INDIGO MAN

a novel

by

M.J. Carlson

Copyright 2014 M.J. Carlson

Edited by Jennifer Zebel

Kindle Edition

Kindle Edition, License Notes

This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only.

If you would like to share this book with another person please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Amazon.com and purchase your own copy.

Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

So there.

CHAPTER 1

With a deep restlessness, Zachary Marshall stared out the narrow window at the waning November 2047 afternoon. Lengthening shadows sliced through the twenty-foot wide swath of oak, laurel, and palmetto separating his testing lab from the upscale health food store next door. The way the Florida sunlight scattered off the dense tangle of silvery gray branches and emerald leaves usually lifted his spirits.

Not today.

He brushed a fingertip over the diamond ring where it hung under his shirt on the small chain. Six months, today. Kathy had been right. He was wasting his life in the lab, and time was passing him by. She was really gone and he’d been a—

“Dr. Marshall. In here.” The female voice and rap of knuckles on his desk snapped him from his thoughts with a start.

“Sorry.” He spun around and grinned before he caught himself. “Sorry, Special Agent. What can I do for you?”

On the other side of his desk, Special Agent Sara Goode straightened to her full height. At an inch short Zach’s six feet and wrapped in a standard Secret Service black business suit, the white coiled wire snaking from her left ear under her jacket lapel added a surrealistic edge to her already formidable image. She crossed her arms over her chest and peered down at him with eyes as devoid of emotion as her suit, diamond bright and just as hard. The faint whiff of vanilla floating on the air between them did little to offset her somber demeanor.

“Any news on the sample I dropped off last week, Doctor?”

He cleared his throat and let the smile drop. “Uh, yes, ma’am. We received another bottle of the enzyme reagent in this morning’s shipment. I should have the final results for you tomorrow.”

She nodded once, her expression unchanged. “Thank you. I need it ASAP.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he said. He hesitated a heartbeat before deciding it was worth a try, and gave her a half-smile. “I may have preliminary results later tonight. I could buy you a drink to make up for the wait. I’d be glad to tag you.” He hoped he looked more confident than he felt. “As soon as I have something for you, I mean.” He held his breath, his heart pounding in his ears, hoping for a crack in the stone facade he’d been chipping at for almost a week.

She cocked her head to the side, the fluorescent light from overhead shimmered over her tight, upswept curls of tan and gold hair. Her brown eyes were unreadable as she stared at him.

“How about if I just drop by tomorrow at noon?” Her voice was even and flat, but the faintest hint of a smile touched the corners of her lips as if to punctuate the question.

His breath stuck in his throat. His gaze hung on the curled ends of her mouth.

“Anything you like.” He swallowed and mentally crossed his fingers. “We could have lunch.”

She raised an eyebrow, uncrossed her arms, placed her palms flat on his desk, and leaned in close. Tiny speckles of gold colored her amber irises. Her smile broadened just perceptibly, and when she spoke, her breath caressed his cheek. “Lunch?”

“Your eyes have gold flecks in them.” It was out before he could stop himself, “It’s an unusual interaction between the OCA2 and HRC2 genes on chromosome fifteen. They’re beautiful.” Heat rose in his cheeks as her eyes went wide. “I, um, I mean, I’ve never actually seen the phenotype before. I… I’ll have your report for you, tomorrow, Special Agent.” His gaze dropped to his desk.

A rustle of cloth accompanied her movement as she straightened and smoothed her suit coat. He lifted his eyes to her.

Her expression softened. Even in the harsh overhead light, her porcelain-smooth skin made her look five years younger than the twenty-five he guessed her age to be. “Dr. Marshall. If I didn’t know better, I’d swear you were trying to ask me out.” She clasped her hands behind her, separating her jacket’s lapels and exposing the ruffled front of her crisp white blouse in ways Zach tried without success to ignore. She leaned forward over his desk again. Her smile broadened, reaching all the way to her eyes. “Ever played with handcuffs?” Her eyes glittered as she spoke. Her low, throaty whisper made his heart race.

“No.” The heat in his cheeks intensified, moved to his ears. His mouth went dry.

“How about water-boarding?”

He stiffened. Not exactly the direction he’d been hoping to take the conversation, he retreated in his chair and shook his head, dumbly.

“Get me my report, Dr. Marshall,” she said, in the same, sultry voice. “Or I’ll make you wish for a Turkish prison.” She shot him a wink. Without another word, she reached into an inside pocket of her jacket, pulled a business card out, and snapped it on the desk. She straightened, turned, and strode toward the door in the same crisp gait she’d used each time she’d come to the lab.

Her flat heels clicked on the tile floor. And she flowed like poetry under her suit.

He watched her, spellbound.

At the door to the lobby, she reached for the doorknob, turned it, and shot a quick glance over her shoulder at him. “We’ll speak again. Tomorrow, Dr. Marshall. Please?”

She smiled, stepped through the open door, and was gone.

He inhaled, dropped his gaze to the file his computer’s holographic display projected in front of him, and blew out a quick breath through pursed lips as the door closed. He slid his keyboard toward him. “Smooth move, Zach. Bet that impressed her,” he mumbled to himself.

“Wow. How she could resist a come-on like that?” The comment came from Zach’s best friend and business partner, Lazlo Thomas. Laz sat at his workstation across the room.

Zach winced and snapped a quick “bite me” over his shoulder at Laz.

“Hey,” Laz chuckled over his shoulder at Zach. “There’s an original line. Why dontcha try that on her next time? I’d pay money to see her pistol whip you at your own desk.” Laz twisted around on his wheeled office chair. The grin on his dark-skinned face almost glowed. “Christ, Ze, I know you have to take the occasional shot before you can get back in the saddle, but the Secret Service? She carries a gun, for God’s sake.”

Zach matched his smile. “At least I’d be safe.”

“You’d be dead. She’d pull your wings off like you were a fly.”

“Yeah,” Zach grinned, “talk about a buzz.”

Laz chuckled. “Yeah, great buzz. Wonderful. Crumple you up like used tissue and toss you into the wastebasket without breaking a sweat. Tell me you haven’t been yanking her back here every day for a week, trying to talk to her, hoping for a date or some such adolescent crap.”

Zach folded his hands behind his head, trying to appear nonchalant. “You know what they say, dating a Secret Service Agent is like riding a super-bike…” He hesitated a beat. “The best you can hope is when you fall off, it won’t hurt too bad.”

Laz cocked his head to the side. “Don’t you mean ‘dating an aerobics instructor?’”

“Dating a Secret Service Agent is like dating an aerobics instructor?”

“No. Yes.” Laz shook his head. “Can we please go back to her pistol whipping you at your desk? I was enjoying the mental picture.”

Zach’s grin widened. “It might be worth getting thrown off in a bruised and bloody heap.”

They stared at each other in silence for long moment. “And I’d be jealous as hell.” As their shared laughter died away, Laz wiped his eyes.

“Thanks, I needed that.”

Laz stretched his arms over his head. “That’s not what you need.” His voice took on a serious tone. “You need a pinch of excitement in your sad, miserable life.”

“Not yet.”

He crossed a leg over his knee and leaned back in his chair. “Ze, I’m your partner and your friend. I’m your best friend.” He hesitated. “Hell, I’m your only friend. Go get a life. You’re here all the time. You haven’t taken a day off in over a year.”

“Yes I did. I took off…” Zach’s voice trailed away as he thought of the ring under his shirt. “Maybe you’re right.”

Laz glanced at his watch. “Bet your lily-white ass I’m right.” He stretched. “Go home, man. Get some rest. Uncle Sam will wait. Hell, you developed the test, you have the patent. Where else’re they going to go? If you want, we can meet for a drink. There’s this place on the beach called Uncle Chuckle’s.” He leaned further back in his chair and crossed his feet on his desk as if to accentuate the feeling of relaxation. His wide grin underscored the move. “I’ve been wanting to go check the place out. Come with me, we’ll buy each other a drink and meet some cunningly formed females. It’ll be like college after finals.”

“Not tonight. I’ve got to get this sample run and the report done.”

“Speaking of enzyme reagents, don’t we have that one in stock? Why did you need to order more?”

The heat rose in his cheeks again. “I, um, kinda poured it down the drain. I—”

“You did what?” Shock splashed onto Laz’s face. His feet slid off his desk and onto the floor with a thud. “You know how much those chemicals cost? Hell yes, you do. You do the ordering. Why—?” he stopped in mid sentence. “No. God. Never mind. You could’ve just told her we were out. Jeez, you didn’t have to actually pour it down the drain.”

“Didn’t want to start a relationship with a lie.”

Laz shook his head, understanding brought a sparkle to his eyes. “Next time you decide to pour a thousand dollars’ worth of chemicals into the toilet, don’t tell me.” He chuckled. “Lie to me, instead. I promise it won’t hurt my feelings. Listen buddy, I’m out of here. Don’t work too late.” He stood and shrugged off his white lab coat, draping it over the back of his chair.

“I won’t, Mom,” Zach replied.

As Laz walked past, he tapped Zach’s outstretched fist with his. “See you tomorrow. Or tonight if it’s not too late. We can do beach blanket bingo at Uncle Chuckle’s.”

“Good night, Laz.”

“Tomorrow,” Laz chirped, as he headed to the front of the building. After the door closed behind Laz, Zach checked the wrist unit of his Personal Communications and Organization Device and scowled. The ‘low battery’ symbol blinked in the upper right corner. He placed the small receiver/microphone in his ear, touched the electrostatic button and said, “Suspend Net function.” He could charge it later in the car. No one ever called him anyway. He switched his PCOD back to display the time.

“Another half-hour before the guard rounds back on this building.” Sharing the security with the businesses on either side made for a reduced rate. Besides, Zach found the quiet of the evenings calming, a good time to think. As often as not, the guard, who was a retired Clearwater detective, found Zach at his computer, finishing up some bit of work or other. Zach enjoyed the chance to say hello to the man. “There’s no hurry,” he said, stood, and stretched.

He ambled to the refrigerator, opened the door, and grabbed a tube of Coke from the shelf. A twist of the base released the stored compressed carbon dioxide gas into the liquid to carbonate and further cool it as he returned to his workstation.

With his feet propped his on his desk, he opened a browser while droplets of condensation formed on the tube of Coke. He ran the latest news feeds on the holographic projection floating over his desk, wondering what excitement he’d missed during the day. The lead article was about the continued flooding on the Indian subcontinent. As he scrolled through the headlines, one caught his eye. His blood pressure skyrocketed.

“Stiles.” The name formed a sneer on Zach’s lips. He brought up the story. Congressman Martin Stiles stood in front of a backdrop of the White House. “Jesus, how staged can you get?” Zach’s teeth clenched as he clicked the video clip.

“Congressman,” a female voice said from off-camera. “Any comment on the deaths at the Post Office today?”

Stiles’s manner was solemn, and, Zach mused, very preacherly in his dark purple tie and charcoal suit. He’d allowed a touch of silver to accentuate his temples. “Yes, Alicia, I would. It’s deplorable when we’ve sunk so low as a nation, civil servants aren’t safe in their own places of employment.”

“Hang on, Marty,” Zach said. “Stop feed. Open new tab.” He followed the link and read the story Stiles referred to. A postal worker had shown up at work on his day off and stabbed his wife and another coworker as the two sorted letters. The article intimated they’d been having an affair for over a year.

He clicked back to Stiles and continued the clip. “In the fifty years since we decoded the human genome,” the congressman continued. “Our scientists should have found a gene responsible for violence like this.” Stiles resumed in the same sermonizing style. “They tell us, ‘we don’t know enough,’ or ‘we haven’t been able to isolate a gene for violence,’ or when pressed, they simply reply with no comment.”

Zach groaned. The former leader of the People’s Reformed Urban Baptist Church of Clearwater had no-commented his way out of state and federal indictments for misappropriation of funds, income tax evasion, and multiple scandals involving young female parishioners. After Stiles had slipped loose of all the charges, he’d won a seat in congress, where his pulpit-refined oratory skills brought him terabits of bandwidth.

“It’s not enough you got away with the other stuff,” he said to Stiles’s image staring out at him from where it floated above his desk. “Now you want a job where you can screw with lots of people’s lives,” Zach said. “Continue feed.”

On the screen, Stiles shook his head again. “Well, this humble servant of the people of this great land has had enough of these scientists’ evasions.” Zach winced at the accent on the word. “Our tax money pays for genetic research, and it’s time we demand answers to our questions. Once they identify a gene for violence, we can make the information publicly available to protect our children and our loved ones. We can and should keep this senseless violence from spilling over into our peaceful, law-abiding society, as it did today.” Stiles pointed a finger at the camera, an obvious gesture from his ministerial days. “When I’m elected, we will have a safer society.” The feed ended with Stiles’s narrow-eyed smile. It reminded Zach of a snake staring at a mouse.

“When, not if? What arrogance.” Zach stared at the screen as a thought occurred to him. “Let’s see, glib with superficial charm, a grandiose sense of self-worth, cunning and manipulative, and a pathological liar. Takes care of the interpersonal side.” He held up four fingers and went on. “Emotionally shallow, lack of empathy, failure to accept responsibility for his own actions, parasitic lifestyle, irresponsibility, and promiscuity.” He was up to ten. “Criminal versatility?” He blew out a breath and stared at the holograph of Stiles’s grinning face. “You prone to boredom, Marty? How about impulsivity, poor behavior controls or a history of juvenile delinquency?” Zach clinched his fists, as if to tighten his hold on the past. “Either you’re the perfect politician, or we’re in more trouble than we realize—probably both.”

He stood and rubbed a hand over his closed eyes, trying to get his frustration under control. “Guy’s a boil on humanity’s backside.” He shook his head. “He’s the real terrorist. Him and people like him.”

He shook off his frustration and stepped to the counter where two dozen different samples were running, testing for different genetic markers for various clients. The sample Agent Goode brought in last week from the Secret Service sat apart from the others, running the prepared DNA sample. Zach leaned in, resting on his crossed forearms. Several dark bands were forming on the semi-solid gel strip in its enzyme-treated electrophoresis bath. His eyes widened at the location of one band in particular.

“Wait a minute,” he said, eyeing the light blue gel matrix in the tray of solution. “That’s not supposed to be there. He reached to his right, grabbed a ruler, and held it over the sample. After he measured the distance to the dark band, he grabbed the reference book from its spot on the shelf. With it opened to the chapter he and Laz had coauthored, he checked the color photos and tables in the back. He leafed through until he found the one he was searching for. “Uh oh. Somebody’s screwed.”

He tugged his link out of his pocket and spoke into it “Contacts. Special Agent Goode. Connect.” After the voicemail picked up, he continued, “This is Dr. Marshall, from GenTest. The confirmation test on the sample you dropped off is going to be positive for several loci, including the psychopathy gene. The test is still running though. I’ll have to wait till tomorrow for the final result, but I wanted to inform you as soon as I had something. Maybe we could, um, talk when you come in tomorrow.”

With the call disconnected, he rolled the tension out of his neck. Then he snapped photos for documentation and carried the digital camera back to his workstation. Dropping into his chair, he uploaded the images to the numbered folder and opened the correct form letter from the menu options. He shook his head as he typed. Someone was going to have a very unhappy tomorrow.

“Okay,” he said as he finished filling in the form and saved a copy in the same folder. The chemistry was almost auto-pilot, but dealing with people’s expectations, fears, and prejudices were always a challenge for him. Laz was better at diplomacy, but he’d had a lifetime of practice. People usually only needed reassurance, and Laz always picked exactly the right words, a skill which often escaped Zach.

“If you never push your comfort zone, you never find out who you are.” It was Laz’s mantra. He’d pushed his comfort zone right out of the Chicago projects and into a full scholarship, and he seemed to have a pretty good idea who he was.

With as much of the report done as he could manage without the final results, Zach saved and closed the numbered file and folder. He saved a cross-referenced copy in another folder labeled with the number Special Agent Goode had given him when she’d brought in the specimen. Finally, he copied the day’s lab results to a backup file in the secure server at the front of the building and another at the off-site backup.

Zach unplugged the holographic crystal flash drive from his workstation and retraced his steps to the break room. Once there, he grabbed a thermos from its spot in the refrigerator and placed the flash drive inside. He returned it to its resting place and closed the refrigerator door.

It was a silly precaution, he knew, but the month’s worth of research he’d lost once in graduate school made him appreciate redundant storage.

He strolled from the break room back to the large lab area he shared with Laz. The floor-to-ceiling window and the little piece of wild Florida beyond caught his attention again as it settled into darkness. It was his private refuge. He’d vehemently opposed the plan to bulldoze the space and plant what the owners of the health food store next door had called proper landscaping when they moved in. “Natural this, and organically grown that, then try to replace real nature with nursery-grown landscaping,” he said with a smile of appreciation for the irony and turned away.

“I’d like to get a sample of Congressman Martin Stiles’s DNA to test,” he said to himself, the rancor clear in his voice. He tilted the Coke up, and took a swig to the sound of the lab’s front door opening. “Enough excitement for one day. I’m going home.

CHAPTER 2

Congressman Martin Stiles sat in the living room of the Clearwater Florida beachside penthouse currently serving as his campaign headquarters. His feet were crossed at the ankles and propped on the antique wood coffee table. Across the room, his campaign manager, Donald Brown fumed.

Brown slouched in one of the two leather chairs and listened intently to the iLink receiver in his left ear, eyes narrowed. Brown’s nostrils flared open, shut. Open, shut. His thumb constantly spun the Kitaro Cup golf championship ring on his right hand. The lights gleamed off of the beads of perspiration on his shaved head.

“Go on,” Brown said into his PCOD.

Stiles took in the framed prints of Leonardo da Vinci sketches hanging on the living room wall. They were exquisite. The godless bastard’s work was the epitome of control and methodical execution. Things he strived for in all phases of his own life. When he’d been preaching, even his pulpit diatribes had been planned and staged to a precise schedule. The skill transferred well to politics. People were people, after all. They needed to be told what to believe.

“Elaborate,” Brown said.

Brown’s nose flared again. He sat up slowly until his back was perfectly straight. Stiles and he might have passed for brothers at a distance. Both were tall and solid, with dark eyes and heavy brows. Brown spent more time in the weight room and it showed. The key differences between them, though, were Stiles’s full head of thick, black hair and the thin scar running down Brown’s left cheek. The scar kept Brown in the background while Stiles sought the spotlight.

“Thank you, Special Agent Goode. Disconnect.” Brown pulled the earpiece from his ear and casually slid it into an inside pocket of his tailored suit coat. He sat back slowly and crossed his left leg over his right knee. His lips formed a thin line. “That was Goode. She says—”

“Who?”

“Goode. The tall blond. Gopher-girl.”

“Goode.” Stiles exhaled the word. His inability to remember people’s names was legendary, almost funny. They’d made a game of giving nicknames to people. Pretty girl, he thought. Then another, more intimate fantasy crossed his mind and he smiled. He shook it off.

“She reported a message from the geek where we sent the DNA.”

“You mean where you sent the DNA. Now we’re stuck with damage control.” Stiles hated damage control. That was for losers. He preferred being on the offensive, with God on his side and his ducks lined up.

Brown stared at Stiles without comment.

“And?” Stiles growled.

“And, if the information gets out, we’re fucked without oil.”

Heat crept into Stiles’s cheeks. “What’s in that report?”

“It seems,” Brown hesitated. “The sample contains the gene for psychopathy.”

“You’re joking.” There was a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach, like the debacle with that girl from the church—Tiffany, or Tabatha, or whatever, but this—

“I wish.” Brown propped his elbow on the arm of the chair and rested his head on his hand. “The guy we sent it to developed the goddamned test series. He’s some kind of uber geek genius. Best in the field. That’s why we picked him.”

“You picked him, you mean. There must be a mistake. I’m not a psychopath. Hell, I’m not even on a benzo, for Christ’s sake.” Stiles stood and started pacing.

“Doesn’t matter, Martin. If this gets out, I won’t be able to get you elected dog catcher.”

“What the hell does that mean, Don? Does anybody actually run for dog catcher?” He stared at Brown. Heat worked into his cheeks.

Brown shrugged and took a drink of scotch. “I don’t know. It’s just an old saying.”

“Then don’t confuse the issue.” Stiles relaxed, pulling the veil of calm back over his flaring agitation. The energy in here was all wrong, he thought, while his pulse pounded in his temples. He wished people would just say what they meant. Brown was talking…

“…can’t let the information get out. Maybe we can pay him off.” Brown rubbed the index finger of one hand over his lips.

“Make it go away.”

Brown didn’t ask what he meant. There was only one way to completely eradicate the information and the danger of a leak. Stiles couldn’t say any more and maintain deniability.

“Martin, he doesn’t know who the sample came from. We didn’t give him your name, and there’s no way for him to find out. Hell, we could tell him—”

Stiles held up a hand. “God didn’t put me in this position to let some lab rat ruin it for me. Let Murphy handle it.”

Brown let out a slow breath. “Martin, that’s a really, really bad idea. If we just—”

“Do it.”

Stiles had insisted they ask for Murphy when it came time to pick a security detail. He’d read his file personally, at least the parts that weren’t redacted because of national security. Murphy was the bogey man. “Someone good to have on your team when shit gets too deep.”

“What about his partner and their staff?” Brown asked.

“Make it go away. All of it. Let me say it slower, in case you weren’t paying attention. Make. It. Go. A-way.”

***

“I guarantee he’s still in the facility,” Special Agent James Murphy said to Brown via his PCOD. “The entire staff is gone except for Marshall. He always stays late, always gets home between seven o’clock and seven-thirty, and he’s always in bed by ten-thirty. You could set your watch by him. Guy’s a nerd. He doesn’t drink, smoke, or screw around. He’s even straight hetero. Hasn’t been on a date since his live-in girlfriend dumped him six months ago.”

“What if he does something unexpected?” Brown asked, his anxiety clear.

“He won’t,” Murphy laughed. “Guy’s an assassin’s wet dream. You could almost wire the wear spot on his front steps to blow his ass up. His foot hits the same place each time.” Murphy sat on his leather couch, legs outstretched, and crossed his ankles on the modern, glass-topped coffee table in his apartment.

“What about the other guy?”

“Thomas?” Murphy shrugged a shoulder. “He’s at least fun to follow. Had about three semi-serious hottie girlfriends in the past six months, has four or five places he likes to cruise. Put his money into an upscale house north of town, but his security isn’t for shit.”

“The receptionist?”

Murphy shrugged. “Small potatoes. Literally. Tits the size of plums. What criteria do these guys use to hire—typing speed? Anyway, she’s just the receptionist. She doesn’t have the codes to the files on the server, so there’s no point, unless you want to rid the world of skinny chicks.”

“Let her go for now. We’ll watch and see what happens. No use going gonzo. What about their lawyer?”

“Typical shyster. Easier to just pay him off, but if you want, he could have a boating accident or step into a well, or something.”

Brown hesitated. “Not yet. Somebody has to administer the estates. We’ll talk to him, ‘unofficially,’ and plug his leak if we need to. Anybody else?”

