory, something happened. After everything Lyla and I had been through the last few days . . . the fights, the chases, our talks . . . the thing I was enjoying most was the momentum. The building emotion I felt for her. How each day felt closer, more intimate than the one before. The way she looked at me. Like the old days.

Looking at Hooshmand, though, standing in a crowd of embraced minions, I felt an irony-toed boot kick me in the gut. I'd seen his smitten look too many times before—in my own goddamn mirror. And I remembered what the "old days" had led to. The despair . . . the torturous nights alone, wondering when the pain would end. No way was I going through that nightmare again. She could talk about her "evolution," and the kinder, gentler Aphrodite Effect all she wanted—as far as I was concerned, it wasn't worth the goddamn risk. What I felt wasn't a budding relationship, and it damn sure wasn't love. All lies and trickery. I'd sooner take a bullet in the head than lose the only true freedom I had left—my will.

I glanced at Lyla and she smiled back as though everything was fine—nothing to see here, just destroying the lives of a bunch of unsuspecting fools—and a mini-explosion of anger and fear detonated in my brain. Every single day I spent with Lyla was just one day closer to looking like a lovesick idiot with a clipboard. Left me with a singular, panicked thought:

Get the hell out of this room. Run.

Lyla noticed my expression as I turned to walk away. She caught me by the arm before I could. "What?"

"Nothing."

"Don't say that . . . you're upset. Why?"

"Doesn't matter. You did your job. Now we can get outta here." Hooshmand stood nearby, wearing a goofy grin. Made me want to punch him. I pulled away from Lyla's grip and headed for the door.

Several of the bodyguards milled about near the entrance to the dining room, and I had to wade through them to exit. Before I could leave, a shadow turned the corner from the hall and blocked the doorway, and when I say "blocked" I'm not really doing the act justice.

Every bit as big as Mr. Reyes, a man eclipsed the entryway. He wore black pants and a white button-down shirt that struggled at the seams to contain his barrel chest. His face was covered by a short, trimmed black beard, and his eyes darted around the room before settling on me. Guy looked almost as angry as I felt.

"Who the fuck are you?" I asked. The guards murmured and I felt them back away. The general spoke up from behind and I twisted my head in his direction. No clue about most of what he said, but I recognized one word.

Harandi.

Amir Harandi, the black-ops ghost who'd been ordered to stay away while we interrogated his men, must have taken it personally when his teams were accused of allowing Mossad to turn his protectees into traitors.

Lyla's familiar tone permeated the room, seconds from transforming the intimidating man into yet another of her minions. I turned back to look at the unlucky puppet in front of me. There was a flash of movement, then a change in Lyla's voice as she began shouting her words.

Just as I noticed Harandi's gun, he shot me right in the chest.
CHAPTER 32

When you actually see a guy pull the trigger of a gun pointed at you, a superpowered individual's options are no different than anyone else's. You can close your eyes, cuss, or crap your pants—or hell, you can do all three. Luckily for my underwear I got no further than the first.

When the bullet slammed into the chest plate, the impact punched me over like an off-balance cardboard cutout. I heard Lyla scream "No!" as I flailed backward. My head thunked against the carpet, and hundreds of exploding lights filled my vision.

Add another concussion to the collection.

Everything was a little hazy in the seconds that followed. A lot of high-volume Farsi; the general shouting orders and Harandi's voice yelling back. Then a handful of angry words from Lyla, and a stampede of bodies rushed by me toward the doorway. After that, all I heard were punches and grunts. No more gunshots, at least.

Before I could get over the wooziness and lift my head, I opened my eyes and saw Lyla's face above mine. Frantic, she kept repeating the word no and pawing at my chest. She knelt beside me, pulled the duster open, and poked her finger into the bullet hole above the plate. When she yanked it back and saw no blood on the tip, she whimpered and collapsed on my chest. The weight of her entire body pressed against mine. Her arms couldn't reach underneath my prone torso to hug me properly, so she just squeezed her forearms against my rib cage.

I sucked air between clenched teeth and shouted, "Son of a bitch!"

She propped up to look at me. Her eyelids were inflamed and rimmed with tears. "Are you all right?" she half cried. If I doubted her affections moments before the gunshot, Lyla was making an excellent rebuttal argument now.

"As much as I enjoy having you on top of me, this hurts."

One eye squinted open and saw Lyla's concern. "I'm sorry . . . I'm sorry," she said. "Thank God you're unhurt . . ." Her hands cradled my head above the rug.

"If you get off, all is forgiven."

She helped me to my feet, and after a moment of uncomfortable staring at one another, we finally thought enough to find out what had happened to Harandi. Once the sea of bodyguards parted, we saw him. Aphrodite's mob had given the big man a severe beat-down after tackling and relieving him of his weapon. Harandi hadn't gone down without a fight, though. His face was bloody and swollen, as were several of his panting, sweaty bodyguards.

"Beaten half to death by your own men. Can't be a good feeling," I said. "Why the hell didn't he listen to you? I heard you embracing him."

"I don't know . . . ," Lyla said. She clamped her arms across her chest. Twice in one night, she'd failed to embrace someone when needed. I'd never seen her fail on a normal person before. Not once.

General Ahmadi approached and pointed to his own ear as he spoke. Lyla nodded and her arms unfurled. "Aha. The general says Harandi is deaf in one ear since last year's Mossad bombing. I feel better now."

I reached beneath my shirt to get a hand under the titanium plate and massage my tender chest. "That makes one of us. See if Harandi alerted anyone else, will ya?"

While several guards restrained the big guy, Lyla let him have it up close—eyes, ear, and smell. He couldn't have been in too much pain, because he took the embrace a lot better than Roof Guy. Harandi smiled like a moron and started talking.

When Lyla stepped away, she looked concerned. "He called for a response team when he got here and didn't see any gate guards. We need to go. Now."

The general listened to everything Harandi said and motioned for Fahrook. "I have a car. Take you anywhere," he said.

Fahrook accompanied me back through the house to the garage while Lyla put the finishing touches on Harandi, bringing him on board with the same line of bullshit all his men and the scientists would spew if anyone asked. When she joined me in the backseat, I asked her how they were going to explain all the injuries.

"Sparring. You know how much boys love to fight," she said.

"And the hole in the ceiling?"

She laughed. "I left that one up to them. We'll see how creative they can be. I got phone numbers and email addresses for both Ahmadi and Hooshmand, so we can contact them later if we really want to find out. Not to mention keep tabs on the progress of the nuclear program at our leisure."

I sank back against the soft leather of the gleaming black Mercedes and we rolled outside. For the moment, my near-death experience combined with our quick escape pushed my embrace-phobic meltdown into the background. More than anything, I wanted to enjoy the silence and bask in the victory—we'd done everything Tucker asked, and then some. Fahrook maneuvered the big vehicle through the gates, then down the street toward the highway. As we accelerated up the ramp and out of Elahiyeh, I turned to Lyla.

"We really did it. Wiped out Iran's nuclear program in one day."

I only saw half of her smile because she didn't turn from the window.

"I believe we did."
CHAPTER 33

The drive back to the hotel took thirty of the most relaxing minutes I'd had in the last decade. I cracked the window and let the breeze blow over my closed eyes. Even the acrid scent of smog didn't put a dent in my mood. What we'd accomplished . . . what we'd changed . . . went far beyond seven scientists and their security entourages. Our intervention meant the Iranians couldn't grip the nuclear scimitar they coveted—and therefore wouldn't be able to hold it over the heads of dozens of countries. This corner of the world was now safer for everyone: the Iranian people, America and her allies, and the roughly two billion people in the region. Lyla and I had single-handedly altered the course of the Middle East. It was the kind of thing they'd promised we could do, back when the four of us joined up and saw the first United Nations poster for the Protectors. Back when changing the world sounded like an achievable goal. A real thing.

Before the CIA came out from behind the curtain, of course. And the knowledge that the Agency was only concerned with maintaining the status quo, and even more important, America's spot in the status quo driver's seat.

But as I slid back deeper into the seat of Ahmadi's Mercedes, all that bullshit boiled off. I'd finally made a real difference, done what I'd always wanted to do—hell, maybe what I'd been meant to do.

And goddamn, it felt good.

By the time we pulled around the hotel fountain, my hand was heavy on the door handle.

I turned to Lyla and said, "Have Fahrook take a couple of loops around the block. Consider it a victory lap. I'll meet you up in the room, although there's a pretty good chance I'll be asleep by the time you get there."

Lyla grinned. "It's been a big day, hasn't it?"

"Yes, it has." I thumped the leather between us to punctuate the moment. "See you upstairs," I said, then opened the door and slipped out.

Fahrook must have made his laps quick, because Lyla got up to the room barely three minutes after I did. When I opened the door, she launched through the entryway and jumped into my arms, slamming me back against the wall.

"We did it," she half whispered, half screeched in my ear, loud enough to make me wince.

As tired as I was, Lyla felt like a refrigerator with arms and legs. I staggered backward until she finally let go and bounced back down to her feet. Victory obviously did something entirely different for Lyla's energy level than it did mine.

"Jesus! Take it easy."

She tapped my chest armor with a playful punch.

"Yeah, uh, no chest punches, please. Got shot," I grumbled.

"Don't be a baby . . . this is a huge success."

I nodded. "Now I know how you must have felt after North Korea."

Her eyes widened. "This is better than North Korea."

"Because this was your home. I get it."

Before I could turn and walk back to the bed, she reached out and took my hand. "It's better because of you, Scott. Because we're a team again."

Only then did I notice how she was standing, like before in the alcove. Close. Enough to make me worry—for just a second—that in her manic state, she'd try to kiss me. In my emotional and physical exhaustion, that was baggage I simply did not need.

Instead, she twirled away and ran to the balcony doors, throwing them open to the night. The overwhelming feeling in my gut was surprise. Not that we didn't kiss, but at the sharp pang of disappointment that lingered when she didn't make the attempt.

I flopped onto the bed, still in my duster, while the ceiling fan pushed the heat of the room straight down on my back. Didn't bother me one bit—victory makes anything feel like a hot-oil massage. When I twisted my head to look toward the balcony, I saw Lyla hopping around like a giddy teenager, stripping layers and flinging them to the floor as she babbled.

"We need to celebrate, don't you think? I wish room service offered wine. Any alcohol. Even beer would suffice. Oh, wait, you know what I would really love? Let's go dancing! There's got to be an underground club in the tourist district . . . two or three conversations with locals and I could . . ."

I turned facedown and mumbled, "That is an epically bad idea," into the beige bedspread.

Her voice morphed into that of a hyperserious, overly important ass clown—evidently what she assumed I sound like. "My name is Scott and I wear tight jeans and speak like an authority on all topics. Things are always epic and awesome and I have a monopoly on brooding thoughts and Lyla is always wrong."

When I looked up again, her smile broadcast her pride in the imitation.

"I totally don't sound like that. Lyla is wrong again. Epically."

She guffawed and ducked down to the floor behind her bed to scramble unseen into a T-shirt and shorts.

"Besides," I continued, "I'll celebrate with you plenty once we're back in the Western world. Dinner, drinks, dancing . . . whatever you want."

"Promises, promises . . ." The words floated up from behind her bed.

"Besides, now comes the best part of the whole operation," I responded.

"Which is?"

I sat up and shrugged off the duster, then rolled up my sleeve. "Calling in."

After I enabled the gauntlet's comm function, getting through to the States was as easy as punching the tiny icon marked TUCKER-OPS. The video call went through and my least favorite spook was soon staring up from the screen. It was dinnertime back in D.C., assuming he'd gone home from England, and Tucker looked less formal than I'd ever seen him: no uniform or sunglasses, just a plain navy short-sleeved golf shirt. In the background I noticed bookshelves filled with thick volumes, bracketing a redbrick fireplace. He was a suit and tie away from being the host of a PBS program.

"Finally. You've been in the field for two days and not a single peep. I assume you're calling to let me know you've arrived?"

"Yes. We're in-country, safe and sound. Thanks for asking."

"We have new intel on your primary targets, which you'll need to download immediately. It appears as though some of them are being relocated. You know, if you'd keep the gauntlet's data link active, new information would be pulled down off the satellite automatically."

"I'd rather not have the Agency know my position at all times."

"How suitably paranoid of you, Mr. McAlister. Is Ms. Ravzi with you now?"

"She's in the room, but she says for you to piss off."

I looked up to see Lyla nodding emphatically in agreement.

"That doesn't sound like something she would say," Tucker said.

"I embellished. We're both still irritated about being shot at by MI5."

"Bygones, Mr. McAlister—all in the past. I suggest you begin your mission as soon as possible. There are high-level eyes on this operation. Hopefully I don't need to tell you how badly this will hurt your future if . . ."

"We're done. Mission accomplished."

His eyes bulged. "What? Repeat last . . . what did you say?"

"I'm sorry. Did you want to threaten me more? If you worked out a whole routine ahead of time, by all means, feel free."

He gave an annoyed wave. "Please. Did you say you're done? Already?"

"Yes. All seven scientists have been compromised."

Tucker leaned back from the camera and mumbled, "Good Lord." He sat there, dazed in his chair for a solid five-count. I'd never liked him so much as during those five seconds.

I went on to describe most of the particulars, including Lyla's idea to go up the military chain to find the perfect man to corral all the scientists at once. I wanted Tucker to know how much his "broken idealist" had come through for him. When I finished, he ran his fingers through short salt-and-pepper hair and scrubbed his scalp as if waking up from a trance. In the background, I heard a child's voice yell, "Dinner!" Tucker's gaze broke to the side. He walked away from his computer screen and I heard a door slam shut.

"I apologize," he told me after he'd returned. "It seems as though congratulations are in order."

"Thanks. And our deal? Lyla and I can walk away now . . . no pursuit. That was the bargain."

He exhaled hard enough to distort the speaker. Relief, disappointment, anger? Hard to tell on a three-inch screen. I waited for the inevitable screw job.

"Very well."

He agreed. Easy as that. "Seriously?"

"Yes, Mr. McAlister. That was the deal, and I honor my agreements. Of course, we'll still need you to come in for a full debrief."

"Yeah, you should hold your breath waiting. Thanks for the memories, Tucker. Now go eat dinner." I tapped the disconnect button before he could say another word. "Aaaaaand, we're done."

Lyla looked decidedly less giddy. "Do you believe him?"

I shrugged. "As much as any government puppet. Job's finished, he'll look like a genius to his bosses, and he'll probably get promoted while riding on the coattails of our work. It's the CIA way."

Lyla gathered her legs beneath her as she sat in the middle of her own bed. "You realize he'll be back, correct? Eventually they'll have a mission they need accomplished, and despite all promises, we'll be forced to assist. That is also the CIA way."

"Tell me something I don't know. The guy busted down my door last week. Point is, we're not going to be around for him or anyone else to do the asking."

"Pray tell, where will we be, Strategic Genius?"

I stood up and began my own process of stripping down. "One thing at a time, Aphrodite . . . one thing at a time."

We barely spoke during our separate rituals of showering, teeth brushing, and winding down . . . but it was clear that the only real "winding down" was being done by yours truly. The stress and high drama of the operation affected me far differently than Lyla. I seemed to wilt in the aftermath of the mission's stress and pressure, but her energy and enthusiasm only amplified. She bounced from bathroom to balcony to bed like a superball. When I offered up her nightly knockout a little too readily, she declined.

"I'd rather bask in this feeling awhile," she said.

"Fine. But I need sleep . . . my brain is fried."

She locked her mouth with an invisible key and tossed it away. When darkness finally settled over us both, I pushed the cotton sheet down to my waist and tried to relax despite the stifling heat. Lyla tossed and turned in her bed as I closed my eyes and tried like hell to live up to my own name.

—

Five minutes later, she came to me.

I heard her slip free of her sheets but didn't open my eyes until she straddled my hips. I managed a surprised "What . . ." but the protest died in my throat as my hands found her naked torso.

"It's too hot to sleep in here," she said. "Can I interest you in some productive insomnia?" I could see the glowing outline of a smile above my head.

The cynical bastard saw it, too, and whispered, Remember the cabin.

"Um, this isn't exactly the way to cool off."

"Are you complaining?"

It's not real, she's just using you. Like before.

"No, it's just . . . I don't know. With our history . . ."

"You think too much. Trust me, we need this."

Trust her? Is she kidding?

She lowered her face and kissed me. Long. Slow. Deep.

The cynical bastard shook his head and headed for the door, You're on your own, pal. Have fun.

So I did.
CHAPTER 34

We had sex. A lot.

At midnight, I thought I'd had enough. I was content to lie next to Lyla and run my fingertips over her stomach, exploring the shallow crevices of her abs and the deep hollow beneath her ribs. When my hand went north of the ribs and found hard nipples, well, it was game on.

By one in the morning, I was convinced we were both done. Then Lyla went south of my ribs and I discovered reserves I didn't think I had. I opened the balcony doors to welcome in the night breeze, and we experienced the chorus of city sounds below; babbling voices, motorcycles, car engines, the nightlife. We were only too happy to add a few moans to the symphony.

By 2 a.m., we'd throttled down to the exhausted-cuddling stage. Neither of us had much left to offer, other than astonished gratitude. The room was still warm so we lay naked on top of the sheets, legs tangled together in postcoital bliss. I noticed Lyla staring at me while she nestled in the crook of my shoulder.

"What?"

"I wish I could read minds," she said. "What are you thinking about right now—this very second?"

I answered, "So very many things," which could not possibly have been more accurate. She slapped her palm on my stomach, avoiding the tender sternum.

"Be serious. I want to know."

I had a sudden, almost uncontrollable urge to tell her, right then and there, everything on my mind. Not just the usual half measure of truth, but all of it. The mix of sexual satisfaction and exhaustion, fear of discovery, fear that Tucker was lying through his Agency-perfected smile . . . hell, I even wanted to tell Lyla I was afraid of her, too. But, in that rare window of total clarity—the moment after, completely unclouded by passion—the emotion I experienced more than any other? Shame.

Five YEARS. It takes five years to climb out of the wreckage of Lyla's embrace, and five seconds of naked flirting leads you right back to the edge of the abyss. You wanna know what I'm thinking, Lyla? I've betrayed myself.

Fear, shame, desire, and whatever posed as "love" in Aphrodite's world—however good it might feel to surrender to complete honesty, sharing those feelings wasn't the kind of truth bomb I wanted to drop in the middle of a mission. Complex relationships taught a lesson the CIA would be proud of: information conservation is your friend.

"I'm thirsty," was all I could come up with.

This time, she hit the sternum. "That's what's on your mind? After what we just did?"

"C'mon, I'm only kidding. I was thinking about how different it is."

"What's different?"

"The sex. It was never like that before."

She shifted her gaze to the ceiling fan and said, "No, it was not," through a tired, satisfied smile.

We lay there for a long time; me watching the ceiling fan and battling my various internal demons, and Lyla quietly biding her time until she could say the two pillow-talk words most proven to make men cringe:

"What now?"

If she meant "what-now-about-us-as-a-couple," I sure as hell wasn't gonna stroll down the middle of that minefield.

"We're both semi-officially out of the CIA's clutches—free to cross international borders again, at least probably anywhere but England. What did you have in mind?"

She sat up and sucked in a deep breath.

I made her pause mid-suck. "Crap, you were just waiting for me to ask, weren't you?"

"Be quiet. Just listen. How many millions of people lie in bed like we're doing now and talk about the future? Or life? How many conversations about making a difference?"

"Lots, I'd imagine."

"And to them, changing the world is all about millions of people doing tiny things. If everyone donates to charity, if people ride bikes instead of drive cars, if everyone recycles—each personal action is a raindrop, but do it a billion times and you have an ocean."

"That'd make a good motivational poster."

"Funny. Let me ask you a question: why doesn't it work? Why don't people really change the world?"

I propped up on my elbows. "I don't know. I guess because it's hard to maintain. People are lazy."

I recycled for a while. When the bin got full one weekend and I didn't feel like taking it down to the recycling center, I threw a couple of Coke Zero cans in the regular trash. No buzzers went off, no eco-nazis stormed the cabin. Pretty soon my bin was recycling dust while the plastic and aluminum slept peacefully in the landfill.

"Correct. Plus 'small things' are self-defeating in the long run. It's too easy to write them off as insignificant. Real change fails because people lack conviction," she said. "They just don't have the stamina. Or the power."

"Ohhhh shit."

"No, no . . . stay with me. Before you spout the Prime Directive, I want to ask one final question."

"Because you had the good sense to use a Star Trek reference, I'll allow it."

"If a billion people trying to change the world with tiny actions doesn't work, why not try the opposite? A tiny group of people using huge actions to benefit everyone."

I groaned and rolled to face her. "The Time article."

"Don't dismiss it. Just think about what we could do."

My disappointment was difficult to conceal. "You brought it up at St. Moritz but I thought it was the sleep deprivation talking."

A dueling editorial piece from the Time edition where the Protectors made their debut, the article had gone mostly unnoticed. "Mostly" didn't include the people on the cover, though, newly branded super-beings who each bought fifty copies and read the entire issue cover to cover more than once. Titled "What a Wonderful World (It Could Be)," after the old Louie Armstrong song, the editorial debated military spending on a global scale. One person explained why it was necessary to spend more than one and a half trillion dollars a year to keep the world stable and people employed, while the other pointed out a few of the things even a fraction of that amount could pay for.

Like, for $50 billion, you could develop enough agricultural infrastructure in Africa to feed every man, woman, and child.

Or put a permanent colony on Mars for $200 billion.

Or drop $400 billion and make college free. For everybody.

Total pie-in-the-sky stuff. Except for Lyla, the one person with enough reach to grab the freaking pie.

"I may have been on the edge of psychosis, but the idea is still valid," she said.

"And what I told you that night is still true. Just because you have the power to change the world doesn't mean the world will let you. As soon as you—sorry, we—started dropping governmental mind-mojo bombs, every country on earth would hunt us down. They'd all be afraid we were coming after them next. That's not helping the world, Lyla . . . that's controlling it."

She waved her hand in front of her like she was erasing a chalkboard. "No, I don't mean like that . . ."

The activist bloom on Lyla's cheeks was a little scary, so I cut her off. "Look, I get it. Being free of the CIA opens all kinds of possibilities, and you're right—we can take an active role, but we have to be very careful. Anything we do, good or bad, can always be viewed as a threat by the Agency or anybody else in power. One misstep and we could spend the rest of our lives like we have the last week—running through every country on earth like it's hostile territory. I don't want to live like that. Do you?"

She rolled to her back and exhaled hard. "Well, I am getting tired of running."

"I've only been looking over my shoulder for a week and it blooooows."

Lyla continued her unfocused stare.

C'mon, McAlister. Bring Lyla back down to earth.

"Why don't we go to the Cayman Islands?" I said. "We'll lie on the beach, look at the stars, eat seafood. We can have more naked discussions and figure out a lower-impact way to use our powers for good. One that doesn't attract snipers. How's that for a compromise?"

She rolled back and kissed me; the slow, openmouthed kind that lasts forever and doesn't feel long enough at the same time. When she finally pulled back, my lips wanted to chase her.

Yeah, I was surfing the edge of the abyss, but dammit, until we were out of Iran—and all the way beyond the Agency's grip—it was a risk I had to take.
CHAPTER 35

For a guy called Knockout, I don't sleep much. Five, six hours a night, tops—and usually no more than a couple of hours at a time. I've tried to push my own consciousness button on many sleepless nights, but every time I do, I get woozy and can't focus enough to press down that final inch. And lemme tell ya, at 3 a.m., that's the only power I wish I had.

Listening to Lyla's soft, rhythmic breathing didn't help, either. When I couldn't take it anymore, I sat up and turned to the balcony doors. Now closed, they muted the sounds of the streets below. Quite a bit louder were the chaotic thoughts bouncing around my head, given voice by the events of the last few hours. Either way, I wasn't going to be getting a lot of sleep tonight.

Might as well take a walk, I thought. Clear your head, get a plan together for tomorrow. Productive insomnia.

I assumed the Grand Bazaar would be a ghost town this late, but I heard activity filtering up from below. When I stepped out onto the terrace and peeked over the railing, the source was easy to spot.

Two security guards framed the back entrance of the hotel. Hotel guests, some half dressed and fumbling with their belongings, streamed past them and down the street. The guards kept fingers to their lips, hushing the patrons as they ushered them out into the bazaar. I jerked back from the railing and retreated into the room.

They're evacuating. Why didn't we hear the alarm? Oh shit.