“Nope.” Murphy studied Zach’s file on his tablet computer again and flipped a page. “Blind alley. Marshall has a brother, but they don’t get along. Haven’t talked in, like years.” He flipped again. “Mom’s in the loony bin. Seems she did the dad years ago, and got sent up for it. Pity.” Both men chuckled. He minimized the file and opened Lazlo’s again. “Thomas has a sister and parents in Utah. Utah? What the hell kind of black family lives in Utah?” Murphy shivered. “Wait. They moved there after Thomas’ little sister caught a bullet in a drive-by when they lived in Chicago. She ended up in a wheelchair. Apparently they keep to themselves. How far into the extended family you want to take this?”

“I think we can keep it local for the time being. Just get it done tonight. And send somebody to the facility to collect the computers and samples.”

“You want the facility to disappear?”

Brown groaned. “No, just the equipment. Send somebody from the team who’s mainstream.”

“I’ve got just the pair. The boy and girl team. They’re young and idealistic, real straight-arrow types. A year out of the Academy. Total losers.”

Brown nodded. “Hayes and Boone.”

“Yeah.”

“What about Newman?”

“I’ll take Newman with me.”

“Is that a good idea?”

Murphy smiled. “Yeah. We’ve been talking. He’s expressed an interest in expanding his resume. I’ll let him drive.”

More hesitation. “Your call.”

“Yeah. Let me go so I can get this done, boss.”

“Call me when you’re through.”

Murphy laughed. “Shit, boss, just pick up a morning paper.”

“I thought I said no publicity.”

“Yeah, well the uber nerd is going to send emails to everyone on his contact list about his crushed hopes of a romance with his partner. Then he’s going to throw a hissy and plug Thomas, finally blowing himself up in a fit of depression. It’ll make great copy.”

An exhalation sounded from the other side of the iLink. “Listen, I don’t want to tell you your business—”

“Then don’t. This isn’t my first rodeo, boss. Let me ride the horse my way. You boys didn’t hire me for my oratory skills.”

“Just do it.” The connection broke.

“Yes, sir, mon capeetan.” Then he said, “iLink. Establish connection. Newman.” It rang three times.

“Newman here. What’s up?”

“Get your pants on, you’re driving. Meet me at my place in twenty, unless you’d rather stay home and watch rerun porn.”

Newman snickered. “What’re we doing?”

“You’ll find out when you get here. Go to channel three on the secure comm.” Then he said, “Disconnect.” He started to pace. “iLink. Establish connection. Hayes.” Hayes answered on the fifth ring.

“Hayes here.” The man’s voice sounded sleepy.

“Hayes. Murphy. Reach over and wake up Boone. I have a job for you two.”

“She’s not—We’re not—What?” The voice sounded more awake. “Something going on?”

“Calm down, it’s just an errand.” Murphy read the address to Hayes. “It’s a little, out-of-the-way testing lab. Call Boone. Then, you two go pick up the two workstations in the back, any samples out on counters, and the file server in the front closet.”

“Now or in the morning?”

Murphy blew out an impatient breath. “Am I calling you now? Go now. Rabbit wants to see three new computers at HQ in the morning.” He used Stiles’s Secret Service code name.

“A warrant?”

Murphy rolled his eyes. “Flash your creds. You work for the Secret Service, you’re part of Homeland Security. We don’ need no stinking warrant.”

“But—”

“Hayes, there must be a technical problem with the equipment. I still hear your voice. Do I have to tell you how to do your job as well as what to do?”

“No, but—”

“Good. Stay off the comm unless there’s a problem, and don’t let there be a problem. Disconnect.”

Murphy hesitated before making the last call. Gopher-girl. Sara Goode. Goode for nothing, he thought. Hayes and Boone were straight-arrows, but Goode was a righteous pain in the ass. She could not only quote statutes like bible verses spilling out of Stiles, but she had ‘morals,’ whatever those were.

Tough as nails, too. He had to respect that. He had to admit, she had the instincts, too. Of everybody on the team, she bothered him most. Newman was a pet, Hayes and Boone would complain, but they were green. Johnson and Morris were counting time ’til retirement, but Goode was different. He could’ve sworn she’d been hanging around a couple of times when he was discussing different things with Brown—and even once or twice when he’d been talking with Stiles.

He had to shut her down for the evening. “iLink. Establish connection. Goode.” She picked up before it rang.

“Goode here.”

A shiver rippled down Murphy’s spine. “Jesus Christ, Goode, you sleep with that thing in your ear?”

“This a social call, Murphy, or is there a point?”

“Hey, Goode,” Murphy stopped himself. This was too cushy a gig to screw it up with a ‘hostile work environment’ beef. He took a breath. “Actually, yes, Special Agent. There’s an op tonight. Your job is to stay by your comm and play back-up.”

“Question.” Sarcasm dripped off the comment.

He could almost see her flat-eyed cop stare, her smart-assed hand in the air. “Yes?” he said, in his most pleasant tone, hoping to piss her off.

“As I don’t take orders from you, Special Agent Murphy, am I to assume this order comes from Special Agent Johnson?”

Murphy’s lips formed a line. He inhaled slowly and forced a smile, knowing she could tell the difference in his voice. “Assume anything you like, Special Agent.”

“Is this op connected with my earlier report?”

“Why do you ask, Special Agent Goode?”

“I need to know if I’ll be going by tomorrow to pick up the results from the testing lab.”

“We can discuss it at the morning meeting at Rabbit’s, but my guess would be, mmm, no. Now, if it’s not too much trouble, would you please stay home and stay off the comm? This shouldn’t take long.”

“Anything you say, Special Agent Murphy.”

“Disconnect.” The Gopher-girl in his imagination raised her hand to flip him off. Murphy attached his secure communication unit to his belt, ran the mostly-for-show curled white wire up to his ear, and switched the unit on to channel 3. “Newman. Where are you?”

“Be there in ten.”

“Good.” Murphy shrugged his shoulder holster on, slid the Glock .40 out, and checked the chamber. One in the pipe, right where it was supposed to be. Thumbing the release dropped the magazine into his hand—full. He smiled. He slapped the magazine home, holstered the weapon, stepped to the closet, and opened the door. Sliding two, standard issue, black trench coats out of the way, he retrieved a golf bag from the far corner. Reaching in past the clubs, he lifted out a sealed, foot-long, olive drab package containing C-4.

“Come to papa.” He carefully laid it on the floor and replaced the golf bag. He hesitated. Hadn’t he put the bag in with the strap facing the opposite corner? A full minute passed while Murphy tried to recall. He opened the golf bag and checked the contents. Everything was where it was supposed to be. He returned it to its spot, closed the closet door, and stared at it through narrowed eyes as he slipped into his standard black suit jacket. He shook off the feeling. “Must be getting old and forgetful.” He checked his watch.

The sound of bells tinkled toward him from the bedroom. “Come here, girl,” he said, in a soft tone as the tortoiseshell cat trotted into the living room. The cat nuzzled against his leg and flopped over on her back as he scratched her ears. She swatted at his hand as he stroked her soft belly fur. “Let’s get you some milk before Dad goes out, what do you say?” He straightened and headed for the kitchen with the cat close on his heels. As she lapped cream from a saucer on the kitchen floor, he stroked the cat’s back. “Be good, and don’t kill anyone while I’m out.” He removed the drawer next to the stove and freed the zip-top bag containing the detonators from where they were taped behind its rear face. Then, he snatched the altered egg timer from the stovetop.

As Murphy walked to the door, he picked up the plastic explosive and tucked it under his arm like a football. The detonators and timer went into his side jacket pocket.

He took the steps two at a time to the front door of the building, smiling all the way. For the first time since he left the Company, he felt like he was actually doing something. This Secret Service gig had to be the most boring job ever. At the bottom of the stairs, he checked the mailbox out of habit. Finding nothing, he twisted the doorknob and stepped out into the well-lit parking lot.

While he waited for Newman, Murphy strolled over to the vehicle covered by a polyfiber, UV resistant car cover. He stroked a loving hand over the front fender of his pride and joy, his completely restored, black-and-gray, 2020 Cadillac with real, honest-to-God white leather seats. Installing its new internal combustion engine, with all the permits required, cost more than the car was worth, but it was a labor of love. “Mm, baby,” he crooned. “Maybe we’ll go for a cruise when this asshole gets elected. What do you say we head down to Miami and see if we can score something short, dark, and Cuban?”

He shifted the package to his other arm and started to pace in the lot. He checked his watch. “Okay, Newman, where are you?” Before he could activate the secure communication device, a pair of headlights turned the corner at the far end of the street and headed his way. Even at this distance, he could tell it was one of the three black SUVs detailed to security for Stiles. He grinned again. “Let’s get this show on the road.”

***

From the passenger seat of her car, half a block away, Special Agent Sara Goode watched Murphy trot down the stairs of his apartment building and into the parking lot. He was visible in her standard binoculars. As he paced in the ambient light from overhead, she picked out the small, olive drab package under his arm.

A few minutes later, Newman arrived in one of their team’s black SUVs and Murphy climbed into the passenger seat. When the pair turned out of the parking lot and drove away, Sara jumped from her car and sprinted to Murphy’s ride. As she ran, she gripped the spare key she’d made last month when she broke into his apartment and found the C-4.

She’d known they would do something when she called with the bombshell. Stiles and Brown couldn’t allow the information to get out. She tugged the cover off the Cadillac and stuffed it into the back. Then, she climbed into the driver’s seat, and wrinkling her nose at the smell of petrochemicals and leather, turned the pirated key in the ignition lock, rolling the engine to life. The car felt heavy as a barge and handled comparably. Moving it from its space toward the lot exit, she blew out a breath at the prospect of navigating the thing through traffic.

The SUV containing Newman and Murphy was accelerating away, toward the corner. She hesitated, wondering if Murphy would pick out the Caddy’s headlights behind them, but there was nothing for it now but to go. She needed the anonymity the older car afforded if they decided to ping hers.

The SUV turned the corner. On the street, she pressed on the accelerator and the big diesel shoved her into the seat. The car gained momentum effortlessly. Sara moved her foot from the accelerator to the brake, equally surprised by the stopping power. The tank slowed like she’d thrown an anchor out the window.

“Wow,” she said out loud. “This could be fun on an open stretch of road.”

She turned the corner and blinked. The SUV was gone.

“Damn.” She punched it again, eyes darting side to side, hoping to catch a glimpse of the truck. She jerked her personal iLink PCOD from her pocket and placed the receiver in her ear. “Establish connection. Doctor Zachary Marshall.” She waited.

“That party is not currently accepting incoming calls. Retry?”

“Yes.”

“That party is not currently accepting incoming calls. Retry?”

She growled in frustration. “No. Leave a message.”

“Battery too low for video message. Send text?”

The calm mechanical voice did nothing to sooth her frayed nerves. “Yes. Text. Doctor Zachary Marshall. Begin text. Don’t go home. Dash. Goode. End text. Send.”

“Message sent to text inbox.”

She scanned the dash. No port to charge her PCOD. “Damn,” she spat in frustration, and patted her jacket pocket. In her hurry, she’d left her charger in her car. “Damn, damn,” she said. There wasn’t time to go back and get it. Their first destination was likely Dr. Marshall’s house. He would still be at his lab. She had a guess as to Murphy’s plan for the explosive.

“iLink. Establish connection. Dr. Lazlo Thomas.” She scanned the road again, but to no avail.

“Battery too low for video transmission. Send text message?”

“Yes, goddamn it. Yes. Text. Dr. Lazlo Thomas. Begin text. Don’t go home. Dash. If you are at home, leave now and await instructions. Life in danger. Dash. Goode. End text. Send.”

“Message sent to text inbox. Battery too low to allow additional transmissions,” the unit said.

“Damn,” she said, and replaced the earpiece with the one from the secure comm.

Sara scowled at the line of traffic at the next intersection. If Murphy and Newman got too far ahead, she might never catch them. They might go to Dr. Thomas’s house first. He was probably out somewhere for the next three or four hours. His file had been three times the size of Marshall’s. Murphy would have more time to plant a charge at Thomas’s than Marshall’s. His house lay to the left. Marshall’s was to the right. Her head dropped to the steering wheel and she bit her lip in indecision. “Pick one.”

She spun the wheel to the right and shoved her foot  onto the accelerator.

CHAPTER 3

The lab’s front door opened. “Hi, Mr. Willis,” Zach said to the security guard as he stepped into the work area, right on schedule. “Ms. Willis doing better?”

The retired cop-turned-security guard grinned at Zach. “Yes sir, Dr. Marshall. She’s doin’ much better since you got her that gym membership and the physical therapy sessions.” He shook his head. “Bustin’ a hip’s a bitch, sir, but she sends her thanks. She’s gettin’ stronger every day.”

He returned the guard’s smile. “GenTest did that, Mr. Willis, not me.”

The older man regarded Zach over his glasses. The eyes were sharp and bright. “I’m too old to let folks blow smoke up my skirt. You’re the only staff person from GenTest I’ve ever really spoken to.” He extended his hand to Zach.

Zach took his offered hand. “Just make sure you get your turkey before Wednesday, Cratchit. Can’t have Tiny Tim hungry at Thanksgiving.”

The man laughed. “That’s Christmas, not Thanksgiving.” He scowled. “Not that I don’t appreciate it, but soy turkeys? Who’d a thought it?”

He shared the man’s laugh. “I know. What next? Good night, Mr. Willis.”

The older man nodded to Zach. “Good night to you, too, sir. Drive careful.”

Zach logged out of the building using the voice scan and fingerprint reader, and walked into the balmy west central Florida night. A cloudless night sky, blue-gray in the full moon’s light, greeted him. He smiled as he approached his Mitsu Open Road, tri-wheel electric hybrid. Low and sleek, it was the first new car he’d ever bought and he loved it. He let his fingertips glide over the glass-smooth, black, gel coat. The building’s overhead LEDs sparkled in the deep, metal flake paint. He was glad Laz had talked him into it as he lifted the driver’s side door up and forward.

He dropped into the driver’s seat and rubbed his eyes. “Auto-drive,” he said, to power up the autopilot. A slim, green strip the length of the dashboard lit up as the car’s systems woke from standby.

“Destination, please,” the navigation computer requested, in its soft, gender-neutral voice.

“Home.” He leaned against the seat and stretched his arms behind his head as the car backed out of his parking space. As it wheeled onto the street in front of the lab, he opened the sun-roof. “Hope it turns cold soon,” he said. “We could use a break from the heat.”

As the Mitsu rolled through the quiet night, he contemplated. It had been hot and sticky as syrup a year ago last August when Kathy moved in. He’d taken the afternoon off. They stood in the yard and rinsed off with the garden hose, laughing like idiots. Inside, they stripped off their wet clothes and had sex on the living room floor, rolling and laughing together. He tugged the gold band from under his shirt and examined it. Six months ago, he’d skipped out at lunch, again. He’d come home with the ring as a surprise. Butterflies the size of sparrows had been circling his stomach as he’d opened the door, only to find a note taped to the big-screen monitor in the living room. Maybe Laz was right, and he needed to get out and date.

Zach shook himself out of the memory and sat up, “Check messages.” The subject lines from his account appeared, the holographic heads-up display superimposed on the windshield, while his car took him through the evening. “Trash that.” He deleted a message offering to share the secret to increasing the size of his masculinity, another with a plan to make a fortune online, and one selling real gold Rolex watches. Four more bogus messages disappeared from his inbox in rapid succession. He paused. “Wonder if that guy in Guyana ever found someone to loan him the thousand dollars to get his five hundred thousand out of escrow?” He laughed.

The last one on the list was from a number he didn’t recognize. The subject line was, “Don’t go home.” Not only spam, but most likely an advertisement for a licensed companion service. “Trash message,” he told the car.

Out of habit, he switched to the screen containing his contact list. He scrolled to Kathy’s new number. He stared at the image for a long moment, considering it. He drew a deep breath, “Delete entry,” and watched Kathy’s information distort and funnel to a point at the bottom of the screen. He blew out a breath. “Music menu,” he said and chose a favorite album. Music poured from the car’s speakers.

A grumble from his stomach brought him back to the present. He hadn’t eaten all day. There was no hurry to get home. It was time to do something spontaneous. “Carol’s,” he said, and straightened in his seat. His stomach growled its approval.

“Auto-drive.”

“Yes,” the car’s auto navigation program responded.

“Change destination.”

“Holding for destination change.”

“Carol’s Deli.” A grin spread across his face.

“Destination in favorites file?”

“Yes,” he said.

“Calculating new destination. Destination calculated. Changing course.” The car flashed the turn signal three times and changed lanes. A quick right turn, followed by another, and Zach was headed south on Sixteenth Street, toward his favorite take-out spot.

He relaxed into his seat again and let his thoughts turn idly to the Secret Service agent. A grin crept onto his lips as he considered those gold-flecked eyes again. She was everything Kathy wasn’t. Tall and blond, smart and wry, the air practically crackled last week when she brought in the DNA sample for testing. Each time since, he’d resisted the impulse to make a stupid, adolescent crack about her name. She’d stared at him as if expecting the inevitable dumb comment, and her eyes had softened a bit more each time in its absence. It had taken every gram of self-control he possessed to keep his face a deadpan, but her reaction had been worth the effort.

He slid the card she’d given him today out of his pocket. Her name, Sara E. Goode, walked across the stiff, white stock in bold, black letters. Beneath her name, ‘Special Agent, United States Secret Service’ and a contact number trailed along underneath in smaller lettering, with small square of QR code in one corner. Before slipping the card back in his pocket, Zach absently flipped it over, and his heart jumped into his chest. The back held a different iLink number, hand-written in blue ink.

“Oh, yes, yes.” Zach fumbled for his headset and slipped it into his ear. “New number,” he said past his Sahara-dry lips. He spoke the number, disappointed when he heard the ‘not currently available’ message. “Damn,” he said, disconnecting. “Try again later,” he whispered to himself and plugged the earpiece back into the dash to charge.

“Do you wish to schedule another attempt?” the car asked.

“No,” he said. “I’ll try later when I decide—later.” He rolled his eyes and mumbled under his breath. “Technology.”

Disappointment gave way to hope as his thoughts drifted back to his conversation with Laz. “Last laugh, Laz, old buddy.” He stared at the number again. “I don’t care if I need rehab. It’ll be worth it.” He brought the card to his nose, and picked up a faint vanilla scent.

His smile widened into a grin as he slid the card into his shirt pocket for safe keeping.

***

Zach’s Mitsu pulled into Carol’s Deli’s well-lit parking lot. He switched the car to manual. After a few minutes’ searching, he wheeled into a space vacated by a blue Honda. He stepped out of his car and made his way through the crowded lot to the front door. He squeezed through the door and into the queue before scanning the packed interior. The scents of fried chicken, baking onions, roasted garlic, pasta, and cheeses all mingled and hovered in the air. As he let the aromas slowly fill his lungs while around him, the bizarre diversity of the clientele enticed him almost as much as the food. The other patrons who milled about or stood at the curved glass display case were everything he’d come to expect.

In front of him, a beefy, middle-aged city utilities worker stood in line in dark green work trousers and stained white shirt. His yellow hard hat was pushed back onto his crown of close-cropped, salt and pepper hair as he studied the selections.

Next to the utilities worker was a waif-thin girl of twenty. Silver studs outlining her ears sparkled in the light as she moved. A pair of faded, baggy blue jeans provided the only color offsetting her otherwise black-as-ink clothes. Her shoulder-length hair was gelled and spiked. Scuffed, thick-soled work boots similar to the utilities worker’s covered her feet.

Behind her, two businessmen in dark suits and solid, primary-colored ties stood next to three mechanics in blue coveralls. The whole group waited respectfully behind a short, stout woman in a long, shapeless black dress and shawl, asking for the third time which was the kosher meat. To the stout woman’s right, a middle-aged bleached blond woman held her fisted hands at the hips of skin-tight white jeans stretched to the breaking point over her generous bottom. The blond studied the hand-lettered selections and prices on shiny, white boards where they hung a few inches from the back wall, suspended from the ceiling by small wires.

On Zach’s right, filling the remainder of the crowded room, a dozen unmatched tables held a similar, eclectic mixture of customers. He soaked up the sights and smells and the warm, pleasant crush of humanity filling the confined space. Plates clattered, echoing off the walls, answered by pots and pans banging in the kitchen.

In the midst of the cacophony, an old scarecrow of a man in a threadbare, gray suit three sizes too large stood alone in a bubble of silence, eyeing the display case. Large bowls of various salads and side dishes, platters of cold cuts, metal baking pans of lasagna and fettuccini, and a large serving tray of fried chicken beckoned.

As Zach watched, transfixed, the man’s gaze moved slowly from dish to tray, accompanied by an occasional swipe of a hand over his lips. The old man’s brown-spotted hands trembled faintly, grasping a crumpled five dollar bill, which he folded and unfolded. His sparse, white hair was as thin as his suit jacket and two days’ gray stubble graced his care-worn chin when he turned his head to the side.

Six and a half feet tall and blocky as a door, Big Tommy, the deli’s owner, stood with his arms stretched out, palms resting on the deli counter like a force of nature. He addressed the man from the other side of the counter. His voice carried a quiet gentleness as he moved to a position in front of the old man. “What’ll it be, fella?” Big Tommy asked.

The emaciated customer leaned in close and in a whisper barely louder than the random sounds of plates and silverware, said, “Chicken and mashed potatoes, please.” He held up the five like it was a winning lottery ticket.

From behind the counter, Big Tommy nodded and winked at the man. “Fix ya right up.” He grabbed a container and filled it as the man shuffled toward the cash register.

Zach slid into the vacated space at the display case. His nose wrinkled from the faint smell of stale sweat that lingered. He let the old guy shuffle toward the register before he spoke. “Tommy,” Zach whispered, catching the other man’s eye.

Big Tommy came by the nickname honestly. He stood a good six foot four and probably weighed in at a hair over two-thirty. His bald head shined in the store’s lights, his gold ear rings contrasting with his smooth, coffee-colored skin. A toothy grin spread over Big Tommy’s round face, showing off the whiteness of his teeth. “Zach. How ya been? Ain’t seen ya in like, forever.”

Zach crooked a finger and gestured Tommy close. When Tommy’s white deli apron brushed the top of the display case, Zach whispered into his ear. “What do ya say you slip the old man a medium-sized container of green salad,” Zach pointed to the spring mix in the display. He shifted his head. “Maybe a slice of bread.” He nodded at the fresh loaf. “Some gravy for the potatoes, and put it on my bill?” He winked at Big Tommy.

Tommy leaned his head back and stared at him. “You never change, do ya?” He chuckled in a low rumble from deep in his chest. “Yeah, I can do that. Tell ’em it’s day old and on the house.”

“I knew you’d fix it.” He took the ticket Big Tommy handed him.

Big Tommy returned Zach’s wink and filled the containers as Zach stepped away from the counter, trying to fade into the background. Big Tommy handed the old man in the gray suit the containers, plus a thick slice of whole wheat bread, in a paper sack. The old man responded to the bag’s extra bulk with a surprised stare, like he’d received someone else’s order by mistake.

From his vantage point by the rear wall, Zach watched while Big Tommy leaned toward the man and explained. The old man blinked a few times in disbelief, then headed for the door, clutching the food close, like it was the most precious thing in his universe. A few feet from the entrance, he turned around and dragged the back of a hand over his cheek. In a hoarse voice, thick with emotion, he said, “Happy Thanksgiving, and God bless this place and everyone in it.” Without another word, he turned and disappeared into the warm night.

Zach stepped from the rear wall toward the deli case as patrons were served. The stout woman in black caught Zach’s eye as the cashier rang her order. When he smiled at her, she motioned him closer to where she stood, and said, in a low voice, “I saw what you did for that old man.” She stared at him with eyes sharp and black as a raven’s.

Zach glanced left and right. Satisfied no one paid them any attention, he closed the distance between them and answered, “Yes, ma’am?”

“That was a nice thing, you did. You’re a good boy. You should meet my granddaughter, Veronica.”

Warmth rushed into Zach’s cheeks. “Um, thanks for the thought, ma’am, but that’s all right.”

The woman’s lips formed a thin line. “Suit yourself, but she’s a pretty girl, and she’s got a wonderful personality.”

With an inward wince at the word, Zach wondered how homely the poor girl had to be, if her grandmother had to resort to pimping her out to strangers with a line about her wonderful personality.

“Grandma? There you are.” The old woman glanced over her shoulder to the voice from the front door. Zach followed her gaze to a woman about his own age, who stepped in. Spirals of shiny, black hair cascaded half way to her waist. Her yellow sun-dress did little to hide her hourglass figure.

The young woman made her way to her grandmother, kissed her lightly on the cheek, and eyed Zach. “She hasn’t been bothering you, has she?” Bright hazel eyes glittered from an oval face with smooth-as-butter, olive-toned skin. Her generous smile revealed a row of straight, white teeth.

All Zach could do was slowly shake his head and stare, speechless.

“Come on, Grandma,” Veronica said, wrapping the old woman’s arm in hers and tugging her away. Tiny, silver, bell-shaped earrings tinkled at her ears. “We have to get home for dinner.”

The woman caught his eye. “Takes after her mother’s side of the family.” With a shrug of her shoulders that said, “I tried, you fool,” she let her granddaughter lead her out.

Zach watched them leave, head cocked to the side, mouth open. He considered banging his head against the nearest wall. He turned away from the door and patiently waited for his turn at the counter. When it came, he gave Big Tommy his order.

Without meeting his eye, Tommy spoke in quiet tones over the counter. “That was a nice thing you did with the old guy, but they’re like cats, ya know. Ya feed ‘em once, and ya never get rid of ’em.”

Zach smiled at Big Tommy. “You act as though you’ve never been hungry.”

“Yeah, I know how it is, but you can’t do that stuff. They’ll let ya sneak into heaven.”

Zach shrugged a shoulder. “We’re all about three paychecks from a worn out gray suit, Tommy. Heaven will take care of itself.”

“The usual?” Tommy asked.

“Please,” Zach said with a smile. Tommy’s memory was phenomenal.

When Tommy finished Zach’s order, he slipped a plastic glove off and held his ham-sized hand toward him. Zach’s hand disappeared in Big Tommy’s grip. In low, solemn tones Tommy said, “Happy Thanksgiving to ya, Zach Marshall. You ever need anything, you come see Big Tommy.” He winked as he let Zach’s hand slid away and whispered, “She brings the old lady in every Tuesday about this time.” His grin broadened until it threatened to split his head apart. “An’ a Merry Christmas to ya, too, Ebenezer.”

“Thanks.” Zach sidled towards the cash register. The cashier, a twenty-something girl with a pert nose and short, blonde hair under a New York Yankees baseball cap, smiled as she scanned his tickets. “Is there anything else I can do for you tonight, sir?” she said, and blinked crisp, azure eyes at him.

“No, thanks,” he said. “I think I just need to get home, have dinner, and relax.” He almost added, “before I can screw up anything else,” but thought better of it. He swiped his card through the reader, gathered up the paper bag containing his dinner, and headed for the door. On his way into the parking lot, he smiled at sight of the old man in the gray suit, crouched in the shadows, eyes closed, savoring a mouthful of potatoes and gravy.

A quick scan the parking lot revealed no sign of the old woman or her granddaughter. He checked his watch. “Tuesday at seven-thirty,” and made a mental note. He held the receipt up and almost crumpled it, when he noticed the link number written on it in pen. It held a number and the name Lisa in blue ink.

He stared at the receipt for a long moment, then turned toward the deli. Lisa was gone from the cash register. He shook his head and slipped the receipt into his shirt pocket. “Jesus, I really am a zone case today.”

Zach strolled across the parking lot toward the last wisps of the waning day. The indigo sky rapidly darkened on the heels of sunset.

With the bag containing his dinner on the passenger side floor, Zach closed the door against the welcoming sounds from the deli. “Take me home,” he said. He rolled the windows down, enjoying the light traffic as his car’s autopilot accelerated onto the road. With Thanksgiving a week away, the balmy, west-central Florida night hung suspended, the calm before the annual Christmas shopping storm. Zach sighed. “I better get home before I step in front of a bus or something.”

CHAPTER 4

As Special Agent Sara Goode drove, she checked the dash outlets again for a place to plug her iLink in to recharge it. “Damn,” she said, letting her frustration loose. She held herself short of pounding a fist onto the dash and checked once more. There was no place to plug the damn thing in. Without a way to link with the two men, she was screwed before she started. She couldn’t afford to be out of communication for any length of time, especially with someone like Murphy on the loose.

The SUV containing him and Newman was nowhere in sight as she’d circled Marshall’s block twice.“Dammit, dammit, dammit, Sara, think. Where will they go?” She leaned forward, peering over the steering wheel. Beads of perspiration formed on her forehead.There was no way she’d beaten them here. There was only one other possibility.

Dr. Thomas’s house. She remembered his address from his file, but it was one of the new, gated subdivisions to the north of Clearwater. The Cadillac lacked Auto-nav or even simple GPS. “How the hell did people ever find their way around?” She picked up her link. “iLink. Directions. Dr. Lazlo Thomas residence. Starting point.”

It was dead.

She threw the useless piece of junk to the seat beside her and slapped her open palm on the dash in frustration.  She took a breath to rein it in, thinking it through.

If Murphy had gone to Thomas’s place, and she took off right now, she might already be too late. If she made it, and waited for him to get home, Marshall would almost certainly die, and she couldn’t try either of them again until she charged her iLink. The muscles in her jaw tightened. She turned the wheel and headed for a convenience store she’d seen a few blocks back where she could buy an accessory charger. In ten minutes, she would be able to try contacting Thomas and Marshall again.

She pushed through the convenience store door and made her way to the stand containing the accessory chargers. When she found the right one, she grabbed it and strode to the counter, which looked like an altar to sundries. Two pillars of junk rose to meet an overhead assortment of shrink-wrapped gadgets, pills, and paraphernalia in seemingly no order, lending it a claustrophobic feel. The clerk was all of five feet nothing and likely weighed less than his age, which, she judged by his wrinkled brown skin and gray beard, was just this side of a hundred. She shook her head and closed her eyes—he was wearing an actual turban and fiddled with the coffee maker as if he were trying to reverse-engineer a flying carpet.

“Excuse me, sir,” she said in her most polite voice.

He ignored her.

“Sir, I’m sorry, but I’m in a bit of a hurry. Can you please help me?”

He shifted away from her, turning his back in her direction.

Sara stood and practiced slow, deep breathing for another thirty seconds before pushing a breath out through her nose. She laid the charger on the counter next to the two-foot high display for vitamins, energy boosters, and herbal aphrodisiacs and stepped around to a position next to the little guy. She calmly slipped her Secret Service ID wallet from her pocket, unfolded it, and propped it on the coffee maker in front of his nose. “Listen, you shit-weasel,” she said in a low, ominous tone. “If I’m still in this roach hotel you call a store thirty seconds from now, I’m going to see to it you meet some nice young men from Homeland Security. Comprenez?”

The man shot Sara a quick sidelong look and shuffled toward the counter.

She grabbed her ID and ambled to where the man had already put the charger and receipt in a bag. When she laid a bill on the crowded counter, he dropped it in the cash register, placed her change next to the bag, and stared up at her. “Thank you. Please come again,” he said, in a sing-song voice, his hands folded on the crowded countertop surface.

She emptied the charger into her hand and transferred it to a jacket pocket. Then, she dropped the receipt in after the charger. She crumpled the bag, placed it gently on the counter in front of him, and hit him with her flattest stare. “Now, that wasn’t so hard, was it?” She stared at his nametag, “Phil? Really?” she said, fighting to keep from laughing. “You have a real nice day, too.” She winked and strode out.

By the time she tugged the Caddy’s door open, the store’s interior was deserted.

She shoved the charger into the outlet, and plugged her iLink in as she drove north. The lab was close to the Interstate before it crossed the bay. Marshall might still there, and she could just scoop him up and head for Thomas’s house. She pushed the button to crank the engine over and motored out of the convenience store’s parking lot toward GenTest.

***

After what felt like an eternity, she wheeled the motorized behemoth into GenTest’s lot. It was empty. Her plan to save both men was unraveling before her eyes. She checked the charge indicator for the fourth time. It finally showed enough power to try a call.

When her call to Dr. Thomas went to voicemail again, Sara growled softly and repressed the urge to throw the thing out the window. As she sat seething in the stolen car, she resorted to counting backwards from a hundred by sevens. It was a trick her father had taught her years ago to get her anger under control.

By the time she reached forty-four, her head cleared enough to allow her to accept the fact that a decision had to be made. Someone would die on her watch and it galled.

She slammed her fist on the steering wheel in frustration. If she wasted any more time this way, she’d lose both of them. She swung out of GenTest’s parking lot, and swung the boat of a car around. Her thoughts returned to Dr. Marshall’s tousled dark brown hair and piercing hazel eyes. If she had to cut his friend loose and wait at his house, so be it, but she was not going to let both of them die. Not tonight.

It was in the right neighborhood, and even with her iLink GPS function, she still got turned around twice and had to backtrack around the one-way streets. Just as she figured out her direction, the air rumbled with an explosion off to her left. Agitation sped her pulse to a gallop. It took every bit of her restraint to keep from shoving her foot to the floorboard. If the sound was what she feared, she was too late, but she had to be sure. Sirens wailed in the distance and she understood how a moth felt as she headed toward the orange glow she knew was Marshall’s house.

Flashing red lights from the fire trucks strobed into the white interior of Murphy’s restored antique Cadillac as Sara rolled past Marshall’s street. She parked the barge a block away, quick stepping to where yellow and black emergency tape stretched across the street like a leftover Halloween decoration. Beyond the tape, a fire truck’s engine rumbled as it pushed water through three hoses snaking away. Flood lights lit everything in stark relief and there were no cars parked on the street as far as she could see. Reversing her steps, she walked to the corner one street over, turned, and followed the sidewalk. The neighborhood was quiet except for a few residents milling around in small groups as she strode to the house directly behind Marshall’s. It was dark. She checked the surrounding houses, and seeing no lights on next door, marched purposefully up the driveway and into the back yard. She approached the fence at the rear of the yard and, careful not to make any noise, peered over the hedges at Marshall’s house.

The place smelled like a barbecue gone horribly wrong, and with good reason. White floodlights lit the front and sides of his house, leaving the rear shrouded in shadows. From what she could make out, an explosion at the front had ripped a good bit of the living room and master bedroom away. Debris lay scattered across the street and into the yard of the house opposite his. The resulting fire left the rest of Marshall’s home a smoldering ruin.

She closed her eyes and took a breath. She’d chosen wrong. Murphy had blown up Marshall’s house. The thought of Marshall sitting in his living room when it disappeared started her stomach trying to twist itself into a knot. She bit back on the emotions trying to overwhelm her and forced her eyes open to the scene again.

She watched the silhouettes of firemen move around and through the remains of what had been his house and shook her head. Then she focused on the rest of the property. Marshall’s driveway wound around the side of the house to a carport in the back, but his car was absent. Nor was it parked on the street in front of the house. He hadn’t been home. She breathed a sigh of relief and backed away from the fence, slipping into the deeper shadows, and stealing out of the yard. “Nothing I can do here.” She thought back to the folder they’d read on him as she marched toward Murphy’s Caddy. “Where are you, Dr. Marshall?”

***

While the Mitsu moved through traffic toward his house, Zach opened the music app of his PCOD, ran it into the stereo, and accessed his music. Maybe Laz was right, he mused to the sounds of quiet jazz filling the car. Perhaps flirting with Special Agent Goode was a bad idea. He’d just about talked himself past the thought of her soft, brown eyes with the honey-gold flecks and into the futility of the plan when the Mitsu slowed. Brake lights ahead caught his eye. Beyond the tail-lights, the blue strobe of a city police car flashed.

Zach sat up and rubbed his eyes as the Mitsu rolled to a stop at the end of a long line of traffic. “Wonder what’s up.”

“Unknown at this time,” the car said.

Zach rolled his eyes. One of the problems with voice activation was sometimes the microphone picked up random comments. A definite drawback for someone used to talking to himself, as Zach was. He considered turning into his neighborhood a block or two earlier and coming in from the other direction.

“Auto-drive.” He said, after a while.

“Yes,” the car said.

“At the next available side street, find and take an alternate route home.”

“Calculating. Route calculated.”

Ten minutes later, the car’s blinker flashed and he turned south off Thirty-eighth Avenue.  At the next left, Zach ran the fingers of one hand through his short brown hair. Ahead, flashing red and white floodlights strobed, spilling over the entire neighborhood.

“Manual drive,” he told the car and gripped the steering wheel as it expanded into his hands. After a right turn and a few more blocks, he circled around to the left and rolled slowly over the uneven brick surface toward his street. He snugged the car against the curb, the front bumper even with the corner where yellow and black caution tape was strung across the street. He stepped into the evening air and walked toward where a giant fire truck and another, smaller red truck sat parked across his street.

A man slumped, arms propped on his knees, sitting on the rear bumper of the fire truck. His head sagged in exhaustion. He wore heavy, dull-yellow pants with reflective silver stripes at the seams and bottom edges. Red suspenders stretched over the shoulders of his gray tee shirt. A thick coat matching the pants lay on the pavement at the man’s feet. Zach approached the long strip of yellow tape barring his way.

He lifted the tape and slipped underneath. Cautiously, he approached the man. “Excuse me,” he said.

The exhausted fireman lifted his head toward Zach. “Hi.” Black smudges accentuated the man’s cheeks and nose. “Can I help you, sir?” His short, dark hair lay damp and matted against his scalp. The man’s shirt clung to him in sweat-dampened patches.

“Yeah,” Zach pointed in the general direction of his house. “I live on this street. Do you mind if I ask what happened?”

The other man shrugged a shoulder. “Structure fire,” he started. “Either—”

“Hey!” a voice to Zach’s right shouted.

The shout from twenty feet away startled Zach. A uniformed police officer lifted a hand and pointed toward him. The strobe lights from the truck’s roof lit the officer and the surrounding houses and landscape, alternating between blood red and stark white. “You. Behind the yellow tape. It’s not safe here right now.” He flicked a thumb toward the yellow ribbon Zach had just ducked under.

“But—” Zach started, holding his hands palm up at his sides. “I live on this street.”

“Now.” His firm voice carried over the noise from the firemen moving equipment on the street. The officer turned toward Zach and crossed his arms, staring.

“It should only take another two hours to secure the area and move our equipment. You really should get behind the barricade, sir, for your own safety.”

“Thanks,” he said to the fireman and slipped under the yellow and black caution tape. Making his way through the dark, he jammed his hands into his pockets as he walked toward his car. Its parking lights flashed acknowledgment of his approach and the car’s security system disarmed. Once in the driver’s seat, he realized he had nowhere to go. Out of habit, his thoughts turned once again to the ring under his shirt.

His jaw muscles bunched. He reached to the gold chain and slipped it and the ring it held from under his shirt. He pinched the ring between his thumb and index finger. It shone in the blue-tinted light from the pole overhead. Its diamond sparkled at him like laughter, reflecting his past foolishness.

He dropped it back inside his shirt. Taking a deep breath, then releasing it, his shoulders loosened. The ring on the chain around his neck suddenly weighed him down. “Laz is right,” he said, out loud. “It is time to move on. Next opportunity, the ring goes.” His thoughts turned once again to the Secret Service agent. He’d considered ways to ask her out all week, but every time he thought he had an opening, his own insecurity had pulled him up short. She was outside his quantum level and they both knew it. She only came back around because he’d tossed a grand’s worth of reagent down the drain. “Set your sights lower,” he said out loud. Laz’s reaction to his admission about the chemicals made him laugh again and he reconsidered Laz’s offer.

“Auto-drive,” he said, to the car. Once again the thin green stripe across the dash lit.

“Destination, please.” The car’s voice said through the speakers.

It was time for a change. “Uncle Chuckle’s.”

“Beach address?” the car asked.

“Yes.”

“Entering destination. Destination entered, calculating route. Route calculated.” The car rolled away from the curb, made a left turn, and accelerated away, headed toward Thirty-Eighth Avenue and another left, heading west, toward the Gulf.

***

Sara Goode returned the way she’d come, the flat heels of her shoes clicking softly on the ancient, cracked concrete sidewalk. She crossed the street and walked quickly to where she’d left Murphy’s Caddy, parked away from the streetlights under the shadows of a large oak. As she crossed the street to where it waited, she slipped the car door keys she’d had made from her pocket. She slid it into the slot, climbed in, and fastened the old-style seatbelt.

Sara leaned back in the seat, closed her eyes, and concentrated on her breathing. An image of Marshall, sitting at his gray desk in his laboratory formed in her mind’s eye. He grinned up at her with his silly, cock-eyed smile and hair that looked like he’d styled it by sticking his head in a blender. Her skin tingled. She shrugged the thought off, trying to focus. “He has to be somewhere.” She mentally flipped through his pitifully thin folder. Not at home, not at the lab. “Where else?”

His file had been slim, almost scant. Unlike his friend, Dr. Thomas, Dr. Marshall rarely went out. There were a couple of places he stopped from time to time, but he was practically boring. When the team had checked the pair out before turning the sample over to them for examination, they’d all shared a laugh. Marshall’s skimpy file earned him the nickname ‘mad monk’ among them and a certain amount of respect from Sara.

“Where would you go, where would you go, where would you go?” she asked herself like a mantra, mentally rummaging around in what she’d memorized of his file. It was no use, she thought. She couldn’t just drive around searching for him. Eventually Murphy would go home, and find his car wasn’t where he’d left it, and then the worms would be out of the can.

She was about to give up when a parked car at the corner a block away caught her eye. She leaned forward in the seat and stared hard. A fierce grin tugged at her lips. “Finally.” She wanted to laugh. “A break.” She cracked the door, and stepped out of the Caddy. Before she took the second step, Zach Marshall’s little black car pulled away from the curb.

“No,” she grumbled, as she jumped back in and slammed the Cadillac’s door. She grabbed the seatbelt and twisted the ignition key to start the engine. Her mouth dropped open as nothing happened. Up ahead, Zach Marshall’s car braked and turned the corner. Sara twisted the key again, but the Cadillac’s dash lights flickered and went out. She slapped her palms on the steering wheel in response. “God dammit!” She spat the words. She was not going to let anything happen to Dr. Marshall if she had to chase him on foot.

A tiny red light on the dash blinked. She leaned in close to make out the lettering underneath. System Breaker Reset. When she pressed the button, the dash lights flickered back on. She settled into the seat and snapped the seatbelt as a black Secret Service SUV turned onto the street and parked less than a block from where she sat. Her blood chilled when she spotted two males dressed in black climbing from the SUV. The pair made their way toward the same vantage point where she’d peeked in at Marshall’s house.

“Damn.” As she watched, Murphy and Newman strolled along the sidewalk like they hadn’t a care. She couldn’t move the Cadillac until they turned the corner. If she started after Marshall, they would see the car’s headlights. Murphy would undoubtedly recognize them as belonging to his personal vehicle. By the time the pair turned down the street next to Marshall’s, she’d formed a plan.

She turned the key again. The engine caught. She dropped it into gear, pressed on the accelerator, and pulled the huge car away from the curb. At the first driveway, she turned the car around, maneuvered into a shadowed area at the corner, and positioned it where she could still see the SUV. It would take Murphy about two minutes to figure out they’d missed Marshall. She was betting he attached a tracking device somewhere on Marshall’s car, and how they left the scene would tell her what their intentions for him were.

She didn’t have long to wait. After a few minutes, Murphy and Newman moved along the sidewalk at a rapid clip and jumped into the SUV. She was half a block behind and with a car between them as the SUV launched onto the street, leaving a fresh coat of rubber on the pavement. Murphy was tying up the loose ends. She set her jaw in determination, hoping a plan B would present itself as she hunched over the wheel and pressed the accelerator to keep the SUV in sight. “Fuck you, Murphy,” she said, through gritted teeth.

CHAPTER 5

Uncle Chuckle’s was definitely Laz’s kind of place, Zach thought, as he sat on a stool at the bar. Couples moved on the floor to the pounding music offered up by the band. Typical of beach bars, the entire rear wall was open to the deep indigo of the nighttime Gulf of Mexico. The breeze off the water ruffled hair and pushed enticingly at the lightweight, pastel beach sarongs wrapped around some of the women. Many of the others wore bold-colored spandex micro-dresses, either with this year’s fashionable mid-calf length boots or classic heels.

Zach leaned on the bar and took in the spectacle. The males on the dance floor and on the prowl at tables or sharing the bar with him generally came in one of two versions. One type wore knee-length shorts and either vivid-bright tropical tee shirts or baseball shirts. The popularity of the baseball shirts was a mystery to Zach. The other, dressed much as he was, wore conservative dress shirts and carpenter jeans or dark slacks. The place crackled with sexual tension.

Bracelets, chains, rings, and body piercings glittered in the colored dance floor lights. Out on the recycled plastic, faux-wood deck, couples and the occasional single man or woman moved in the shadows or stood at the railing, cooling off from their back-beat inspired dance floor exertions. As Zach inhaled the gentle salt-air, a smile flowed onto his lips. He’d worked at a place not much different than this while in college. He checked out the women and wondered if working so hard in school and since had been the right choice.

In one corner, a group of college-age kids sat at a table, laughing and playing a drinking game Zach recognized with nostalgia from his own past. He watched from the bar for a few minutes, then scanned the room again, but there was no sign of Laz. When he checked his iLink, he had been in the bar for almost an hour and was growing bored by the festivities. He tilted his third cranberry juice back and finished it, letting one of the almost-melted ice cubes fall, slick and cold, onto his tongue. He checked his Link again and shrugged. “Something must’ve come up.”

He turned to the bar in time to see the bartender, whose nametag read “Sunni” shaking a silver cocktail shaker. Her movement became enticingly kinetic, leaving Zach smiling in spite of himself. She noticed Zach noticing her, and a musical laugh floated to him as he worked at finding the bar’s scarred wooden surface suddenly interesting. A customer at the end of the bar leaned forward, talking to her.

Sunni put the guy’s drink on the bar in front of him. She flipped her long, black pony tail over her shoulder in what Zach recognized as a carefully choreographed move and smiled. She said something to the guy Zach couldn’t make out.

He scowled in response.

The corners of Sunni’s fluorescent blue lips curved up at the guy so skillfully Zach almost believed it was real. She added something that brought a glimmer of hope back to the guy’s face.