I wheeled to face the door just as the frame exploded inward. Reflex brought my arms up in a defensive X, and a sharp pain struck right in the middle of my left forearm. Lyla woke with a scream. In the moment the angry shouting began, with my eyes closed I could see a dozen beacons of consciousness, all huddled by our door and down the hall. I panicked and a blanket drop pulsed over our floor of the hotel. Everybody in range dropped, Lyla included. When I opened my eyes, I saw the unconscious remnants of an assault team, now collapsed in the entryway. Tactical squad, black uniforms, ski masks, no outer markings. These weren't police.

The sting in my arm was replaced with a cold throbbing, and I looked down expecting to find shrapnel or a bullet wound. What I found was worse: a tranquilizer dart.

"Fuck!" I yelled, ripping the dart out of my arm. It had hit near the bone of my elbow and wasn't able to sink deep; I didn't think I'd gotten the full load of whatever nastiness the dart contained. Still, judging from the numbness creeping up my arm, I was moments from being a useless pile on the floor. With Lyla unconscious as well, we'd be defenseless against the entry team's backup.

I grabbed my belt from the floor and wrapped it around my upper arm, pulling as tight as I could manage before tying it off. A poor man's tourniquet wouldn't last long, but it'd slow the barbiturate's progress toward my brain. Depending on how much of the full dose I'd gotten, I had ten, maybe fifteen minutes—which wasn't much.

I woke Lyla fairly easily; the tough part was getting her to understand how screwed we were.

"They found us. We gotta get out of here, c'mon!" I draped her arm over my shoulder and hefted her out of the bed. Helping her stand, we paused beside a shattered doorway filled with unconscious, heavily armed men.

"Wha . . . why are you . . . what's happening?" She was groggy and only supporting about a third of her weight.

"Bad guys, guns, impending death," I said, shuffling us around the corner of the bed.

I guided her to a pile of discarded clothes and stooped to grab her pants. When I held them up, Lyla stared at me like I was handing her a potbellied pig.

"How . . . what?"

Goddammit. No time for this. I dropped the pants and slapped her across the face.

The loud smack was like hitting a reset button. Lyla's wandering, unfocused eyes snapped back to me and the gold spirals began to twist. Her weak legs rediscovered the floor and she jerked away.

"Easy!" I raised both hands. "We are in some serious shit—I need you to focus."

She did a full 360 and truly saw the room for the first time since waking. Without further prompting, she dove for her clothes.

I slammed my feet into my boots, then took another sweep of the floor with my eyes shut, scanning for any stray consciousness within range.

Nothing.

While Lyla scrambled into her shirt and pants, I examined the entry team. First guy through the door was the guy with the night-night pistol and he had a Kalashnikov assault rifle slung over his torso as backup. The two guys right behind him had stepped in with Tasers, one of which had already fired. The telltale filaments trailed out of the weapon's barrel; I followed them straight to the electrodes at the ends, now harmlessly burrowed into the wooden sideboard of Lyla's bed. He'd fired the thing as he dropped, electrifying the one material that didn't give a shit. One second too late on my mass drop, though, and I'd have gotten the juice right after the tranq dart—down for the count.

More unconscious men lined the hall outside our room, trailing all the way to the elevator, and none of them had nonlethal weaponry. These guys held AKs with fat noise suppressors on the barrels, and several men had hand grenades attached to their tactical vests. The entry team was obviously the "take-them-alive" Plan A, and these assholes were the "just-in-case" Plan B.

I did not approve of either plan.

When I turned back to the room, Lyla was dressed and hunched down over the lead shooter. She pulled off his mask first, then crawled to the other two and did the same.

"Takavar," she grunted. "Iranian special forces."

"How do you know?"

"I've encountered them before." Disgust dripped off every word. "No facial hair. They can blend in better on foreign soil, outside the Middle East." She stood and funneled her hair into a ponytail, asking, "But how did they find us?"

That's when it finally dawned on me.

Her hair.

When she'd walked in the door earlier, she hadn't been wearing the niqab. Wasn't even carrying it.

"You walked through the lobby in plain view, didn't you?" I asked.

She blinked, eyes shifting back and forth while she ran the mental recording backward. "I . . . no . . . I wouldn't have . . . ," she started, then lowered her head. "Damn."

"You celebrated too early, and someone downstairs ID'd you. Goddammit." I pushed past her into the room, and her apology bounced off my back. "Doesn't matter," I said, grabbing my duster. Only then did Lyla notice the belt around my arm.

"What's wrong? Are you hit?"

"Tranq dart." I checked the tourniquet. It had slipped down a little, but still held. My arm was going numb, but that was better than the alternative. I donned the duster, squeezing my left arm through the sleeve. It was uncomfortably tight around my bound-up shoulder, but at least the sleeve would help hold the belt in place.

"Scott, I'm . . . I'm sorry," Lyla repeated.

"Later." I stepped over the bodies in the doorway and looked down toward the elevator. "We're on a clock now . . . I've only got minutes before I'm down. Maybe less."

Lyla didn't follow me into the hall.

"If you only have a few minutes, let's make them count." She loomed over the guy with the tranq gun and pulled him upright by his vest. Her eyes started to rotate as she pulled the unconscious man toward her face.

"Wake them up, one at a time," she said. "Starting with this one."

I was happy to oblige.

—

Five minutes later, a full squad of masked soldiers escorted two prisoners straight through the lobby. Draped under black hoods, hands cuffed behind their backs, the two captives were quietly ushered into a waiting evac truck, along with six Takavar escorts. The special-forces troops allowed neither of the two platoons of regular army waiting outside the hotel to assume custody—in fact, when army guards tried to hop in with the prisoners, six masked men pushed them right back out and closed the door. The Takavar captain subsequently relieved the driver of his keys and informed the man that the army's job was to provide vehicle escort only.

The lieutenant leading the army units looked confused, but refused to argue with a superior officer; particularly one in command of a shadow force like the dreaded Takavar, which had a nasty reputation for disappearing the Ayatollah's enemies, foreign and domestic. The wide-eyed lieutenant was so flustered, he didn't bother with a simple head count of the special-forces soldiers—which meant he didn't notice the Takavar squad was four soldiers short.

Or that two of those missing soldiers now sat quietly, hooded and handcuffed, in the back of the evac truck.

Or notice the other two in the front seat of an SUV, pulling around the block from the hotel rear.

And the lieutenant certainly didn't know that as he gave up both his command and his backbone without protest, the two most-wanted fugitives in his entire country watched it happen from behind the tinted glass of that same SUV.

"How far to the base?" I asked Lyla.

"Bigdeneh is almost fifty kilometers to the west. At least thirty minutes."

"I wish we could be there to see the base commander's face when they open the doors to that truck. I assume the guards will pledge undying loyalty to the Goddess of Love?"

"I'm not quite that vain. To a man, they will swear that they believed we were in custody."

"And the 'prisoners'?"

"They're content to wait quietly until the hoods are removed."

My own satisfaction got buried under a sudden wave of dizziness. "Shit. I don't have much time, we gotta find a safe spot."

"Biya berim," Lyla ordered the driver, who immediately pulled away from the curb in a U-turn. He accelerated smoothly in the opposite direction from the departing army trucks. A mile later, the SUV turned off the street bordering the bazaar and dove into a series of quick maneuvers down narrow passages and tiny alleys. Each turn made me more woozy.

Lyla steadied me and asked, "Are you okay?"

"The headlights are spitting out rainbows and you're starting to sound like Darth Vader, so . . . no. Where are we going?"

"The driver's aunt lives in a townhouse off the northern edge of the bazaar. Her family is on holiday in Kish, so we should be safe for the night. The streets are quiet right now, but he's taking us in the back way to avoid prying eyes."

In moments, the SUV pulled into an alley between tall brick buildings and stopped. The driver tossed a long piece of cloth back to Lyla, who spun it around her neck and over her head in a makeshift hijab—even with dark, empty streets she wasn't going to risk being noticed this time.

I opened the car door and stepped down . . . and kept on going down. My legs were losing their will faster than my brain. When the driver hopped out and helped Lyla get me to my feet, they had to support my body on either side to keep me vertical. In doing so, they popped the belt loose under the duster sleeve.

"Well, I'm screwed now," I said, much louder than I wanted.

"Be quiet!" Lyla uttered in a harsh whisper. She issued a couple of Farsi commands with the same hushed urgency, and the other escort replaced her as one of my supports. The Takavar soldiers buddy-carried me through the back door of the townhouse, just as my brain's house lights started to fade.

By the time Lyla had me deposited in one of the bedrooms, I was barely hanging on.

"You have to . . . we need . . . evac . . ." The mental gears just wouldn't engage.

"Shhh," Lyla whispered, combing my hair back with her fingers. "Don't worry. I'll take care of everything."

The last thing I remember before finally giving in was an overwhelming sense of irritation. Being forced into unconsciousness? Against my will?

Dammit, that's just not fair.
CHAPTER 36

My eyes didn't blink open until noon, and they were not happy about it. The indignity of waking up in a puddle of drool didn't help, either. The real complaining, though, came from my sternum, ribs, and left arm—all of which screamed their displeasure when I rolled over and sat up.

I couldn't move for a while after that. While my brain rebooted and tried to load the last twenty-four hours' worth of insanity into the memory banks, I finally got the guts to swing my legs off the mattress and stand up. I creaked and popped more than the bed.

The room was small—modestly appointed with my drool-soaked twin bed, an end table, and a dresser with a jewelry box on top. The only window in the room was closed and the shades drawn. I was glad for the privacy, considering someone had removed the gauntlet and every single bit of my clothing, save my briefs.

A full-length mirror on the back of the door to the room showed the physical toll of my adventures: left arm swollen and red, scratches all over my torso, and the beginnings of a nasty purple bruise spreading over half my sternum. I made a tentative attempt to massage my chest, then thought better of it. Still, the bruise wasn't bad considering I'd taken a 9 mm round at point-blank range.

My clothes weren't in sight, so rather than stride into the hallway of a stranger's home wearing nothing but underwear, I cracked the door and called out.

"Lyla? Hello?"

No response.

When I closed the door and turned around, I noticed a piece of scrap paper, lying to the side of my pillow.

S—I'll be back. Clothes and food in kitchen. House empty.

L

PS I took a niqab

How thoughtful. NOW she's careful.

I crumpled the paper and tossed it away. The irritation at being discovered last night came flooding back, but not many memories beyond that. I tried to remember where I was, but the details after we'd escaped the hotel were sketchy. Plus, the harder I tried to concentrate, the foggier my concentration became.

Wait . . . tranquilized. Barbiturates.

The confusion and brain cloud were side effects from the dart. There was an easy way to get rid of the fog, but certain parts of my body were really going to hate it. I took a brutally cold shower followed by a perfectly hot one. When the water finally ran lukewarm, I emerged to realize that the pounding water had been shutting me off from the world a little too well.

Noise from beyond the bedroom filtered through the windows and even the bathroom door. A lot of noise. Wasn't an automatic cause for alarm—we were still near the Grand Bazaar, and that place at midday put a livestock auction house to shame—but then I heard the gunshot.

At first I thought, Engine backfire. They happened a lot in Tehran, where the model year of nine out of every ten cars started with a "1." But gunshots, unlike backfires, tend to spawn more gunshots. After I heard four additional loud pops, I knew the source wasn't automotive. I scrambled into my jeans and yanked a shirt over my head as I went for the door leading to the master bedroom's balcony. Stepping outside was like walking through a door into another world.

Three- and four-story buildings lined this portion of the bazaar, so I couldn't see beyond the half mile of narrow, winding street below. But man, what a half mile it was. Hundreds, maybe thousands of people mobbed the closed-in boulevard. Most were jumping up and down, screaming. Initially I assumed a riot, but this was different. I didn't see scowls or hear angry shouts; people were hugging, many with tears running down their faces. The gunshots were apparently of the "shoot-in-the-air-like-a-bandito" variety. Some of the revelers had makeshift posters of the president, and, tellingly, none of them were on fire.

Something big had happened, something wonderful as far as the celebrating throng was concerned. I went back inside, closed the balcony door, and went for the nearest TV. The one in the master bedroom got fewer than twenty stations, and virtually all were broadcasting in either Farsi or Arabic. Al Jazeera English was the only channel I could understand. After five minutes of footage, I wished I couldn't. The scenes were all similar to what was going on outside my window, but the voice-over wasn't nearly as excited.

Repeating our breaking news . . . the Republic of Iran in chaos at this hour. In a stunning shift of national policy, President Nikahd announced two hours ago he is stepping down—admitting to large-scale voter fraud in last year's elections.

The video cut to the tearful president during his press conference. His manner was humble and apologetic, not two words normally associated with the man. Right then, Lyla's absence made the jump from harmless to incriminating.

No official word yet, but our analysts are unanimous in agreeing this decision was made WITHOUT consulting the Iranian parliament, his own political party, or Iran's Supreme Leader—the Ayatollah. The reasons for these assumptions should be clear from the last recorded portion of his impromptu press conference. State-controlled media cut the video feed before the president could finish his remarks, for obvious reasons.

The announcer shut up, and only Nikahd's voice came from the television. English translation scrolled beneath the video.

. . . and it is because of this fraud, this crime against the great people of Iran, that I must step down and call for real, true elections. Of course such a thing will not happen so long as the veil of tyranny hangs over every Iranian's head. Your Supreme Leader and the government he enables are no longer the voice of the people . . .

His voice rose.

They are a product of the revolution, which freed us all, yes. But now, like so many tyrants from history, the liberators become the oppressors. They shield themselves behind Islam, use the Holy Word to enslave people they should hold dear—the worst kind of blasphemy. The time has come for an Iran ruled by the PEOPLE, where fear and secrecy are rooted out by justice and liberty. Join with me, brothers and sisters! Let the beacon of truth light the way toward FREEDOM—

A commotion stirred off-camera and several of the president's retinue moved toward the disturbance. There were shouts and sounds of a scuffle before the video cut out. The announcer's face replaced the black screen and he looked almost as disturbed as I felt.

Widespread celebrations are under way as I speak. Tehran is, of course, ground zero for these events. No official word yet from the office of the Ayatollah or the military which he controls; however, army units have been dispatched from bases surrounding the capital and are en route to key facilities in Tehran proper. Demonstrations are at a fever pitch and many citizens are armed. Considerable doubt exists that the arrival of military forces will deter or disperse them without open bloodshed. Ladies and gentlemen, we may be only hours away from witnessing the onset of full-scale civil war.

I jabbed the power button on the TV. One question pounded against the interior of my skull. It wasn't if Lyla did it; obviously she had. It wasn't why, either. Hell, my question wasn't even how, because the truth hit in a rush. She'd contacted General Ahmadi—the man in charge of VIP protection for the whole country, not just the nuke program. Gotten Nikahd's location and security details, then used my convenient involuntary nap to sneak out and do what she does best.

No, the only unanswered question was: who was the bigger idiot?

Her, for throwing an entire nation in a blender; or me, for thinking she'd be satisfied with only sabotaging the nuke program? My hands balled into fists. It almost stopped the shaking.

An awful lightness swirled in my throat and I grabbed the gauntlet from the bathroom. I'd powered it down last night after my debrief with Tucker. When I reenabled the comm functions, a list of entries scrolled up the screen, all identical: "MISSED CALL: TUCKER-OPS."

We are in deep shit.

A surge of noise outside distracted me before I could panic; the balcony door barely muffled the raucous crowd outside. When I swung it open, my jaw did the same. The crush and intensity of the mob had doubled in the few minutes I'd been inside. I couldn't see a single inch of pavement—just a pulsating mass of bodies, jubilant to the point of mania. They danced and jumped up and down, some beneath undulating flags of red, green, and white stripes. A few intrepid souls climbed construction scaffolding on a nearby building façade to get better views of the crowd. And the omnipresent cell phones, thousands thrust aloft to record the birth of a new age in Iran.

Unfortunately, their new dawn was only going to last until a column of tanks rolled down the boulevard and broke up the party. Hard. This moment, though, celebration revolved around right now with zero regard for the armored retaliation rumbling toward the capital. The 10 percent of my brain not furious with Lyla wondered where she was, out in the morass of humanity the streets of Tehran had become. Hopefully somewhere safe, because the pissed-off 90 percent wanted Aphrodite alive and well when I kicked her ass. I half turned back to the room to call her when something odd caught my eye.

Normally, your vision locks on to unexpected movement. In a maelstrom of activity, however, the peculiarity you notice is stillness. Two hundred yards away, a piece of the mob wasn't moving. A circular section of people almost thirty feet across stood out from the rest. All around them, the texture of the crowd was in constant flux; chaotic motion in all directions. But not this group, at least fifty people strong. They were a flat disk of tranquility surrounded by roiling sea.

When I focused on their portion of the street, I noticed they were moving, just not bobbing up and down. The disk slowly forced its way through the masses in the direction of my balcony. As they drifted closer, I could see the edges of the circle, where the ocean surf of the surrounding mob crashed against the border and rolled away. The outer boundary of men held the revelers at bay, pushing back to maintain the circle's edge. At least five progressively smaller rings of men supported them from within. The entire group protected the center—an open circle of pavement ten feet in diameter framing a solitary figure, walking untouched. From a hundred yards, I saw the group as a silent moving eye: a cornea of embraced minions, an iris of concrete, and Lyla as the pupil.
CHAPTER 37

Are you fucking insane?" I shouted at her after she'd released her small army of escorts and come inside.

"Good morning to you, too," Lyla muttered while sliding past me. I noticed her niqab from last night, now loosely draped around her neck like a scarf. She walked to the kitchen, uncoiled the fabric, and dropped it in the trash basket.

I shadowed her up the steps to the third floor, cursing the entire way. She responded to none of it, simply walked into the master bedroom and swung the balcony doors wide. When she turned around with a satisfied smile plastered to her face, it was more than I could swallow.

"Dammit, Lyla! Do you have any idea what you've done?"

"I have a very good idea, yes." She stood her ground in front of the balcony, hands on her hips. "The Iranian people will finally get to determine their own destiny."

"Is their destiny to be blown to pieces by artillery shells? Because that's what's coming. TV says army units are moving on the capital right now."

The smile cracked. She sat on the edge of the bed and closed her eyes, listening to exultations from the crowd outside. Absorbing them.

"Nothing? Seriously?" I roared. "People are going to die. Thousands . . . millions. You've started a goddamn civil war."

Her eyes opened. "No. I have not."

I barely heard her. "Christ. This is my fault. I should have known you couldn't handle this. The nuke program was never gonna be enough—"

"We did not start this," Lyla said.

I shook my head. "How the hell can you say that?"

She launched off the bed and grabbed me by the wrist. Lyla pulled me to the balcony, stepped over the threshold, and swept her arms across the scene. "Look at this!" she cried. "Look at all of it. The tears, the dancing, the joy. There are millions of them, Scott . . . not just here, the whole country."

"I get it. But this—"

"No, you don't! You don't understand." Her volume matched my own. "I didn't do this. I'm not controlling these people. I embraced one man. And do you know what I told him to do? Three words. Tell the truth. That's all."

She grabbed me by both shoulders.

"Nikahd only voiced what these people already knew: the government controls eighty million people with violence and fear. And those eighty million now have the courage to say something about it. Like before, in 2009 when the student rebellion almost took Tehran. You think I started this?"

She pointed beyond the balcony.

"They started it, Scott. Years ago. All I did today was give them the opportunity to finish."

I stumbled backward into the room, pulling at the sides of my face. I found the corner of the bed and plopped down, mind furiously spinning, trying to understand. Lyla slowly closed the balcony doors. She stood there, letting me adjust.

"Well, that's just great," I said, staring at the floor. "The Iranian people get to fight for their freedom. I'm happy for them."

My head sank into my hands. "But what about us? What do you think the Agency's gonna do? You've disobeyed orders and gone on a personal crusade—exactly what I promised them you wouldn't do. The CIA is gonna put the word out to every intelligence agency on the planet."

I couldn't suppress a grim laugh.

"Congratulations, Lyla. You've achieved world unity. Unfortunately, the one thing they'll be unified on is killing us."

She came to the bed and sat beside me, wrapping an arm around my shoulder. "I'm not so sure. The Agency might need us now more than ever. In fact, I'm praying they do."

"What do you mean?"

"This doesn't have to descend into civil war. The United States doesn't want an Iranian bloodbath any more than I do. Think about it. The most powerful military in the Middle East and more than ten percent of the world's oil supply? The CIA can't allow Iran to go the way of Egypt or Syria—it's too strategic. If anyone can understand that, it's you."

Obvious vanity play on her part, but still, it made me curious. "Then what will the Agency do?"

"I think they'll want our help. Want us to stabilize things."

That was enough to launch me off the bed and into orbit. I gestured to Lyla's seventy-five thousand friends outside. "Stabilize that?! Are you shitting me?"

An unfamiliar electronic tone cut off my rant. We both turned to see the gauntlet buzzing on the end table.

"Damn. I didn't turn the comm link off after I checked it. That'll be Tucker," I said.

"Answer it."

"Why, so he can look me in the face to tell me about the terminate-on-sight order? No thanks. Feel free to pick it up yourself."

Lyla uttered a disgusted "Fine." After she grabbed the device, Tucker's voice burst into the room via speaker.

"Ms. Ravzi. What a surprise. I was expecting the illustrious Mr. McAlister. Hopefully nothing unfortunate has occurred?"

I yelled, "I'm in the room, dick!"

"Charming as always. It's an honor to make your acquaintance, Ms. Ravzi. My name is Tucker."

Lyla sat cross-legged on the bed and watched his image on the gauntlet from her lap. "So I've been told. What can I do for you, Mr. Tucker?"

"Well, as you can imagine, it's been an exciting night here in Washington. I'd hazard a guess we've been almost as busy as you have."

All business, Lyla said, "Almost."

Unflappable as ever, Tucker said, "The next time you want to alter the face of the Middle East, let me know in advance. I could have invested in a few oil futures and retired early."

"Not very patriotic of you," Lyla said.

"Be that as it may, Director Shepherd and his good friend the president are facing the prospect of eight-dollar-per-gallon gas prices come morning. That's a conservative estimate, by the way."

"Are you saying you'd like us to intervene?"

I heard Tucker sigh. Wouldn't surprise me if I heard him from halfway around the world without the comm link. "Director Shepherd has no choice but to give you a new mandate. Is General Ahmadi still an available resource?"

She bent closer to the screen. "Yes."

"Then you are to use Ahmadi to gain access to the Ayatollah. Your mission is to embrace him, his aides, and anyone else necessary in his leadership group—defuse the situation as quickly as possible. The Ayatollah can bring the military in line and end this before it goes too far."

Lyla clasped hands in front of her face and closed her eyes. "Understood," she said, voice unsteady. "Thank you, Mr. Tucker. I swear to you, we will accomplish this mission. Thank you." She turned the gauntlet's screen to face the bedroom wall for a moment to compose herself. Tucker never saw her wipe her eyes.

Prayers answered.

"Pay attention, Ms. Ravzi," the gauntlet announced to the wall before Lyla twisted it back. "Comm traffic indicates the Ayatollah has not been moved out of Tehran, so you should be able to get to him quickly. And it needs to be quickly. In less than twelve hours, the military will have secured vital supply and arms depots around the country. After that, they'll engage the citizenry wherever deemed necessary."

I stood next to Lyla's bed so I could see Tucker's face. "So were you in favor of this plan?"

His sharky smile rivaled Lyla's. "Goodness, no. I suggested we terminate your services immediately. Sadly, cooler heads prevailed."

Scary part? I didn't think he was joking. Lyla was apparently too focused on the new mission to care. "When we find the Ayatollah's location, what can you do to assist?" she said.

"Report his position and we'll task a thermal-imaging satellite over the target area. We've got a couple in the region now. You can use the gauntlet to observe the feed in real time and gain additional reconnaissance if you need it."

"Excellent. Anything else?"

"No . . . embrace the Ayatollah, stop a civil war. That should be about it. And Mr. McAlister?"

I grabbed the gauntlet from Lyla.

"Yeah?"

"Just so we're clear: if you can't accomplish the objective, I suggest you and Ms. Ravzi find a nice, quiet corner of Antarctica and settle down. It'll be the only safe place on the planet for either of you."
CHAPTER 38

Took almost three hours for Fahrook to get to the townhouse in the big black Mercedes. The main streets of Tehran weren't as jammed as the narrow corridors of the bazaar, but traveling by car was a nightmare no matter where you were. We wouldn't have even made it out of the townhouse driveway if I hadn't dropped the two dozen people rocking the vehicle like drunken Canadian hockey fans after the Stanley Cup Finals. Fahrook might have been a first-class bodyguard, but neglecting to remove the general's military plates didn't exactly qualify him for Mensa.