He reached into a pocket of his shorts and laid a bill on the bar’s surface.

Sunni pulled a pouty face as she slipped the bill into her cleavage before shaking her head in the negative. She smiled again as she turned to Zach and leaned toward him so they didn’t have to shout. “Can I get you anything else, sir?” She emphasized the question with a wink of one of her bright blue eyes.

“No, thanks. I’m good.” He returned her smile, handed Sunni his credit card and waited, letting the ice melt in his mouth. When the she returned with his slip, he signed it, folded his copy and slipped it into his shirt pocket. There was a break in the music set, allowing Zach to hear the conversation a few feet away at the bar.

Turning toward the guy who’d been trying to chat her up, she smiled. “I have to step into the back for a few minutes. Frank will take care of you till I get back.” She waved an index finger at Zach and bounced into the back room.

The noise level kicked up a notch, and Zach started for the exit. He shook his head as he crossed to the men’s room, thinking he’d been spending too much time in the lab after all. After a quick pit stop, he made his way to the parking lot to hunt for his car. He stopped and checked the PCOD screen on his wrist once more, trying not to worry about Laz. There was a voicemail message from a number he didn’t recognize, but he waited to get out into the quiet of the parking lot to check it.

The parking lot had filled while he was inside, but his larger, long-range hybrid was as easy to spot in the sea of brightly colored, single-seat, urban electric three-wheel models. Parked under a streetlight at the edge of the lot, it beckoned to him. Sliding into his seat, he took the slip from his pocket to drop it in the console, and noticed handwriting on it. He shook his head at the flowing scrawl that read, ‘Sunni’ with a link number. He laughed out loud and slipped the paper back into his shirt pocket with a shake of his head. “I have got to show this to Laz. If this isn’t an omen, I don’t know what is.”

He checked the time. He still had half an hour to kill before he could go home. Laz deserved seven kinds of shit for standing him up. Dork. He plugged his iLink into the charging port as he considered rolling by Laz’s. The voicemail light on the dash blinked as the Mitsu’s on-board computer brought the car’s systems to life. A message waited for him. He slipped the link’s receiver into his ear.

The car’s computer said, “Voicemail message received at nineteen-forty-three. Would you like to play or store?”

Just my luck, he thought, for Laz to call and bail while I’m sitting in a noisy, crowded beach bar waiting for him. “Play message,” he said, a touch irritated.

“Dr. Marshall.” He recognized the voice and his heart skipped. “This is Special Agent Goode.” The message continued, “Do not go home. I repeat, do not go home and do not go to Dr. Thomas’s house. Your life is in jeopardy. It is imperative I speak with you. You can tag me at this number. I repeat, it is a matter of life and death that you neither go home nor to Dr. Thomas’s house. Go nowhere you would normally go. Please tag me as soon as you get this message.”

His mouth dropped open. “Tag last caller,” he said into the microphone. Hell, he thought, he was already at a place he never went. As the link searched for a connection, he said to the car, “Engine on, air-con on.”

“Unable to connect,” the link said in his ear. “Do you wish to leave a voicemail?”

“Yes,” he said. “Voicemail message. This is Zach Marshall, Special Agent Goode. I’m at a place called Uncle Chuckle’s on the beach. I was supposed to meet Dr. Thomas here, but he seems to have been detained. I’m going to the nearest convenience store and grab a Coke, and then for a short drive. The fire department has my street blocked off for some kind of emergency and I couldn’t get home right now if my life depended on it. Tag me when you get this. I’m curious what’s so important. Save message.” He repositioned the earpiece and said, “Disconnect.” Then, “Open link. Laz.”

After a few rings, Laz’s voicemail picked up. “Hey, this is Laz. If you owe me money, leave a message. If I owe you money, Laz doesn’t live here any more. If you’re from from the lottery with a check, leave your name and number because I really, really want to talk to you.”

At the beep, Zach spoke. “Hey, jerk. That has to be the lamest message I’ve ever heard. When you’re done abusing yourself to cheap porn vids, tag me. The fire department is having a block party on my street, and I can’t get home for a while. I thought I’d cash in one of those rain checks I’ve been collecting and we could get that drink.” He disconnected. “Auto-drive.”

“Yes?” the car replied.

“New destination. Nearest convenience store between present location and home.”

“Calculating route. Route calculated.” The car backed from the parking space and rolled out of the lot. It accelerated and melded in with southbound traffic on the road running along the beach. At the first intersection leading to the mainland, the Mitsu flashed the turn signal and made a left. Several dozen cars, mostly electrics, paced Zach over the causeway. An equal or greater number sped by toward the beach.

He was almost off the causeway when a large, black four-wheeled SUV passed him going in the opposite direction. It hung a quick U-turn in his rear-view screen and started in the same direction as Zach. It moved between cars in the light traffic, gradually gaining on him. The dinosaur truck snuggled in behind Zach’s car and hung there as he rolled through town. The brightness of the headlights made him squint, even in the brightness-corrected screen.

“Auto-drive.” Zach raised a hand over the screen.

“Yes?” the car responded.

“Correct rear-view tinting for headlights.” He wondered who the ass behind him was.

“Setting is at full correction.”

The lights were still blinding. Squinting, he made out the trouble. The guy had his high beams on. That, and the height of the thing put the headlights right in the car’s rear camera sight line.

“Jesus,” he said out loud. “He have airplane landing lights on that thing?” then, “Auto-drive, pull into the empty lane.”

“Convenience store ahead on the left. Do you wish to reset destination?”

“No, pull in and park.”

The car’s turn indicator flashed, and it wheeled smoothly into an empty space. The big black SUV continued on with the minimal traffic, the whining from its huge tires on the pavement rapidly receding. Zach grabbed his link and opened the door. He quickly stepped into the light from the front overhang of the store. When he reached the door, the Mitsu’s lights flashed once letting him know he’d reached fifteen feet. The car locked the doors and engaged the alarm.

The street was deserted, except for the occasional car.

He took his time in the store, checking the aisles. Finally, he grabbed a tube of Coke and headed to the counter. Out the front door again, he trotted across the parking lot to the sidewalk and checked the street. He half-expected to find the SUV lurking in the shadows like some huge, extinct predator. “Oh, no, not feeling paranoid, are you?” he said to himself and chuckled. “Whatever she wants, it’s not national security, and it isn’t you.” He turned and walked toward his car. The Mitsu responded to his approach by flashing the parking lights and unlocking the driver’s door.

Inside the car, he twisted the Coke tube’s base, releasing the compressed carbon dioxide and beginning the cooling process. He placed the bottle in the cup holder and checked the received calls to make sure being in the store hadn’t interfered with reception. No new calls popped, so he retried Laz’s link. When his call went to voicemail again, he rolled his eyes. “Hey, if it takes you that long, you need some new vids. Where are you, buddy? I know you don’t have a date.” He tried Goode’s number again with similar results. “Still trying, Special Agent.” He disconnected the call and directed the car to head south. If nothing else, he’d drive around for half an hour and reassess the situation.

Four or five blocks from the store, a truck sprung from a side street onto the avenue behind him. In the rear-view screen, it looked like the same SUV as before. A shiver ran down his back. It tucked in close behind him, its grill filling the little screen. There couldn’t be that many black, four-wheeled SUVs out tonight. His heart sped. “Auto-drive, change lanes and allow the vehicle behind me to pass.”

“Acknowledged.” The car flashed the turn indicator, and shifted into the other lane. The SUV followed, neither gaining nor dropping back.

His muscles tensed. “Auto-drive, move into the empty lane.” The car complied. The SUV shifted position as well. He thought of the uniformed officer from his street. “If you’re a cop, pull me over if you’re going to, but stop dogging me.”

“Auto-drive, change lanes and slow to twenty-five miles per hour.” The car complied. The vehicle stayed behind him. His breathing quickened, along with his pulse. As he watched, the truck inched closer. “Auto-drive, speed up to five miles an hour over the—”

Before he could finish the sentence, the SUV closed the gap and nudged his car. Not hard enough to damage his car or alert the computer he’d been in an accident. If it had, the software would have automatically stopped the car and notified the police, but the SUV definitely shoved the Mitsu. These weren’t the cops. Zach’s pulse quickened. They might be car thieves. If he stopped because he’d been in a minor accident, he might well find himself in the middle of a car-jacking.

“Auto-drive.” He grasped the steering wheel in both hands. “Manual operation. Link 911 emergency.” The green strip across the dash winked off as the wheel expanded and became responsive to his hands. The accelerator pedal moved to his foot’s prodding. The electric motors hummed, and the Mitsu jumped away from the SUV. It accelerated behind him.

“Unable to establish link at this time.”

“What the hell?” He stared at the dash in disbelief. “That’s not supposed to happen. Retry.”

The SUV tapped his bumper again. He pushed harder on the pedal. Acceleration forced him into his seat as the wheels’ high-efficiency electric hub motors whined in response and he shot away from the old internal combustion vehicle like it was the past. Zach pressed harder on the pedal. The gap widened. They were a good twenty over the speed limit, and the truck behind him was gaining again. His eyes darted from side street to side street, checking for cars.

“Unable to establish link at this time.”

“Shit.” He spat the word out. He didn’t know who was playing with him, but this wasn’t the police. No way. Sweat broke out on his skin. He decided he had to get away from whoever was driving the SUV. Fortunately, there were only a few cars on the street.

“Auto-drive. Link to Police and Safety, emergency number, 911.”

“Unable to establish link at this time.”

He gaped at the dashboard. A fail-safe in the software prevented being out of touch with emergency rescue. “Auto-drive, link to fire rescue.”

“Unable to comply at this time.”

He blinked. “What the…? Establish link to time and temperature.”

“Unable to comply at this time.”

“Shit. Run diagnostic on the communication software.” The SUV was gaining on him again. He needed to put as much distance as possible between his pursuers and himself. Ahead, another intersection approached. He had an idea.

He touched the brakes and started a drift to the left. The SUV driver anticipated his turn, surged forward, and crossed his projected path, shooting into the intersecting street and skidding to a stop, blocking the road. Instead, Zach whipped the steering wheel to the right and punched the accelerator. The tires squealed as they clawed for traction on the pavement. He was nearly at the next corner when the SUV fishtailed into pursuit once more, accompanied by the distant sound of rubber peeling from the tires onto asphalt.

At the intersection, he whipped the wheel to the left. The little Mitsu skidded around the corner, its lone rear wheel chattering on the pavement, starting to drift. Zach corrected, and punched the accelerator again. Behind him, the SUV’s headlights turned the corner to the sound of squealing tires. It was almost half a block behind, but it was gaining again.

“Who is this guy, and what does he want, for fuck’s sake?” Zach hit the bright lights to compensate for the lack of streetlights on the road he careened along. He had an idea where he was, but he’d never been in this part of the city before.

“Diagnostic complete. Able to establish link. Do you wish to establish—?”

“Hell yes,” Zach shouted at the steering wheel microphone. “Link to 911. Emergency.”

“Unable to establish link at this time.”

He stared speechless at the dash. Fear and frustration roiled inside him. The SUV was less than half a block behind, again. It had to be jamming his car’s communication software somehow. Behind him, the SUV’s headlights filled his mirror. “Auto-nav,” he shouted. “Calculate route to the nearest open convenience store.”

“Unable to establish navigation route at this time.”

“Shit.” He shoved the accelerator harder.

The driver of the SUV wasn’t going to fall for another fast one. Maybe, Zach thought, if he got to a convenience store, the clerk could link up to the police and he could avoid being featured on the late-night news feeds.

“Never a cop around when you want one.” The speedometer climbed past seventy miles an hour. The SUV was still gaining. He pressed the accelerator again. The lights of other cars flashed in the gaps between buildings. The next cross street should take him back to a major road. Should. At the intersection, he jammed on the breaks. He threw the car around to the right, punched the accelerator, and slid the Mitsu between two multi-story concrete buildings and onto—a dead-end street.

Zach gritted his teeth and stood on the brakes. The Mitsu’s tires screeched on pavement. The tiny car slipped sideways in the patches of gravel. He closed his eyes. The Mitsu fishtailed to a skewed stop barely five feet from a yellow and black striped metal barricade where the street ended. A canal crossed the space beyond it. Sixty feet away, on the far side of the canal, the street continued.

“Shit,” he shouted. A cloud of dirt and rubber billowed around the car, forming a haze in his headlights. He sat panting, adrenaline pouring through his veins. Behind him, the SUV squealed to a stop blocking the street, closing off his only escape.

CHAPTER 6

A smile touched the edges of Stiles’s lips. “This works for us. Thomas is out of the game, and if we do nothing, the cops’ll take care of the rest of the problem for us.” He dropped onto the leather couch at his campaign headquarters.

Brown scowled. He stopped pacing and regarded Stiles. “How do you figure?” Past Stiles, a few lights were visible on the night-time gulf through the penthouse’s glass-paneled wall,.

“Simple. Marshall can’t prove he didn’t off Thomas. He can’t prove he didn’t set off the explosion at his place and chicken out of blowing himself up at the last minute.”

“But the whole thing is just plain nuts if anybody gives it a second thought.” He dropped into one of the large, leather chairs opposite Stiles.

Stiles’s mouth formed a thin line as he mulled the scenario over. “The cops’ll never think twice. They’re paid to close cases, not think. You watch, he’ll go down so quick you’ll think he’s got lead weights in his shoes.”

Brown wasn’t as convinced as Stiles that they were out of the woods. He had to admit, though, the man was rarely wrong when it came to estimating the depth of humanity’s greed, stupidity, and laziness. “Yeah, but what about the computers Murphy sent the other two to fetch?” He gestured with a hand.

“Hansel and Gretel?”

Brown rolled his eyes. Sometimes, Stiles’s habit of hanging nicknames onto everyone wore a little thin.

“What’s their names, then?” Stiles asked.

“Hayes and Boone,” Brown said.

“What about them?”

“They went and took the computers, for Christ’s sake. That won’t show up on somebody’s radar?”

Stiles shrugged and raised his eyebrows, “So?” He leaned back on the couch and crossed his ankles on the antique coffee table. He lit a cigarette and took a deep drag. “Kind of ironic, isn’t it?”

“What is?”

“This might work out better if we just stop right now. Nobody will believe anything Marshall says about anything. Hell, it may not even occur to him.” Stiles shot out a hard laugh. “He’ll have plenty to keep him busy until after the election, and by then…” he blew smoke toward the ceiling.

“It would be better if he were to have an accident while in jail, but shit, how to pull it off would be the question.” Brown chewed a fingernail, pensively. “I don’t like this level of potential for mistakes.”

Stiles took a deep pull on the cigarette. He let the smoke out, slow and controlled. “There’s always a way. I haven’t made it this far in politics by sitting around waiting for something to happen. I succeeded because I make things happen.”

Brown nodded in agreement. “We should also consider moving Murphy into a position where he’s less visible, less associated with us. Just in case.”

“Why?” Stiles cast a sidelong glance at Brown. “He did what he was supposed to. He got us out of a jam.”

“And he was useful, but he’s becoming a liability.”

Stiles said, “This is why we have the bastard.”

Brown stared silently at Stiles for several long seconds.

Stiles returned Brown’s poker face with one of his own. Stiles’s right hand rubbed at his left forearm, the fabric hissing quietly in the silent room. “Okay.” Stiles snorted. “He goes someplace safe, but not too far. We might need him again.” Smoke trail off Stiles’s cigarette, a thin, blue ribbon moving with the rhythm of his heartbeat. “Tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow.” Brown let a disgusted edge creep into his voice. “Funny how many times I’ve heard that word in the last six months.”

***

“I said ‘where’s your warrant?’ Seems a simple enough question.” The stubborn old man stood in the doorway, arms crossed, feet spread in a wide, solid stance. His deeply lined face held all the expression of a stone as he spoke. “I assume you children did at least hear about quaint concepts like search and seizure and probable cause while you were at the Academy?” His voice was a low rumble and more than a little threatening. His flat, cop’s eyes scanned the two young Secret Service agents standing outside GenTest’s door.

Hayes held up his Secret Service ID again, hoping to hide his flush-cheeked insecurity. He cleared his throat, trying to keep his voice from cracking. “I said, ‘We are part of the Department of Homeland Security,’” as if that explained everything. “And you are impeding an investigation. You will move away from the door or we will place you under arrest.” He spoke over his shoulder to where his partner stood behind him. “Special Agent Boone, escort this man to the car. If he resists, stun and restrain him.”

Willis stepped back, eyes narrowed, jaw set. “I have no intention of impeding your anything, but I’ll need copies of those ID’s.” He held out his hand, palm up.

Now it was Hayes’ turn to stall. “Copies? We’re—”

“A part of Homeland Security. So you said. You can have anything you want, but you’ll let me copy your ID’s and you’ll sign a receipt for everything you take out of the building.” He widened his stance. “Or I’ll call the real police, and you can discuss it with them.” Willis stood as still as if he were trapped in amber, his hand still out.

“I… umm… okay, sure.” Hayes squirmed inside. He needed those computers and samples, and if a signature got the job done, so be it. “Yeah, here.” He handed his ID to the old man. “Boone,” he spoke over his shoulder to his partner. “Give this gentleman your creds.”

She passed her ID to Willis without a word.

He pointed an accusing finger at the pair. “You two can wait here while I go copy these.” Willis took the ID cards, closed and locked the door, and marched into the reception area. He stepped around a corner and disappeared from view.

“Jesus, who is that guy?” Hayes winced at Boone’s disapproving glare. “Don’t look at me like that. What would you have done?” He wiped perspiration off his upper lip. Sweat trickled down the center of his back.

Boone shrugged. “Probably gone to Atlanta and visited with my mother. You realize what we’re doing is illegal, right?” Her face was as expressionless as the old man’s had been. “I’d bet next month’s paycheck he’s a retired local cop. That old man is not going to be intimidated by any shit we sling in his direction.”

“Hell yes, I know it’s illegal. You want to explain the finer points of law to Johnson, when we don’t have those computers in the morning?”

Boone frowned. “No. I’d rather the old guy shoot me. You’re sure the order to confiscate came from Johnson, right?”

Hayes hesitated. “Yeah, that’s what Murphy said. The higher-ups want them for something.”

“Maybe we should just let the old guy call the local badges and spend the night in jail,” she said and grinned at Hayes. Her white-toothed smile contrasted sharply with the darkness of her skin.

Hayes rolled his pale blue eyes. “You’re a big help. I’ll be happy if we have jobs next month.”

Boone’s expression went asphalt flat. “I’ll be happy if we’re not in prison next month. Shh, here he comes.”

Willis returned with their ID’s. There was a clipboard in his hand. He gestured over his shoulder with a thumb. “Let’s go, children.”

***

Zach’s hands trembled as he popped the Mitsu’s door. He stepped out onto shaky legs and glanced quickly around, his breath coming in shallow, short gasps. Solid concrete walls created an artificial canyon on either side of the street. Dust mixed with the stench of burned rubber from his panic-stop swirled around him, causing Zach to cough. Gravel crunched under his feet as he ran around the rear of his car and approached the guardrail. The metal was cool under his hands as he leaned over the rail. He scanned both directions, searching for a way to run.

Windowless two-story concrete buildings lined his side of the canal. Their stark, rear surfaces backed up to the edge of tangled brush. Small trees led down the bank to the water, extending into the darkness in either direction. Someone had recently trimmed the leafy, upper portions away, leaving mostly branches and stems. There was no room to run between the unbroken concrete walls and thick tangle of overgrowth, and nowhere to hide in the waist-high scrub.

Moonlight turned the densely packed vegetation charcoal gray and left only a few inky, impenetrable shadows underneath. Whatever those shadows held, he was certain it wasn’t safety. Nowhere to go except straight ahead. A quick peek over the metal barrier revealed a concrete seawall where he stood, with a drop of a good six or eight feet to the water below.

From his vantage point, Zach could see the road he’d been trying for. Two blocks past the far side of the canal, it ran parallel to the road he’d veered off of. The moderate traffic and bright lights only accentuated the quiet. A bridge crossed the canal three blocks further south. It was the road he thought he’d turned onto.

“Dammit.” He slapped a palm on the guardrail in frustration. His heart pounded toward the brink of panic as he realized there was no way out except the way he’d come.

The SUV sat fifty or sixty feet away, angled across the far end of the street, blocking the entrance. The passenger door opened. No interior light illuminated the inside of the truck. A big guy in a black suit stepped out from the door. In the dim light from a streetlight half a block away, he was little more than a silhouette. Zac could just make out the big guy’s dark, close-cropped hair.

Inside the SUV, a flame flickered and Zach caught a glimpse of the driver. He also had short, dark hair, and wore a dark suit. The light went out, and the driver blew a cloud of smoke out through his half-open window and turned to watch. Zach breathed a sigh of relief when the man stayed in his seat.

The man who stood next to the truck looked as big as the SUV. He stepped toward Zach and slid a hand under his open suit jacket. Another wave of fear jolted Zach. He reached in through the Mitsu’s open door and switched off the lights. He pulled the door back and down until it latched, never taking his eyes off the man.

“I don’t guess he’s taking out his insurance information,” Zach said to himself. He reconsidered going over the barricade and into the canal. If he leaped from the top of the guardrail, pushing off with everything he had, he might make it half way, to what was probably the deepest part. He wondered how deep it was.

The water behind him in the canal had reflected the black sky above, making its depth a mystery. It could be anything from an ankle-breaking six inches to fifteen feet of dirty, brackish slime. He was pretty good at holding his breath and swimming underwater, but he doubted he could put enough distance between himself and the big guy to avoid a bullet in the back. A cold chill accompanied the realization that he was going to be found dead in a canal, if he were ever found at all. The link numbers he’d stashed in his shirt pocket this evening flashed through his mind, replaced just as quickly by the image of Special Agent Goode leaning over his desk, smiling at him.

“This sucks.” He straightened and faced his attacker. A couple of blocks away, a pair of headlights reflected off a storefront in the darkness as a car turned onto the street and toward them. Neither of the other two men seemed to notice. The headlights grabbed Zach’s attention, though, because they flicked off. The car accelerated.

The big man in black squared off and broadened his stance. Zach imagined the bastard grinning at his predicament and his fear turned to ice-cold hatred. In the distance, the lightless car silently sprinted toward them. Zach stared at the surrealistic scene, mesmerized, as much by the sight of the relentless acceleration of the car behind his pursuers as at their ignorance of its approach.

The man from the SUV slid his hand from under his jacket, and raised his arm toward Zach, the glint of metal unmistakable. Zach took a step toward the canal as the rapidly approaching car’s high beams split the darkness. He realized what the other driver was planning and he stared in disbelief. Caught off guard, the big man spun awkwardly, turning what Zach could see now was a cannon-sized gun toward the speeding car.

The SUV’s driver pitched himself toward the passenger side door as the big guy with the gun scrambled to his right for a better shot. Finishing his arc, he brought the gun to bear over the SUV’s hood and pulled the trigger. As Zach crouched, shielding his head with his arms, the gun’s report reverberated through the alley and echoed off the buildings lining the canal.

Again. The gun’s blast filled the space.