Lyla sat up front with him and the two jabbered while I fumed in the back. I caught her glance my way in the mirror a couple of times, but for the most part I stared at the surreal landscape of humanity speeding past my window. Well, maybe not speeding—long sections of the drive north were more like crawling. Twice I had to defend the stopped vehicle with targeted drops. The second time was just before the highway, where hundreds of people clogged the final few yards to an empty on-ramp. I wound up causing a mini-panic in the streets when I dropped a few people to the side of the Mercedes; someone screamed "Gas!" when they saw bodies fall to the ground with no visible cause. After that, people couldn't get out of our way fast enough.

When we were safely out of the mob's reach, Lyla turned to face me. "Fahrook says the Ayatollah has been moved to the Niavaran Palace complex, north of Elahiyeh."

I answered with arms clamped across my chest. "Is that good or bad?"

Displeasure flashed in her expression, but she buried it quickly. "Both. The area is more remote, so we won't have crowds of people blocking us. However, Niavaran is also the former residence of the Shah of Iran. It's surrounded by a fifteen-foot wall on all sides, with only one large gate, easily defensible. The Revolutionary Guard has an entire armored regiment fortifying the perimeter—at least five hundred men with heavy equipment."

"How heavy?"

"Machine guns, armored personnel carriers, tanks."

"Oh, that's all?" I grumbled. "How are we supposed to sneak into a fortress?"

A broad smile spread over her face. She was so beautiful it almost made me forget how screwed we were. "We're not going to sneak in. Fahrook will drive us right through the front gate. Ahmadi is coordinating the defense of Niavaran."

"Are you shitting me?"

"I am not shitting you. He's in charge of protection, remember? The gate guards have been told to expect Fahrook and allow him to report to the general as soon as we arrive."

"You picked the right guy to embrace."

"Yes, well, don't be too excited. Getting to the Ayatollah in the main house will be more difficult. Ahmadi will brief us when we arrive."

I scowled out my window. "Of course it's more difficult. Fucking tanks. Don't know if I can even drop somebody encased in two feet of armor. You realize it doesn't matter if we accomplish the mission, right? The CIA is just using us to stabilize this mess. After that, we're a king-sized liability."

Lyla twisted and thrust half her body into the back so she could get in my face. "Be angry all you wish, my love. But kindly get your head out of your ass, because I need you to focus."

When I leaned forward to argue, she shoved me back into my seat. Air rushed out of the perforated leather underneath me, squeaking like a weak fart.

"We have a mission to accomplish and a country to save. Keep up that petulant attitude and you will see just how childish I can make you. Understood?"

I gave her two less-than-enthusiastic thumbs up. Not my finest response, but an adequate one because she wriggled back into the front seat. She was right, as usual. Today was more important than tomorrow, no matter how many dark clouds hovered beyond our horizon. Funny how the potential death of millions of innocent civilians tends to take your mind off relationship issues.

—

Two grueling hours later, we approached Niavaran Palace. I didn't have to ask if we were close, because traffic trickled down to nothing. When we passed twin all-terrain vehicles on opposite sides of the road, each with mounted 20 mm guns pointed at us, it became obvious. The military flags and plates on the general's car got us as far as the outer checkpoint without being stopped, so I reconsidered Fahrook's Mensa application. His credentials allowed us through to the main gate, where the scenery got serious. Four Soviet-era T-62 battle tanks waited like a row of hulking offensive linemen, protecting the wide gates to the complex, their guns pointed out over the road.

The cannons looked really big up close.

Security was tighter here. Soldiers with mirror-attached rods surveyed the underside of the vehicle, while another rifled through our trunk. Lyla sat quietly behind her darkened window, unseen from the outside, until the soldier with the most stripes on his sleeves made a demand of Fahrook, evidently ordering all passengers out of the vehicle.

That's when Lyla spoke up and gave an order of her own.

The entire time we waited, I had my radar spooled up, ready to send out a pulse that would drop everyone at the gate. Once Lyla got us through, I saw how disastrous that plan would have been. Past the walls of the compound, there were soldiers spread out everywhere—my meager range wouldn't have affected more than a handful. I wondered if anyone was bothering to guard the sides and back of the complex, because it looked like all five hundred guys were watching the front door. Long tents and temporary shelters lined the outer edge of a massive courtyard in front of the palace. Armored personnel carriers and a handful of light infantry vehicles waited in reserve to support the tanks out front. The Shah might have evacuated this place in a panic back in 1979, but the Ayatollah looked better prepared.

"Holy shit."

My words leaked out as Fahrook pulled the Mercedes to the far end of the courtyard. We glided up next to a small outbuilding halfway between the main gate and the palace. Looked like an oversized guard shack, adjacent to the stone driveway that led directly to the palace façade. Only one window and it was papered over from the inside. Fahrook parked the car so the passenger side was only a few feet from the shack door; it took less than three seconds' exposure for Lyla and me to duck inside.

General Ahmadi turned to greet us. His face, an emotionless mask at first, transitioned to pure joy when Lyla stepped out from behind me. The only furniture in the small room was a folding metal table, and he bumped the corner in his haste to hug her. She shrank a step, but allowed the contact. She grimaced until Ahmadi released her and drew our attention back to the table.

"More unconditional worship," I whispered.

Her response slid from the corner of her mouth. "Shut it, McAlister. Focus."

The general launched into a quick update from the opposite side of the table, only to have Lyla shut him down.

"English, please. For my friend."

He nodded and started over. "The Ayatollah is here," Ahmadi said, pointing down at the large blueprints on the desk between us. "Office at the far end of the palace. Third floor. There is, how you say? Good news and bad news."

"That's how we say. What's the bad news?" I asked.

He addressed Lyla only, like I wasn't even in the room.

"I cannot enter the building unless summoned. No one can. Family and leadership only inside. Two squads guard the palace entrance. They will not allow anyone near the doors unless ordered by the Ayatollah himself. If you approach uninvited, you will be shot. There is much . . ." Ahmadi struggled for the right word and resorted to Farsi.

"Paranoia," Lyla translated. "Not a shock in an uprising. The good news?"

"Two hundred men guard the main gate, and another two hundred fortify the perimeter. You saw the tanks and artillery, yes?"

"Still waiting on the good news," I said.

Ahmadi couldn't be bothered to look at me. "Although a full regiment surrounds the area, the interior of the palace has only a small number of soldiers. Less than twenty. They want as few people as possible near the Supreme Leader. His personal guard only."

The general was right—less than twenty men inside an entire palace was good news, except for one small problem.

"How do we get in?" Lyla asked before I could.

He smiled. "The best news. This was the Shah's palace long ago. The tunnel system he used to escape during the revolution still exists. Entrances outside the walls have been sealed, but there are still two ways to get to the tunnels from inside the complex."

"I don't suppose one of them is this shack?" I said, looking under the table.

"I am sorry, no. One is near the helicopter pad behind the palace." He drew his finger across the blueprints, from the tiny rectangle of the shack to a large circle on the other side of the complex. "Too far. But this one"—his finger traveled a few inches—"is less than fifty meters from here. A maintenance hatch near the garden."

"There are soldiers everywhere. Fifty meters may as well be five hundred," I said.

He pointed to a sack over in the corner. "I have army uniforms for both of you. They will not trick anyone now, but wait two hours . . . in the dark; you are just soldiers walking to a post. No one is stationed in the garden, so you should be able to slip inside the tunnel. I unlocked the hatch myself."

Lyla and I both looked at our watches. Almost 6 p.m.

"Tucker said twelve hours until a military crackdown, which would mean midnight. If we get to him by eight or nine, that's plenty of cushion," I told Lyla.

"Provided the Ayatollah shares Tucker's timetable." She didn't sound optimistic.

"Regardless, I agree with the general. We don't make it to the hatch unnoticed in daylight. No army uniform will convince anyone you're a soldier, and I'm a little paler than your average Iranian infantry grunt. We've gotta risk the wait."

Ahmadi acknowledged our decision with a grunt. "I cannot stay here with you. I am expected in the command tent for a briefing in twenty minutes. Fahrook is returning to the house in Elahiyeh."

He left the blueprints of the tunnel layout and palace interior, then rolled the rest and jammed them into his briefcase. No hug, but before the general departed, he took a final glance at Lyla. "Good luck. May the Supreme Leader see the beauty of your wisdom, as I do."

Then he finally noticed the Invisible Man.

"Protect her," he said, and extended his hand.

Surprised, I shook it. He looked more like a worried father than a helpless minion. Sometimes it was hard to remember the truth: without Lyla's magic, General Mahmoud Ahmadi of the Iranian Revolutionary Guard would've shot us both in the head without shedding a tear.

He exited the shack and locked the door behind him. We were alone again, waiting for dark and our one and only chance to stop a civil war.
CHAPTER 39

Two hours went by a lot faster than I expected. Lyla spent her time poring over the blueprint of the palace, analyzing every hallway, staircase, and room we'd have to navigate to reach our goal on the third floor. My job was the tunnel system; memorizing the twists and bends we'd have to follow to get inside the main house. After an hour, I enabled the gauntlet's GPS, grabbed our coordinates, and texted them to Tucker.

"No longer concerned about Tomahawk missiles?" Lyla said.

"Guessing Tucker's not stupid enough to kill Iran's Supreme Leader just to be rid of us."

The gauntlet beeped with a return text message seconds later.

"He says the satellite will be on-station within ten minutes . . . damn, that's quick."

"CIA efficiency. They can be accommodating when they want," Lyla said.

I tore a tiny corner off the paper covering the shack's window so I could peek through. The view of the main gate was unchanged—soldiers and vehicles galore. The sun was setting, though, and comforting shade now spread throughout the compound.

Thirty minutes later the shade deepened into dusk. I pulled up the data feed, did some manual zooms, and got my first look at thermal images of Niavaran. One of the gauntlet's cooler tricks was doubling as an LCD projector; I removed the device and sat it on the table so it could beam the satellite imagery on the wall. Once blown up to the size of a large painting, the video looked similar to Ahmadi's blueprints, but without all the fine detail. The satellite picked up heat signatures, so people and vehicles appeared bright white, while structures and vegetation were a cooler blue. The data was in real time, so we saw each step of the scurrying white ants crawling over the courtyard as they took them.

"Amazing," Lyla said.

"Yep. We wait until there's a gap in the coverage near the garden. The hatch is right here . . ." I pointed to a light blue area with two white blobs walking nearby. "It'll be dark soon. Let's suit up."

We threw the general's stolen uniforms on over our clothes. They were desert camouflage pattern and included beige caps.

Lyla stuffed her black hair underneath hers and presented for inspection. "Well?"

The clothes hung off her petite frame. She had to roll up half the sleeves and a third of the pant legs.

"You look like Captain America before the supersoldier serum. Still, it should be good enough in the dark."

She laughed. "That is the first time anyone told me I look better with the lights off."

The laughter was out of place, but welcome. Took the edge off my anger. I nodded toward the projected image while fastening my belt. "Focus on the satellite video; be ready."

The two blobs near the garden walked back toward the main gate, a direction that took them within ten paces of our location. Lyla and I watched the wall image without blinking. When they crossed the point of their journey closest to the shack, I could hear footsteps on the pavement outside. Neither of us took a breath until they made it to the gate.

Half an hour later, it was as dark as it was going to get. No soldiers were within fifty yards of the garden. I turned off the projector and slipped the gauntlet back on my forearm.

"Time to go." I paused by the door. "Remember, nice and casual. Don't rush; we're on patrol."

Lyla nodded. I twisted the knob and we walked out into the night.

—

Took sixty steps to cover the distance; I counted every one.

At twenty, I had to whisper at Lyla, "Jesus, not so close. We're both men, remember? You look like you're about to hold my hand."

At forty, she whispered back. "Slower. You're almost running."

The extra kick in my step was harder to control the closer we got to the garden. Like a sprinter sensing the finish line, I wanted to lean forward and break the tape. Seeing other groups of soldiers nearby didn't help. Thankfully none were close enough; although the palace was lit up like a casino, the courtyard had no more than a handful of scattered lampposts—which meant guards would need to be on top of us to realize we were impostors.

When we approached the garden, I could make out a two-foot-tall metal cage protecting the maintenance hatch. The framework was shielded from the rest of the garden by several tall bushes. I silently thanked the Shah for preventing the hatch from being an eyesore by covering it up.

I flipped the unlocked protective cage off the hatch while Lyla kept watch. When she gave me the all-clear, I pulled the iron manhole cover aside and told her to duck in. I joined her on the ladder down and replaced the frame and cover. Moments later, we were standing in a dank, poorly lit concrete corridor.

"We follow this to the four-way intersection. From there we go straight through until the Y-split. Left spur goes to the helipad, right goes to the house," I said.

We stuck to opposite sides of the tunnel as we moved. Every twenty feet, small cone lampshades hung from the ceiling, each holding on to a single naked bulb. Many of them were burnt-out, leaving long sections of the corridor in total darkness, which suited me just fine.

We took the right spur at the junction, and the tunnel eventually ended at a massive steel door—the entrance to the palace basement. Lyla took a breath to speak and I raised a finger to stop her.

"Let's be sure," I whispered in her ear.

I extended my consciousness toward the door, then pushed beyond . . . searching. Sure enough, on the other side of the barrier I detected two beacons of mental activity. Guards, posted by the tunnel access.

Thank God I didn't drop them right away. I was about to, but common sense came to my rescue. I reached out and grasped the thick metal handle to the door and quietly tried to force it up. Didn't budge.

Lyla mouthed, "Locked?" I nodded.

Left with only one option, I shrugged and knocked on the back door.

Lyla looked like she was about to pass out in disbelief. Nothing happened. So I knocked again and spread my hand flat against the metal. The deep clang of a dead bolt turning made the steel vibrate under my palm. The door came open an inch, and angry Farsi spewed through the gap—probably wanting to know who the hell was patrolling the tunnels.

Then I dropped them.

Hell, it was almost as good as saying, "Open Sesame."

—

Infiltrating the palace was simple, as long as we stuck to a pattern religiously. Lyla guided me from room to room on the path she'd memorized. At each door, I'd mentally search the room beyond and drop anyone in the way. Then we'd move on. Lather, rinse, repeat.

Ahmadi was correct: the palace was relatively empty—by the time we reached the third floor, I'd only put down fifteen people. When I stepped foot on the top level, my heart thumped faster in anticipation.

Almost home.

The third-floor landing was bathed in lamplight, but the wing Lyla pointed me toward was completely dark.

"Are you sure that's the way?"

She nodded. "That's where Ahmadi said to go. Watch these rooms off the corridor. Any of them could be occupied."

Thankfully every door along the hall was closed, which allowed us more freedom of movement. Still, it took almost five minutes to check each one and make it to the end of the hall.

"Nothing?" Lyla asked.

"Empty. Which means there's only the suite. We don't have to be so careful now, I can blanket wipe far enough ahead to take out anybody in that room."

She hesitated. "Before you do, scan the suite. Make certain the Ayatollah is here."

I reached out, my mind penetrating the doors and scanning the large room in front of us. When I saw the beacons, I nodded with a smile.

"Yep. Five people. Gotta be his group."

"We can wake up the Ayatollah when we identify him. Do it."

I generated the pulse. "Go."

She opened the double doors and gasped.

Five bodies lay on the floor, but all of them were bound and gagged—torsos surrounded by thick ropes and hands wrapped in plastic ties behind their backs. I rushed to the one in the center and rolled him over.

General Ahmadi. Someone had administered a savage beat-down before or after tying him up; both eyes swollen, his face bloody and torn. Behind his body, fingers jutted out at angles that were all wrong.

"Holy shit, this is bad," I muttered. Lyla hurried to check the other unconscious bodies; we recognized all of them. Harandi, Roof Guy, and two other guards from the general's house.

"I don't understand . . . why? What happened?" Lyla stood in the middle of the room, befuddled.

I wasn't confused. I was scared shitless.

"Call Fahrook. Now! " I rolled up my sleeve and checked the gauntlet while moving to defend the hall. I only got as far as the door. "What the hell?"

The satellite feed was still active on the screen—I'd disabled the projector before we left the shack, but left the image running. The ghostly blue and white picture looked different than before. None of the tiny white blobs circulated around the palace grounds. They were gathered near the front gate. All of them. Along with rows of the larger white blobs—vehicles—now aligned inside the wall, closer to the palace.

I was about to show Lyla when the image winked out. I tried to pull it back up only to receive an error message: "FEED TERMINATED AT SOURCE."

"Goddammit!"

"Scott, what is it? What's happening?" She was standing with her phone, in the middle of dialing Fahrook. Bless her heart, she just didn't understand. The cynical bastard understood too well. I ran to a drape-covered window and yanked the fabric back.

"Oh my God."

The courtyard below was jammed with soldiers, hunkered down behind vehicles, barriers, and the outbuildings. To the rear of the men, tanks and artillery lay in wait, no longer pointed at the road. Every gun in the courtyard aimed at the palace.

Aimed at us.
CHAPTER 40

A spotlight fired up behind one of the tanks, blinding me. I let the drape fall and backed away from the window.

"What?" Lyla asked.

I barely heard her; my body was going in five directions at once.

Gotta run. Can't run. Hide. Can't hide. Shit . . . shit . . . SHIT.

"Scott! What's out there?"

"The entire Iranian army. Set up like a goddamn firing squad. They know we're here."

The tiniest squeak came from Lyla's throat before she returned to stabbing at the buttons of her cell phone. She brought the device to her ear, only to pull it back.

"It's not working. No signal."

The phone dropped from her hand and landed on the carpet with a soft thump. "Who betrayed us?" Her voice was flat, almost emotionless. She sounded a lot less scared than I felt.

"Isn't it obvious? The United Fucking States of America, that's who."

A loudspeaker blared from the courtyard. Lyla translated, but she didn't have to. I knew what was coming.

". . . there is no escape. Lyla Ravzi, you will exit the building immediately. You will not be harmed. Scott McAlister is to remain in the palace. If he leaves the palace or approaches our perimeter, he will be shot. No negotiation. You have five minutes to comply . . ."

"Why me only?" Lyla asked.

"Because they want you alive. Knockout, on the other hand, they don't want anywhere near them . . . that's why the soldiers are set up so far away. Outside my range." I buried my face in my hands. "They capture you, then turn the tanks loose. Demolish the palace with me inside."

"No!" She rushed to the master bed, pulling frantically at the mattress and box springs. "Help me barricade the windows. Move that dresser in front of the doors."

Useless. Tank versus mattress wasn't a fair fight. My sense of futility, though, quickly surrendered to rage. I used the gauntlet to access Tucker's secure line. Five times. He didn't pick up. Lyla scrambled around the room behind me, trying to move furniture. I focused my dwindling attention on the small screen.

"Why are you wasting time with that?" Lyla snapped. "It won't work. Help me!"

Didn't have time to explain: the device used a network of satellites, not conventional cell towers. It couldn't be jammed. And even if Tucker didn't pick up, he couldn't stop a text message. PICK UP U COWARD MOTHERFUCKER was the best I could offer.

It worked so well, he actually called me.

"Mr. McAlister. What can I do for you?" It was voice only. The betrayer apparently didn't want to look at the betrayed.

"You miserable lying fuckwad . . ."

"Now, now. Anger is counterproductive."

A stampede of thoughts pounded through my skull. We were screwed, obviously, and that sort of thing makes it a little hard to concentrate, but one word managed to fight its way through the rage and disbelief. The only word that mattered.

"Why?" slithered out from between my clenched jaws.

"I'm disappointed in you, Mr. McAlister . . . you're the strategic prodigy. Surely you can answer your own question."

I couldn't focus on anything other than Tucker's body being ripped apart at the joints. When I didn't forward a theory, he spoke like a disappointed teacher lecturing a student.

"When we first met, what did I say was the primary reason the world was still in one piece? Compromise, Mr. McAlister. The most effective form of diplomacy, really. Two enemies working together—cheaper than war, more binding than a treaty. And you and Ms. Ravzi paved the way. The Ayatollah's own people turn against him—his president, one of his highest-ranking generals—not the sort of thing a world leader takes well. Meanwhile, the Agency has two operatives who simply can't be trusted. So we compromised."

"You helped him solve his problem, and now he's cleaning up yours," I muttered.

"Precisely. The Supreme Leader promises not to slaughter his own people in a civil war, throws in a few democratic reforms, and I don't have to refinance my mortgage to put gas in the SUV. In return, we hand over the source of all his pain: the two of you. He gives up some of his power and we give up some of ours. Diplomacy at its finest."

I raised my head to look at Lyla. Oblivious to our conversation, she was attacking the dresser like a blocking sled, hips down low, pushing it toward the suite door.

"They want Lyla alive. Was that part of your compromise, too?"

He sighed. "No, it wasn't. You'd think the Iranians would have learned their lesson last night. I recommended they level your entire hotel."

The words made my jaw go slack. "Jesus. The Takavar. They didn't find us. You told them where we were?" The implications made me dizzy. I braced myself against the suite wall with my free arm.

"As soon as you reported your stunning success, the satellite link gave us your position. You should be thankful for the extra day—I wanted to launch a Tomahawk right then, but the director felt a two-dollar phone call to the Iranians was a cheaper alternative than a million-dollar cruise missile. Cutbacks and such. But you managed to squirm out of the Takavar's grasp anyway. Alas, you're more resourceful than I give you credit for. Ms. Ravzi's mischief with President Nikahd this morning just gave us an opportunity to hand-deliver you to a more . . . formidable executioner."

"You . . . you wanted us dead before Nikahd? Why? Why kill us after we did exactly what you wanted . . . We accomplished your mission!"

"Yes. As I said, a stunning success. Thank you."

"Thank you? You thank us, then throw the CIA's most powerful weapons in the goddamn garbage?"

"Calm yourself, Mr. McAlister. This course was inevitable. Ms. Ravzi sealed her fate the moment she left for North Korea, and you guaranteed yours when you agreed to go after her. You're so obsessed with why . . . you really shouldn't be. Disarming the Koreans and the Iranians explains why. It only reiterates what I've been telling the director for weeks . . ." Tucker's voice grew softer. "You're too powerful. Both of you. A weapon is only useful if you can control it . . . and the two of you weren't going to stroll onto the Langley campus and ask for your IDs back. Like I said in Colorado, if I can't have a safe world, I'll settle for a reliable one. With you two gone, the world gets more reliable."

"No!" I yelled. "You don't understand . . . we were just going to disappear, live our lives. You don't have to do this!"

"I'm sorry, Mr. McAlister, but it's out of my hands now. If it's any consolation, know that your demise will usher in the dawn of a new age. Former enemies forging alliances, cooperating for the good of mankind. That was the whole marketing pitch for the Protectors all those years ago . . . and you're finally delivering on it. Congratulations!"

His preening, fake cheerleading was more than I could take.

"Listen to me, you little piece of shit," I hissed. "I'm glad they're taking her alive. Lyla will figure out a way, she'll escape. And I promise, the first thing on her vengeance to-do list will be to make you suffer for what you've done. You, the director . . . everyone who betrayed us."

A deep chuckle rolled out of the gauntlet's speaker. "I wouldn't put all my eggs in that basket. If I know the Iranians, 'alive' is a figure of speech. They'll gouge out her eyes, cut off her tongue . . . the Ayatollah can use her heavenly pheromones to interrogate prisoners in exchange for food, for all I care. Meanwhile, your lovely Ms. Ravzi will be at the mercy of any prison guard with an erection and a gas mask. Not exactly a storybook ending for the Goddess of Love, is it?"

I looked back at Lyla. The loudspeaker outside shook her attention away from the makeshift barricade, and she translated, "One minute."

Tucker heard her. "You may wish to consider using what little time you have remaining to ensure Ms. Ravzi doesn't end up in that cell. It's really the only heroic option you have left."

"You motherfu—"

"As much as I've enjoyed our brief relationship, it appears our time is up. You may not believe this, but I am disappointed. How unfortunate for godlike power to be granted to such a shortsighted moron. Alas . . . parting . . . sweet sorrow . . . all that."

"Son of a bitch!"

Tucker waited to respond, letting me sweat. Then his voice came back over the comm, nastier than before.

"Nighty-night, Knockout."

The call terminated. I screamed and ripped the gauntlet from my forearm.

Lyla yelled, "Give it to me!" Just as I did, the first tank shell exploded against the palace façade, launching both of us across the room.

Guess they were serious about the five minutes. So much for wanting Lyla alive.

More surprised than injured, I called out.