Zach cowered against the Mitsu, eyes shut tight, teeth clenched, waiting. The collision’s sound came as a large, metallic, smacking, crunch, like a truckload of aluminum cans all being crushed at once. It rumbled through his shoes and reverberated off the buildings on either side of him. A split-second later, the echo returned to him from across the canal. A part of him wondered if he was going to be hit by flying debris or bodies. Holding his breath, Zach braced for the impact, waiting for one or both vehicles to pile into the Mitsu, sending it and him through the guardrail and into the unknown darkness at the bottom of the canal.

An awful silence filled the dead-end street, broken only by Zach’s panting and the occasional faint moan off to his left.

After a few seconds that seemed a lifetime, he opened his eyes. The SUV sat at a forty-five degree angle to the street, a good twenty-five feet closer to Zach. The passenger’s door was flung open, its shiny metal surface wrinkled where the impact force had sprung it too far around for the hinges. Both the driver and the gunman were lying motionless on the ground, a few feet from the crumpled heap that had been their ride. He was reminded of vids he’d seen of urban carnage during the Water Wars in the twenties, before he was born.

He stood. His heart beat like a drum in the hands of a madman on meth. Numb and barely breathing, Zach walked from behind his car and slowly passed the battered black SUV, keeping a wary eye on the two unconscious forms in the street. “Christ,” he said, in disbelief, when he came equal to the smashed driver’s side of the truck and turned to survey the damage.

It looked like a toy truck a malicious child had folded partly in half over a knee. The roof was crumpled into a twisted peak at the center. The driver’s side front wheel was bent at an odd angle, and there was no glass left in any of the windows. Inside, a half-dozen airbags had inflated, protecting no one. The older version Auto-drive system emitted a soft beep. A small, metallic voice repeated, “Accident detected. Do you wish the police informed?”

He slowly shook his head and stared in silence at the wreckage that had been the truck chasing him. “Jesus,” he whispered to himself. “What could those guys possibly want with me?” The big, internal combustion SUV, the black suits, the wonky way his Auto-link had quit working like it was being jammed when they closed in. The whole scenario could’ve had “government” stamped all over it in big, red, letters. The hair at the base of his neck prickled.

He blew a breath through pursed lips as he surveyed the other vehicle. It had been a large, antique American sedan in its former life. Now, its hood was bent up in the middle, blocking his view inside the car. The front end had tried to fold under the rest of the carriage, angling the body up almost two feet at the driver’s door.

The car’s flattened front wheels pointed in different directions. Steam billowed from the crumpled radiator, hissing into a misty cloud that obscured the interior. The car’s coolant streamed into a shining, iridescent pool on the pavement underneath it and ran toward the edge of the street. A choking, gurgling sound escaped from somewhere deep inside what was left of the engine compartment, like something dying.

Zach moved to get a better angle on the passenger compartment and his savior. What was left of the windshield was a fine texture of crazed glass, with fracture lines spreading out from two holes in the driver’s side. A fine haze from the airbag clouded the inside of the passenger’s compartment and hid the driver from view. Zach’s stomach lurched as he made out a still, dark form in the driver’s seat.

Zach threw caution aside and stepped to the door. No tones or warning voices issued from the antique vehicle. His nose wrinkled in reaction to the smell of spent gunpowder mixing with the overly sweet scent of engine coolant. The driver’s window was at chest level, allowing him a clear view of the unconscious driver’s face. His breath hitched in his throat. Special Agent Goode sprawled on the partially reclining seat, the deflated driver’s air bag lay in her lap. Blood trickled past her closed left eye.

CHAPTER 7

Zach swallowed past the knot forming in his throat. “Special Agent Goode?” He laid a hand on the door. The other, he rested on the car’s roof as he leaned toward the opening where the driver’s window should have been. “Special Agent Goode, can you hear me? Are you all right?” he managed to croak. Adrenaline dried his mouth and pitched a ragged edge into his voice. As he wondered how he would get her safely out of the mangled car, a weak cough escaped her lips. She groaned, and coughed again, this time rolling toward the passenger seat and retching. As she moved, shattered chunks of safety glass fell off her with a soft rattling sound.

“Special Agent Goode? Can you hear me?” He tried the door handle, but it refused to budge. He tugged again, harder, with the same result.

Goode wiped the back of her hand across her mouth, and pushed up in her seat. “Ouch,” she said to no one. “Fuck, that hurts.” Her eyes were open, but unfocused.

He slapped the bent metal of the door with his palm. “Special Agent Goode,” he practically shouted.

At the sound, Goode jumped in her seat, sending another shower of safety glass to the car’s floor. Turning her head toward Zach, she stared at him through glazed eyes. She blinked. Recognition bubbled into her eyes. “You’re okay.” She blinked a couple of times, still dazed.

Goode rolled her neck, then shook her head, sending the glass chips flying from her hair. They glittered on her black suit jacket. “Little help here, would ya?” Goode unhooked the seat belt, but it refused to retract. She yanked the door handle from the inside and nudged her shoulder against the door with a grunt. The door stayed where it was.

“I tried that already. Just stay there. The police will be here in a minute. They can call the fire department, and they’ll get you out safely.” The sound of distant sirens punctuated his statement.

Goode turned away from Zach and mumbled something unintelligible as she crawled between the seats into the back of the sedan. More glass dropped off her as she went.

“Special Agent Goode,” he shouted, as he followed her to the rear seat. “Please don’t move. You could be hurt.”

“Please back up, Dr. Marshall.” She tugged the rear door handle, and kicked the door. It was stuck as solidly as the front. Shattered safety glass disintegrated from the frame. “Damn. Sorry, Dr. Marshall.” Goode dropped onto the rear seat and braced herself against it, her head and shoulder on the console. She kicked the large rear window of the sedan with both feet, peeling the window out and to the side like heavy canvas.

She turned onto her knees on the rear seat and crawled through the hole left by the rear window. “Little help, please, Dr. Marshall?” she grunted. “If you’re not too busy.”

“Oh, Jesus.” He scampered onto the car’s trunk and grabbed Goode’s hand. He pulled her through the opening, sending a cascade of glass spilling off the rear of the car. As soon as she was out, he jumped to the pavement, glass crunching under foot, and offered his hand to help her down. She took his hand, dropped onto the trunk lid and slid to the pavement next to him, losing her balance and stumbling into him. She grabbed his shirt, and he threw an arm around her for support.

He grasped her arm at the elbow. “Special Agent Goode,” his voice trembled again. “Please sit down and wait for the Med Techs. You’re hurt.”

“I’m fine,” she said, standing on her own. “We have to leave the vicinity. Right now.”

“But you’re bleeding.” He pointed to his own forehead.

Goode touched her forehead at the scalp line and glanced at her bloody fingertips. “So I am.” She tugged the white handkerchief from her suit jacket pocket and pressed it against the laceration. Wincing as she did, she stepped away from Zach and brushed at her powder-covered black suit. The movement caused her to stumble again. Moaning from the other side of the SUV sharpened her movements. She kept her eyes in the truck’s direction as she spoke, “Dr. Marshall. Please go and back your vehicle out past the SUV.” She pointed to where his car sat.

“I don’t—”

She strode toward the SUV.

“Maybe we should—”

She continued toward the wrecked black hulk, ignoring his protestation. “Now, Dr. Marshall. If you don’t mind,” she barked. She dipped her hand inside her suit’s jacket pocket as she walked.

Zach trotted to his car, lifted the door and slid into the driver’s seat. As he closed his door, the sharp snap of an electric discharge followed by a feeble groan came from the direction of the SUV. The sound of ripping cloth came next. He backed the Mitsu even with the SUV as Goode stood up, turned, and walked toward her wrecked car, still a little unsure of her footing. She brushed more of the safety glass from her hair, wisps of which had come loose and spilled onto her shoulders. He pressed the accelerator, moving alongside her.

Standing at the rear of the crumpled sedan, Goode popped the fuel inlet, stuffed one end of a length of what appeared to be part of a shirt into the opening. She lit the other end with a lighter, then stuffed the lighter into the opening with the cloth.

He unlocked the passenger door, allowing it to lever up and forward.

Goode straightened her suit jacket and brushed more glass chips onto the pavement. She dropped into the passenger’s seat and dragged the door down into position. Leaning her head against the seat back, she closed her eyes. “Please drive away from the scene, Dr. Marshall. Drive at the posted speed limit, and obey all traffic laws. If you aren’t sure you are able to do so, please engage the car’s Auto-drive function.”

“But—”

“Now, Dr. Marshall. I’ll explain once we’re safe, but we don’t have long.”

They backed past the wrecked antique Cadillac, turned out of the side street, and drove slowly away. “Auto-drive,” he said after a moment. The thin green stripe shone across the dash. “Laz’s house.” He released the wheel. Behind them, the smashed sedan exploded in a fireball, lighting the surrounding buildings and throwing bits of debris skittering across the street. Zach winced.

He turned to where Goode leaned back in the seat next to him, applying pressure to her forehead.

“Is Laz’s house okay?” he asked.

“That’s fine, Dr. Marshall. I was going to suggest it myself.”

“Shouldn’t we have waited for the police?” Zach asked, as evenly as he could manage. “They’ll have questions.”

She exhaled slowly. “Yes. They will. Like what a former Secret Service Agent was doing ramming a Secret Service vehicle with a stolen car.”

His mouth fell open. “Former…?”

Goode turned toward him, and flashed him a quick smile. “I don’t think I care to answer those questions at this time. Also,” her face went flat. “There’s the little matter of keeping you alive until I can assure your safety.”

“What? Why?”

“How far are we from Dr. Thomas’s home?”

“About twenty-five minutes,” he answered. “He lives on the north side of town, up past Dunedin, almost to Tarpon. It’s one of the new subdivisions and he got a really good deal, because…” he trailed off. “Sorry,” he offered. “I’m a little nervous.”

“Understandable, given our current circumstances.” She nodded. “Please speed up.”

He reached for the steering wheel. “Manual drive.” He felt the wheel go responsive in his hands. He pressed on the accelerator. “Do you want to tell me what’s going on now, Special Agent?”

Goode shook her head, “I’d rather wait until we get to Dr. Thomas’s house. Then I only have to tell it once. I feel a little shaky at present and would like to lie down for a moment.”

He pressed a little harder on the accelerator. “Okay, but the anticipation is killing me.”

She narrowed her eyes at him. “That’s not what’ll kill you tonight, Dr. Marshall, if I’ve screwed up. When we’re close to Dr. Thomas’s house, please find an inconspicuous spot to park the car, off the street and less than an eighth of a mile from the house if possible.”

“Why?”

“So we aren’t observed as we approach the dwelling.” Goode checked the blood stained handkerchief, grunted once, lay back in the seat, and closed her eyes.

***

Newman rolled onto his back and gagged. Fighting panic, he struggled onto his right side and coughed fresh blood onto the asphalt. His head throbbed and spun like he’d been on a two-week binge, but it was nothing compared to the searing pain in his nose. “Holy Mother of God,” he whispered to the pavement. “What the hell happened?” Sirens sounded in the distance, growing louder by the second.

He opened his eyes and surveyed his surroundings. He was in an alley, lying on pavement strewn with sand and pea-sized gravel. It was dark. “Where’s…” When he couldn’t breathe past the swelling in his nose, he took a breath through his mouth. He’d been with Murphy. They’d trapped that asshole doctor in the alley. “Murphy?”

A groan from a few feet away floated over to Newman. The sirens rose in pitch to deafening levels as flashing red lights ricocheted off the surrounding surfaces.

Someone knelt in front of Newman, shining a bright light into his face. The voice was that of a young man, early twenties, by Newman’s guess. The light made him wince and he shut his eyes tighter in response.

“Are you all right? Can you hear me?” the man asked.

“Yeah. I’m okay. Get that thing outta my face. It hurts like hell.”

“Don’t move.” Another young voice sounded from where Murphy lay about five feet away on the pavement.

“Goddamn it.” It was Murphy’s voice, but it was thick and slurred. The medic backed off as Murphy’s arm swung wild at the kid.

“Hey, buddy! Calm down. We’re here to help.”

The first medic shined the light into Newman’s eyes. “Can you tell me your name?” The man handed Newman some gauze. “Here. Your nose looks like it might be broken. Man,” the medic said and shifted his attention behind Newman. “That’s quite a crash. Which one were you driving?”

“Name’s Newman,” he said, in response. “I was driving the SUV.” Newman worked his way to a sitting position and shifted until he saw the remains of the specially equipped vehicle. “Jesus,” he said. Beyond the twisted truck, a car sat, its front end pounded flat. Past that, a fire truck blocked the street at the corner. Three men were spraying foam on the smoldering pile of metal. “What happened?”

The medic pulled a flexible cuff out of a white plastic box at his side on the pavement. “Can you take your arm out of your jacket, sir? I need to get a set of vitals.”

As Newman did, Murphy shouted, “Get your goddamn hands offa me.”

“Was he driving the other car?” the medic asked. He wrapped a cloth sleeve around Newman’s arm and started pumping a black, hand-sized bulb connected to it by a slim rubber hose.

“No,” Newman shook his head past the throbbing. “He was in the SUV with me. We couldn’t see the other driver.”

Behind the medic, Murphy struggled to his feet, mumbling curses as he went. Newman made out something that sounded like, “…find out who was driving that piece of shit and break his goddamn neck.” Murphy stood despite the other medic’s protestations, staggered, and waved the other man away. As he strode past Newman’s feet, Newman saw one of Murphy’s shirt sleeves was missing.

A second later, a cry like a wounded animal echoed through the alley. It was only with the extended string of curses following, that it became Murphy’s voice.

“I better go see what’s up.” Newman pushed to his feet when the medic undid the cuff from around his arm. Walking around the mangled SUV, Newman shook his head in disbelief at the damage. “Christ, what was that guy driving, that he folded a truck in half like that?” Ahead, Murphy was on his knees on the pavement. His shoulders slouched and jerked, his back was bent, and his arms rested on his legs. Newman wondered what had Murphy behaving in such an uncharacteristic manner.

Turning away from the sobbing Murphy, Newman looked at the vehicle someone had attacked them with. The burned-out shell still sizzled and pinged, but the fire was out. A stream of water and foam trailed from it to a sewer opening in the curb at the street corner. Newman’s mouth dropped open when he recognized what was left of the car’s lines and paint scheme. Murphy’s car had rammed them, destroying both vehicles. “Oh, Christ,” Newman whispered and shook his head. “He’s really gonna be pissed.” He walked up beside Murphy. “How…?”

Murphy turned on him. His face was shock-pale. The look in his eye was murderous. “I’m going to find this sonofabitch, and when I do…” he trailed off, and began to shake.

One of the medics draped a thin, silver-colored Mylar sheet over Murphy’s shoulders. At the corner, the fire crew began the arduous task of rolling up hoses and replacing them on the truck as the first police car showed up.

“Hey, guys.” It was the medic who Murphy had brushed away. “You should let us take you to the hospital and get checked out.”

“Go,” Murphy said over his shoulder.

“What about you?” Newman held pressure on his nose, the gauze under it slowly filling with blood.

“Go, goddamn it,” Murphy hissed. “While you’re waiting, you can start the paperwork to explain this,” he gestured toward the wreck, “shit.”

“What do I say about…” he hesitated to say Marshall’s name, not wanting the medics to overhear anything.

“We were following the suspect home when he spooked and attempted to evade us.” Murphy drew a breath. “He turned into the alley. We stopped to identify ourselves, but before we could,” he said, rocking back on his heels. The steaming, twisted pile of scrap that had been his pride and joy popped and pinged as the metal cooled. “We were rammed by an unidentified assailant and we fear Dr. Marshall was kidnapped.” He shook his head. “Scratch that. We suspect Dr. Marshall is part of a terrorist cell and a threat to Candidate Stiles.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah, then get a ride. Get over to Marshall’s lab. Make sure Hayes and Boone got the computers and stake the place out. He’ll go back there. Stay out of sight. I want the bastard and whoever helped him—sons of bitches.”

“Murphy?”

Murphy jerked a thumb over his shoulder as a response.

“Okay.” Newman climbed into the rear of the ambulance, and onto the stretcher. His last view of Murphy as one of the medics closed the rear doors, was the big man slowly circling his former ride, holding an ice bag against the back of his head.

The ambulance turned around in the alley and rolled past the wreck. Newman relaxed onto the thinly padded stretcher, realizing he hurt all over. He rubbed his chest at a particularly tender spot. As the medic adjusted some equipment on the wall, Newman unbuttoned his shirt and checked. The two small round burn spots on his chest caught him by surprise, but he said nothing.

***

Zach and Special Agent Goode rode in silence along Keene Road north of Clearwater. He kept the car on manual drive to occupy himself, but glanced at where she lay next to him with her eyes closed, more than absolutely necessary to check on her. She slouched in the seat, her elbow propped against his seat back to keep pressure on the handkerchief pressed to her forehead. After twenty minutes, a series of floodlights shining on pair of landscaped, curved brick walls on either side of the boulevard announced they’d arrived at the Willow Run Subdivision, Laz’s neighborhood. He hooked a right off the main road. “We’re here.”

Goode straightened up in the seat. “Is there a place to park within our needs?”

“Yeah, sure,” he said. Just inside. There’s some mail boxes—”

“Then please enter the complex and park,” she said in a calm voice.

He found a space on the quiet entrance road, close to a small bank of mailboxes and did as she requested. They stepped out in unison. As they walked away, the car’s auto-lock mechanism engaged, arming the alarm. Although she seemed steadier on her feet, Goode still had a glassy look in her eyes and the handkerchief pressed against her forehead was turning red. A few more strands of blond hair had worked loose from the topknot on her head.

“Is that the new alarm system?” Goode asked, her tone casual.

“Yeah, it was still in beta stage when I bought the car, but it’s great. The fob is a miniature sending unit that locks and unlocks the car and boots the onboard from hibernation at fifteen feet. There’s a DNA reader in it, so the system only activates for me. I have to be inside the car for the drive train to unlock, and if anyone tampers with the onboard, it sends a distress call to the police.” Zach realized he was babbling, and stopped talking.

Goode nodded. “Sounds cool.” She stopped. “Which one is Dr. Thomas’s house, sir?”

A row of large houses with manicured lawns lined the broad, curved street where they walked. He pointed to the next intersection. “Left up there, and it’s the fifth house down.”

Goode surveyed the scene with a cautious eye. “That alley go past Dr. Thomas’s house?” She indicated a narrow lane between the lots, just past the intersection.

“Yeah, it goes past the rear of the houses on both streets for recycling pick up, and utility access, and what-have-you. His is the wood fence on the left. But I don’t…”

Goode turned into the alley with Zach right behind. As they crunched softly on the fine gravel, she straightened her suit jacket and brushed away the last of the airbag powder. When they reached the gate through the wooden fence leading into Laz’s back yard, she turned to him. “Can you open the lock on the gate, Dr. Marshall?”

“Yeah, sure, but shouldn’t we—”

“Then, please do so.” Goode stood, waiting, next to the gate.

“Okay.” He took a spare ring from his pocket, found a small brass key, and turned the lock on the gate.

“Please be as quiet as possible, Dr. Marshall.” Goode whispered. “It’s important we not alert anyone who could be listening.”

He nodded, afraid to ask who she thought might be listening. His hand shook as he removed the key from the lock.

“Dr. Thomas trusts you.” Goode commented in a low tone, as they stepped through the gate. She grabbed his arm, held it tight and scanned the yard.

“We’ve known each other since college.” He tried to match her whisper. His voice shook as he fumbled the key into a pocket. “He let me stay here while I was having my house renovated last year.”

“Sounds like a good friend.” Goode’s eyes moved constantly. “Please take some slow, deep breaths, Dr. Marshall, you’ll feel better.”

“Yeah, he is.” He did as she suggested and the shaking in his hands began to calm. “A good friend, I mean.”

Goode started for the rear of the house, gestured for him to follow. The house was dark. Zach checked his watch. Laz never went to bed this early, and if he was out, he always left a small light on in the kitchen. He caught up with her half way across the yard and touched a finger to her sleeve.

“What?” she asked.

“Something’s not right,” he whispered. “There should be a light on somewhere in the house, even if he’s not here. Laz has a thing about walking into a dark house.”

Goode nodded. “Smart man.”

“He grew up in Chicago,” Zach said, as if that explained everything.

They reached the concrete patio behind Laz’s back door, and Goode held up a hand. “Stay here and be quiet, please.” As he watched, she circled the house, checking each window. After a few minutes, she returned to where Zach waited.

“He have a blue Toyota?” she whispered.

He nodded. “A Quark.”

“He’s home.”

“Listen, I should try to link him,” he held his earpiece up. “He may not be alone. You know how it is.”

Goode’s lips formed a thin line. “That’s what I’m afraid of. Go ahead.”

Without voicing his question about what she was referring to, he slipped the receiver into his ear, and whispered instructions. After a long moment, he whispered, “Break link.” He looked at Goode. “Okay, I don’t understand.” He let a little of the frustration he was feeling show in his voice. “I don’t get it, he never ignores his link. Not in the ten years I’ve known him, and tonight, I can’t seem to tag him, no matter what.”

“Do you have a key to the house?”

He held up his thumb. “Right here. The lock is a biometric reader. He coded me in last year.”

She held an index finger across her lips, and whispered, “Okay, but be as quiet as possible.”

His hand shook as he approached the door with its biometric reader. He stopped. The small LED was a steady green, indicating the lock was disarmed. “This is all wrong,” he said. “Laz never leaves his lock disarmed. It’s a holdover from growing up in Chicago, like I said.” His thoughts focused on Laz as his hand extended toward the doorknob.

Before he could touch the knob, Goode gripped his arm. “No prints.” She unbuttoned her jacket and using it as a barrier between her hand and the metal, grasped the doorknob and quietly turned it.

The door swung open without a sound. They stepped inside Laz’s kitchen. When Zach inhaled to call Laz’s name, he caught a faint scent of something he could’t quite place. Goode put a hand over his chest as a gesture for him to be quiet.

“But—”

Goode leaned toward him and whispered into his ear. “Wait here.” She started into the dark kitchen in a crouch. Her hand moved under her jacket and withdrew a large, black, semi-automatic pistol.

As she stepped quietly across the terra cotta tiled floor, Zach followed at a discrete distance. “I think you should tell me what’s going on, right now,” he whispered. In the stillness of the dark house, his whisper sounded like he’d shouted at her across the street.

She stood up and whirled around to face him, her face as blank as a porcelain mask. She leaned in close and whispered into Zach’s ear, “There may be hostiles in the house, Dr. Marshall. I’m currently trying to ascertain the threat level and secure the premises. After which, I can inform both yourself and Dr. Thomas of the threat to your persons and attempt to map out a strategy to secure your safety.” She stared at him.

“Okay?” He didn’t know what else to say.

Goode rolled her eyes and spun back around. She took another silent step.

“I didn’t think anyone actually talked like that,” he whispered. “Is it an FBI thing?”

She stopped again, turning to face him more deliberately this time. “We are not the FBI. Until 2003, the Secret Service was under the Department of the Treasury. At that time, it became part of the Department of Homeland Security. It’s a Secret Service thing. It means stay here and be quiet, or we may be killed.”

He opened his mouth to speak, but she shifted the handkerchief to the hand holding the gun. She grabbed his jaw with her free thumb and middle finger, her index finger crossing his lips. Her face softened. “Please be quiet, Dr. Marshall, or I may have to shoot you myself.”

He nodded against her hand, but held up an index finger of his own. She inhaled a controlled breath as her lips formed a thin line. Her grip relaxed. “Zach,” he whispered. “Call me Zach.” He tried to smile at her past her finger over his mouth.

She released his chin and pointed her index finger at his forehead with her thumb extended, forming the shape of a gun. Slowly shaking her head, she brought her thumb down and poked her index finger against his forehead. She let her hand fall away and turned, resuming her crouch. They entered the dining room, Goode a step ahead. She quickly swept the room with her gun at chest level, and continued to the living room, indicating he should hang back with a sharp, whispered, “Stay.”

Goode stepped into the dimly-lit living room. Zach started to follow her. He sniffed, his nose wrinkled at a sour scent. What was…? He recognized it. Something was terribly wrong. Goode retreated through the doorway, almost knocking Zach over. She turned, back to the wall, her gun clenched beside her head in a two-handed grip, her eyes wide. “Out!” Her whispered command was a sharp slap. Her head whipped to the right and left, checking back the way they’d come and the direction they’d been heading.

She slid past him and grabbed the front of his shirt in one fluid movement. Dragging him after her, they moved back to the kitchen. Her head darted side to side, as if expecting someone to jump out of the dark at them any second. Blood trickled down the side of her face. She swiped at it with the back of the hand holding the gun.

He lifted his hand to where she held his shirt in a surprisingly strong grip, considering she’d walked away from a crash that demolished two cars less than an hour before. He tugged at her fingers to get her to loosen them, but she ignored the gesture. She dragged him across the kitchen, her gaze constantly shifting from side to side, trying to see everywhere at once. Her gun was still next to her head, pointed to the ceiling, but even in the dark, he saw her finger was on the trigger now.

At the rear door, she stopped suddenly, and he almost ran into her. She turned to face him, the fear plain in her eyes. “Listen closely. We are going to exit the premises and proceed quickly and quietly to the rear gate. We are going to stick to the shadows, and we are not, repeat, not going to speak. If I do this,” she released his shirt, held up her hand and made a fist. “It means stop where you are and do not move. If I do this,” she extended and flexed her fingers twice. “It means follow me. If I do this,” her hand swatted toward the floor, palm down. “It means hit the dirt. If I point, you go the way I point.” Her eyes narrowed. “If we take fire, and I get hit, you run like hell. Do not go home, and do not use a credit card. Nod if you understand.”

He nodded. His heart hammered in his ears.

She returned his nod. “Stay close, and stay quiet, and we may get out of this alive. Any questions?”

“Just one.” He hesitated for a beat. “What’s your middle name, Special Agent? Just in case. I’ve been wondering, and…” He let the question drop, amazed at his own inept timing.

She rolled her eyes. “If we get out of this alive, I still may have to shoot you on general principles.” She gripped the doorknob, using her jacket again and twisted it. “Ready?”

He nodded.

“It’s Elizabeth,” she said. “Sara Elizabeth Goode. Now stay close, and please try not to get us killed, Dr. Marshall.”

CHAPTER 8

Goode crouched low and eased the door open. When there was enough space, she edged out onto the concrete slab and moved to the side. After a moment, she motioned for Zach to join her. When he’d made it to the patio, she eased the door closed. Using her jacket again, she turned the knob to allow it to close without the latch clicking.

Satisfied, she started in the direction of shadows cast on the slatted fence by small citrus trees at the side of the yard. She motioned for him to follow, which he did without a sound.

Once they were crouched in the shadows under the trees, she held up a fist and he froze. Ahead of him, Goode cocked an ear, listening. The night around them was still. She crept toward the rear of the property with him close behind. The full moon illuminated the rest of the yard and the entire rear fence in bright, ghostly silver light.

The sky above was mottled in broken shades of gray, allowing the moon to break through here and there. When he turned his attention to Goode, she was staring at him. The blood tracing its way down her face and following her jaw line was black in the moonlight. She wiped the handkerchief over her face again, smearing the blood to a dark smudge across her cheek.

“Checking for clouds. Sorry,” he whispered.

She held her index finger over her lips. When he nodded, she slipped ghost-like, along the fence to the edge of the shadows. A moment later, when he moved in beside her, she grabbed his arm and tugged him close. At least one of them was trembling. He inhaled slowly. Under the tension coming off her in waves, he caught the scent of vanilla again.

She whispered into his ear, “I’ll go first. You’re going to stay here, and stay quiet. When I get to the gate, I’ll open it and you come. I go through the gate first. Don’t let it close until I have a chance to check the alley. Got it?”

Her breath was warm on his face. He nodded his understanding.

She let go of him, and ran, still crouched, to the gate. Half way, she stumbled once and went down on one knee. He inhaled a sharp breath and almost called out to her. Regaining her footing, she scrambled for the gate. Once there, she opened it a crack and held it with a foot while she scanned their surroundings. Then, she gestured for him.

When he reached her side, she opened the gate just far enough to get through. She leaned close. Her breath on his ear sent a shiver down his back. “You remember what I said? Don’t let it close until I check the alley.”

He nodded again and she was through the opening. He counted to three and followed, leaving a finger between the gate and the post. They crouched together in the shadow of the fence while Goode scanned the alley.

“Okay,” she whispered. “Let it close.” When it had, she stood up and started toward where his car was parked. She stumbled on her first step, and he gripped her arm to steady her. She straightened her jacket and motioned for him to follow.

As they walked, Zach whispered, “Okay, first, I’m sorry I came off so goofy in the house. Sometimes when I get nervous, I say stupid things.”

She nodded. “Don’t give it a second thought, Dr. Marshall.”

“You want to tell me what this is all about? What spooked you so badly in Laz’s house? And what was that with the SUV and the two gorillas?”

She spoke over her shoulder. “Later, Dr. Marshall. First—”

Zach stopped walking. “Now, Special Agent Goode.”

“Dr. Thomas is dead, Dr. Marshall.” The words filled the space between them, hitting him full in the face.

Blood roared in his ears. He blinked at her, half expecting her to tell him she was yanking his chain to repay him for being a dork. His mouth went dry at her silence. “Bullshit.” He turned on his heels and started back the way they’d come.

“Dr. Marshall.” He barely heard the sound behind him. “Dr. Marshall!” It was a hiss on the breeze, closer this time. A hand grabbed his arm.

He spun to meet Goode, ripped his arm from her grasp. “Lady, I don’t know who you think you are, or what fucked up game you’re playing, but I’m going back there and look for myself.”

“Wait a second.” She took a half step toward Zach and stopped him with her raised index finger. He stood for a long moment, glaring at her as she calmly holstered her pistol. When she was less than arm’s distance from him, she straightened. In one quick move, she shifted her weight to her rear foot and struck out with the heel of her palm, contacting his breast bone and sending him sprawling. The force of the impact dumped him onto the ground and knocked the wind out of him in a long grunt. Gravel scraped and jabbed at his back through his shirt as he rolled, trying to catch his breath.

“No, Dr. Marshall, you are not going back into the dwelling, sir. The area is not secure. You will get up and come with me to a place of safety. At that point, I will explain the entire circumstances to you and you can then decide on your next course of action. I cannot allow you to endanger yourself in this manner, sir.” She stood over Zach with her arms clasped behind her, staring straight ahead, as if he were still standing there.

“Ow,” he wheezed past the pain in his chest, trying to force the air back into his lungs. “That hurts.” He rolled onto his side, gasping, and propped himself up on one elbow.

Goode’s expression was as flat as slate. “Yes, sir, it does. Your breath will come back in a minute or two, but we should leave now, sir.”

“What’re you trying to do, kill me?” The sound was almost a whimper, even in his own ears.

A smile flickered over Goode’s face. “No, sir. I can assure you, if I were trying to kill you, the blow would have struck you five centimeters lower on the sternum. The force would have broken the xiphoid off the end and lacerated your liver, resulting in death from hemorrhage within a few hours.”

“My next course,” he panted, rubbing his chest and sitting up, “will be to contact your superiors.”

She held a hand out to Zach to help him up. “Unlikely that will help, sir,” she continued. “I currently have no direct superiors at the Secret Service, and it was my former colleagues who perpetrated Dr. Thomas’s murder and the attempted murder of yourself. As yet, I do not know how far up the chain of command this goes.”

Zach took her hand. “What?”

Her expression softened. “Please, Dr. Marshall, we don’t have much time. If you will come with me, I promise I’ll explain.”

He followed her, keeping to the edge of the alley and out of the moonlight as much as possible. When they reached the street, Goode stopped and stepped behind him to brush the dirt off his back.

“Thank you,” he said, as she started walking to the car.

“You’re welcome, Dr. Marshall.”

“I think I mentioned you can call me Zach,” he said, struggling to keep up with her strides while he rubbed his chest.

“You did, but you may not wish me to do so when you have heard my explanation for my actions this evening.”

“Okay, let’s go.” He shrugged.

She grabbed his arm and continued her taut, long steps, dragging him along. A few times, she swayed momentarily, but managed to keep her balance. Her head still swept side to side, scanning their surroundings. Her eyes shifted constantly, checking shadows for movement, or deeper shadows that didn’t belong, or who knew what else. Hell, he thought, he had no idea what her training had actually been.

They covered the last fifty feet to the car in silence.

She approached the passenger’s door and turned to Zach. The cut on her forehead was bleeding again. He couldn’t see her pupils in the available light, but her eyes were glassy enough that he was concerned for her. A red trickle ran down her face and over her cheek to her jaw, where she’d swiped at it several times, leaving a smear. Goode spoke again. “As I understand the software, you’re the only one who can drive your car. Is that correct?”

“Yes. Why?”

“Just gathering intelligence for potential worst case scenarios.”

“I guess you have to think that way. Part of the training, and all.”

She seemed uncomfortable. “In my line of work, surprises are usually unpleasant.”

“I understand.”

Her eyes continued to search the shadows, her tension palpable. “We should leave the area as soon as possible.”

“You’re injured,” he spoke in a serious tone. “Maybe we should get you to a hospital.” Zach opened her door for her.

She shook her head. Wisps of blond hair floated around her face. “I need to check something. Do you have a flashlight?”

“Yeah, sure,” he said, and leaned across, opening the glove compartment. He handed it to her. “What—?”

The question was cut short when Sara crouched, shining the light under his car, and it hit him.

“No. You have got to be kidding,” he grumbled, as he levered himself onto the pavement next to her.

Sara worked her way around to the front of the Mitsu, and with a grunted expletive Zach couldn’t quite catch, reached under the bumper and tugged. She stood, holding a tiny, black box, which she dropped to the pavement and crushed under her heel before returning to her seat.

“A bug? Really?” Zach said, following her. “Thing looked like it came from a store in a strip mall. What’s up with that? Secret Service having budget problems?”

She turned her head in his direction and stared at him from under her brows. “That was a non-standard tracker. We would just use your iLink or track your car through its Auto-nav system, which we have not been doing, to the best of my knowledge. That thing would track your car without having to go through channels. The batteries’ll die in a couple of months anyway, but we need anonymity right now.”

“Who the hell planted—the guy in the SUV?”

She nodded. It’s probably how he found you, tonight.

He rolled his eyes again. “Okay. About getting you to a hospital.”

“Thank you, but that won’t be necessary. I’ll be fine.” She slid into the seat, and reached for her handle to close the door. “I just need to rest.”

He closed her door before walking around to the driver’s side and climbing into his seat. When the software awoke, he instructed the car to drive south. Using a quieter secondary road would give him time to find out what was going on. He hesitated as the car wheeled out of the subdivision, unsure how to broach the subject. “I hate to ask you this, and please don’t take it the wrong way. How do I know you were telling the truth when you told me Laz was dead?”

She nodded. “Because…” she hesitated. “I was going to say, because I’m with the Secret Service, and no matter what, we’re committed to the job, to the truth. But as I’m currently acting on my own, proceeding under an ethical imperative, I can only ask you to suspend judgment until you have more information. I give you my word, I had to choose between your safety and your friend’s and I chose yours.” She inhaled and went on. “I had hoped to be able to secure both of you, but I was too late. For you to see him in that condition would have been counterproductive. I’m very sorry for your loss.” She sounded genuinely sad.

Memories of Laz flashed through Zach’s thoughts. The semester they met at school, how they’d become friends, how Laz had introduced him to Kathy, and how Laz had been there when she left. If Goode was telling the truth, there would be a hole in his life that would be hard to fill. He blinked the memories back before they could spill down his cheeks. “I understand, and I wanted to thank you for saving me. I believe that man from the SUV intended to shoot me.”

“Yes, sir. Those were his intentions.”

“Well, thanks. It was a hard decision.”

Her gaze landed on him for a second, and he saw, or hoped he saw something else under it. “You’re welcome. If it’s any consolation, I do sympathize with your loss. It’s always hard to lose a friend, harder when life leads you to believe you have a degree of safety.”

It was his turn to nod. “How was he… I mean, how did he die?”

Her eyes moved to focus on a spot over his left shoulder as she recited the facts in a calm, efficient, emotionless tone. “The victim was sitting in the living room on a dark leather couch. There were no signs of struggle, and no defensive wounds I could see from my vantage point. There was a single entry wound in the chest, approximately five centimeters to the left of the sternum. Directly in front of the victim, a half-full glass of an unidentified dark liquid sat on a coaster on the coffee table next to a plate containing a sandwich. Said table was approximately twenty centimeters from the couch where the victim sat.”

Zach blew out a breath. “That was… impressive, considering how quickly you dragged me out the back door.”

Some of the smile returned to her face. “Thank you, sir. We’re trained to take in details very quickly.”

Zach shifted toward her in his seat. “Tell me, do you always talk that way?”

She raised an eyebrow at him. “What way, Dr. Marshall?”

“I don’t know, like a goddamn robot. Like you’re giving a report.”

Goode started to answer, stopped and considered for a moment. “My apologies, Dr. Marshall. But it helps to maintain objectivity.” Her lips went thin. “You should know—”

“Come on,” he said, trying to smile. “Let’s get you cleaned up and you can tell me what this is all about over coffee, or dinner, or a drink, or something, and we’ll figure it out.”

“I don’t know, Dr. Marshall, I—”

“You do eat and drink, don’t you.”

She nodded, with a little hesitation. “Yes, sir, I do. It’s just…” she trailed off.

“Listen, can we at least make a rule? For the next ten minutes, you call me Zach, and I’ll call you Sara. Just ten minutes. If you don’t like it after that, we can go back to being all tight-assed. Okay?”

A smile crept across her lips. “I’d like that, Dr. Marshall, I mean, Zach.”

“The other part of the rule is I promise not to give you a hard time until you decide we’re safe and you can explain things to me. You can do your job and I’ll do my best to take orders.”

“Thank you, um, Zach.”

He held up a finger. “Consider me silly putty in your hands.”

His comment brought the smile to her eyes. She even chuckled once. “That might be too much to ask.”

“Have it your own way,” he said. Then, “How are you at small talk?”

The smile on her lips faded a bit. “Not very good, sir, um, I mean Zach. We don’t get a lot of time to socialize.”

“That’s okay,” he said. “I pretty much suck at it, too. Graduate school is the last, best killer of the socialization skills of young minds.”

She laughed again, and he decided he liked the sound of it. He gently squeezed his hand around her forearm. When she glanced at it, he shrugged. “Non-threatening, friendly gesture.”

She closed her eyes and shook her head, but the smile had returned to her lips.

“How’s your head?” Zach tossed the question at her slow and easy.

“Hurts like hell.” She tensed, as soon as she realized she’d let her guard down. “Sorry, I mean—”

“Yeah,” he said. “Bet it does. Dizzy?”

“A little.”

“Nausea?”

“Yes, Zach, I have a mild concussion. I recognize the symptoms.” Her voice carried more exhaustion than irritation.

“Tell me, what did you mean a little while ago?”

“Sorry? When?”

“When you said your colleagues had set out to kill Laz and me and you currently have no direct superiors in the Secret Service.”

She drew in a deep breath, and bit her bottom lip. He wondered if the gesture had been one from childhood, or a learned response she’d picked up as an adult. He found it an endearing characteristic, and determined to ask her later, if there was time.

“I am so far off the reservation on this, that I’ll probably spend the next ten years in federal prison.” She leaned back into her seat again and closed her eyes. “If I live that long. I have to contact Washington in the morning.”

“Crap. You’re serious.”

“Very.”

A chill crept up his back. “At least let me take you to my house where you can get cleaned up and I can take a peek at the cut on your head.”

Goode leaned her head against the seat back, the handkerchief against her forehead. “You can’t go back to your house, Dr. Marshall.” She sounded like the exhaustion was finally gaining on her for the first time.

“Ah, ah, ah,” he waved a finger at her. “It’s Zach.” He checked his watch. “We still have seven minutes. No, it’s okay,” he said, trying a smile. “I’m sure the fire trucks are gone by now.”

She slid him a sidelong look, and raised an eyebrow.

His heart dropped into his stomach. “That was my house?”

“I’m afraid so.”

“My…?” His gut twisted. “They burned my house down?”

She nodded once.

“I wasn’t even—who?”

“Murphy.”

“Who’s Murphy?”

“The SUV tonight.”

“The big guy or the driver?”

“The big guy.” She nodded her head. “Murphy. If you need a bull in your china shop, you want Murphy. Frankly, he scares me, and I don’t scare easily.”

“That why you ran him over with the car tonight?”

“I couldn’t think of any other means to get you away from them.”

“Who was the other guy? The driver, I mean.”

“Newman? Not a bad guy, just a little easily led, and Murphy has a strong personality.”

“If they’re responsible for Laz…. Why were you so cautious leaving his house? They were incapacitated and without wheels.”

“No way to be sure he doesn’t have other assets.” She shrugged a shoulder. “I figured we were better safe than sorry. Besides, in dangerous situations, we’re trained to get our charges to safety at any cost.”

He nodded. “Thanks. Not to question your decisions, but are they going to be all right?”

“I think so. They were breathing when we left them.”

“I think I heard the sound of a stun gun at some point.”

“I had to do something, and I couldn’t bring myself to…”

“Hard as it was, I have to agree with your decision.”

Sara exhaled. “I hope we live to regret it.”

“Yeah. It’d make my day, too.”

***

As they rolled along the dark road, she leaned the seat as far back as it would go and closed her eyes. Zach alternated between the rear-view screen and her face. Once, she was staring at him. It was somehow soft and intense at the same time, like she was looking into, not at him. It left him feeling warm and protected, like the times as a child he’d curled up under an old quilt in a corner of the back porch while winter storms spilled cold rain onto the roof by the bucket-full, when his mother had gone off her meds and locked herself in the house.

He shook it off. “Who is this guy Murphy? I mean, where did he come from. He doesn’t seem to fit the mold.”

“It’s a long story.”

“Let me check my schedule.” He hesitated half a heartbeat. “I seem to have some time available.”

“He’s former OCIS.”

He considered her words for a moment. “OCIS?”

Sara exhaled. “Office of Central Intelligence and Security.”

He stared at her, not sure he’d heard her right. “Central—? I thought the Secret Service was separate from those guys. Crap, they’re almost as bad as the terrorists they were originally organized to combat. Didn’t they just get caught—”

“Canada?” She closed her eyes for a moment. “Yeah. They bungled the nickel-mining op and pissed the Canadian Government off righteously.” She snorted, almost too quiet to hear. “Pretty much the only ally the U.S. still has, and they flagged around with them.”

“Clever bunch.” The sound she made was unself-conscious, innocent. It made him smile.

“Not very, but they’re effective in some of the really corrupt places in the world.”

“Like here.”

“So it would seem.”

Zach considered for a moment. “So, how does a guy like this Murphy end up in the Secret Service? Don’t you people have some kind of screening process or standards or something?”

“Oh, yeah,” she smiled. “There’s a screening process, and everyone you’ve ever known has to bring their own KY to the party. I’m not sure how Murphy ended up on the team. We were detailed to the duty at the same time, after Congressman Stiles announced his candidacy. I made the team because I grew up in Tampa and I’d recently managed a transfer back to this field office. Johnson and Morris are the older guys, and technically in charge, but about three months on, Murphy showed up from nowhere, and started working his own angles. Johnson thinks Rabbit or Sugar requested him personally.”

“Rabbit?”

She shrugged. “Code name. It refers to his habit—”

“I think I can figure that part out. Sugar?”

“As in brown sugar. Don Brown. The campaign manager and spin doctor.”

“Right. Why does he think that?”

“Two reasons—the director was pissed in a major way, and because Murphy gets a free rein. He seems to report to Brown and Stiles directly, which is unheard of.”

Zach nodded. “So this former OCIS dick just runs around bumping people off?”

“He’s never done anything like this before. This is over the top, even for Murphy. Before now, it’s been little things. Nothing Johnson or Morris could take to the director, it’s more his get it done mentality, going outside channels, that sort of thing. There’s something else…”

“What?”

“About a month ago, on a hunch, I entered and searched his apartment, and found a quantity of plastic explosive. I saw him leave his apartment with that explosive earlier this evening.”

“My house?”

“I believe so.”

His jaw tightened. “I’ll see him in jail for the rest of his life before this is over.”

“No, you won’t. Murphy will never go to jail.”

“Dead then. Either way’s okay with me.”

“I hope you don’t intend to follow through on that threat.”

“Why, Special Agent. You going to arrest me?”

“No. He’s trained and experienced. You’ll fail. Then, all this will have been for nothing. I wouldn’t like that very much.”

He sat back against his seat, and considered her statement. “Okay, we’ll table that plan for now. What’s next on the agenda?”

“The next order of business is to get to GenTest.”

“My lab?”

“Yes. We have to get into your lab.”

“No problem, It’s a biometric reader and I happen to have my thumb right here. Why?”

“We should get to your lab as soon as possible, preferably tonight, before evidence can be removed.”

“Evidence? What evidence?”

“Evidence in Dr. Thomas’s murder investigation, for one,” she said, “and conspiracy to commit murder, specifically yours. An attempt to cover up facts and defraud the American public, for another.”

“Evidence in a…” he hesitated as pieces dropped into place. “Cover-up.” The hair on his neck stood up. “The DNA sample.”

“Yes.”

CHAPTER 9

Zach leaned against his seat and stared out at the night, unable to comprehend what she’d just said. His mouth went dry as his car drove them through the night on auto.

“I’m sorry, Zach.”

Thoughts careened around the inside of his head until they stalled, leaving him with one inescapable conclusion. “My friend is dead because we did the testing on that sample. Because I did the testing on that sample.” He buried his face in his palms, trying in vain to wrap his mind around it. “I might as well have pulled the trigger myself.” Bile backed up into his throat.

“No.” The word was almost a command.

“No, what?” He spun on her in his seat as he struggled to catch his breath.

“No, you didn’t kill your friend.” She rolled onto her side in the seat, touched his sleeve with her fingers in a gesture of kindness. “I brought the sample, remember? You didn’t know where it came from.” Her voice softened. “I understand it’s hard to—”

He glared at Goode through tear-blurred vision. “Hard? Hard? Fuck hard. I thought you’d brought us a sample in some low-profile bullshit federal trial of some poor dip-shit that didn’t even merit coverage by the news feeds. But it’s not, is it?”