"Here!" Her small hand poked from beneath the mattress, which the tank round had sent flying on top of her. She crawled out and hid behind the dresser, coughing and motioning for me to join her. The dresser was expensive and heavy, but wouldn't last long. A second round destroyed the outer wall of the suite, leaving it bare to the night sky. Spotlights now streamed over what was left. Plaster and concrete dust swirled in the air around us.

I grabbed Lyla's hand and we sprinted through the open doorway into the hall, leaving the raw destruction of the bedroom behind. Machine gun fire chased us as we went. It sounded like every gun in the courtyard at the same time. Once in the hallway, though, the gunfire was ineffective, thanks to the buffer zone of rooms between us and the outer wall.

The tank gunners took care of that in a hurry.

Shot after shot impacted the outer facing of the palace. The doors to the rooms protecting us on our right blew off their hinges. If I'd been standing next to one, my insides would have been turned to cherry pie. Lyla dragged me into one of the rooms to the left, as far from the guns as possible. She closed the door behind us, and in a moment of obsessive-compulsive insanity, locked it.

"Thanks. We should be safe now," I deadpanned.

"Shut up and help." She was pulling the mattress off the bed inside, trying to yank it upright to form a lean-to against the wall for shelter. Outside, the bombardment picked up. The tanks and APCs couldn't see us anymore, so they were taking their frustration out on the entire length of the massive structure. The blasts receded as the shells aimed farther away, then got louder as the cannons worked their way back toward us. When I thought it couldn't get any worse, a powerful explosion bounced us off the floor. The mattress shimmied and bent from all the debris, but it held. The shelling stopped.

"Maybe they ran out," I said, coughing from the dust. Lyla must have been deafened by the onslaught because she didn't punch me for being a smart-ass.

I heard a shuffling noise and peeked around the corner of our fluffy shield. A tank shell had destroyed the hallway wall of our room. The rooms on the other side of the hall were . . . gone. The front of the palace was no more than ruins: mangled wood, concrete, and brick. Even more surprising, though, the shuffling came from a lone figure treading over debris in the remnants of a hallway now exposed to the open air.

Ahmadi.

His bonds were no longer secure; although his hands were still cuffed, the thick rope around his torso now hung in a bundle around his waist. He noticed me and stumbled into our room, tripping on a chunk of plaster. I ducked out and pulled him back to our insubstantial fort.

"I am sorry," he said. He could barely open the eyes of his beaten face. "Use the rope. Go out the back." He nodded toward the blown-out window behind me. The first halfway-good idea I'd heard in the last five minutes.

"Get up, let's take the rope off you."

He got to his knees in front of the window. I saw a flash of red light, and the general's face jerked back as I heard the rifle fire. Ahmadi was dead before he slammed into the ruined carpet.

"Dammit!"

Thick plaster dust was everywhere now, and it refracted the red laser light perfectly in the gloom. Twin beams pierced through the open window; snipers tracking, hunting for targets. As long as we stayed tucked to the side of the opening, they wouldn't find us, but still—we wouldn't be leaving through the back.

Hell, we wouldn't be leaving at all.

I turned to face Lyla, to tell her things that need to be said at the end, expecting to look into tearful golden-green eyes. Instead, she feverishly worked the gauntlet, trying to make a call. She yelled something into the comm just as more shelling began, this time focused on the building's lower levels. The entire floor shook beneath us as the whole palace lurched toward collapse. We didn't have enough mattresses to survive that.

Lyla lowered the gauntlet. She didn't look ready to say goodbye.

"Fahrook can't help us now," I said.

The corner of her mouth curled upward.

"I didn't call Fahrook."

In the silence between cannon rounds, I heard the first crack of thunder.

Diego.

Blaster.
PART THREE
CHAPTER 41

Diego Mendoza asks, "Why did you come here?"

His English is heavily accented despite the fact that he's lived in America since he was ten. A big part of me thinks the accent is bullshit; he just adds the Venezuelan twist because he thinks American women love it. And they do. Course, having more power than a nuclear reactor doesn't hurt, either.

His eyes are narrow slits. Like most people sequestered by the government, Diego has trust issues. Plus, he's not my biggest fan to begin with. Not since Lyla started staring at me in team meetings.

"Dude, I'm bored," I say. "Thought I'd see how real power works." The compliment defuses his suspicion in a blink. If Diego has a weak spot, it's his supercharged ego.

"Then watch and learn, Jefe." His last word is coated in sarcasm. He didn't exactly vote for me as team leader.

We're standing on a small ridge overlooking a training ground bigger than three football fields squeezed together. The flat expanse has no trees, only grass and burnt-out sections of plain dirt. Scattered throughout are abandoned vehicles. At first I think they're derelicts, but a closer look reveals sunlight reflecting off unbroken windshields and the glint of shiny aluminum wheels. At the far end of the grounds is the real surprise: a perfectly functional M-1 Abrams battle tank. Feels nice to see the muzzle isn't pointed in our direction.

Diego turns to the training ground and focuses. He hunches over and balls his fists in front of his chest. As he concentrates, a hum fills the air around us.

I can't resist.

"Hey! If those were hybrid cars, could you, like, turn them on from here?"

The interruption pops his concentration bubble, and his energy fizzles. "What? No! What kind of question is this?"

"I don't know, I just figured since you're the master of electricity, that'd be something you could do."

"Well, I cannot."

"Can you control traffic signals? Or turn off the lights in your room without hitting the switch?" I mimic the expression of the scientists when they ask me something unintentionally ridiculous. Diego scrubs his hand over his buzz-cut scalp. The bald spots have grown in. Mostly.

"Why does everyone ask me such stupid things? I can summon lightning from my fists—isn't that enough?" He stomps around the ridge in a mini-tantrum.

"Sorry, man. Just curious." It's clear he doesn't understand I'm messing with him. After taking some deep breaths, he walks over and speaks slowly, as though to a child.

"When you piss, can you make the pee climb the wall and paint a picture?"

"Not the last time I checked."

"Well, my power is no different than pissing. I control two things."

"Which are?"

"What direction and how hard."

To demonstrate, Diego spins toward the field and fires.

I've read about his power before, but seeing the full juice is different. Pumping a billion volts of electricity out of your fist is kind of a big deal. The current ionizes the surrounding air, turning it to plasma, and plasma is hot. Thirty thousand degrees hot. Don't bother asking Fahrenheit or Celsius, because when there's a comma in the number, it doesn't matter. The superheated air expands faster than the speed of sound with a resounding "crack." Call it thunder, call it a sonic boom . . . both are correct. Three feet from Diego's side, I call it "a fucking shock wave" because it blows me off my feet.

The origin of his firing process is so badass, the destination pales by comparison. A Toyota Camry explodes and another patch of grass burns down to the dirt. While I lie on the scratchy weeds of the ridge, Diego fires three more bolts. Each finds its mark. Two of the cars flip over in protest. The last only smolders, refusing to give the executioner the satisfaction of an epic death. He hits it again for spite. Watching his expression makes me think Diego has plenty of spite to go around. I smell burning gasoline, see flames lick at the grass.

Satisfied with the automotive carnage, he bends down and extends a hand. "Sorry. Sometimes I get fired up." The accent loses some of its bite.

My palm grips his. As usual, I'm shocked . . . but figuratively, not literally this time. For once, he doesn't intentionally buzz me.

"No problem," I say, brushing off my pants. "Impressive."

He nods like he's used to the compliment. Then, a change. The eyes flash, white teeth peek out from behind the lips in a rare smile.

"Do you want to see something really cool?" he says.

"Always."

He points to the Abrams. "I had the general bring her in fully loaded: fuel, ammunition, the works."

"Have you ever hit one of those before?"

He scrapes at the ground with his foot, getting set. "No. They're supposed to be shielded against lightning, but the natural kind lasts less than a second." He looks like an eight-year-old on Christmas Eve. "Want to see if the tank can handle ten seconds?"

"More than anything." Holy shit, do I mean it.

Diego breathes deep and says, "Get behind me so you don't go flying."

I lope back a few steps.

He bends over, summoning whatever primal force turns him into a god. Before he lets go, Diego speaks once more in a low voice.

"Cover your ears. It's about to get loud."

—

Tucked behind the mattress, it was impossible for me to see the beginning of the light show. I sure as hell heard it. Damn, anyone within twenty miles heard; exploding tank shells are loud but thunder is louder. The blasts were almost constant. In between strikes, when the reverberation slowly died, you could hear a dim chorus in the background.

Screaming.

Sporadic gunfire still hit the remnants of our room, so I tried to keep Lyla in my grip behind the mattress. It was harder than expected, because she really wanted to watch. When her greased-pig imitation finally defeated me, it didn't matter. None of the soldiers cared about us anymore.

By the time we peeked through the third-floor rubble, two of the old Soviet tanks were already fiery wreckage. The turret of another rotated away from the palace, the gun crew trying to find a target. Diego found them. A bolt hit from above—I couldn't see the source—but instead of vanishing in a millisecond, it kept on hitting. The lightning was a constant jagged beam, lancing into the vehicle. Within three seconds, electricity fried the air around the tank, then the air inside. When the plasma made contact with the ammunition magazine, the armored monster blew apart in a ball of orange flame. The explosion formed a dot at the bottom of Blaster's heavenly exclamation point.

The Abrams lasted six seconds. Up yours, Ivan.

Diego operated on the heavy equipment first and I have to admit: he was a goddamn surgeon. Extended strikes rained from the sky; before long, the Iranians figured out anything with armor or a gun was best avoided. Then he moved on to the transports and all-terrain vehicles. All the big stuff was near the perimeter of the complex, so the explosions forced the troops away from the gate and the wall. Most of the men retreated toward the center of the courtyard, where officers did their best to rein in the panic.

In the past, Blaster's power had always emanated from his hands. Incredibly cool, but in our current predicament, that left him wide open for retaliation from any grunt carrying a rifle. You can't watch three hundred guys at once. But lightning from the sky? That was a different animal altogether. Nobody (including me) could tell where the assault came from, which made it difficult for the Iranians to fight back. Eventually someone in the courtyard got smart and ordered suppressing fire in a huge arc away from the palace. Hundreds of AK-47s fired at once, ripping bullets in all directions. Thousands of rounds sprayed out of the courtyard in a barrage that lasted longer than Diego's tank-killing. Finally, an order circulated to hold fire. The lightning had stopped.

Lyla whimpered. "You don't think . . ."

I shook my head. "No, he's gotta be in a safe spot. He wouldn't expose himself unless he had to." The words were more prayer than statement.

The remaining soldiers on the fringe of the complex, many of them injured, took advantage of the pause. They ran, hobbled, and even crawled back to the main group in the courtyard. Hundreds of scared, angry soldiers stared out at the blackness, searching . . . waiting. As the seconds ticked away, I wondered how long it'd be before they remembered their original targets.

Then, like a comedian who waits just long enough to deliver the punch line, Diego incinerated the command tent with a salvo of lightning bolts. The soldiers responded with everything they had. They didn't stop until their magazines were empty.

The final strike came from directly above the group, but Blaster didn't hit them. Instead, his bolt split into hundreds of smaller branches a hundred feet off the ground. The branches spread out in a ring as they descended—forming a cone of electricity around the terrified Iranians. The bolts stayed in place rather than dissipate, sizzling and pulsating while they danced in small circles on the stone surface of the courtyard.

"Hmm. That's a new trick," I said.

"He's full of them."

Before I could tell her what else Blaster was full of, the floor shifted. The repeated earthshaking blasts were making our perch more dangerous. We crawled from behind the wreckage with the intention of making it back to the steps. The tank barrage, however, had turned the third-floor landing into a balcony. A piece of slanted flooring hung off the lip and Lyla was able to slide down to the more intact second level.

Before I joined her, I looked at Blaster's lightning cone and saw it move. The soldiers scrambled as a group, keeping their distance from the deadly bars of their cage. The electric structure maintained size and shape as it crept toward the palace, the Iranians bustling within like trapped cattle. Realizing the opportunity, I joined Lyla on the second floor and dragged her to the cracked front wall so she could see.

"What's he doing?" she asked.

"Herding them. Moving the soldiers closer."

"Closer to what?"

I smiled. "Me."

When the crackling edges of the cone almost touched the outer wall, Blaster had done enough. I grunted. The blanket wipe passed over them in a wave, soldiers falling like a disk of dominos knocked over from a single point. When the final domino fell, the electricity fizzled out, leaving a pile of unconscious bodies and the sharp smell of ozone in its wake.
CHAPTER 42

We'd barely made it to the heavily damaged foyer of the palace when Diego stepped through the front door. He looked small, frailer than I remembered, though the fact that he wore an oversized Iranian military uniform might have had something to do with my impression. I would have insulted him, but we didn't look much better in our own stylish hand-me-downs. At least his was clean.

When Lyla saw Diego, she ran across the foyer to embrace him.

"Hola, chica! You called?" He grinned and lifted her off the floor in a bear hug. Easier said than done since he wasn't much taller than her. His two-foot black ponytail swung to the side while they spun in a tight circle.

"Sparky. I see the hair grew back," I told him.

He set Lyla down and pushed back to look at me. The smile was gone. "Well, if it isn't the Slumberjack."

He knew how much I hated that goddamn nickname, but I buried my distaste long enough to state the obvious. "You saved our asses. Thanks."

"Her lovely ass is the only one worth saving," he said. "You just happened to be in building." Diego said "you" the way most people say "herpes."

"So that's how it's gonna be?" I didn't necessarily want to sound like an asshole, but being betrayed and nearly executed had me feeling saucy. "Still pissed-off ?"

Lyla interjected. "Boys . . ."

"I don't know," Diego said. "Is Carsten still dead?"

"Jesus, here we go again. Same old Blaster." I looked to Lyla for support. Her head was down, shaking in what I hoped was frustration.

"Me?" Diego pointed a finger at himself. I almost laughed at the thin arm poking out of the huge army shirt—made him look like a kid wearing his dad's uniform. Then the finger rose in my direction and Diego got significantly less funny. "You're clearly the one who hasn't changed." He mocked my voice. " 'I'm Scott. Nothing is my fault. I only do what the rest of you gutless freaks can't stomach.' "

"Boys, the Iranian army is asleep outside. Let us all calm down." Lyla fluttered outstretched arms, begging us to take it down a notch.

"I'm not going to apologize for having more guts than you, Blaster."

"Don't call me that. I have a new name now."

I crossed my arms. "This oughta be good."

"I never liked 'Blaster.' Ridiculous. Does not even hint at my true nature."

"Electrolyte? Static Cling?"

Diego whipped a fist to the side and the air shimmered around it. Light burst from his hand. I winced and blinked at the brightness until I could focus. The little bastard held a three-foot crackling piece of lightning in his hand. Like a spear.

"You'll call me Zeus," he said.

I laughed so hard I almost gave myself a hernia. "You've got a better chance of me calling you Daddy . . . Blaster."

The bolt moved above his head. "Why don't I end you right now? Even the score for Carsten."

My hand came up and found his button. "Try it, Sparky. See how long that hair is when you wake up in twenty years." I didn't think he'd really try to kill me, but how could I be sure? I knew from experience—five years can change a man.

In the end, Diego held his bolt and his sneer a little too long.

"Enough!" Lyla said. "I have neither the time nor the patience for your antics. Diego, look at me." He turned and saw her eyes in full rotation. "Scott is your oldest and dearest friend. You've missed him for five years. His safety and well-being are your greatest concerns."

Diego's arm dropped and the lightning disappeared. When he turned in my direction, excitement and happiness overwhelmed his face. He ran across the foyer and wrapped me in a massive hug.

"Scott! My oldest, dearest friend . . . are you all right? Are you injured?" He pulled back and grabbed me by the shoulders, apparently satisfied with my physical condition. "Five years, mi amigo! Tell me everything."

I looked at Lyla. "Seriously?"

"No time. We need to go."

Diego clapped me on the back and put a thin arm around my shoulders. "Come, my friend. Mighty Aphrodite is correct."

"I detest that nickname," Lyla grumbled on her way to the exit. Diego winked at me and cackled. I couldn't handle it—having a man threaten to kill me in one moment, then share an inside joke the next. Before I could cobble together a response, though, his face changed.

Diego's eyes glazed over and a low moan escaped through his now-gaping jaw. His pupils rolled up and his skull followed along right after, head lolling back while his body collapsed underneath. I managed to grab him just before he toppled over.

"Diego!"

Lyla heard me yell and ran back to assist. I lowered him down to the floor while she cradled his head. Diego felt painfully frail and bony beneath the Iranian uniform; a skeleton dressed up as a soldier on Halloween. He couldn't have weighed much more than Lyla.

"What the hell happened?" I asked. "He was fine a minute ago."

Lyla nodded as she brushed some of Diego's long hair from his brow. "I was worried this would happen. He used up too much of himself," she said. "The journey combined with the fight must have taxed his energy reserves. A common issue for him now."

Too much of himself ? That's a weird way to say it, I thought.

"Why? I've seen him throw a ton of juice around before and never look like this . . ."

Lyla ignored my question while she stroked his hair. "My little glass cannon. So powerful and yet so fragile at the same time."

"You've seen this before—how long does it last?" I asked. She didn't respond, remaining focused on Diego's face. I felt a blast of jealousy before I understood the look. Caring and sadness, yes, but more like the love of a pet owner for a sick dog. I hoped she didn't look at me the same way.

"Lyla! How long?" I asked with more volume and urgency.

My tone broke her reverie and she gave a panicked look through the foyer at the pile of unconscious bodies outside. "Longer than we have. Can you carry him?"

The mental image of hundreds of armed Iranians waking up from my indiscriminate drop while our Big Gun did his best Sleeping Beauty imitation answered that question real quick.

"You bet your ass I can. Let's get outta here."

—

We commandeered one of the remaining operable vehicles (there weren't many) and said goodbye to Niavaran. Lyla drove back to the highway and headed south. Didn't take long before we saw a caravan of military vehicles across the divider, going in the opposite direction.

"Man, are they gonna be surprised." I asked Lyla, "Where are we going, by the way? The airport, I hope."

"Mehrabad will be shut down with all of the civil unrest. There is a private airport west of the city, though. If we're going to leave the country, it's the easiest way. Our best chance is to . . . befriend . . . someone with a private jet. Even one with a short range can get the three of us somewhere safe. Turkey, or perhaps India."

I twisted around to check on Diego's sleeping form in the backseat. "The three of us? So I'm guessing he's gonna be out of it for a while?"

Lyla nodded. "When he runs his reserves all the way down, Diego needs at least a day to recover."

"A day? I've got to cart Blaster's unconscious body around for a day?"

A groggy, weak voice came from behind me. "I prefer Zeus."

I turned around to see Diego rubbing his eyes and moaning.

"As you can see," Lyla said, "he wakes up relatively quickly, but he'll be physically weak and almost powerless for another twenty-four hours."

"Jesus. I'd rather Blaster just stay unconscious if he's gonna be useless," I muttered back.

"Be less of a jerk and say thank you to Diego, which is the name I'd like to hear from now on," Lyla proclaimed. "He just saved our lives."

"Don't worry, I'm sure he'll remind me a few hundred times in the next twenty-four hours." I turned back to the now-upright Venezuelan, who was blinking and examining his limbs, confused.

"Where are we going?" he asked.

"The airport," I answered. "Not that you need one anymore. You can really turn yourself into electricity now?"

He nodded. "Yes. Takes me less than a second to circle the globe."

I slumped in the front seat. "Man, this is bullshit. You travel at light speed, she controls minds . . . I'm starting to feel like I got the shaft when it comes to powers. So anytime you want, you can just zip across the planet?"

He yawned and shook his head. "Not quite. Transforming uses more than half my bodily charge. I need to rest for hours before I can do it again. And if I combine transforming with a heavy dose of lightning, well . . . you saw what happens. Plus, there's the other problem."

"What?"

He sighed. "My clothes vaporize when I change. Wherever I go, I arrive . . ."

"Naked?"

"Yes. That's why I'm wearing this uniform. I had to pull it off one of the soldiers. His shoes didn't fit." He lifted a bare foot to show me. I hadn't noticed in the foyer.

"So where were you when Lyla called?"

"Cedar Point, in Ohio. They have an amusement park with amazing roller coasters." He slumped down and closed his eyes again. "I'm sorry, but I need more rest."

I couldn't help but ask one more question. "You can travel through outer space at light speed, and you get your jollies from a roller coaster?"

Diego shrugged. "Can't feel the wind in your hair in space."

Hard to argue with that.

—

We made it to Payam Airport just before 10 p.m. A cargo airport that doubled as a private field for the rich and privileged, Payam was the perfect place to hitch a ride. Lyla got us on an oil company's private jet to Istanbul, although to be fair, we didn't need mind control. Every worker in the place was in such a good mood, we probably could have just asked nicely.

The airport was abuzz with the latest news: the Ayatollah had agreed to new elections, he'd allow international oversight to keep everything fair, and he'd placed the reviled Basij under civilian control. Even though we'd escaped the Niavaran deathtrap, the Supreme Leader seemed to be honoring his deal with the CIA and shutting down the prospect of a civil war. Apparently, he didn't want to join the list of "former" Middle Eastern leaders, now that Lyla had fast-forwarded the Arab Spring to his front door. Wasn't exactly the American Revolution, but the Iranian people were going to get a taste of democracy, at least. Lyla wasn't doing cartwheels on the runway, but for her, mildly happy was an acceptable minimum. As for me, "happy" wasn't even in the ballpark.

The Gulfstream V took almost an hour to fuel and prep. Lyla kept watch over Diego, which gave me plenty of time to wander the tarmac by myself. I needed the solitude, if for no other reason than to come to grips with my near execution. Plus, you can scream all you want in a passing 747's jet wash, and not one damn person will hear you.

By the time I looped back to the hangar, I still didn't feel like going inside. I grabbed a spot on a concrete divider with a view of the flashing boundary lights and just . . . sat. Watched the planes come and go. Eventually, I heard footsteps behind me on the asphalt.

My voice stopped them. "How's Diego?"

"In and out," Lyla said. "I released him, by the way."

"Good. Freaked me out, seeing him like that."

"I didn't want to do it. We didn't have any time."

I had no energy to argue over the merits of being a slave, temporary or otherwise. We both stayed silent for a long moment. Then, Lyla stepped closer.

"Are you all right?" she asked.

I didn't bother turning around. "I'm pretty far from 'all right.' But at least I'm done yelling."

"I'm sorry—I didn't—"

I lifted a hand. "I know. It doesn't matter now. Tucker was nice enough to inform me our termination was scheduled before your little revolution began."

"I heard."

"Looks like the Protectors were a bigger liability than I thought." I snatched a pebble off the divider and tossed it into the night air. "So much for my critical thinking."

"The entire mission was an elaborate trap?"

"Not even that elaborate. Send us on a farewell tour, get one more victory out of Aphrodite and her sidekick, then sell us out. Hasta la vista."

Those words, coming out of my mouth . . . surreal. A few short words that showed just how disposable I was. How stupid. Worthless.

I grabbed a bigger lump of concrete, jumped to my feet, and really chucked it.

"I did what they asked! I've always done what they ask. Sure, I bitch about it . . . but I deliver, goddammit. And what's my big reward? A hearty 'up yours, Mr. McAlister' and death-by-tank!"

"So, still a little angry?"

"You better believe I'm fucking angry." I counted off the "cons" list on my fingers as I recited them. "I'm alone, my own country—my home—just tried to have me killed, and now I'm gonna have to run. Maybe forever. Do you have any idea how that feels?"

Took me a good five seconds before I remembered who I was talking to.

"No. I have no idea what that feels like," Lyla finally deadpanned.

I turned and looked at her for the first time. "Shit. Yeah, I guess you do know. It's . . . horrible."

"Don't worry. It gets easier." She smiled.

Right then, it connected. The way I felt now—practically choking on bitterness and regret—was damn near the worst hour of my life.

And Lyla had felt that way for more than a decade.

Ever since the day her own parents sent her away, to protect their daughter from a homeland that wanted to abuse her, lock her up, or worse. A homeland that killed her mother and father for their trouble.

No wonder she couldn't resist the opportunity to act—to make certain no other sons, daughters, or families would have to suffer like that again. And for me to think I could stop her from trying, by reciting by-the-book arguments about following the Agency's orders? That made me a first-class . . .

"Idiot." Lyla recognized the look in my eyes and finished the thought. She rushed in and hugged me. "You finally understand."

I hugged her back.

Harder than I wanted . . . harder than I should have. She'd let emotion dictate her actions and risked our lives in the process. She'd embraced Diego out of pure convenience. And I still wasn't convinced that last night's sexcapades weren't just another form of manipulation—using powers more conventional than mind control.

But right now, right here, it simply didn't matter. Alone, desperate, and confused—I needed Aphrodite more than I feared her. And she needed me.

"What are we going to do?" she asked, voice muffled against my chest.

"I'm not sure." All my options were dried up. Strategic genius, my ass. "I just walked us into a CIA-sponsored deathtrap, so maybe I'm not the best person to ask."

She pulled back and sized me up. "Well, at least you're honest."

My head tipped forward and I stuck my hands in my pockets. "Yep, that's me."

"We'll think of something," Lyla said. "It's a long flight to Istanbul." She drew my gaze upward with a finger beneath my chin. "And you're wrong . . . what you said before. You're not alone. You don't have to be, at least."

Lyla let the words hang in the air before starting back toward the hangar, mixing a little hope into my despair sandwich. Made me skeptical as to who was the better tactician.

"Hey," I called out. "So was this always the plan?"

She stopped. "What do you mean?"

"Your new Iran. When you opened the mission folder in Scotland, did you count on going after more than the nuke program?"

"The thought crossed my mind." She paused and looked out at the runway. "In the end, I guess I'm no different than those thousands of people crying and dancing in the streets this morning. We were all waiting for the same thing."

"Which was?"

She smiled. "An opportunity." With that, Lyla turned and walked back to the hangar.

I tried not to chuckle, but couldn't. The woman knew how to make a point.

On my way to check the G-V's status, I thought about what she'd said. About that crowd in the bazaar, taking advantage of their opportunity. Thousands of people; moving, shouting, crying. At first they reminded me of atoms under pressure, crashing into one another until the whole unit reached critical mass, like a nuclear bomb.

But this was different, somehow. The crowd just kept growing, more and more people feeding on each other. Not a buildup to detonation, but a self-sustaining reaction. When people joined together like that, individual shouts became one voice. A crowd became something bigger. Something unstoppable.

The inspiration slapped me across the face halfway to the plane. "Holy shit," I said aloud.

I know what we have to do.

—

When I got back to the hangar, Lyla was bringing Diego around.

"Come on," she said, pulling him upright on the hangar office's couch. "You can sleep on the plane."

I couldn't tell if his eyes were even open, with two feet of messy hair obscuring his face. Lyla grabbed Diego's hair band from a nearby desk and stuffed it in his hand. After robotically gathering up his mane, Blaster rolled his neck out and groaned.

Lyla squatted next to him and asked, "How do you feel?"

Diego extended his palms and wiggled his fingers. Tiny sparks flickered around the tips, then fizzled. "Barely enough juice for a cheap magic trick. Pathetic."

"So you have to travel the old-fashioned way. You'll live," she said. Diego finally noticed me by the door.

"Speaking of pathetic," he said, with a spectacular lack of enthusiasm.

I sighed. "Well, at least we know he's not embraced."

At the mention of "embrace" Diego cast the stink-eye at Lyla, who dismissed it. "Be angry with me all you want, it doesn't change our situation. The CIA ordered Scott and me dead, and I'm fairly certain their satellites will have noticed a hundred lightning strikes on a rainless night. We are all in danger now. Work out your differences later."

Diego frowned. I extended my arm and said, "Welcome to the shit list, pal." He grudgingly accepted my hand and pulled himself off the couch—the closest thing to a truce we were gonna get.

"Is the plane ready?" Lyla asked. I nodded but didn't move to leave. Both of them stared at me.

"Don't everybody talk at once," Diego finally said.

"I don't mind talking," I said. "Just don't know if you'll like what I have to say."

"What?" Lyla asked.

"I've got a plan. A good one, I think. But it's not gonna be easy."

Lyla cocked an eyebrow at me. "You've had a busy five minutes."

"Yeah. Call it runway inspiration."

"I figured you might come around," she said.

"Well, don't get too excited. It's gonna be a bitch," I admitted.

Diego scoffed. "It usually is with you," he grumbled.

"They think we'll run," I said. "Expect us to hide. It's the by-the-book option, maybe even the smart option. Find a hilltop mansion in Paraguay and hunker down. Might take the Agency months to find us . . . years even. But they will find us."

"Who cares?" Diego said. "If they come, we fight."

I swallowed the urge to remind him that I couldn't put cruise missiles to sleep.

"By then, it'll be too late. Every government in the world will be against us. You can bet the CIA is already stoking that fire, telling agencies worldwide about Iran and how we tried to wreck a nation all by ourselves. Before long, they'll leak their insidious bullshit out to the bigger world: TV, newspapers, the Internet. We'll get packaged as power-hungry supervillains, and half the planet will listen. We won't just be fighting the CIA then. We'll be fighting everyone."

"What is our alternative?" Lyla asked.

I took a deep breath and exhaled slowly.

"We don't run from the Agency. We go through them. I'm saying, walk up to the front gate in Langley, Virginia, and rip the top off the place. Pull that weasel Tucker out of whatever hole he's hiding in and make an example of him."

Diego cackled. "Hombre, tienes cojones. I like it!"

Lyla . . . not so much. "Scott, the Agency isn't some playground bully." Her eyes were fearful, almost pleading. "We can't just punch them hard and hope they'll run away. Declaring war on the CIA . . . that's suicide."

I shook my head. "Not a war. A message. In fact, attacking the Agency head-on allows us to deliver two messages. First, the obvious one. The Langley campus is a bitch. We've all seen it. Small army of police, military base ten minutes away, and state-of-the-art defenses. One of the most secure facilities in the world. We cut the head off that snake? Message is pretty clear: we can get to anyone, anytime."

"And that makes them less likely to kill us?" Lyla asked.

"No. But it makes them more likely to listen to us."

She rolled her eyes. "We can call them on the phone, if you want to talk. Why risk our lives?"

"Because you're wrong," I said. "The Agency is exactly like a bully. And y'know the best way to get a bully's attention? You don't call him on the phone and beg him not to steal your lunch money. You kick down the fucker's front door, walk right into the living room, and smack that little jackwad in the mouth. Sure, he'll be pissed-off . . . but I guarantee you, he will listen. And so will the CIA."

"To what?" Diego asked.

I smiled. "The second message. The one that's gonna save our lives."

They glanced at each other, then me. I looked straight into Lyla's unblinking stare.

"You saw that crowd today. Thousands of people. How did you feel, walking among them? Surrounded by their energy, their power?"

She tilted her head back and closed her eyes, remembering. After a long moment, the eyes blinked open and her fiery gaze refocused on me.

"Invincible."

"Damn right," I said. "We can make that happen again, but bigger."

Both of them demanded "How?" simultaneously.

"If you've ever had cause to trust me, I'm asking that you trust me here. I've got an idea, but I'll need your help with the specifics. Getting back to the States will take a couple of days, and we can go over everything along the way."

Lyla and Diego listened intently.

"This is our chance. Get onto that campus, send our message . . . and when we walk out, we won't have thousands of people on our side, we'll have billions. We can be what we've always wanted to be—before the CIA, before all the lies and the bullshit. Get on that plane with me, and I promise . . .

"We can really be the Protectors."

Yeah, they got on the plane.
CHAPTER 43

Getting back to the United States took us three days. We went through four countries, rode three planes, and Aphrodite chartered one boat. Only excitement we ran into was on the final leg. The Coast Guard flagged down our yacht from the Bahamas off the shores of North Carolina. When the boat slowed to pull alongside, I dropped the whole crew. Lyla pouted for a half hour; if she'd had her way, she would have stood on the bow of that patrol craft like Captain Morgan and forced the Coast Guard to take us all the way up the Potomac River. I preferred a slightly lower-profile approach until we had the intel we needed and a fully charged "Zeus."

The three days were just what we needed. The rare peace afforded by our voyage gave us the perfect window to strategize. Funny how your concentration improves without the impending threat of being obliterated by a tank.

Once we figured out exactly what we intended to say to the Agency when we had their attention, the how portion of the program took up most of my focus. Assaulting the Langley headquarters was a daunting task by itself, and most of the detailed, step-by-step planning could only be accomplished once we had serious reconnaissance in hand. There was one desire, however, that I could satisfy from the comfort of the yacht.

Tucker.

Our message needed to be delivered in person, and since we had to smack the CIA in the mouth to do it, I couldn't imagine a better person to take the punch than Mr. "Nighty-night, Knockout." I couldn't even think about our last conversation without shaking in anger. The smug bastard had tried to kill me twice, but after witnessing the destruction of the armored brigade on the satellite feed, my guess was he was a trifle less confident. Maybe even worried. To guarantee him a spot in our crosshairs, though, "worried" wasn't enough. I needed "scared shitless"—to the point of making a beeline for the securest location he knew.

A three-word text message sufficed. I typed it into my burner phone and smiled.

SEE YOU SOON.

Nothing like a personal threat/promise from a meta-human to speed Tucker on his way to a high-tech, maximum-security hidey-hole.

After sailing through Chesapeake Bay and into the winding waters that eventually lead straight to the Lincoln Memorial, we found the perfect place to hole up. Our voyage ended twenty-five miles south of Langley, near the Mason Neck National Wildlife Refuge. Large private homes dotted the shoreline east of the refuge—modern and luxurious homes, yet nestled within the relative privacy of four square miles of forest. Lyla picked one surrounded by tall thick trees and had our captain dock the yacht alongside a hundred-foot private pier jutting into the Potomac.

The mansion's owners, a pharmaceutical lobbyist and his aging trophy wife, saw us arrive from the sundeck of the third floor. They were on us before we made it halfway up the pier. The guy stuck a finger in my chest and demanded we get our asses back on our distasteful scow and leave immediately. I wasn't sure what a "scow" was, but thirty minutes after looking into Aphrodite's eyes, the two of them were taking a weekend trip to his mother-in-law's, and I was taking a dump in his master bathroom. What can I say—a Lacoste-wearing jerk poking me in the chest unleashes my inner jackass. I let my masterpiece bake unflushed behind a closed door; Lyla and I could use one of the other six bathrooms. Six.

As we settled in, I grabbed my laptop from the dining room table and ushered Lyla and Diego into a dark-wood-paneled study on the second floor to talk strategy. The room shouted ridiculous luxury: floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, leather-upholstered reading chairs next to a stone fireplace, and a desk that looked like it weighed more than my car. Felt like the kind of space where it's mandatory to swirl brandy in a snifter while you discuss leveraged buyouts. Perfect location to plan a battle against the CIA.

"First things first," I began. "We need to know as much as possible about the Langley headquarters, plus verify where that bastard Tucker is hiding. My guess is he'll be somewhere on-site, coordinating the search for us."

Diego waved me off. "I don't need to know anything. I can go right now, scorch the whole building. You can sift through the remains for this Tucker person."

"C'mon, man, use your head. The Agency knows us . . . knows what we're capable of. They installed tranquilizing gas nozzles around the doors of the training center after Carsten started leaving whenever he wanted. The CIA might be arrogant but they're not stupid. The complex will have defenses built specifically for us"—I pointed at him—"even you. Plus, our goal here is not to level the entire complex. Destroying America's intelligence capability and changing the world order of power is a little supervillainy for my tastes. We can save ourselves without leaving the country blind and defenseless."

Diego exhaled in disappointment, but perked up when I told him, "Don't worry . . . you'll still get plenty of opportunities to show off. You're my muscle."

"I assume I am to be the intelligence gatherer?" Lyla asked.

"Is there anyone better? I need you to set the table for me and Diego. To that end, I've got two options for you. One will take a few days, with almost no risk. The other is faster, but ballsy."

Diego rubbed his hands together. "I prefer balls," he said, regretting the words as soon as they came from his lips. Flustered, he backtracked. "You know what I mean."

"You want me to embrace my way into the building itself ?" Lyla asked. "Find the information from facilities or security?"

"Whoa—there's a difference between ballsy and insane. I don't want to risk you walking into one of the most secure installations in the world by yourself and never coming back. Let's be a little less ambitious to start with." I opened the laptop, which already had a Google satellite image up. It showed the entire complex, as well as the surrounding area.

"You ever worked retail?" I asked Lyla. "There's a Starbucks here, less than a mile from headquarters, off the main access road. If you embrace the staff, get yourself a job handing out orders . . ."

". . . look for Agency ID badges, embrace as many as necessary to build a web of minions." Lyla wasn't thrilled, but she bought in with a nod. "Depending on who comes in, that would take time."

"Two or three days, I'm guessing. Even if you didn't get any of the major players in security or maintenance, you'd be able to get phone numbers and home addresses we could use to find them. As long as you wear your contacts and a blond wig or ball cap, stay behind the counter, your exposure would be minimal. Think you can find a wig store nearby?"

"Please. Did you see that preening, ornamental troll of a wife? I am certain there are blond wigs in the next room."

Diego piped up. "If that's the low-risk idea, what's the . . ." He carefully circumvented any mention of balls. ". . . the risky one?"

I tabbed to a different browser window—the website of Washington Life, D.C.'s high-society newspaper. If I scoured the mansion long enough, I'd probably have found a hard copy lying around.

"The other option is tomorrow evening, guarantees a lot of high-level contacts, and puts you right up against them."

Lyla stared at the announcement and rubbed a thoughtful finger across her lips. I knew her answer before I asked the question.

"Wanna crash a wedding?"
CHAPTER 44

Victoria Elizabeth Shepherd's wedding looked a lot like her name sounded: uptight and expensive. If the crowded ceremony was any indication, half of Washington, D.C.'s, upper crust turned out for the nuptials.

"The CIA must pay better than I thought," Diego said.

"I'm pretty sure Director Shepherd didn't foot the bill for this extravaganza. His son is the father of the bride, and he's an investment banker in New York. Daddy's money plus grandpa's clout gets you this kind of location."

Hundreds of people occupied row upon row of wooden folding chairs lining the meadow adjacent to the Jefferson Memorial. Through binoculars I saw the myriad shiny gold watches and bespoke suits. As the ceremony wound down and the blessed couple kissed, I surveyed the perimeter for the tenth time in the last hour.

"What do you think?" I asked as I passed the binoculars over.

Diego adjusted the focus. "Decent rack. Too bad her hair is up. I like when women wear it long."

"Not the bride, idiot. What do you think about security? How many?"

He grinned beneath the lenses. "Relax, Jefe. Only kidding. Same as before: so many guys I keep losing track. And I know they're not ushers, because they're all looking the wrong way. Also, not positive, but I think there's a guy with a rifle up between the support columns of the dome. I saw a reflection in the shadows."

"If it was my granddaughter's wedding, that's where I'd stick him. Only high vantage point. Jefferson would be so proud to have a sniper in the attic of his memorial."

"And a terrible one, too, if we spotted him."

"Just be sure to point the binoculars in another direction for a while. We're tourists, remember?"

We were a long way from the ceremony, but to a guy with a twenty-power scope, we'd be uncomfortably noticeable. Luckily, our bench was set behind the walking path across the Tidal Basin from the meadow. There was a half mile of greenish gray water between us and the wedding, plus the setting sun bathed the marble structure in golden light, while we hid in cool shade under a copse of cherry trees. To our left, another couple used binoculars of their own to survey the area between the Lincoln and Jefferson Memorials. I relaxed a little when I saw how similar they were to us; easier to breathe when you don't look conspicuous to a guy with a bolt-action rifle. Still . . .

"If you had to take that guy out, could you hit the dome from here?"

He answered without moving the binoculars. "Yes, but only with a burst from my fist. It's sunny, not enough charge in the air to bring down an indirect strike. I'd give away our position."

Which meant if he didn't take out the sniper with his first shot, we'd be sitting ducks. Lyla couldn't rely on much backup from us.

"How's our girl doing?" I asked. Diego's gaze shifted.

"Still in position. Doing her thing."

The muted patter of clapping rolled across the water of the Tidal Basin.

I said, "Sounds like Ms. Shepherd is now a Mrs."

"The guests are moving into the covered tents for the reception. How much longer does she want to stay?"

"I don't know, let's ask." I toggled the switch on my earbud microphone to transmit/receive. "You get what we need?"

"Not yet." Tough to hear her quiet voice; evidently she wasn't in a position to talk freely. "Many people skip the ceremony and only come for the reception. Give me another half hour."

"Roger." I turned to Diego. "She wants more time."

He lowered the glasses and stared. "Roger?"

"That's what you say on the radio when you understand. It's a real thing."

"On television, maybe."

"Shut up, man."

"Roger that. Security is moving the director under the tent."

"How many agents?"

"Still has four right by him. They're keeping people away. Lyla would never get close enough, if that's what you're thinking. It's like they're expecting her. She's crazy to be this close as it is."

I relayed the info to Lyla before telling Diego, "Hey, she signed up for it. Besides, we don't need the director. She knows what she's doing."

Thirty minutes later, she proved it.

—

Diego and I estimated the Shepherd-Kalish wedding had at least forty armed guests, none of whom knew the bride or groom. They were interspersed among the wedding party, staff, and invited guests. Security stood watch on the perimeter, as well as inside the reception and dining tents. They even parked a couple of guys by the refrigerated catering trucks, monitoring every white-coated server holding a silver tray. Not to mention the eye in the sky hidden among marble pillars, probably watching everything with his finger on the trigger.

No one but family was allowed within twenty feet of Director Shepherd, who arrived at the Jefferson Memorial two hours before anyone else. From what I could see, the top-notch security force did their job well. Of course, they were so concerned about protecting the director that none of them gave much thought to protecting the guests. Or cared what happened outside the memorial grounds.

I'm sure Director Shepherd loved the entire affair, safe and secure under his blanket of protection. He wore a proud smile throughout the ceremony—and like all members of the power elite, he wanted to share that pride with as many of his coworkers as possible, even if his security team kept them at a distance. Hell, he probably didn't even notice most of them.

I know he didn't notice the slightly pudgy blond girl, in sunglasses and a ball cap, wearing six shirts under her white CAPITOL PARKING jacket. She looked like all the other valets, taking car keys from guests at a ritzy wedding. And wouldn't you know it—almost every person who handed their keys to her stopped long enough to answer a few short questions.

In a span of three hours, Aphrodite received both the phone numbers and the undying devotion of nine agents, three deputy directors, the facilities manager, and the head of campus security for the Central Intelligence Agency.

—

By Sunday afternoon, couriers had made more than five deliveries to the house in Mason Neck. Building blueprints, emergency response guidelines, and a complete phone directory of the CIA's Langley headquarters lay scattered across the kitchen table. Lyla conducted a few phone interviews to give us any information we needed beyond that. Before the pizza showed up for dinner, we had enough intel to upgrade our planned assault on Langley from "suicidal" to "mildly stupid." We were only missing one puzzle piece.

After dinner, though, we received our first personal visit from a VIP: Harold Prinne, the deputy director of clandestine affairs. I'd met Director Prinne back in the old days and come away unimpressed, and five years hadn't done much to change my view. The guy sure looked and smelled the part of Agency brass, though—three-piece suit, an expanding gut, and coffee breath foul enough to curl your toes. Like many of his kind, Prinne cared far more about his power position in the org chart than he did about the American flag pin he stuck on his suit lapel every day. Patriotism Lite. The CIA was full of it.

As a minion, however, Harold's devotion was unquestioned. Not to mention, for the first time since I'd met him, I actually gave a crap about what came out of his mouth.

"Special Agent Tucker is on-site. He's been in the ECB for the last three days," Prinne said, never taking his adoring eyes off Lyla.

As expected, Tucker ran like a frightened schoolgirl as soon as he got my text—to the emergency command bunker just below the main campus building at Langley.

"What's his current posting?" I asked.

Like General Ahmadi, Prinne didn't turn toward me to answer. "He's coordinating the worldwide hunt for the Protectors."

The deputy director's last word was like a splash of water on all our faces. He'd called us the Protectors—not fugitives, not traitors, and not McAlister, Mendoza, or Ravzi.

The Protectors.

"Feels good to hear that again," I said.

Diego leaned back in his chair and smiled. "It does, doesn't it?"

Lyla was more focused. "Is it imperative for us to find Tucker to send a message? If he's in the most fortified section of the building, why risk it?"

Diego was in agreement. "I can take the building down around him. He is irrelevant."

"You cannot take down the building, and Tucker is not irrelevant." More angry hiss to the words than I wanted.

Lyla reached across the blueprints and rested her hand on mine. "Scott, he didn't order us dead. Decisions like those are made above the head of a midlevel bureaucrat. He fulfilled his role. Any agent would have."

"He filled it a little too happily," I said. They couldn't fully understand my mad-on for the guy; to them he was just another government stooge, in a long line of stooges. No better or worse than the others. But Diego and Lyla hadn't been face-to-face with him. Heard his thoughts. Felt his contempt and hatred for us. For me.

I pulled my hand from under hers. "Yeah, it might not have been his call to terminate us, but I guarantee you, he was the devil on the shoulder of the guy who did," I said. "Besides, right now, Tucker's probably the single most secure target on the planet. Prying him out of that bunker is the best way . . . maybe the only way . . . to prove what we can do. Tucker goes down. I'll do it alone if I have to."

An uncomfortable silence sprang up in the middle of the table like a balloon fastened to a helium tank. The longer it went, the bigger the balloon got. Lyla finally popped it.

"That won't be necessary. We are a team again—no one goes it alone." She sounded like the leader I was supposed to be—calm and caring, yet resolute and strong. In that moment—watching her take charge—the number of times she'd saved our asses overwhelmed the memory of how many times she'd risked them. I realized General Barrington's mistake in choosing me as team leader: Lyla was the true heart of the Protectors.

She turned to Prinne. "Harold, would you be so kind as to identify the ECB on these blueprints for us?"

Prinne did so without hesitation, pointing to an empty area adjacent to the Command Center. The bunker was secret enough to be redacted from any building specifications or blueprints, but that precaution was meaningless when pitted against someone with Lyla's reach.

"Now, please draw us a path to the bunker," she continued. "The simplest, least dangerous one, avoiding as many security measures, cameras, and patrols as possible. Then, I want you to describe that path in detail to my friends. Answer any questions they have as well. Do you understand?"

Not only did Harold understand, he relished. Like the Iranian scientists before him, Deputy Director Prinne undid a lifetime of work in just over twenty minutes, telling us everything we needed. When he finished, Lyla smiled at me and her eyes broadcast her thoughts—this is going to work.

My own thoughts were just as optimistic, but sprang from a less tactical source. Her strength, her decisiveness, our shared moments of laughter and affection, the growing closeness we'd experienced over the last week . . . it all felt like a prelude to something else. Something better. Something . . . real.

This isn't an embrace. I love her.

I was overjoyed, right up until the deputy director turned to leave.

When Lyla looked at Prinne and said thank you.

When Harold basked in her thanks, and whispered, "Anything for you."

And I fucking lost it.
CHAPTER 45

Our first time goes exactly like you'd imagine, considering she's a goddess and I'm a dude who hasn't had sex in over a year and a half.

After some apologies and earnest promises of future overachievement, the second time is better. The third blows my mind.

Our tryst happens after a mission in northern Italy: Lyla embraces a trade minister before a critical vote of the G20 Summit, while I provide transport and cover. The operation is such an easy success, it almost feels unfair; but at least we get to escape the confines of the base and enjoy some time alone, away from inquisitive eyes.

I bathe in postmission afterglow in our Venice hotel suite, a room luxurious to the point of ridiculousness. In contrast, we're three floors above a waterway that smells different than the postcards lead you to believe. Part of the twisted reality of Italy's canal-filled tourist gem: a romantic paradise, steeped in raw sewage and rotted fish. But up here in an ivory tower with Lyla, I'm too high to smell the truth.

"That was amazing," I tell her. When she doesn't respond in agreement, I cock a worried eyebrow. "Right?"

She laughs. "Amazing-ish."

"Awww, man . . . that is so uncool. Seriously?"

"We'll work on it," she says, and kisses me on the nose. Instead of disappointment, the prospect of future attempts fills me with a joy I don't think I've ever experienced.

"It'll get better, I swear."

"Naked promises in the dead of night are notoriously unreliable, Mr. McAlister, but I believe you nonetheless."

She rolls away and I slide over to spoon. Lyla's hair tickles my nose as I nestle in close. "What do you think Carsten or Diego would say if they could see us now?" I whisper.

"Carsten would be embarrassed. He blushes every time I speak to him . . . like a little boy."

"Diego would probably critique your body. Rank each section on a ten-point scale."

"Argh. Men."

"Hey now, don't lump me in with him. Y'know, if we keep this up, they're gonna know. They may be odd, but they're not stupid."

She pauses for a moment, thinking. Then, a decision. "They won't. Even if they do, they won't."