Goode shook her head.

“No. Hell, no,” he said, wanting to strangle her. “’Cause you’re not the FBI, you’re Secret fucking Service, and you don’t do terrorist plots, do you?”

“Not very often.” Her voice was little more than a whisper.

“No. What you do… is… guard… important… politicians…” It hit him like a bag of rocks. “And there’s only one around here that important. Stiles.”

She nodded again. Her face was expressionless, her eyes flat. “I knew if you had a minute, you could figure it out.”

He started to hyperventilate. “Oh, God.” He put his head in his hands.

“You really are as smart as your file says. Most people under the level of stress you’ve experienced tonight would have taken a couple of days to settle down enough to work it through.”

“The sample in the lab is from Stiles. I’ve analyzed his genetic code and found the locus for psychopathy in Stiles.”

Sara closed her eyes and nodded. “Yes.”

“But this is bullshit. It doesn’t mean he’s psychopathic. It only means he carries the gene for it. Hell, it could be the gene for hypercholesterolemia, sickle cell trait, or Tay Sach’s disease. It just means he has to be careful who he mates with and counsel his children. There’s nothing there worth this insanity. That’s what Stiles and all the other fear mongers don’t get. This is just information people need for intelligent choices.”

“You’re more correct than you realize, Zach.” She sounded tired again. “Here’s how it works in politics. The politician in question must appear perfect, your average super hero in a power suit. If something happens, and make no mistake, it must be something happening outside the politician, he can appear to grieve. That’s a positive, but any more than a short time, and he’s seen as weak. This… this makes Stiles appear flawed, and the American people will not tolerate a flawed candidate.”

“That’s just—”

“American politics.” She finished his sentence for him.

He squeezed his eyes shut, shook his head. “No. Why? Why would Stiles do something like this? With his stance on DNA testing… Oh my God,” he whispered. “He didn’t know, did he?”

“No. I don’t think Stiles wasn’t even aware he was being tested. He didn’t send it. Don Brown, his campaign manager gave me the sample.”

“Brown sent the sample because of Stiles’s stand on testing.”

Sara nodded. “He wanted to find out before the opposition could get a sample and do testing on their own. In politics, you never ask a question you don’t already have the answer to, and the first one who has any given information is almost always the winner. In this case, though, given the Congressman’s stance on genetic testing, if your data gets out, he’ll never be elected.”

“So people have been chasing me around, trying to kill me because I tested a DNA sample from Stiles, and he wasn’t even in the loop?”

“Yeah,” she said. “Sums it up pretty well.”

He sat for a long moment trying to wrap his mind around the insanity of his situation. “Does Stiles know about this part, the cover-up, Laz, me?”

“I honestly don’t know, Zach.” Her shoulders slumped.

It occurred to him she looked whipped, and the handkerchief she still held to her forehead was becoming saturated with blood.

He touched her shoulder. “You need to rest and we need to get that cut looked at.”

She shook his suggestion off. “Later. When there’s time.”

***

A few blocks from GenTest, he disengaged the autopilot and navigated the car manually. The tension returned to Sara’s posture as she scanned the streets leading to the lab.

“Please park down the street from GenTest. Is there a fence or other barrier between the properties?”

“No,” he said, recalling the hours he’d spent staring out the window at the green space in the months since Kathy had left.

“Is there a rear entrance?”

He nodded. “Yes, it’s card-coded, but it shouldn’t present a problem.” He shifted in his seat, and slipped his ID card from his back pocket. The guard won’t even think twice if I show up at night.”

“Can you get in without alerting the guard?”

He shrugged. “It’ll show up on the log, but we share the security company with the businesses on either side. Whether he notices depends on which building he’s checking at the time.”

“Is there any way to figure out exactly where he is?”

Zach checked his watch and nodded his head. “Yeah, he’ll be in our building for another ten minutes. His rounds are a half-hour per building. He goes from one building to the other, hangs around inside for twenty-five minutes, and checks the circuits. If they’re are all green, he goes to the next building, and so on.”

“How do you know the guard’s schedule so well?”

“I guess I spend too much time there,” he said, his cheeks going warm. He stared out the windshield at the lighted buildings they passed.

After a few minutes, Sara broke the silence. “You’re dedicated.”

“I’m boring. I spend too much time in the lab.” He shrugged it off. “But it seems it’s about to come in handy for something, after all.”

He guided the Mitsu into the parking lot three buildings away and across the street from the laboratory and parked. She sat up and placed a hand on his leg, but said nothing. He told himself it was to steady herself until the vertigo passed.

He checked his watch, again. “The guard should exit our building any minute.”

They sat quietly in the Mitsu until the guard stepped outside. He locked the door, and started away from them in the direction of the business on the other side from their position.

Sara slid her hand from his leg and opened her door. “Time to go.”

The two of them walked next door, to the health food store next to the lab. They cut across the front parking area, and crossed through the thick foliage of the green space between the lots amid a rustle of leaves. Sara caught her blouse on a bush and they had to stop for long seconds to free it. They stepped from the thicket and crossed to the rear of the lab building. At the door, the card-reader was as he expected. A small light beside the ergonomic reader blinked red, indicating the system was armed.

He stood in front of the door, swiped his ID card in the slot, and pressed his right thumb to the print reader. The light continued to blink red. Zach stepped back in surprise. “What the…?” he tried again, with the same result. “I don’t understand. This should open.”

“Yeah, that’s what I was afraid of.” She moved away from the door and around the corner. He followed her. After a few steps, she whispered over her shoulder, “Where is your computer?”

He stepped around her, walked a few paces to his window and stopped. He checked the green space behind them over his shoulder. “Right here. This is my window. Why?”

She stepped to the window, cupped her hands, and peered in through the glass. “Damn it.”

He placed the edges of his hands against the window and leaned onto them, straining to see what upset her. Inside the lab, everything was exactly as he’d left it earlier in the evening, except, what was…. He inhaled a sharp breath. His computer workstation was gone.

“Come on.” She started away from the lab.

“Wait.” He turned after her, but remained where he was.

Sara spun around and grabbed his arm, dragging him away from the window and toward the cover of the thicket. “Is there a backup mainframe?”

“We have a backup server in the front of the building where Delia sits.”

“Is she the receptionist?”

“Yeah. At the front of the building.”

“It’ll be gone as well. When they confiscated the server, it probably reset the entry codes. It’s a failsafe security routine in most systems. The guard has to re-enter you manually. We better get out of here.”

“But you don’t—”

“Is there an off-site storage server?”

“Well, sure, but—”

“We can access it with another computer.” They were almost to the tangled overgrowth separating the lab’s property from the health food store next door.

He stepped in front of Sara, put his palms on her shoulders. “You don’t understand.”

“Shit!” She sprang, tackling him.

Her arms were around him. Bushes and palmettos scraped and scratched through his shirt as they fell. He tumbled backwards onto the rough ground and landed on an exposed root with a sharp crack. Lights sparkled across his vision. Red-hot pain shot through his chest. He squirmed under her weight. Sara’s rough whisper was in his ear. “Don’t move. Someone’s entering the parking lot.”

“I can’t breathe.”

“Shh.”

She clamped his mouth closed with a hand. He inhaled through his nose against the pain in his chest. His fingers clawed into the dirt. Sara’s perfume caught his attention. He concentrated on the scent to take his mind off the sensation of suffocating.

Forty feet away, a car wheeled into GenTest’s parking lot. The lights went dead. A man in a dark suit stepped out of the car and headed to the front door. As soon as the man entered the building, she moved off Zach and he rolled to his side, panting, trying to catch his breath.

“Come on,” she whispered.

“I can’t,” he managed, through the gasps.

“Yes, you can.” She grabbed his hand and pulled him through his groan and onto his feet. He dropped breathless to one knee with his first step.

“God, that hurts,” he whispered as she dragged him to his feet, and stumbling, through the green space toward the health food store parking lot. His vision swam as they reached the other side of the bushes.

“Don’t be such a baby,” she said, letting go of his hand as they stepped out of the tangle of overgrowth.

He stopped and bent at the waist. “Easy for you to say,” he replied, through gritted teeth. “I landed on a root or something back there, and you landed on me. What do you weigh, three, four hundred pounds?” he gasped.

She tugged him along the far side of the thick brush, toward the street, checking the parking lot in front of the lab. “You’re a funny guy, Zach.”

“I’m not trying to be funny.”

“Good, ’cause it isn’t working.”

Zach stopped to catch his breath, but Sara grabbed his hand again and dragged him across the health food store’s parking lot with Zach limping to keep up, his free arm tight against his side. His surroundings danced around him.

“That’s Newman. We have to go. Right now.”

“Why?” Zach coughed out as they crossed the parking lot of the pool supply store on the far side of the health food store.

“Because he’s here to wait for you. They expect you might try to come back, but only if you don’t know they’ve taken your computer. That must be it. They don’t know that you know there’s no reason to come back to the lab.” She smiled. “Good, we’re finally a whole step ahead.”

He caught up with her and spun her around. “Wait a second,” he panted. “There’s more.”

She hesitated. “I don’t understand.”

Zach bent over at the waist with his hands on his knees, trying to catch his breath. “Then please stop talking for a minute. And stop running.” He made a couple of unsuccessful tries at deep breaths. Finally, he caught his breath. “That hurts. Now, what I’ve been trying to tell you, Ms. Arena Ball tackle, is that I have an additional backup in the lab. One that no one’s aware of.”

Understanding dawned on Sara’s face, with a grin right on its heels. Zach still panted, but he was working closer to controlled breathing. She took his head in her hands and kissed him on the lips. Abruptly, she backed away and covered her mouth with her fingers. “Oh. I’m so sorry. I don’t… Oh shit, I’m so embarrassed.”

He held up a hand. “As much as I try to encourage enthusiasm, perhaps this isn’t exactly the time or place.” When she started to speak, he held up his hand again. “Let’s just table that discussion for a later date, as well, okay?”

She nodded her agreement, fingers still over her mouth.

“Okay,” he said, finally getting ahead of the shortness of breath. “There’s a bad guy in or around the lab. We need to get into the lab. Therefore, either I’ve been watching too many vids, or we need a diversion.”

She nodded. “It can’t be anything directed against the lab itself. That will only alert Newman and get us nowhere.”

“All right, we can’t blow up the building.” He thought back to earlier. “How about we blow up his car?”

“No.” She shook her head. “Still a frontal assault. It would tell him we know he’s there, and he would ignore it.”

He cocked his head. “What kind of man ignores his car blowing up in front of him?”

“Someone trained by the Secret Service. We’re taught to identify and ignore distractions, to concentrate on the primary mission to the exclusion of almost anything.”

“That ‘take a bullet for the boss’ mystique.”

Her face hardened. “It’s not mystique. It’s real.”

He swallowed. “Yes, I know.” He raised his hands, palms out. “I saw a little of it earlier tonight, and let me tell you, I’m impressed. But how do we get around it?”

She relaxed. “It has to be something non-threatening, something that demands immediate action or lives unrelated to the mission could be lost. Something that can’t be ignored.” She started to pace, her arms crossed in front of her, one fingernail tapping on one of her front teeth.

“We can’t blow up his car. Can we blow up something else?”

She stopped pacing, her face brightening. “That’s it.” She grabbed his head again but stopped short at his grin. “You’re a genius.”

“What? What do we do?”

“We need a couple of things.” She turned on her heels and strode off toward the car. Her steps were still a little shaky.

When he reached the Mitsu, he found her crouched next to it, leaning on the door. “About time,” she whispered, and stood, but kept a hand braced on the car.

He walked around to the passenger’s door, pressed a button on his key fob, and opened her door for her.

Sara slid into the seat and reached for the door. “Let’s go.”

He caught the door, keeping it from closing. She stared up at him.

“What?”

“I believe,” he said, quietly. “The correct response is, ‘thank you’ when a gentleman opens a door for you.” He dropped the door, cutting off any response. He strolled around to the driver’s door, popped it up and climbed in to his seat. He turned to her and asked in a quiet tone, “Where to?”

“I’m sorry. I’m not having a very good evening.”

“Really?” He asked, his tone still calm. “Would it sound patronizing if I said I understood how that feels?”

She bit her lower lip. “Thank you. For opening my door, I mean.”

“You’re welcome.” It was his turn to soften his voice. “Now, where to?”

“Please tell the car to take us to the nearest auto parts store.”

“Okay.” Zach spoke to the car. “Auto-drive. New destination.”

“Awaiting new destination.”

“Nearest open retail auto parts store.”

“Calculating route. Route calculated.”

The Mitsu backed out of the space and rolled onto the street that ran past the front of the lab, headed in the opposite direction.

“Can I ask why, or is it a state secret?”

“No secret,” she said. “I just need to pick up a couple of things.”

“At an auto parts store?”

“What smells so good?” she asked.

“Have you eaten?” He decided to let the subject change. He’d been noticing the pleasant scents wafting up from between Sara’s feet most of the evening. As attractive as her vanilla-flavored perfume was, he doubted her feet smelled like a toasted turkey sub from Carol’s. Best to be generous, he mused, licking his lips at the prospect of dinner.

She shook her head. “Not since breakfast.”

“Well, then,” he pointed to the bag on the floor. “Would you please pass me that?”

She picked up the parcel he’d indicated. “This?”

“Yep.” When she handed him the bag, he unfolded the top and lifted out the sandwich. “Viola. I’m just glad you’re showing interest in food. It’s a good sign.”

She smiled as she shook her head. “I couldn’t possibly eat your food, Dr. Marshall.”

“Zach,” he reminded her. “If it’s my food, I should get to decide what to do with it, and I’ve decided to share. Besides,” he unwrapped the sandwich and handed her half. “If you get hypoglycemic, you’ll make bad decisions, and we can’t have that. Not with anyone who can navigate one of those ancient barges like you did and carries a gun.”

She accepted the half sandwich with a little shake of her head. “Thank you, Zach, but I’m supposed to be taking care of you, not the other way around.” She wrapped the sandwich in the paper and held it on her lap.

“Here.” He took a water bottle out of the bag. “Well, how about if we do it this way, I’ll take care of you so you can take care of me.” He twisted the top off the bottle and handed it to her.

She gave him a sheepish grin. “I think I like that,” she said, as she took a long drink of the water. “But I want to wait till we get finished at the auto parts store to eat. I usually leave a fair amount of whatever I’m eating on my blouse or pants.”

He chuckled as he wrapped his half of the sandwich back up. “Okay, it’s a deal.”

***

They sat parked at the parts store. The glow from the overhead sign shone into the interior of the car, bathing them in yellow light. Zach touched a hand to her arm before she could open her door. “Whoa.”

“What?”

“You can’t go in a public place. You’ve been bleeding.” He tugged the now-red handkerchief she’d been using to maintain pressure on her forehead. “No, you’re still bleeding, and you’re wearing a black suit with white powder and dirt on it. The only way you could be more conspicuous is if you had a knife sticking out of your head or something.”

“What do you suggest?”

“I’ll go, just tell me what you want,” he offered.

“A slide hammer, a roll of duct tape, a long piece of cloth, a container of flammable liquid like an old petrochemical degreaser, a lighter, and a regular screwdriver,” she said. “The cheapest they have.”

“My dad always said to buy good tools. Then you only have to buy them once.”

“We should only need it once, if we’re lucky. Buy cheap this one time.”

“Okay, just this once.” He grabbed the lever to open the door.

“Be careful.”

He grinned at her. “Hey, it’s only over there. And it’s an auto parts place. I think I can handle it. I am a guy, after all.”

He let his eyes move from side to side as he crossed the lot. There was only one other car. His car was hidden in the shadows. He approached the middle-aged man behind the counter and repeated Sara’s request.

“You mean a dent puller?” the clerk asked, incredulous.

“Yeah, that’s it,” he agreed, no closer to understanding what either thing was.

The clerk excused himself, and returned with a box containing an eighteen-inch-long T-shaped contraption. The end of the long leg was threaded. A weighted handle slid freely until it contacted with the stops at the other end.

“You’re in luck,” the clerk explained. “That’s the only one in the store. Most carmakers went to carbon fiber. It don’t dent, it just cracks and falls off. You got an antique you’re working on?”

“My brother-in-law. Huge motor head. Found an old sedan with some major crumples.” He shrugged, recalling the one he and Sara left in flames. “It’s his birthday, and it keeps him off the streets at night.”

The clerk pointed out his other requests, and rang up the order when he brought the armload to the counter. Zach paid in cash and stuck the receipt in his pocket out of habit.

He walked out of the store with the slide hammer in its box under his arm. In his other hand, he carried a bag containing the rest of the things she requested, plus a few other items.

Lifting his door, he handed her the bag and the long, red plastic box containing the slide hammer. He levered himself onto the seat, cautious of his chest. She put everything on the floor between her feet, next to the bag containing both halves of Zach’s deli takeout order.

“See, that wasn’t so bad,” he said.

“I’m impressed,” she said, smiling. I didn’t think you’d know what a slide hammer was.”

“Hey.” He tried to feign hurt. “I’m not as dumb as I look, you know.” He chose to ignore the sidelong glance she shot him. “Okay, what next, we going to pull some dents?” he said, trying to impress her with his new found knowledge.

A grin spread across Sara’s lips. “Sort of. Please take us to the nearest mall.”

“A mall?” he asked, not sure he’d heard her correctly. “Here, by the way.” He handed her a shop rag from the bag. “Your handkerchief—it’s getting saturated.” He pointed to the cloth she still held against her forehead. “We’ll have to take care of that soon.”

“Soon,” she said. “First, the mall. The big one.” She accepted the shop cloth from him and pressed it against her head, replacing her blood-soaked handkerchief with it.

“It’s twenty minutes away.”

She scowled.

“It’ll give us time to eat. Are you ready for dinner?” He programmed the Auto-drive, and when the car started in the direction of the mall, he pointed at the takeout bag.

She smiled sheepishly. “Are you sure? I feel really bad about eating your dinner.” She held the bag out to him.

He put his hand on hers without thinking, and jerked it away again when she stiffened. “Sorry. No, please. Consider it my way of saying thanks for not breaking my sternum back there.” He shot her a quick grin.

Her stomach growled and they both laughed.

“I think that’s an executive decision.” He held half of the sandwich out to her again, then unwrapped his.

Sara took a bite and smiled. “Oh God,” she said, past the mouthful of sandwich. “I didn’t realize how hungry I was. Thank you.” She swallowed and moved her hand to her abdomen, then closed her eyes and took a couple of slow breaths. After a moment, she opened her eyes again. “I think the worst of the nausea has passed, especially if I don’t move too quickly.”

“Glad to hear it,” he said.

She grew thoughtful. “It’s too soon for the police to be searching for you, yet, and they can’t cover all the roads.”

“Why would the police be looking for me?” he asked. “I haven’t done anything.”

“They’re going to want to question you about Dr. Thomas’s murder.” She took another bite of sandwich.

She’d said it so matter-of-factly, he did a double take. “What? But I—” he sputtered to a stop.

“They’ll have to,” She said, between bites. “He’s your friend, and your business partner. You could always turn yourself in and tell them the truth. Until you have some solid proof you didn’t know anything about it, though, and maybe a sound alibi, I wouldn’t suggest that course.”

He felt the blood drain from his face. “But I thought you…”

She chuckled. “Oh, yeah. A rogue Secret Service agent who crashed two cars, set fire to one, injured two coworkers, and hid a suspect wanted for questioning. The local police wouldn’t believe my alibi for the sun’s whereabouts on the other side of the planet last night.”

Fear twisted Zach’s stomach. “But… but… What do I do?”

“Play it out. Drive to the nearest mall,” she said. “This is a great sandwich. Where is this place?”

“Carol’s, on Sixteenth.” He blew out a breath before turning to her. “Laz was my best friend.”

“Is there a pickle? I love…” She stopped, and lay the sandwich on her lap. “I know he was, but the first order of business is to secure your leverage and get you someplace safe. Then, we can figure out a way for you to turn this in your favor.”

“I… How do we do that?”

“First things first.” Passing light from the overhead streetlights alternated between strobing onto her face and throwing her into shadow as the Mitsu rolled through the night.

He swallowed. “Okay, what’s first?”

“First, we have to steal a car.”

CHAPTER 10

Zach stared at her in open-mouthed disbelief.

“Did you say if there was a pickle of not?”

He handed Sara the pickle wrapped in a separate piece of paper. Taking it, she unwrapped it and bit into the large, crisp dill. A smile curled the ends of her lips. “This is the best. Would you like a bite?”

He shook his head. “Um, if we could get back to having to steal a car, please?” He tried unsuccessfully to shake off the feeling of impending doom. “I’ve never intentionally broken a single law in my whole life.”

Sara licked her fingers after she’d finished her half of the sandwich. “You’re off to a hell of a start.” She hesitated. “Look, if we can get your records from the lab, we’ll have some real leverage. It’s the motive that will shift suspicion away from you.” She noticed the uneaten part of the sandwich on his lap, and frowned.

He followed her line of sight to where his food lay on his lap. He tried to smile. “I’m suddenly not very hungry.”

“I know this is a lot to take in all at once,” she said. “But trust me, there is a way out. You should eat. You don’t want to get cranky.”

He lifted the sandwich. “Why do we have to steal a car?” He ripped a mouthful off and chewed. The sandwich was dry on his tongue.

“Because we need a diversion that won’t threaten the agent watching for you, but will distract him.”

The car broke into their conversation. “Destination in two kilometers.”

She patted his arm. “Focus on what’s in front of you, right?”

He nodded as he chewed another bite. “What do we do now?”

“Take us into the parking lot.”

When he had, she directed him to the middle of the lot.

“Okay,” she said. “Now cruise around. We’re looking for a parking space.”

He nodded and did as she instructed.

“There.” She pointed at an ancient, battered, rusting, American four-door sedan squatting toward the end of a row. No overhead light illuminated it from close by. “It has an internal combustion engine. Perfect.”

“We’re going to steal that?” he asked, still having trouble wrapping his mind around what she was proposing. “That piece of crap?”

“It’s fine. We’re just going to blow it up, anyway.”

His belly tightened as panic gripped him. Zach shook his head and blinked at her. His heart sped up again, which until now he would have considered impossible. “We’re going to do what?” She was nuts, he decided. He was certain now, any moment he would wake up and this would all be a bad dream. This was a twisted, demented way for his subconscious to point him away from her after he was awake again.

Her face was set and flat again. “Extreme circumstances sometimes call for extreme measures. You want something newer?

“No.” He shook his head. “It’ll do just fine.” He was panting despite the pain in his chest.

Sara grabbed the slide hammer and checked it like she was examining a new gun.

“Here we go,” she said, and dropped the screwdriver into her jacket pocket. She slipped the roll of duct tape over her hand like a bracelet, then reached into the bag and pulled out two bottles of water. “You got water.” She said. “And nitrile shop gloves. Very thoughtful, and practical, too.” She opened a bottle and poured a little water on the shop cloth. Then, she lowered the visor and opened the vanity mirror, checking her forehead, lightly dabbing at the dried blood on her face. Afterwards, she did a once-over in the mirror, frowned, and re-rolled the top of the bag.