My head yanks back from hers. "You'll embrace them?"

She flops over to look me in the eyes. "If I have to. Scott, this"—she touches her chest, then mine—"is ours. For us. After the last year, the training, the missions . . . this controlled insanity we live with, I need something that's normal. This piece we keep secret, yes?"

I understand completely. We live our lives under a microscope of politicians, spies, soldiers, and scientists. Having something beyond the fishbowl makes me feel special and normal at the same time, if that's possible. The only roadblock to secrecy, though, is Barrington. The general keeps his distance from Lyla . . . always has. He knows better. But he'll see it in my eyes, sense it. He already knows I have a crush on her. It's possible to get one gold star on your shoulder and remain clueless, but not three.

"Barrington will figure it out," I admit. "Hell, I'd be better off just coming clean. You freak him out so much, he'll see it as a better way to keep tabs on you. A way to exert some control over Madam Mind Control." A burst of inspiration hits. "I can be a double agent, let you know everything he says."

Lyla doesn't share my excitement. She touches a palm to my cheek, and the golden-green eyes open a little wider. "No," she pleads. "Not Barrington. Not anyone. Promise me you'll keep this secret. I need you to promise."

The bed is our sanctuary. I feel warm in her arms, safe from the outside world.

Loved.

So I say the only words in my mind. The ones I've wanted to say since the day I saw her sitting on the edge of the metal table, dangling her legs. The day I met Aphrodite.

"Anything for you."

—

My hands went to my head in shock, but "shock" soon graduated to "rage," and I was pulling at my hair hard enough to rip it right out of my scalp. Only one thought screamed beneath the roots of all that hair:

How stupid can you be?

"Son of a bitch." Diego cocked his head at me, clueless. Lyla looked the same, which meant she was an even better actress than I gave her credit for.

"What is it? What's wr—" she started.

I finished. "Wrong? Why don't you look at this fucking idiot"—I pointed to the still-smiling, wistful Harold Prinne—"and ask me that again. You know goddamn well what's wrong, Aphrodite." I threw a few dozen coats of disgust on my last word.

She's done it to me again. I'm no different than Prinne.

Wide-eyed and silent, Diego rotated on his heels and beat it out of the room in haste. Blaster wasn't big on emotional conflict, and my expression must have shown just how much I had stored up.

"I don't understand . . . ," Lyla said. She came around the table and I retreated backward.

"I cannot believe I didn't notice until now. Goddammit I should have, with your Jedi-mind-trick bullshit. You don't even need to spin your eyes to get me to swoon."

"Scott, that's not true. I haven't . . ." Her face was a mixture of surprise and hurt, and it looked honest. If I hadn't just realized I'd spent the last week as a meat puppet with Lyla's hand stuck up my ass, I might have bothered to listen.

"Save it," I said with as much contempt as I could muster. "Jesus, I should be relieved. Falling in 'love' with you again isn't due to my own shitty judgment—it's your fault."

Her expression flickered between wounded and enraged. I didn't wait to listen to whatever excuse she wanted to spew—or give her another opportunity to turn on the charm. I stormed out of the study and took the stairs to the upper level, three at a time.

When I got to the bedroom, I had barely enough time to call myself a moron again before Lyla crashed the door in pursuit. She was almost as pissed as I was. Almost.

"Read my mind!" she yelled, slamming the door shut behind her.

"What?"

"You heard me. Read my mind. Now!"

"Kiss my ass." I wasn't about to subject myself to the agony for nothing. People can spew a line of mental bullshit just as easily as they can verbally. "It's just more of the same. My emotions, desire . . . love. It's all crap. Illusions."

"Do you really think I'm manipulating you? Forcing you to be a helpless minion?" She sounded like she did back in the hallway of Mr. Barstow's house in London. Angry to the point of losing control. I walked to the window and kept my eyes focused on the street—no way was I going to look directly at her.

"Yes," I said to the glass, calmer, for both our sakes. "It's just like before."

"What are you talking about?"

I shook my head in frustration. "Lyla, nothing's changed. You control people's emotions like I drink a glass of water. It's so automatic you don't even have to think, and that was the old you. Now after your turbocharged evolution or whatever you want to call it—you're even stronger. The voice tricks, the questions on the plane, our night in Tehran . . ."

"So I've been manipulating you the entire time? That's what you think?"

"You need me. Not just to help you sleep and maintain focus, but for survival. And what do you do when threatened? You use your powers. You always have."

"I do not—"

"Please. Why don't you go back downstairs and feed that line of bullshit to my oldest, dearest friend," I said.

"So I am a liar! I take advantage of the noble Scott McAlister, twist his feelings, and use him like a puppet." Her sarcasm was so rank, Diego could probably smell it from downstairs. "God, you are such an ass."

I heard her stomp around the room, muttering to herself. After a few laps she stopped almost directly behind me.

"After all we've been through," she said, more in disbelief than anger. "All that's happened. You say these horrible things as if you're trying to make me hate you. How could you still not trust me?"

No more lies. Just tell her.

I twisted my head to look Lyla in the face.

"Because the last time almost killed me."

The soft skin above her nose puckered as her eyes searched mine. "What? I don't understand."

I turned back to the window and rested my forehead against the glass. I couldn't look at her while I spilled my guts. "After Carsten. One day you were the most important thing in my life. The next, I'm alone in Colorado and it was like you died with him. For the first six months, every day was a battle not to swallow a bottle of drain cleaner. Every. Single. Day." I slammed my fist against the windowsill with each word.

She said nothing, which was good. I didn't want to stop until I'd bared everything . . . air out the truth, once and for all.

"The emptiness I felt. Words don't . . . can't . . . convey. My soul ripped apart, Lyla. And the worst part was every night, sleep would knit back whatever pieces were left, and the next morning would shred everything all over again. When I finally stopped wanting to die, that's when I knew."

"Knew what?" The voice was surprisingly tender.

"That you'd embraced me. I'd heard the eggheads talk about 'the hangover' after you released someone . . . I read the files. 'Severe depression, longing, sorrow . . . unlike anything the target has experienced before.' Trust me, the reports don't come close to describing it."

Lyla said my name and her hand touched my shoulder. I shrank away from both the window and her, raising an arm in surrender.

"No, it's all right, I get it. I understand why you released me. You were angry about Carsten and I deserved to suffer. But I did my time—I took the punishment and recovered. Barely. But now we're together again, and I see those goddamn lovesick grins on the fucking scientists and that asshole Prinne . . . how thrilled they are to say, 'Anything for you.' Brings all the memories back. I can't go through that nightmare again."

When I finally turned to face her, tears clouded my vision.

"Lyla, I won't survive another embrace."

She didn't say a word. I swiped a forearm across my eyes so I could look at her. Patterns of light and shadow from the ceiling fan above played across her face. The light sparkled when it reflected off the tears on her cheeks.

I sucked in a breath to ask why she was crying and she lunged at me.

She kissed me. Not erotic or sensual. The kiss was a single hard push, urgent . . . almost desperate. Then her hands pulled at the back of my head and she stabbed her lips against mine, two, three, four times. When she finally pulled back and saw the astonished look on my face, she gulped down air in a half-laughing, half-crying fit.

"You idiot!" she choked out between sobs. "I never embraced you. Ever. You felt that way because you loved me."

"What? But that . . ." No more words escaped because her lips covered mine. My inner computer kept flashing the error message, but after a few seconds desire flipped the override switch. I kissed her back.

It wasn't until we came up for air that she grasped both sides of my face and laughed. "My lovely, sheltered fool . . . that's what love is supposed to feel like when it ends. It destroys everyone, me included. The five years after Carsten died were desperate for both of us. I watched a friend die, then lost the one person who cared for me despite my power. The one man who loved me for me."

Before I could kiss her in response, she punched me in the chest.

"And now you're a jerk who thinks none of it was real!" she cried, but there was no sadness beneath the tears. Just disbelief at my colossal level of stupidity.

I pulled Lyla down to the bed to apologize. One of my favorite rules to live by: the best apology is a naked apology.

I'd never been so happy to be so wrong.
CHAPTER 46

The next morning came like all of them did when I shared a bed with Lyla: too goddamn soon. Still, it was tough to be very upset. About anything. The CIA, Iran, the cabin, even Tucker—for a few glorious moments, they all disappeared and the entire universe was no bigger than a single bed with one woman, one man.

But even as the sun rose and the real world snuck back into the room to invade our thoughts, things felt . . . different. Lyla and I were connected now, in a deeper way than before. Our honesty—the mutual realization that we had no more secrets, no more roadblocks—created a stronger bond. Made me feel ready to take on the world.

When we went downstairs to do just that, Diego met us with a gibe: "Looks like Mommy and Daddy have worked out their issues." He was obviously relieved not to have to play peacekeeper, though, and after a quick family breakfast, we got down to work.

Hard work. Hours of the kind of painstaking labor that means nothing when things go right, and everything when plans go to shit. And let's face it, attacking the CIA had the ripe smell of a baby's diaper from the get-go.

By ten o'clock that night, we'd been through the plan six times, exhausting the potential problems. Every "what if," "how many," and "how long" had been beaten to death. Diego was the first to yawn, but Lyla was the first to call "enough."

"We can revisit this tomorrow," she said. "I would like to get a full night's sleep."

"Particularly if this is our last one," Diego said. He flicked a paper football off the table through imaginary goalposts. He'd been playing with the damn thing for an hour.

"Gallows humor doesn't suit you," Lyla said, a frown broadcasting her displeasure.

She ascended the stairs to one of the guest bedrooms with me in tow. As soon as I closed the door behind me, I took a deep breath and prepared for the pre-battle battle. When I turned to face her, Lyla fired the first shot.

"I couldn't help but notice your intricate plan doesn't involve me much."

"Of course it does. You supplied all of the intelligence, you helped plan the assault, and it's completely up to you to arrange safe transport out of here once Diego and I finish." The argument was so weak, it barely made it out of my mouth before Lyla kicked it over.

"Shall I prepare and pack sandwiches as well?"

She stood firm in front of the bed, hands on her hips. I walked over and put my hands just above hers.

"Don't be like that. You know as well as I do, your power set is not made for something like this. Aphrodite's influence isn't exactly a slam dunk in the middle of explosions and gunfire."

"And Knockout's is?"

"Please, be nice." I moved my hands to her face and kissed her. When she didn't pull away, the battle was over. "You know the drill: Diego is Mr. Outside, I'm Mr. Inside. He clears me a path to the door. Once I'm inside the building, I can neutralize entire rooms of people before they see me."

Lyla understood, but she wasn't happy about it. "Is that the only reason you don't want me there?"

"You know damn well it's not. The biggest reason is because if I see you get shot or blown up . . . it's over for me. I'll lose it. One of two things will happen: I'll either beg the Agency for a bullet in the head, or I'll help Diego kill every last person in the building. Both of those options scare the shit out of me."

"The only man on earth who can make death, suicide, and mass slaughter sound romantic," she said before kissing me again. Harder than before. When we separated, she said, "I won't put you in that position. I trust you and Diego to do what needs to be done."

I squeezed my way into a hug and whispered in her ear. "Don't worry, we'll be fine. Then we work on the future. We didn't spend the three-day trip to America brainstorming about Aphrodite's grand plan for nothing."

"I look forward to it," she whispered back.

Later, after slipping into bed, Lyla closed her eyes almost immediately. Before long, soft snoring rolled through the bedroom. She slept, curled in the hollow of my body, the lilac scent of her hair teasing my nose. Took at least five minutes for me to realize something amazing.

I hadn't put her to sleep.

All week I'd given her consciousness a hard reset in order to get her down each night—the price of her hypercerebral evolution. Not tonight, though, and here she was, snoring like plain ol' regular folk. No idea what caused the turnaround, but I certainly wasn't hurting for theories:

Maybe my repeated drops had "unclogged" whatever obstacle had formed.

Maybe our plan of action had given her a focus she'd lacked.

Or the biggest maybe, the one I desperately wanted to be true—our relationship had busted through all the crap and granted her a peace she'd needed. The kind of serenity that allowed Lyla to finally rest easy.

If so, maybe it meant there'd be peace for me, too. And provided we survived the next twenty-four hours . . . a future.

Of course, the cynical bastard couldn't let me have that one, not even for a minute. His voice was louder than Lyla's gentle rumble next to me.

You only get everything you want right before it gets taken away.

—

Adrenaline and anxiety are poor bedfellows. Combine them with the cynical bastard, and you're pretty much assured of a futile battle for peaceful slumber. I gave up the fight at 11:30 and padded out to the kitchen to grab a glass of milk. Before I could open the fridge, the throaty croaks of bullfrogs and the clicking of crickets drew my attention. The sliding glass door that led to the sundeck was open. I poked my head out and saw Diego lounging on a patio recliner, staring at an overcast sky.

He noticed me and said, "Can't sleep?"

"Nope. You, too?"

He nodded. "I did what I could to remedy the situation, though." He raised a bottle of Sam Adams from his lap.

"Nice. Are there any more of those?"

"No. This was the last one. Almost finished, too."

I watched with envy as Diego drained the last swig from the brown bottle. "Damn. I could really go for a beer."

We were both silent for a minute. Eventually Diego perked up. "You know, I was poking around on Google Maps earlier. There's a neighborhood bar up the road a couple of miles."

I thought about it, then shook my head. "I don't feel like walking for a half hour. I'm guessing you can't blip over there and carry back a six-pack, huh?"

He laughed. "No."

"Plus, why risk being seen? It'd be stupid."

"Sí. You're right."

More silence.

"Still, a good night's sleep is important. For the mission's sake," I offered. "And beer is a sedative."

Diego twisted in his chair and propped his body up on one elbow. "You know, we may be endangering the entire mission by not drinking. Think about it."

I flipped toward him. Without intending, I'd mirrored his pose exactly. "There's a Porsche 911 in the garage."

Diego grinned like a nine-year-old with a BB gun. "I'll drive."
CHAPTER 47

My fear of being recognized at the Mason Neck Drinking Horn was somewhat . . . overstated. Best thing about a bar at midnight on a Sunday: there aren't a lot of customers. Second-best thing: the patrons who are there, are really devoted to their craft.

Two bleary-eyed old men at separate tables drank alone—the only two customers in the place. They desperately cast lurid gazes and slurred words at the only waitress, a young woman who paced the place with barely contained exasperation. She navigated between the tables, picking up empties with ruthless efficiency, ignoring any verbal bait thrown her way. Diego and I avoided the drunks and walked to a small booth in the back corner, next to a row of dartboards that had seen better days.

The waitress—Sally, based on the name tag perched above her mountain of cleavage—came to our table almost immediately. Her smile didn't seem fake, probably born out of gratitude that she'd be able to talk to customers who weren't slobbering at her appearance or pawing at her as she walked by the booth. Obviously, she'd never met Blaster.

"What can I get you guys?"

"Sam Adams," I told her. Her brow scrunched, almost like she didn't understand what I'd said. I was about to ask her if they stocked Sam Adams, but she quickly turned to Diego. He stifled a laugh, but managed to signal "two." Sally went back to the bar to get our drinks and I whispered across the table, "What's so funny?"

"Nothing . . . tell you later." He clipped his words because Sally only made it halfway to the bar before turning back. It was a reaction I'd seen a few times. A few thousand, actually. When she returned, she had the familiar look.

"Hey, you two look an awful lot like . . . y'know . . . those guys."

Even five years removed, I had enough practice to handle a waitress.

"Yeah, we get that a lot. We're impersonators," I said. "Do a couple of gigs a month."

"Wow, I mean, you're really good." She turned to Diego. "You even have the long hair. Is that a wig?"

"An extension. No way am I growin' my hair out like that. It'd take years."

His accent was gone. Completely.

She marveled at the physical resemblance. "No kidding, right? If you could speak Spanish, you'd be perfect."

Diego took the opportunity to have a long look at her name tag. Well, the region surrounding the name tag, at least. "Sally, like you, I don't need Spanish to be perfect." He winked to punctuate the flirtation.

Sally's waitress-defense shield fired up instantly. Diego had gone from interesting oddity to lecherous ass in a single sentence. It was his gift, really. She shook her head in disgust and walked back to the bar to fetch drinks, one of which I was fairly certain would contain spit-flavored beer.

When she was safely out of earshot, I thumped the table with the palm of my hand and stabbed a finger at him. "I knew it! I knew the accent was bullshit!"

His sheepish grin answered better than his words. "Be quiet. My accent is real, took me almost ten years to cover it up." He was back to the old Diego now, rolling his r's and clipping his a's.

He continued to defend himself until the drinks came, this time delivered by the bartender. She was older than Sally, with the permanent frown lines that come from too many years of dealing with too many Diegos. Like the waitress, though, she was exceptionally gifted in the breast department—enough to make my eyes wander. She plunked our beers down and stared, an obvious favor for Sally, who'd had enough objectification for one day.

"Anything else?" It was a challenge, not a question.

"No, I think we're set," I said. Again, I got the weird crinkled brow in response, like I was speaking a different language.

"Well, good for you," she grumbled and walked back to the bar.

Diego smiled into his mug, waiting for the foam to die down. When it did, he took a long gulp and leaned back.

"You ever worry Lyla will use her powers on you?" he said. So simple, like asking about the weather.

"One swig of beer and you're diving into the deep end?"

"Well, you two are a couple now. If I was dating her, it would scare me to death."

"Other than embarrassing me a couple of times on an airplane . . . not really." No way was I admitting to the years I'd been convinced she'd embraced me. Diego (beer or no beer) wasn't the kind of guy you shared your innermost thoughts with.

I took a sip from my own mug and smiled. "Mmmm. That's the stuff. We better enjoy this round, because I don't think Dolly Parton and her sister over there are fans."

"Not worried in the slightest, are you?"

I rolled my eyes. "Again with this? No, I'm not concerned that . . ." I cut off when I recognized Diego's shit-eating grin. He knew something I didn't.

My eyes narrowed. "What the hell is so funny?"

He motioned to the two workers, now commiserating by the bar. "Notice anything different about them?"

"I don't know . . . they both have big chests?"

"Roger. Anything else?"

"They think we were hitting on them?"

"Oh, I'm pretty sure they don't think 'we' were hitting on them," Diego said. "The first words out of your mouth to each woman were 'I'm gay.' "

"What?"

Pent-up laughter exploded from his chest. Diego took a good sixty seconds to compose himself. He had to use his napkin to wipe away the tears. "Mr. I'm-not-afraid-of-being-embraced . . . spontaneously tells every large-chested woman he meets that he's gay. Priceless."

My face grew hot with embarrassment. I had zero memory of saying anything other than "Sam Adams" and "We're set."

"Dammit," I said under my breath. "Knew I was gonna pay for Salma Hayek."

—

Diego and I talked for an hour, which exceeded our previous record by about fifty-five minutes. We nursed our beers and caught up on the last few years of each other's lives. To be honest, most of the hour was less about catching up than it was about hitting rewind, reliving our time with the UN, laughing about the fun parts and strategically avoiding the bad ones.

For years, Lyla had stuck up for Diego, played peacemaker and tried to get me to talk to him. Neither of us had been interested in her diplomacy back then, but now I regretted the standoff. Once you got beyond Diego's prima donna front, he was a lot like me: funny, cynical, and lonely with a capital L. The only thing it took for me to see his real personality was a couple of beers. Well, beers, plus getting thrown to the wolves by the CIA and attempting an assault that might end in our tragic deaths.

We got our second round at 1 a.m. Diego swirled an orange slice into a Blue Moon, while I stuck to Sam.

"I went to Jupiter last year," he said.

I laughed at his abrupt non sequitur. "Any particular reason?"

"I watched 2001: A Space Odyssey, then the sequel. Talked about life on Europa, one of Jupiter's moons. Figured I'd go see for myself."

"And?"

"Didn't see any." He looked mildly disappointed. "To be honest, I couldn't find Europa. I barely found Jupiter. It's not like there are any maps."

"How long did it take?"

He shrugged. "Getting there took a half hour. Then I wandered around for two hours trying to find the right moon. You know there are sixty-seven of them? I looked it up on Wikipedia when I got back."

I whistled. "You travel through space, man. Do you have any idea how jealous I am?"

He cradled the Blue Moon between both hands, staring at the golden, foam-encircled surface. "Don't be. Took four days to find my way back."

"Four days?"

"Jupiter is the biggest thing in the solar system other than the sun. You can see it from your backyard without binoculars. I just pointed in that direction and went. Turning around and coming back, though . . ."

His voice trailed away and he slowly rotated the glass with his palms. The motion was hypnotic, like Lyla's eyes. "Space is big, my friend. Grande." The Spanish rolled out of his mouth in a whisper. "And the earth . . . us . . . we're so small. Easy to miss."

"God, that would be a lonely four days. I can't imagine."

"No, you can't. Don't ever be jealous of me. I would have traded five minutes of that hell for five years in your cabin." Diego finally took a drink and broke the spell. "Still, it wasn't all bad," he said, trying to inject a bit of levity. "Gave me time to think. After I panicked, of course."

"What did you think about? Other than I'm never leaving the planet again, of course."

"Us. The Protectors. Our powers. How they work together."

Now I was the one with scrunchy eyebrows.

"Haven't you ever thought about it?" he said. "How our abilities seem to cancel each other out?" he asked. "Like Rock-Paper-Scissors: electricity screws you up, but you were the only one who could handle Carsten. Lyla can control us, but if she got out of hand—you or me can handle her from a distance."

"How about you? You're a walking, breathing lightning storm. What's your kryptonite?"

"Look at me—five foot six and a hundred forty pounds on a good day. Carsten could have shattered me. My power was pretty fireworks as far as he was concerned."

I chose not to remind Diego he didn't have to worry about that potential outcome anymore.

"So . . . what? You think we were meant to counter each other, like a checks-and-balances thing?" I asked.

He shook his head and took a long gulp of his beer. "That's what I used to think. But now, after hearing what you did for Lyla? How you helped her adapt to her new power . . . I think I was wrong."

"First time I've ever heard you say those words."

"Quit it. What if we were meant to be together, but not as insurance against one of us freaking out?"

"Dude, if you get metaphysical on me, I'm gonna need more than two beers."

"Be serious." Diego hunched forward and put both elbows on the table, gesturing as he spoke. He was more animated than I'd ever seen him. "I've thought a lot about this over the last few days . . . since Iran. Maybe it's more like a lock and key . . . in order to become what we were meant to be, we need each other's help. You unlocked Lyla's full power. She was . . . I don't know . . . broken, somehow. You fixed her. What if all of us are like that? Dependent on each other to evolve. To survive."

Interesting idea, but it didn't hold water beyond Lyla. "I don't need any help. I'm not broken."

"Lyla told me about the mind reading. She says you can barely do it because of the pain. Maybe that's your lock."

"I'm fine. You're starting to sound like the scientists, by the way."

Diego lifted his hands from the table in surrender. Making me feel like a lab rat was the worst sin he could commit in our superexclusive club. We'd all spent too much time having our heads examined already.

"I apologize. That was not my intention."

"Besides, you didn't need help. You evolved just fine without any assistance."

His expression sagged as though he carried a burden that had just doubled in weight. "I have issues of my own."

I'd never seen Diego so sapped. His reluctance to elaborate was scary, too. "C'mon, man, talk to me."

He finished his glass in three deep gulps and brought the empty down hard. "If we survive tomorrow, I'll tell you all about it."

"Fair enough."

I motioned for the check. Diego's ideas weren't crazy, but I didn't want to consider them. All the philosophy was meaningless anyway. I'd asked "why" ever since I was sixteen, but the only answer "why" ever brought was more questions. Along with confusion and anger, and I certainly didn't need more of either.

Right now, I had to focus on the big goal—an assault that would be the difference between living in peace and living on the run. Nothing else mattered. Besides, if what Diego said was actually true . . .

"What are you thinking?" he asked.

I threw down a twenty for the beers. "If you're right, and I fixed Lyla, then Carsten was supposed to fix you or me. Which means . . ."

"One of us is fucked," he finished. "The thought had occurred to me."

My glass had one more swallow. I saluted Diego with it. "Here's hoping it's you," I said.

He laughed and did the same with his empty.

"You're all right, Mendoza. Sorry I've been such a dick."

"When?"

"Um, forever."

Diego laughed. "But we're oldest, dearest friends . . ." He slid out of the booth. "No need to apologize, honest. Let's go. I'll have no problem falling asleep with three beers in me."

I wished I could say the same.

—

Final preparations took most of the following day. As zero hour approached, Diego pored over the documents again, Lyla made a few last-minute phone calls to her newest minions, and I did some sewing. Yeah, sewing.

Lyla came to the bedroom at 7 p.m. to tell me it was time. Seeing me hard at work, she said, "I don't know which is more of a surprise—that the troll actually had a needle and thread in this house, or that you know how to sew."

"Don't hate." I tied off my last knot and held the shirt up for inspection.

"Where did you get the fabric?"

"The curtains." I motioned to the bedroom window, now with a large chunk missing from the drapes. I stood and slipped the black shirt over my torso. Didn't have to look at a mirror, because Lyla gave me all the feedback I needed.

"You look wonderful." She came close, running her fingertips over the golden P reinstalled on my chest.

"Check out the belt," I said. A couple of minutes under hot water had removed the black marker. The bright KO letters now stood out from the background.

"Knockout. Leader of the Protectors. You look like a comic-book hero."

"Yeah, well, I don't feel like one. Superman never took out the CIA."

Lyla smiled. "He didn't have to. The American government loved him. In case you forgot, we're not in a comic. And you are certainly not Superman." To demonstrate, she threw a half-speed punch to my stomach. I wheezed for effect.

"My man of steel." She kissed me. I thought it would be a brief throwaway, but it blossomed into the kind of kiss you remember for a lifetime. When our lips parted, I felt dizzy and weak.

"If there really is an Aphrodite, she's envious of the way you kiss," I whispered.

She reached up and gently tilted my face until our foreheads touched. "Promise me it will not be the last one," she said, her eyes unwilling to meet mine. I hadn't realized how scared she was until that moment.

"I promise." I pulled her to me and we embraced, so hard I was worried I'd hurt her. She didn't complain. When I finally let her go, tears welled in her eyes.

"I love you," she said. The words washed over me like warm ocean water. All I gave in return was a dreamy smile. My first reaction was that she'd turned on the juice accidentally—her emotions kicked in and her power leaked out enough to bathe me with those waves of happiness. A great rationalization, but the truth was so much better: I was happy for the oldest, best reason in the book. The woman I loved . . . loved me back.

"I'll take your stupefied silence as a sign you love me, too," she finally said.

"Since the day I saw you in your scrubs in the mess hall, smart-ass. I'll say it every day of our lives from here on out. And there will be lots of them, I swear. See you at the rendezvous."

She touched the side of my face without saying another word.

I kissed the Goddess of Love one final time and went downstairs to meet Diego. You'd think I'd have a jumble of thoughts and emotions in my head at that moment: strategies, tactics, possibilities, danger, even fear. As I climbed into the passenger seat of the Porsche, though, only two mental bullets ricocheted inside my skull.

One: Lyla Ravzi had ruined me for all other women.

Two: I really should have put her to sleep.

Both were true.
CHAPTER 48

Diego and I stood on a bluff overlooking our target. The George Bush Center for Intelligence—fancy name for CIA headquarters—loomed in the darkness below the Potomac River bluff, spread out over 250 acres of Virginia farmland. The complex radiated a ghostly green hue through the night-vision binoculars, one of many gifts from Lyla's minions. Our location was another: a field agent pointed out the perfect vantage point—just outside the security grid and the perimeter fence that waited in the woods less than a hundred feet ahead.

Despite the wondrous night vision, the binoculars revealed little activity. No foot patrols. No men on the roof. The vast parking lots surrounding the two main buildings were mostly empty.

"Time?"

"Almost eleven," Diego answered.

"Perfect. Shift change at the local police stations. CIA security will be full strength but operations are a skeleton crew this late. Don't need to worry about a couple thousand nine-to-five workers."

"Are Lyla's boys in place?"

I turned to look at the access road from Highway 123. The four-lane divided street was the only avenue leading to the campus. The first rule of a truly secure installation: limited access. Only problem—if your secure site comes under attack, there's only one direction help can come from.

A caravan of tractor-trailers made the turn off 123. Twelve in all, each driver the recipient of special instructions from Aphrodite. They came up the road and fanned out, each driver moving their rig perpendicular to the flow of traffic. The first four trailers blocked the road itself, while the remaining eight came to rest along the sides of the road, all the way to the tree line. Twelve drivers calmly got out of their trucks and walked back toward 123, keys tucked safely in their pockets.

"Road's blocked. Anybody coming to the rescue better have excellent cardio, 'cause they'll be walking." I scanned the sky above. "No planes overhead, either."

Diego blew out a deep breath. "Time to start the party, then. Put your toy in the safety box."

I slipped the binoculars into the shielded container at my feet. When Diego heard me throw the latch, he stepped a few paces down the bluff. He crossed his arms in front of his chest in an X and concentrated. I knew better than to wait for the hum or an explosion of light—this part of Diego's repertoire was more subtle, but I'll be damned if it wasn't just as destructive.

When he exhaled, the lights of the entire CIA complex went out. Power grids beyond the campus also went dark; everything within a five-mile radius, including the nearest police station and two mobile-phone towers.

Diego turned back, grinning in the dark. "So much easier than throwing lightning bolts."

He'd emulated one of the odder effects of a nuclear bomb: the electromagnetic pulse. The pulse supercharged the atmosphere with high-energy electrons, emanating from the nuke (or in this case, Diego, the human atomic bomb). The pulse overloaded any device carrying an electric current, which in a metropolitan area meant . . . damn near everything. Power lines weren't the only things knocked out: car electronics, smartphones, computers, solid-state circuitry. Anything with power flowing through it saw that power spike until the circuits burnt up.

An EMP was the ultimate techie's nightmare, with almost unlimited range if you generated one high enough in the air so the pulse had room to spread. Explode a twenty-megaton whopper in the upper atmosphere and the Amish would become America's technological elite. Use Diego from ground level, though, and you don't affect much more than the immediate area. Still, the immediate area was all we needed.

Five seconds after the pulse shredded the Agency's power system, half the complex's lights came back on. I knew they would, because I'd studied the building specs. Almost no one bothers to shield electronics against an EMP, for a simple reason: who cares about posting to Facebook when you can see a mushroom cloud from your back porch? The CIA, however, is one of the few installations built to function in the aftermath of catastrophe. Shielding every electric line was impossible, so the government did the next-best thing—they built a second set of electrical relays, turned off completely with no electricity running through the lines. An EMP doesn't affect circuits with zero power in them, so in the event of a nuclear attack, the main switches reroute power to the secondary lines, and bam! Back in business.

Course, this brilliant backup plan clings to a single assumption: nobody would bother to nuke a site twice, right?

"Diego, if you please—hit 'em again."

The second pulse killed most of what was left, and this time lights miles beyond the perimeter of the first EMP winked out, too.

"Oops. Got a little carried away on that one. Sorry."

"C'mon, man . . . we're not trying to send D.C. to the Stone Age. Be a little more cautious, would ya?" I removed the binoculars from the shielded case and powered them on. The rooftops of the buildings were easier to see with no glare from regular light sources. Before long, I saw dark figures scurry along the roofline. "All right, they're following emergency protocol. I've got snipers on top of both buildings. They'll have a bead on us before we make it out of the woods."

Diego tapped his foot on the ground. "So . . ."

"Discourage them."

Like he did in Iran, he summoned strikes from the clouds above the installation. Mammoth lightning bolts split the sky apart above the roofs of the two structures, so many I lost count. He hit the corners, the center, the helipad, the AC units . . . you name it, Diego fried it.

"Honey, don't forget to do the dishes," I told him between salvos.

He nodded and pulled down two quick strikes into the middle of the massive collection of satellite dishes huddled at the far side of the old administration building. Explosions rocked the entire communications platform. The big dishes burnt out and the smaller ones went flying—burning metal Frisbees no one wanted to catch. If the Agency's comm systems still had any power, it wasn't going to matter.

When the cacophony died down, I scanned the roof again. Several fires, a lot of smoke, but most important, no moving shadows with rifles. The fires were a bonus; at least a portion of the CIA's internal police force, the Security Protective Service, would be tasked to put them out, especially since no one could contact the fire department. Every SPS officer fighting fire meant one fewer gun shooting at us, and one less bodyguard for Tucker.

No structural damage, flames eventually contained by the SPS and shielded fire-prevention circuits, and the satellite dishes can be replaced within forty-eight hours, but for right now . . .

"They're blind, deaf, and on fire. Won't get any easier," I said. We walked down the bluff through the woods until we reached the fence, eight feet tall and monitored by now-unpowered video cameras. I preferred wire cutters to setting the forest on fire, so I handled the dirty work while Diego peeked through the remaining trees with the binoculars. When I finished clipping a slot big enough for us to crawl through, he said, "Still don't see anybody on the roof. Looks clear."

The relative protection of the thick trees only ran for another twenty yards. After that, the approach was wide open: a driveway followed by three hundred feet of empty VIP parking, right in front of the entrance to the old administration building. I'd never been so afraid of a parking lot in my life. "Looks clear" isn't the same as "clear," and three hundred feet is a long way to run when you're sniper bait. Luckily, body armor wasn't my only protection.

Diego said, "Remember, stay behind me. But not too close."

"What's too close?"

He grinned. "If your hair stands on end, you're too close."

He walked beyond cover and extended his left hand to the side, palm up. A bubble of shimmering air surrounded him, almost fifty feet in diameter. A breeze carried the low-level hum back through the trees to me. With slow, deliberate steps, Diego moved toward the administration building in the dark. He took fewer than ten of those steps before the shooting started.

A sniper from the roof fired first—he'd been hiding below the lip—and he ducked back under cover before Diego could target him. What the shooter didn't realize was Diego wasn't concerned about him. He only cared about the bullets.

The hardiest sniper rounds are made of tungsten, one of the densest, strongest metals in existence. Although I'm confident our rooftop shooter was well versed in the metal's ballistic properties, weight, and penetration stats, I was pretty sure he didn't know the one statistic that mattered: tungsten has a melting point of 6,000 degrees.

When the bullet reached the boundary of the energy bubble, a 30,000-degree bolt of lightning exploded from Diego's outstretched palm, automatically drawn to anything more conductive than air. The electrified plasma intercepted the round in midflight. A few droplets of molten tungsten penetrated the bubble, but they fell harmlessly to the pavement, not even close enough to make Diego flinch.

He continued his slow march toward the entrance until two SPS guys came out the front doors, barrels of their M-16s leveled at him. At first I thought they'd waste time ordering Diego to stand down and surrender, but they didn't bother. Both men opened up with the M-16s on full auto, spraying their entire thirty-round magazines in seconds. Lightning bolts danced out of Diego's left palm in response, one for every piece of metal that approached his sphere of supercharged air. The effect was dazzling, like touching one of those plasma globes from the 1980s—with magical arcs of current reaching out to sizzle against the glass under your fingertips—except this was a helluva lot bigger.

A spatter of glowing slag came through the bullet shield, but nothing else.

Diego was far enough away from the tree line that I could safely follow, keeping my distance but still enjoying the fifty-foot-high cover his bubble provided. The guy on the roof popped up to fire again, and this time took a bead on me. His round dissolved like before but this time he stuck around long enough to see the effect. I didn't want to give him the opportunity to sprint down the roofline until he found an angle that worked, so I yelled, "Guy on the roof !"

Diego's head rotated in the sniper's direction. He maintained the bubble with his left palm and pointed his right fist at the roof's edge. While the bullet-shield bolts were thin and relatively quiet, the one Diego fired at the roof was neither.

The sniper didn't pop up again.

The two slack-jawed idiots with empty M-16s witnessed the earthshaking blast from less than one hundred feet. Once they got off the ground, they ran. Didn't blame them; shooting at Diego was as effective as spitting at God, and Diego wasn't full of loving grace like the Big Guy.

He walked another twenty paces and stopped. The right fist came up again, pointed at the main entrance; bulletproof glass doors, security barriers, and X-ray checkpoints were beyond. I covered my ears this time.

Shit. This is gonna be bad.

The thunderous sustained volley blew apart doors, columns, metal, glass . . . anything in the way. When the blinding arcs of bluish white electricity faded, the door to Tucker was wide open. I sprinted through as soon as Diego dropped the shield.
CHAPTER 49

Once inside, I was responsible for the heavy lifting. Diego's shield was useless indoors—he'd never learned how to alter the size of the bubble, and fifty feet of supercharged air would have touched everything around him. The bolts would have fried it all, electrifying floors, walls, anything mildly conductive. Including me.

I didn't plan on needing a shield, though.

Battery-powered emergency lights cast a yellow glow over the ruined entrance. The main foyer behind them was the biggest room in the building, but it wasn't large enough for someone to take a shot at us without being in my range. The first responder to the foyer destruction was an SPS officer wandering around with a flashlight. I dropped the guy before Diego even noticed him. The officer's gun never made it out of his holster. Once we cleared the rubble of the security stations, I didn't bother with constantly scanning ahead. Speed was more important. I blanket wiped a hundred feet in front of us, over and over, every few steps. Tiring, but effective.

Nobody conscious got in our way, although we did have to step over a full tactical team sleeping in a hallway next to the cafeteria. They were armed more like an army platoon than a security force: heavy squad automatic weapons and full-plate body armor. One of the guys even had a nasty-looking grenade launcher—with a circular drum magazine like an old-time gangster's tommy gun. Armament like that wasn't mentioned in the intel from Lyla's minions; evidently Tucker or his bosses had added a little muscle to their defenses. Still, sleeping muscle wasn't very intimidating. We kept going.

The quick pace didn't stop until we approached the mouth of a large glass walkway. The path ahead led to the central courtyard of the Administration Building, an atrium comprising the last bit of open ground separating us from the Operations Center. The atrium was square, almost two hundred feet on each side and six stories of building façade looming all around. Too big an area to blanket wipe, not to mention the hundreds of office windows on the surrounding walls, any of which could be a perfect shooter's nest. Filled with gardens and a paved walking path, the atrium was a quiet, tranquil killing field.

Diego motioned for me to hold back. "Same as before. Wait until I say go."

He initiated the bubble before he made it fully into the courtyard. Glass and metal door frame melted in response to the sustained arcs of electricity. By the time he stood in the center of the atrium, there was a well-defined hole in the glass walkway he'd entered from. Diego waited patiently in the center of the walking path through the atrium gardens. No shots came. He slowly turned in place several times, left palm upturned at his side, waiting. After an excruciatingly long minute, he motioned for me to come and dropped his bubble. I took one step into the courtyard and heard glass shatter, above and to my right.

The source was a fourth-floor window on the far side of the atrium. An emergency light silhouetted an SPS officer breaking the glass with the butt of his weapon. I recognized the bulky drum of another grenade launcher. Diego turned and reinitiated the bullet shield on reflex, assuming it was a rifle.

He doesn't realize . . .

The officer fired and his grenade hit the boundary of the shield, exploding in the air above Diego's head. Blaster crumpled to the ground beneath the fireball, his shield dissolving in the process.

"No!" I ran for him, no longer worried about cover.

Halfway to Diego's body, self-preservation kicked in and I twisted on the run to see if I was about to be on the receiving end of another boom. I wasn't. The grenade's only fortunate side effect was it blew up fifty feet in the air—a lot closer to the shooter than he'd anticipated. Three floors' worth of office windows shattered from the up-close explosion and the shooter's was at the epicenter.

I got to Diego at a dead run, barely slowing down enough to grab his arms. The words "please don't be dead" spilled from my mouth more than once. The moment I touched him, though, I knew he was alive. Unfortunately, I knew it because the contact zapped the hell outta me.

It wasn't a full-on electrocution—more surprising than painful. Like Blaster's "up yours" handshakes. Y'know, the exact amount of electricity necessary to render me powerless.

"Oh, you dick," I muttered while pulling his unconscious body to the far side of the atrium. I leaned back to kick open the door, knowing full well we were screwed. If another of those tactical teams waited beyond, we were dead. Hell, with Diego unconscious and me powerless, a janitor with a mop and a bad attitude could fuck us up. But waiting in the wide-open atrium was worse. The door flew open and revealed a blessedly empty hall. I pulled Diego into a nearby men's room to check him.

Pulse strong. Couple of nicks, not much bleeding.

Whatever remained of his energy shield must have vaporized the grenade fragments in the milliseconds before it collapsed. Even without shrapnel, though, the concussive force of the grenade was enough to knock him out.

I slapped his cheek. Nothing. So I slapped him again, harder.

"Diego! Wake up, man, I need you. Bad."

I was about to smack him a third time when a quiet voice said, "Please stop hitting me."

My joy was spontaneous enough that I cried out and hugged him.

"What happened? Are we in the crapper?" He was dazed, but appeared unharmed.

"Please tell me you've got some juice left. You shocked me when I dragged you in here. I'm shooting blanks."

His eyes stopped wandering around the john and found mine. "What? How long until you get your powers back?"

I shook my head. "Don't know. Ten minutes, twenty. More time than we have. Our little light show will bring helicopters out of D.C. in less than that. We've got to keep moving." I helped him to his feet.

He steadied himself on the low counter of sinks. "I'll be okay."

"Only fifty more feet. Down the hall to the left."

We exited the bathroom and moved down the last hall. Diego had his fists raised, ready to turn the entire corridor ahead of us to plasma. I did my best to violate the laws of physics and make an almost two-hundred-pound man disappear behind a 140-pound one. We made it halfway to the Operations Center before things went to shit.

First, the door to the OC banged open and three SPS guards spilled into the hall. It's fair to say they were more surprised to see us than we were to see them. Diego lit them up just as I clamped hands over my ears. The shock wave from the lightning cracked the walls on either side. In the closed corridor, the thunder was so loud, covering my ears almost didn't matter; I recoiled and turned back the other direction, sinking to my knees in pain. The metal door to the stairwell flew open in front of me. Another guy in body armor stepped into the corridor, and he looked angry.

Bloody, dirty, with sweat dripping off his face, he held a battered grenade launcher. The asshole who'd almost killed Diego; damaged but not disabled from the explosion's backlash. He'd recovered enough to run down a maze of dark floors and find the staircase leading down to Operations. And he was standing less than ten feet behind us.

I moved without thinking.

I lunged off the floor and ran at him, catching him in the upper body before he could aim the launcher. I kept pumping my legs after contact—my high school football coach would have been proud—lifting the larger man up, then driving him straight down into the hard surface of the corridor. When we landed, the air whooshed out of his chest and I went at him like an animal. I couldn't put him out my normal way, so I went old-school. While he was still worried about breathing, I grabbed him by the helmet and rammed the back of his head into the ground. I kept ramming until his eyes shut. The helmet probably saved his life, but his consciousness kicked the bucket after seven smacks against the linoleum. I pushed up off his unconscious body and got to my feet.

When I turned around, Diego had his hands on his hips. "Still powerless?"

I reached down and hefted the grenade launcher to my shoulder. "Not exactly."

"You know how to work that thing?"

"It's got a safety and a trigger. I'm good."

"Then show me," he said, pointing at the door to the Operations Center. "I'm not walking in there first."

I sidled up next to the open door and fired a single grenade around the corner into the middle of the OC. The explosion wreaked havoc on equipment, but I didn't hear any voices. Diego and I spun into the room, ready to fire again if necessary.

Computers, chairs, and desks were strewn about the room. The acrid smell of the grenade filled the air. Several ceiling lights were damaged in the blast, but the rest beamed fluorescent light over the wreckage, which meant this section of the building was shielded against EMPs. Not a surprise, but the lack of people was. The room was empty.

"The analysts on duty must have evacuated to the emergency bunker," I said. "Keeping Tucker company."

Diego walked to the large metal door at the far end of the room. The sign on front shouted KEEP CLEAR IN CASE OF EMERGENCY in bold red letters. Door didn't do the barrier justice. It looked more like a compartment hatch on a submarine; thick metal, blast-proof, and locked tight. Diego smiled. "You're gonna want to cover your ears for this."

Six seconds' exposure to temperatures hotter than the sun turned the big, bad, scary door into molten goo. Diego stood like a butler presenting a dining room full of guests, ushering me toward the opening with both hands. He practically oozed self-satisfaction. I muttered something about getting the short end of the superpower stick again, and we walked into the access tunnel of the bunker.

No question that this part of the complex was shielded. Bright light filled the fifty-foot-long tunnel, and the door on the far side had a security keypad with red numerals. The tunnel itself was completely white, floor and curved walls alike. There were vents along the ceiling, but other than that, the walls were featureless and smooth. I touched one. Not cement, and not metal. Felt more like . . . ceramic.

"Strange," I said. "There's a tiny vibration behind the surface." I pulled back, suddenly aware of how alien the tunnel felt, and how exposed we were inside. "I don't like this. Fry that door and let's get to the bunker."

Diego stepped ahead. "Open, says me," he joked. He aimed and I clamped hands over my ears. Lightning erupted from his fist, more electricity in a single second than I'd use in a lifetime. The door ahead glowed like the first one, but before it dissolved into slag, the lightning cut off. I turned back to Diego, surprised. He looked confused yet undeterred, like a dog after the hidden-ball trick. It was almost funny.

Until he staggered and fell.

"Something's wrong," he moaned on his hands and knees.

Behind us, a secondary barrier came down like a guillotine, cutting off the tunnel from ceiling to floor. The vents above clunked open and water flowed out in thin curtains, soaking us. It wasn't a one-time shot, either—the water kept coming—no deluge, but it was constant.

"This wasn't on any of the plans," I said.

Diego rolled to his butt and grimaced. "Shit. I can't use my power if they soak the tunnel. I'll electrocute you."

"I'm more concerned about you. What's wrong?"

"I feel weak, like I can't . . ." His eyes opened wide. Too wide. "Oh no. Oh God no," he gasped. I'd never seen the expression on Diego's face before. Terror.

"What?! You're scaring me, man. What the hell is wrong?"

"This tunnel . . . it's not what you think. It's a superconductor. Built to expel electromagnetic fields."

"Speak English! What does that mean? It nullifies your power?"

His defeated expression scared me more than his eyes. "Worse. Welcome to my evolution, Scott. I'm an electromagnetic field now. Squeezed into human form. The superconductor will pull my body apart, siphon it off. They'll shunt me into the earth . . . kill me."

His head lolled back. I gripped the back of his neck to support him.

"I can feel it happening," he said. "Some of me . . . already gone. Miles from here." He lifted a thin arm. Impossible though it seemed, his fingers were dissolving, unraveling at the tips. It was like watching an inkjet printer in reverse, once-indelible lines of humanity vanishing row by row.

"No! Fight it," I pleaded. "There's got to be something you can do."

He started to laugh but it drowned in a coughing fit. After he composed himself, Diego said, "I'm open to suggestions."

Only one came to mind. "Transform. Blast your way out. The superconductor can't grab on to something moving at the speed of light, right?"

"Maybe, but"—he pointed his finger stubs at the rising water, now ankle deep—"you'll die if I change." Diego's transformation would electrify the entire water-covered floor.

I chuckled and lifted a handful of water. "Champ, I got bad news for you. I'm powerless and trapped in an aquarium in the middle of CIA headquarters. I'm dead either way. If you manage to blow a hole in that wall behind us, I'll at least have a shot."

Diego turned toward the wall, then fixed his fading eyes on me. "I'll give it a try. Can you get out of the water?"

I gently released him and took a few steps back. "Guess I have to. I'll take a run at the wall and kick off. Be in the air for maybe a second. Can you do it that fast?"

His mischievous smile returned. "So fast you won't believe it."

I suddenly felt very heavy. When your existence depends on kicking yourself up into the air, you start regretting the multiple beers you had the night before, as well as your fashion choices. I struggled to free myself from the water-logged duster.

"Even if I make it . . . somehow survive and convert back," Diego said while I stripped, "I'll be half a world away with no energy to return." He sounded stronger now, as though the decision to act somehow bound him together more tightly. Yet his fingers continued to spool away.

"Don't worry, pal. I'll take it from here. Just do one thing for me. If you make it, find Lyla. Tell her I'm sorry and I love her."

His face softened, despite the pain. "Of course, my friend. Least I can do."

"Show these bastards what a god can really do . . . Zeus."

Diego's eyes focused on something . . . nothing . . . in the distance. Then he grinned.

"Fuck it. Call me Blaster."

I took two running steps, planted a boot on the wall just above the waterline, and pushed off as hard as I could.

Diego exploded into light. I closed my eyes and the thunder's shock wave thrust me backward down the tunnel. I hit the water at an angle and slid until I banged into the far door. It didn't feel good, but I was still breathing.

Blaster was gone. So was the barricade. The accumulated water flowed into the Operations Center. On the opposite side of the OC there was a four-foot hole in the wall. Through that hole I could see another in the room beyond. And the next.

The way out was clear, but I wasn't going to kid myself with any fantasies of escape. I was powerless and alone. I'd be shot before I even made the parking lot.

I grabbed the grenade launcher from the floor and shook the water off, hoping the ammo magazine was sealed. I ducked through the hole into the Operations Center and turned around, now a safe distance from the partially melted door.

Following Blaster's path was a death sentence. Going in the opposite direction? No damn better, but at least I'd get to take somebody with me.

I fired a grenade down the length of the tunnel. It smacked against the warped metal and blew up just fine. When the blast cleared, I ran through the shattered doorway to find Tucker.

The doorway opened into a small antechamber with steps leading down to the emergency command bunker—a smaller, more secure version of what we'd just blasted through—buried beneath the floor of the CIA complex.

I stepped through the door at the bottom of the steps and saw four guys with assault rifles looking back. Agent Reyes stood in the middle, two gunmen on either side. He'd ditched the gas mask, although he had a Taser leveled at my chest. No Tucker in sight, which meant I was done. Finished. No use detonating a bunch of innocent SPS cops. I dropped the launcher.

One of the riflemen looked at Reyes. The big man nodded in return.

"So that's it," I said, more disappointed than angry. I waited for the hail of bullets with a single, overwhelming thought, a question way more clinical and detached than I assumed final thoughts would be.

I wonder if death hurts.

I never found out, because Reyes grinned and shot me with the Taser.

But trust me, it hurt.
CHAPTER 50

My eyes blinked open to blinding light.

I'll be honest, my first thought was: Heaven?

Yeah, a little self-aggrandizing considering my track record, but it didn't last long. Whatever heaven may be, I'm guessing the lights aren't fluorescent and it doesn't reek of body odor.

I was seated in a chair, staring at overhead lights. My skull snapped forward and my neck muscles screamed in protest. When I could focus on who was in front of me, my brain did a little screaming as well.

Tucker sat across a wide metal table. His toothy smile radiated triumph, but judging from his three-day stubble and sleep-deprived eyes, it was a recent phenomenon. He didn't look nearly as put-together as he'd been in the past. Didn't mean he was any less of a dick, though.

"Welcome back, Mr. McAlister. How are we feeling?"

I lifted my hands to the table and felt the handcuffs for the first time. "Captured." I smacked my lips to clear the lingering metallic taste from the Taser. "How long was I out?"

He checked his watch. "About ten minutes. Surprising, really. Mr. Reyes said he's never seen a Taser make someone lose consciousness."

"Reyes actually spoke?"

Tucker motioned to the side. "Be nice."

I twisted to see Reyes, his hulking figure blocking the door of our small room, an interrogation area, with a large two-way mirror behind Tucker and twin video cameras mounted in opposite corners near the ceiling. Both had blinking red lights. A powered-down flat-panel computer monitor sat on the table next to Tucker, screen turned toward me.

I corrected my slouch in the metal chair and found that my neck muscles weren't the only ones with complaints. Even my toes felt sore. The malaise was mental, too; I knew where I was, knew I was seriously screwed, but I couldn't seem to focus enough to care. I knew there was one question worth asking, though.

"Why am I still alive?"

"Because we have unfinished business, you and I."

"You're taking a big risk, aren't you?"

"Oh, I don't think so." He pointed to the cameras. "Those aren't the only ones still working. I witnessed your dustup in the hallway outside Operations. Took out that guard with your bare hands. Apparently Mr. Mendoza's electricity tricks have taken their toll on you."

Shit. He knows I'm impotent.

"You should be grateful," Tucker continued. "I would have had you shot the moment you stepped through the door if you still had your powers."

Didn't matter if he knew. The arrogant prick had kept me alive—all I had to do was keep him talking until my power came back. Even with my abilities restored, escape was a long shot, but I'd take a one percent chance over a death sentence any day. It was just a question of how long I'd have to wait for my shot.

"I assume the loss isn't permanent," Tucker said. "So I've taken measures to ensure cooperation, regardless of your status."

"Sounds scary. Is this the part where you threaten to kill me?"

He leaned forward and flicked a switch on the back of the monitor. The screen blinked to life.

"No, Mr. McAlister. This is the part where I threaten to kill her."

Son of a bitch.

The screen showed Lyla handcuffed to a hospital gurney, blindfolded and gagged. An IV bag hung from a pole next to the gurney, with a line feeding down to her arm. Behind her, partially obscured, stood a nurse wearing a gas mask. Lyla was dressed like an office worker and had an ID badge clipped to her belt, emblazoned with the CIA seal.

"We caught her twenty minutes before you and Mr. Mendoza showed up. Tried to infiltrate the building with an agent's badge—sadly unaware that our facial recognition software doesn't care if you wear a wig and contacts." Tucker saw my fists clench, and his eyes widened. "You didn't know she was here, did you?"

"Wasn't part of the plan." The words clawed their way between clenched teeth.

"I am so glad you mentioned 'the plan.' What exactly was it? Surely you didn't wreak all this destruction just to get to me?"

I barely listened. I was too focused on the monitor image. Any residual mental fog from the Taser vanished. When I finally turned to Tucker, my face must have scared him.

"Stay calm, please," he said. "Before you do anything rash, let me show you this . . ." He raised his right hand from beneath the table. Wedged in his fist was a white plastic cylinder. The device had a red button on top, kept depressed by the pressure of his thumb. A dead man's switch.

"I assume you know what this is?" he asked.

"Yes. Easier to hold than a grenade."

"True, but no less effective. If I have reason to release this button, the valve of that IV opens. The bag's contents are rather harsh. She would die. Poorly."

A bead of sweat ran down my temple. "I couldn't drop you if I wanted. There's no need for the switch."

"I'm sorry, did you think the switch was for my protection? It's for your cooperation. Speaking of which, let's talk more about the plan."

"Why? You're going to kill us both anyway."

"Not true."

I sneered.

Tucker only nodded. "Yes. You can walk out of here tonight. We'd keep Ms. Ravzi, obviously—a guest of the Agency—while you round up Mr. Mendoza for us. I'm surprised he escaped from the superconductor." He sighed. "Such a waste of expensive equipment. Do you realize how hard it is to get two billion dollars' worth of funding from this Congress?"

"Do you honestly believe I'd deliver Diego to you?"

"To prevent us from clipping Ms. Ravzi's vocal cords and severing her optic nerves . . . why, yes. I believe you'd do almost anything."

The interrogation room was quickly turning into Niavaran Palace. Nervous energy made my hands shake so I hid them under the table. Bottom line: I needed my powers before I could try anything.

Stall. Stall. Stall.

"Fine. You wanna know the plan, I'll tell you."

Tucker leaned back in his chair, resting the switch on his stomach. "Regale me," he said. I hoped he was hydrated, because the last thing Lyla needed was for him to have an inadvertent hand cramp.

"It was a demonstration," I said. "To show what a fox can do when it decides not to run from the hounds. Diego and I tear apart one of the most secure facilities in the world, pull your ass out of hiding, and make an example out of it."

"Nice! I like it. What exactly would have happened to me?"

I smiled for the first time since waking up. "You would have died. Poorly."

Tucker banged his free hand on the metal table. "Bravo! You see, this is why I enjoy our conversations so much. You are a genuine delight."

"I thought I was a shortsighted moron."

He waved at me like I'd said something distasteful. "Don't take it so personally. Can't you be both?"

I looked at my cuffs. "Apparently. Regardless, after we disposed of you, Lyla wanted to get on with the real work. Changing the world."

"Ah, yes. The idealist sold you on her idea of a brighter tomorrow."

"Not really. We'd discussed it back in the day, and I agreed with her then. There was an article we read, about world defense expenditures. Lyla thought we could use the money . . . well, I guess better is the right term."

"I'd say 1.5 trillion buys a lot of baby bottles, right?" Tucker said. He knew the number off the top of his head.

I cranked my sarcasm meter to eleven. "Yep. Feed the hungry, educate the poor, cure disease. Stupid idealism."

"Misguided. Noble, but still . . . misguided. How did she intend to accomplish such a wide-ranging goal?"

"Embrace government leaders, get them to divert defense money into a global fund," I said.

"Which leaders?"

"All of them."

Tucker chuffed and shook his head. "Every leader. Every country. Did she understand how many people that would take? How long to accomplish?"

"She did North Korea in an hour. Iran took two days."

"Autocratic states with concentrated power. Try doing that to Germany, or the United Kingdom. Or here." He pinched the bridge of his nose as though hearing the scope of Lyla's plan gave him a headache. "Impossible. I should let both of you go just to see how long you survive chasing that pipe dream."

I held up the cuffs on the off chance he'd cut me loose.

Tucker said, "Sorry. Remember, unpredictability is bad. Can't have it."

"Yeah, well, scary thing is I agree with you. It wouldn't have worked. I tried to tell her . . ." I watched her on the monitor. So powerful, helpless, wonderful, infuriating. I didn't care about punishing Tucker anymore; I just wanted Lyla off that gurney.

A wave of nausea jumped on me. I almost hurled right on the table.

Tucker saw my color change. "Are you okay?"

Something isn't right, I thought.

"I . . . yeah, just need a sec."

Tucker brought the switch closer to his body.

What the hell?

"Careful, Mr. McAlister." He assumed my powers were returning, so he reminded me about the price of using them. "Don't force me to let go."

Then it just happened. Almost impossible to explain. Like when you've had water in your ear for so long, you get used to it. You think you're normal. Two hours go by, the water drains, your ear clears . . . and it's like you're hearing sound for the first time. Everything crystal clear. Glorious.

From his post by the door Reyes took a hesitant step in my direction.

I raised my cuffed hands in surrender. "Sorry, just had the urge to vomit."

If Tucker did relax, it wasn't by much. I also noticed I wasn't the only one sweating. I kept talking because silence seemed to make Tucker and Reyes very jumpy.

"Y'know, Lyla's new powers are amazing. What she can do, how she affects people . . . she's evolved way beyond her original limits. Crazy thing, though: she was in bad shape when I found her."

Tucker's eyes narrowed. "I remember. You said it was sleep deprivation."

He's playing along, trying to figure out what just happened.

"Yep. Sleeping pills, sedatives, she even tried knocking herself unconscious once. None of it worked."

"She was immune?"

"No, no. Those things would put her out like anybody else. Thing was, she wouldn't dream. It's not being unconscious that makes you well rested . . . it's the REM sleep."

"Fascinating. I'll be sure to log that in her file."

"The point is, my power fixed that. Kept her conscious mind down long enough to fall into natural sleep. No drug helped, meditation was useless. Even sleep clinics failed. I was literally the only person on earth who could have helped her. Doesn't that strike you as odd?"

"Perhaps." Tucker faked interest well.

"Diego had a weird theory. Said that we needed each other, like a lock needs a key. We could evolve, sure, but we wouldn't become what we were meant to be without each other. He thought what I did for Lyla proved it. He said I'd 'unlocked her real power.' "

"What did you think?" Tucker wasn't faking anymore.

"At first, I thought it was bullshit. I'm not big on the metaphysical stuff."

"You said 'at first.' What about now?"

"I think he was onto something."

Tucker made sure the switch was still in plain view. "Let me guess: you believe Mr. Mendoza was your key."

"Well, yeah. Except he didn't unlock anything."

"I'm sorry to hear that."

"Don't be. Reyes did it for him."

And just like that, Reyes dropped to the floor and ripped the pants of another perfectly good suit.
CHAPTER 51

Tucker bolted upright and his chair clattered against the cement floor. He backed against the two-way mirror, thrusting the switch forward with a ramrod-straight arm.

"Don't!" he yelled. He half turned to the window. "Get in here and disable McAlister!"

I remained seated, hands on the desk. "Easy . . . just sit down and relax." I kept my voice as calm and reassuring as possible. "I'm not going to do anything to you. You've got Lyla's life in your hands. Let's talk for a minute."

He didn't move. "Send security in here, now!"

"They're not coming."

Tucker paused, analyzing the situation. Didn't take him long to realize; regardless of whatever poker hand my powers gave me, he still held the ace in his right fist. With a portion of his confidence returned, Tucker repositioned the chair and sat down.

"So what's your plan?" he said. "Kill me, rescue the girl? Because you can't do both. More personnel, the military . . . they're on the way. Even if you dropped everyone in the bunker but me, more are coming."

"Excellent. Let's wait for them together. I have more to tell you anyway."

"If I were you, I'd speed it along," he said. Brave words, but the oil slick of nervous sweat on his forehead betrayed Tucker's indignant tone.

I motioned to Reyes's unconscious body. "Look, I'm as surprised as you are. Small shocks of electricity always screwed me up. I figured a bigger one would ruin me. Turns out fifty thousand volts from the big guy's Taser did exactly what Blaster was supposed to. It fixed me."

"I didn't realize you were broken."

"Me neither. But I was. The mind reading was barely useful. The pain I had to endure just to take a peek at somebody's thoughts was unbearable. Then Reyes lights me up like a pinball machine, and zap! No more pain."

Tucker's face went pale.

"Yep. And don't bother with that ridiculous internal singing. No pain means I have more than enough focus to get beneath it. I already know the army units out of Fort Meade won't be here for another half hour."

His color rushed back and he brandished the switch in my face. "You will stand down, or Ms. Ravzi will die. Last chance."

"Tucker, do you have any idea how hard it is to hide something from a mind reader? It's crazy difficult. Even crazier is how fast someone can change their mind."

He looked confused. Understandable.

"Lemme explain. See, when you bolted away from the table, I had a whole scene planned. Great drama, some catchphrases. First, I was gonna threaten your family. What are their names? Ah, perfect. Your wife, Chloe, and ten-year-old son, Sam. I was going to tell you to imagine it wasn't Lyla's life you were holding in your fist right now . . . it was their lives. I was going to be all mustache-twirling evil and tell you if Lyla died, I'd kill you, then Chloe and Sam. It's all bullshit, of course, but I figured it'd be enough to get you to hand me the switch."

"I wouldn't have believed you. You'd never kill innocent people."

"Good call. But see, it doesn't matter. I scrapped the whole plan when you thought about the switch."

Tucker wiped his forehead with his free hand. "What are you talking about?"

"The switch. You thought about how when you let go, a signal notifies the nurse to open the valve. It's not automatic. Letting go doesn't kill Lyla. The nurse does."

"So? Why does that matter?"

I reached forward and twisted the monitor around so he could see the nurse, unconscious on the floor behind the gurney.

"She's sleepy."

"Whaa . . . that's not possible! She's in the training center at the far end of the complex. They're almost half a mile away."

I tapped a finger to my temple. "Surprise. My range is a little bigger now. It's just you and me, buddy. The rest of the George Bush Center for Intelligence is down for the count."

"Impossible." He shook his head repeatedly, staring at the useless switch.

I pushed my chair back and stood. Reyes had the handcuff key in his pocket, so I used it and tossed the cuffs on the table. Tucker was numb . . . shutting down. Instead of leaving, I sat down across from him.

"You said something earlier . . . that Lyla was noble, but misguided. I actually agree with you. Like I said, I tried to tell her. I said embracing every government on earth was unrealistic—and too despotic. Finally she got sick of me shooting holes in her plan and told me to come up with a better one. So I did. Would you like to hear it?"

Tucker looked at me but he'd lost the will to talk. Too much concern about the end of his life.

"Lyla had it backward. Governments don't control money. Money controls governments. We don't need to embrace twenty thousand politicians in over three hundred countries. We need to embrace the people who control them. The rich."

"What?" Tucker came out of his stupor with a half-interested scowl.

"In fact, I should thank you. The CIA's way of doing business: keeping the status quo, supporting the rich and powerful, trading on influence around the world . . . it's done a fabulous job of centralizing wealth. Did you know the one thousand richest people on earth are worth more than six trillion dollars? Hell, the top ten have over five hundred billion! Plus they're not as hard to reach as politicians. Most of them don't even have bodyguards. And I'm guessing all the Scrooge McDucks like to hang out together, so I bet each one has contact information for another six or seven fellow billionaires. Lyla could cover that whole thousand in less than a year."

Tucker groaned, "Why are you bothering to tell me this?"

I smiled. "I'm not telling you. I'm telling the people who are gonna watch these videos." I pointed at the cameras, still blinking away. "This is the real reason we fought our way in . . . the message I'm here to deliver.

"With Lyla's help, the billionaires are going to become astonishingly generous. Even the assholes. In fact, especially the assholes. By this time next year, we'll be sitting on top of the largest venture capital fund ever created. And if you think that's cool, think about this: that fund will also be the biggest political lobby in the history of the world. Politicians will need our help and our money to get elected. And when they do, I guarantee you our new friends in government will start chipping away at those defense budgets and start putting money toward projects that actually help people."

I got up and walked to one of the cameras and pointed it directly at my face.

"And here's the best part. The simple part. Once we have the money, we're going to tell people about it. Everyone. All seven billion of 'em.

"The hungry. The uneducated. The poor. Middle class. Artists. Scientists. Liberals, conservatives . . . hell, anybody who'll listen, and I'm pretty sure when you have a couple trillion socked away, it's easy to find people who'll listen.

"Once people hear about the money, you know what we're gonna do? We're going to start giving it away. Spend it on any project that doesn't involve 'defense.' Anything altruistic, any plan to benefit others, any idea that pushes the envelope. To set an example, we've got a couple that'll get the ball rolling.

"Lyla thinks if we build a few universities, train a couple thousand doctors, and give 'em a few million bucks apiece for new research, we can cure cancer. Me? Well, I bet if we throw a trillion dollars at it, we can speed up the timeline and have fusion power in a decade. Think about that—clean, safe energy worldwide. And what the hell, let's make it free, too.

"That's just the tip of the iceberg. People all over the world will have ideas . . . dreams . . . and we'll give them the resources to chase those dreams down. I want to see what our civilization is capable of when you stop the constant scramble for power and start investing in shit that doesn't blow up. More than ninety-nine percent of the world wants the opportunity . . . and we're gonna give it to them. That's all.

"We're not taking over. We won't replace anyone in power. And it's not like we can keep it up forever . . . but I figure ten years is a good start. Ten years and trillions of dollars to change the world. And the people get to decide how to do it."

Tucker spoke up behind me. "What if some of these governments you hate so much decide your pacifist nirvana isn't in their best interests? There's a reason we need armies, McAlister. There's a reason the world needs men like me." He sounded more desperate than ever.

I made sure the camera saw my grin.

"Then Lyla, Diego, and I do our job," I said. "Haven't you heard? We're the Protectors."

When I walked back to Tucker, his head was on the table; the guy still thought I was gonna kill him.

"Relax. I don't want you dead. Not anymore," I said. He lifted a newly hopeful face. "Tucker, I want you to see that different world. How else can I prove you wrong?"

He took a deep breath. "Ten years is a long time. I think you'll be surprised at what happens."

"Don't worry. For you, the decade will be over in a blink."

"What?" His eyes bugged out.

I patted one of his shaking hands. "Sorry. Consider it an extended nap, or an 'asshole tax' for trying to murder us." Tucker averted his eyes like a dog expecting a smack.

A savage part of me wanted to keep him cringing for hours, but the practical part remembered the inbound troops. I pulled back to conversational distance and relaxed. "Time to wrap things up. But before I go, I want to know one last thing because I can't resist. What's the deepest, darkest secret the Agency's got?"

His openmouthed gape still focused on the thought of being in a coma for ten years, but his mind heard the question loud and clear. I expected the answer to who killed JFK, but I hoped for aliens at Area 51. What I got was better than either.

Holy. Shit.

Made me clap my hands in excitement.

"Well, we're all done here. See you in ten years."

I raised my hand like the old days.

"Nighty-night, douchebag."
EPILOGUE

Come on! Just a little bit farther."

I pulled Lyla behind me by the hand. The blindfold was getting on her nerves.

"We've been walking for ten minutes. May I please take this off ? I can feel things sticking to me," she said.

"It's prairie grass. Nothing is sticking to your clothes, you big baby."

"I love a surprise as much as the next person, but this is ridiculous. We've been on a plane for an hour, a car for another two, and now you're walking me across a . . . prairie? Please, I've had my eyes covered all day!"

Which meant she couldn't see my smirk. "Don't you trust me?"

"Of the two of us, I'm not the one with trust issues. I have to beg you not to put me to sleep every time you leave the house."

"You have a habit of getting into trouble when I'm not around. I can cite references."

She chuckled. "Still, honesty and trust are the foundation of any solid relationship."

"I went to a strip club with Diego last week and told fifteen different women I was gay. How's that trust card working out for ya?"

When I looked back, she was grinning. "Point taken."

"We're here." I removed the blindfold.

Golden afternoon sunlight made her face glow. Her lips parted in a surprised gasp and she pirouetted to take in our surroundings. We stood on a gentle slope covered in three-foot-tall yellow grass. The grasses extended for miles in every direction, a breeze blowing them into undulating swells. For the first time, I finally understood the "amber waves of grain" lyrics. In the far west, we could see the foothills that eventually grow into the Rocky Mountains. The sky was perfect blue, unblemished by a single cloud.

"This is Colorado?" Her voice was soft, almost reverent. "It's beautiful."

"It's the part hardly anyone ever sees. We're close to the Kansas border."

She took my hand, then looked at me with concern. "You're shaking. Are you all right?"

I bobbed up and down a few times, bleeding off nervous energy. "Yeah, I'm just excited. Took me a couple of weeks to find out exactly where to go, and now we're here!"

Down the rise and across a half mile of waving terrain was the only visible dwelling. A squat concrete block of a building, no bigger than an RV, lurked in the middle of acres of grass. There wasn't even a road leading to the structure; only an imposing perimeter fence, ten feet high with loops of barbed wire atop.

"What is that?" Lyla asked.

"It's the entrance to an underground missile silo. An old one, taken out of service by the CIA almost five years ago."

She frowned. "What a dreadful thing to install in such a serene place."

"Yep. Goes almost two hundred feet down. Dug out back in the 1970s."

"Enough history, what is my surprise?" Patience is not a goddess's strong suit.

"Remember when I told you I read Tucker's mind at the end?"

"Of course. You saved my life."

"Well, the part I didn't tell you was that I asked him what the CIA's biggest secret was, right before I put him into a coma."

She thrust her palms in front of her, questioning. "And?!"

"This is it." I took her gesticulating hands in mine. "We have a chance to make things right. To start over."

"I know we do, silly. We're already making headway on the plan."

I smiled. "That's about the world. This is different. This is about us. Our past. Do you trust me?"

Lyla leaned in and we kissed. I heard wind rustle through deep grass and felt the warmth of her lips against mine. A perfect day.

As we drew apart, her eyelids fluttered. "Bring it on," she whispered.

I turned back to the silo, reached out . . .

—

Two hundred feet below the Colorado prairie, on a gurney, beneath a respirator and a feeding tube—Carsten Walker's eyes popped open.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

First off, I want to thank you—the reader—for making it this far, and bothering to read the boring endnotes that always mention tons of people, none of whom you know or care about. Nevertheless, while reading and writing are solitary pursuits, creating a novel from scratch is rarely a one-man/woman job, so here come the gracious thank-yous. I owe a debt of gratitude to my writing group, Writers Under the Arch—for critiquing me as I read this story to them, one chapter at a time, during our weekly meetings. And to Matt Pallamary, the talented author/editor who was the first professional to see any part of this book. He read the first chapter, stared at me over the top of his reading glasses, and said the one sentence that gave me the confidence I needed to see the novel through to the end: "Dude . . . you're a good writer." To Margaret Bail, my agent, whose calm and reserved nature was tested when her client called to say, "Yeah, uh, those edits you wanted? I had a heart attack and quadruple bypass surgery. Gonna be a couple of months." And to Jon Cox, my editor, who took a chance on a complete unknown, and helped turn a good book into a great one. And my parents and family who encouraged me and believed, even when I didn't. And my friends—Brian, Tawn, Anjanette, Dan, Rick—you're the best. And finally, to the wonderful woman who insists I achieve that rarest form of success—fortune, limited fame, and absolutely no groupies—I love you, Steph, no matter how crazy you sound.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Trey Dowell has been a finalist for the Derringer Award and the Writer's Digest Popular Fiction Award for his short stories. _The Protectors_ is his first novel. Trey is a member of International Thriller Writers, and the St. Louis writers group, Writers Under the Arch.

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This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author's imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2014 by Trey Dowell

All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information address Simon & Schuster Subsidiary Rights Department, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020.

First Simon451 ebook edition October 2014

Author photograph © Stephanie Gold

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ISBN 978-1-4767-8844-9
Contents

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Dedication

Part One

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Part Two

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Part Three

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Epilogue

Acknowledgments

About the Author

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