She produced a small pocket knife from a jacket pocket and cut a piece off the cloth, which she handed to Zach. “Please tape this over my cut.”

He did as she asked.

“Now, here’s what we’re going to do,” she said, as she snapped on a pair of the gloves. “We’re going to step out of the car and walk down the aisle, just like we know what we’re doing.

“Why?”

“You’ll see.” She drew a pair of gloves from the box and handed them to him. When he had them on, she nodded once. “Now, let’s go.”

They got out and walked away from the car. At fifteen feet, its lights flashed. He couldn’t help but think it was calling to him and he was abandoning it to the wolves. He turned his head.

She took his arm in hers. “The first rule is, don’t look back.”

He nodded, a short, choppy movement. “Right. I just—” he had to hurry to keep up with her. “I thought we were strolling.”

She slowed her stride. “Yes, of course. You’re right.” They walked on in silence for a few minutes.

The rundown American sedan’s silver paint was faded and peeling on the upper surfaces and it had no hubcaps. “Please keep a eye out.”

“This is—”

“You should see your face.”

“I— You— I—” Zach sputtered.

Sara chuckled and set to work. As he surveyed the parking lot, she slipped her arm out of the tape roll and tore strips off, covering the entire passenger side rear door’s window. She finished by running the tape onto the metal door surfaces around the window.

Satisfied, she shrugged out of her suit jacket and wrapped it around her hand, in which she held the screwdriver. After a quick scan around the lot, she brought the handle of the screwdriver against the window in a short, sharp, snap. The window shattered with a muffled pop. The tape kept it from shattering onto the rear seat. Sara carefully pulled a corner of the taped window loose, leaving the remainder attached to the door, then reached in and unlocked the passenger door.

She replaced the window, re-taping it to the frame. She was reaching for the door handle when a voice behind Zach called out.

“Hey, what the fuck you doin’ with my car?”

Zach spun to the sound. A scrawny man approached, his jacket flapping in the light breeze, a toothpick hanging from one corner of his mouth. The man crowded Zach and spoke. His breath was a miasma of tooth decay, cigarette smoke, and Juicy Fruit chewing gum. Zach wanted to throw up. He wondered for a second if the condition of the car’s peeling paint was due to the driver’s breath.

“I said, ‘what the fuck you doin’ with my car,’ asshole?”

“I can explain,” Zach stammered, taking a half-step back, bumping the car’s trunk with his legs.

The man followed him, closing the gap further. “Betcher ass you’re gonna explain, mother—”

“Freeze!” Sara practically growled from behind and to the man’s left. It stopped the man in mid-sentence. He turned just as she jammed her Secret Service identification card in his face.

“Who the fuck—?” He stopped dead in his tracks, eyes as big as half-dollars. Sara held a lethal-looking black semi-automatic pistol pointed at the man’s chest.

“I said ‘freeze,’ asshole. Now. Secret Service.” Sara flipped her ID closed and returned it to her pocket. “Assume the position.”

The moment vibrated as they faced each other. In a blink it was over and the man grunted, turned, and placed his palms on the trunk of his car. “This is bullshit.”

Sara holstered her weapon and reached a hand into her jacket pocket.

“You better have a goddamn good reason fo’ whatever the fuck you doin’ with my car, bbb—”

To Zach’s shock, the scarecrow in the loose-fitting jacket was seizing to the sound of an electrical discharge. Sara’s hand was under his jacket, pressing something to his side. When the crackling stopped, the semi-conscious man slipped to the pavement with an audible thump. Rolling onto his side, the man groaned once. Sara leaned over him and filled the quiet lot with the crackling sound again. This time, the man lay still.

She stood up and regarded the stun gun in her hand, turning it one way, then the other. “Batteries must be running low.” She slipped it back in her pocket and turned to Zach. “Get in so I can drop you at your car and you can follow me.”

He stood frozen, not believing what he’d just seen. He stared at Sara. “You…” he trailed off, staring at the unconscious man on the pavement.

She tugged him toward the car. “I said, let’s go.”

He rounded on her. “You’re just going to leave him lying on the ground?” His breath came in short pants.

“Zach.”

“Sara.”

“Please.” Her tone was pleading.

“I can’t, do—”

“Dr. Marshall, sir.” She said, adopting her former, flat, business-like tone. “Please get in the car, sir. When I have you at a secure location, we can discuss—”

“We can discuss it now.”

Sara fisted the front of his shirt and pulled him toward her until their noses almost touched. Her other hand moved from her pocket to Zach’s neck. The taser’s silver fangs touched his neck, just below the angle of his jaw. “Get in the god damn car, Dr. Marshall. Now.” The hiss of her breath as she spoke matched the cobra-quick move. “We can debate this later, when we’re safe, but we don’t have time right now.”

Her eyes glittered in the distant overhead light and a drop of blood trickled down her forehead. Zach exhaled and slowly lifted his hands out to the side. “You win.”

She released her grip and he stumbled back half a step. He slowly climbed into the seat and tried to bore a hole in her with his stare.

“Sit still. Touch nothing.” She pushed the door closed with her hip.

The inside of the car stunk of petrochemicals, stale sweat, and old gym socks. The ripped vinyl upholstery scratched at his legs. He held his breath and rolled down his window. Sara started around the rear of the car, losing her footing and steadying herself against the rear fender for a second. When she reached the rear of the car, she bent down for a long moment, before continuing around to the driver’s side door.

Sliding into the driver’s seat, she turned to him. “Breathe.” Her nose wrinkled. “On second thought, maybe not.” She jammed a key from a ring containing twenty or so into the ignition and twisted. The antique wreck chugged to life, coughed twice, and died.

“Great,” she muttered, and twisted the key again. This time when the motor caught, she floored the gas. It roared to life and then settled into a shaking, irregular idle.

Sara blew out a breath. “That’s better.” She shifted in the cracked vinyl seat, which squeaked in response. Her hand moved to the console between them, groping for the shifter, finding nothing.

“It’s up there,” Zach said, pointing to the column.

She turned her attention to where he indicated, and raised her hands, palms-up in confusion. “There’s two.”

It was Zach’s turn to roll his eyes. “Put your foot on the brake.”

When she did, he reached to the lever closest to him and shifted into drive. The car lurched forward, and Sara turned the wheel, dragging it around as if she were opening a rusty valve.

“It’s probably low on fluid.”

Her brow wrinkled. She cut her eyes toward him. “How do you know so much about these things?”

He shrugged a shoulder. “Friend of mine in high school… Barker. His uncle died and left him something similar to this.” He sniffed. “Except for the stale sweat and BO.” He moved a foot and bumped something heavy and metal in the dark. “That came later.”

“Barker?” she chuckled. “His name was Barker?”

“Last name.”

“Did he have a first name?”

“No. Well, yeah.” Zach hesitated, thought back. “He must have. We never used it. He was just Barker.” Then, realization jolted through Zach. They were riding through a mall parking lot in a stolen car, its owner lying unconscious behind them. He stared at her.

“Are you hurt?” she asked.

He opened his mouth to speak, but found no words to express what he was feeling.

“I said, ‘are you hurt?’”

His heart was racing, his hands were shaking, and he was breathing in short, shallow gasps. He shook his head no. “This is crazy.”

“Yes, it is.” She nodded. “To be sure. It is crazy.”

“We’re criminals.” He cleared his throat. “We’re… I… You,” He leaned back, took a deep breath, and rubbed his hands over his face. When he opened his eyes to the inside of the same stolen car he rode in with the same Secret Service agent, he had to admit it was real. “We are so screwed.”

A full-throated laugh exploded from her. “You should see your face. You look like you can’t decide whether to puke or pass out.”

He leveled his sternest glare in her direction. “Your assessment skills are impressive, but perhaps you could explain what the hell that was all about?” He was shaking all over by the end of the question.

Her laugh quieted to a smile. “The shaking is adrenaline. It usually comes with a headache. It’ll burn off in a few minutes and you’ll feel tired.”

All he could do was nod.

Sara stopped the car behind his Mitsu, the car’s squealing brakes made the steering wheel vibrate. “Okay,” she said. “Follow me, but not too closely. We’ll stop at the third business north of, and on the same side of the road as GenTest and prepare. If we get separated, head there, if I haven’t arrived in thirty minutes, I’m in custody, and cannot help you. Understand?”

He nodded. “I’ll see you there in thirty or less.” He opened his door and shifted.

“Wait.”

He turned back to face her.

She touched his forearm and gave it a quick squeeze. “Non-threatening, friendly gesture. For luck.”

He stared at her.

“Go.” She gently pushed him out the door.

He dropped into the driver’s seat of his car, still in shock. The system woke up as the sedan Sara drove stopped at the mall’s entrance to the main road. Without a clue if ‘follow that car’ was even an option with the software, he grabbed the steering wheel, shifted the car into forward, and pushed the accelerator pedal with his foot.

“This is crazy,” he said to himself when he’d calmed enough to think clearly.

“Yes, it is,” he replied. “But you’ve never done anything crazy in your whole life, though, so you might not be the best judge.”

“True,” he continued in his one-participant dialog. “But, you have to admit, something which will, in all probability, ruin your career and hers and land both of you in prison is pretty crazy, by anyone’s definition.”

“Yeah, well, there’s that.”

“Why is she doing this?”

“Throwing her career away, risking prison and possible death?”

“Yeah.” He hesitated. “Because you’re irresistibility hot, and she can’t help herself?” He snorted out a laugh. Around him, traffic was unusually light and he hadn’t even seen a police car. Had it not been for his own anxiety, he could have used the Auto-drive function and taken a nap.

“You think she’s shitting you, trying to suck you in and then step aside while her buddies bust you?”

“Nah,” he said to his reflection in the vanity mirror. “If she wanted to bust you, she could’ve done it without running a car into her colleagues and setting you up for stealing and blowing up a car.”

“You bought the stuff she used. If they slap your image on the feeds and the clerk recognizes you, the cops will check the security cams and again, you’re hosed.” He followed her into the industrial park where GenTest was located. The streets were deserted.

“Yeah, but she badged that guy before zapping him.” He went silent for a long moment, as the night rolled past. “Comes down to do you trust her or do you not? The rest is just noise.”

Ahead, Sara sat in the parking lot of one of the businesses with darkened windows a few buildings away from Zach’s lab, “And this is me, making my decision,” he said, switching off the lights and guiding the Mitsu in behind her.

***

He stood next to Sara as they leaned over the sedan’s open trunk.

“We can use that,” she indicated an old, rusted wire hanger and a broken broom handle. “And that.” She pointed at a tattered blanket under it.

He gathered the items. “How about that?” He picked up an old leather boot.

“Funny,” she said, closing the trunk. She handed the hanger to him. “Please undo this and straighten it.”

Sara stepped to the rear quarter of the car, popped the gas cap, and dropped it onto the rear seat. She ripped a couple of lengths off the blanket and tied them together. When she was done, she stuffed one end into the fuel inlet, using the coat hanger to wedge it in, leaving an opening for fumes to vent. Twisting the cap off of the bottle of degreaser, she poured half of it over the fabric and onto the metal around the inlet.

“Hand me the plastic.” She formed the hanger into a crude circle wrapped plastic around it, and wound the hanger around the broom handle. Then, she hooked the other end of the hanger over the visor and draped the rest of the blanket over the broom handle.

“Are you sure about this?”

She looked up from draping the blanket over the steering wheel. “If you have a better idea, I’m open.”

“No,” he whispered. “It just occurred to me how incredibly dangerous this plan is, and I…” he trailed off.

“We’ll be fine.”

“Really?”

“No, but I wouldn’t sound confident if I said we were going to crash and burn, now would I? What do you think?”

He had to admit, in the dark, it did resemble a man’s form—sort of—if he squinted—a lot. No, he shook his head, it looked like an impromptu scarecrow.

She poured more of the degreaser onto the blanket, and drizzled it over the back seat and out to the trunk lid. She dropped the container on the rear seat. “Where’s the guard?”

He checked his watch. “Just went to the far building.”

“Okay. Go take your position. You have five minutes.”

“Hey.” When she turned toward him, he took her head in his hands, gently pulled her closer, and brushed her hair from her forehead with his fingertips. “You’re bleeding, again,” he said, pretending to check her injury.

“Go,” she said. “Fix it later.”

He hesitated for a long moment. Fear welled up inside him, burning his throat. “God, I wish you didn’t have to do this.” He stared at her eyes until the stinging in his forced him to blink.

“You’re wasting time.”

“Please don’t die,” he whispered.

She stared at him without expression. “Please go. Get your backup drive. I’ll meet you at your car in fifteen minutes.”

Without another word, she straightened her suit jacket, turned, and slid into the sedan’s passenger seat.

Holding his side against the aching with each breath, he trotted across the front of the feed supply store where they were parked, and cut across to the health food store. When he found the path in the underbrush he checked his watch. Three minutes, he thought, standing at the overgrown right-of-way standing between him and the flash drive in the lab.

At two minutes, he stepped into the brush again.

He held his breath as he crept through the overgrowth between the properties.

He crouched in the shadows and counted to twenty. At the front of the property, the sedan’s brakes ground it to a halt. He crossed his fingers.

The building loomed ahead. He crept across the neatly trimmed grass, along the side of the building, around to the rear entrance. The first flames from the sedan flickered orange over his shoulder through the dense overgrowth between the properties.

He found the cement block behind the landscaping bushes next to the rear door. After he’d accidentally locked himself out last year during a rainstorm, Laz started using the block to prop the door open when he went outside to smoke. The memory brought a smile to his lips. So many memories.

Beyond the front of his lab, the flames climbed, fed by the flammable degreaser Sara had poured inside the passenger compartment. An alarm sounded from inside the building. He checked his watch again—the guard was still next door. Good, he thought. It had to be Newman.

Pain in his chest made him wince as he hefted the cement block and waited.

A fireball of red and yellow billowed into the sky above the low oak trees, sound rumbling across the front of the property. A cloud of oily, black smoke rose into the air. He grunted and launched the brick against the glass door. The block sailed through the safety glass, landing on the inside carpet amid a shower of glass nuggets, the reverberating echo of the explosion and alarm hiding the sound.

He reached through the shattered pane, unlocked the door and stepped inside. He entered Laz’s code to disarm the intruder portion of the alarm, allowing the fire alarm program to run to add to the confusion. The fire lights strobed through the short hallway and into the darkened laboratory, lending an eerie effect to the familiar interior of the building.

Shielding his eyes from the intense flashing, he ignored the screech of the alarm, navigating past the bathroom and the storage rooms on the other side of the hall. The faint chemical smell from the big room wrinkled his nose.

It was a mistake, but the room pulled him like a magnet. He stood for a long moment in the midst of the familiar instruments. The investment in equipment and supplies flashed through his head. Everything appeared normal, but it all felt foreign, like he didn’t belong any more. Laz’s empty chair, his white lab coat still draped over the back, reminded Zach of the laughter they’d shared working here over the past two years. He wiped tears from his cheeks. For him, everything they had worked so hard for was ruined, finished. He would never voluntarily set foot in this room again. “Doesn’t matter,” he whispered. “It’s only stuff.”

He retraced his steps through the short hall to the break room. Once there, he stepped across to the refrigerator and opened it. The lunch box was in the left lower vegetable drawer where he’d left it. He popped the latch on the insulated metal box, removed the thermos, and closed the refrigerator. Zach checked his watch and started toward the rear of the building. The plastic top of the thermos made a small sound against the carpet in the hall when he dropped it.

With a slow, deep breath against his rib’s screaming, he stepped out into the pine-scented night air, glad to be rid of the building. He wondered where he’d be working next. “Probably pressing license plates,” he whispered, allowing himself a chuckle at the idea. No matter what, he would never go to prison. Sara was right. He’d be killed long before then. Walking across the open space, he tilted the thermos up, smiling at the weight of the crystal drive as it dropped into his palm. He tossed the thermos into the weeds behind the building.

A couple of yards from the concealing safety of the thicket where Sara had tackled him, he slipped the flash drive into the right front pocket of his pants. A voice from the shadows startled him.

“That’s far enough, Dr. Marshall.”

CHAPTER 11

Zach spun in the direction of the voice, his breath catching in his throat from the sudden movement. A man stepped out of the shadows. It wasn’t the big guy who’d pointed the hand cannon at him earlier tonight. This guy was a few inches shorter and maybe ten pounds heavier than Zach. His black hair was combed back, with a laser-straight part. He had a round face with a heavy brow line. Most of the man’s features were lost in shadow. Zach guessed he was the driver of the SUV, because a white strip of tape was strapped around and under his nose.

“I should blow your friggin’ brains out right now,” the man said, his voice sharp as a knife edge. “But Murphy wants to talk to you.”

“I bet,” Zach said.

“Yeah, you bet, dick head, and you lost. We’re gonna find out who punched into our vehicle tonight, fuck-wad, and he’s gonna be your cell buddy.” The man let out a low, menacing chuckle. “For as long as you live.”

Zach blew out a breath, his suspicion about the plan for him confirmed. “Listen, whoever you are, you seem like a reasonable guy. I can’t hurt you. My life is trashed. What do ya say we call it even, you and I wish each other a good night and walk different directions?”

“Are you on drugs, Doc? I have people to answer to. They’re gonna be ecstatic to see your face, even if it is bruised. I’m gonna be a friggin’ hero. My car’s in front of the building. How about you put your hands on your head and start walking?”

Zach did as instructed. After a few steps, he spoke over his shoulder. “Can I ask your name, at least, so I know—”

“Newman. Special Agent Robert fucking Newman with the Secret Service.” The man stepped out of the bushes toward Zach.

He nodded. “Listen, Special Agent Newman, I know what this is about. You guys took the computer. How about if I give you the password and you just turn around and count to fifty?”

“Oh, yeah. You give me a bogus password and I go back with a handful of beans I traded for the family cow? I don’t think so, Doc. I already called Murphy, so how about if you just put one fucking foot in front of the other until we get to my car?”

There was a sound of movement behind them. Newman twisted. Electricity crackled. Zach ducked away, risking a glance over his shoulder. Newman dropped to the ground, moaning, Sara standing over him. She lifted his gun and tossed it into the scrub. Then, she reached to his ear, grabbed his receiver and yanked his secure communicator out of his jacket. She pressed the taser to Newman’s chest once more. One long, chattering moan escaped through his gritted teeth as he went rigid on the ground. She dropped his equipment into her own jacket pocket.

“Go,” she whispered, barely loud enough for him to hear.

They pounded through the brush and across the three parking lots to the Mitsu. Zach gritted his teeth and grunted against the pain each step brought to his ribs. As they approached his car, the parking lights flashed once, unlocking the driver’s door. He pressed the button on the key fob and unlocked the passenger door. As they climbed in, the car’s dash lights came up with the computer systems. Throwing the car into gear, he floored it, rocketing them out of the parking lot and onto the street. At the corner, he shot around onto a main road in front of several cars. The cars swerved, horns blaring, but managed to avoid ramming the Mitsu as Zach and Sara sped away.

“That was close,” he panted, as he shifted into the left lane and inhaled deeply. Pain seared through his chest. He couldn’t get enough air. Zach released the wheel, lifted his foot off the accelerator, and doubled over in the seat, each exhalation a groan.

Sara grabbed the wheel from the passenger’s seat and threw her leg over the console, straddling it. When traffic opened up, she hit the brake and whipped the wheel to the left. “Hold on.”

“What the hell are you doing?” he wheezed, barely able to get the words out. He grabbed the door handle to keep from falling over on top of her. The little car slid, tires chirping, across the pavement and into the opposite direction, toward the lab.

“Have you lost your mind?”

Sara slowed the Mitsu and guided it into the parking lot of a drive-through burger place.

“I… you… oh, shit. We’re gonna die.” He covered his face with his hands. He leaned back in the seat, trying to catch his breath.

“Shh.” She pulled the car into the queue for drive-through, slipped the shifter into park, and returned her leg to her side the console. Behind them, a black SUV sped past toward GenTest. “Don’t be such a wuss.”

“I can’t…” he panted, still unable to catch his breath. “believe we’re not putting… distance between us… and the lab… as fast, as this thing… will go.”

Sara had Newman’s earpiece in place. “Will you please be quiet? I’m having trouble hearing.”

Speechless, Zach slouched in the seat, holding his side.

“Here come the reinforcements,” Sara said, as behind them, a fire truck and a police car sped by, lights strobing.

He gestured to the stolen secure communicator in her ear. “Where’s yours? Don’t you have one?”

She raised her eyebrows at him and laughed. “Must’ve misplaced it. Wait, I think I left it in Murphy’s Caddy. Want to go back and check?”

He grunted at her.

They moved up in line one car length. “We are not driving away as fast as this car will go because right this second, every cop car within five miles is headed toward the lab. It’ll take Murphy about a minute and a half to figure out the fire was a decoy and you went back to the lab for something. I figure it’ll take him another two minutes to find Newman.” She paused to listen. “Oh, yeah, he’s pissed.” She bared her teeth in a fierce grin. “Anyway, Newman’ll take about fifteen minutes to regain coherent speech, but Murphy won’t wait, won’t need to wait for confirmation. He knows who was there, but his resources are limited. I’m guessing there’s two, maybe three people max in on this little party of Murphy’s, so he’s at a disadvantage.”

He stared at her in disbelief. “We’re in a car he knows, in line at a burger place a quarter of a mile from the explosion we set off, and he’s at a disadvantage? Oh, please, explain that one.”

“Murphy may be okay with working alone, but let me clue you in on reality.” She stared at him like she could bore a hole into his head. “Whoever else is in on this with him has been trained in a federal team mentality. Rugged individualism is not a highly praised trait in government circles. Knowing that gives us the advantage.”

“Sounds simple when you put it that way.” At least, he realized, he wasn’t panting anymore, but his side still hurt like hell.

She held up an index finger, pressed a finger from the other hand to her ear. “Wait a sec,” she said. After a few moments, “They know there are two of us, but not…” She giggled. “Newman is conscious. My stunner definitely needs to be recharged. He’s convinced I’m a man, because I overpowered him.” She listened again. “Okay, Murphy took off. Newman’s playing dumb about the car so they won’t question how he knows. The police are looking for two males, in a mid-sized car, color, make, and model of car unknown, heading away from the scene.” She stuck her head out the window and peered at the overcast sky. “No satellites, good.”

“I don’t believe we are sitting here, in a drive-through, while you’re listening to your colleagues.” He scrubbed his hand over his face. His breath was returning. “We should be getting away. That’s why they call it escaping. You know, eluding the police?”

“Have you not been listening, or has the adrenaline overloaded your system? We are escaping, but we’re doing it in a rational manner. Because we are not speeding away from the scene at a hundred miles an hour in a black hybrid electric registered to you, we will be successful.”

“Instead, we’re going to be involved in a shoot-out at a fast-food place.” Zach moaned. “I always knew junk food would be the death of me, but I thought I’d die of a heart attack, my arteries clogged with goo.”

“You may still get your chance, Zach, but if you don’t calm down, you’re going to have a stroke first.” They moved up a car-length in line. “Can I get you something? I think I want a Coke, or would you prefer a milkshake?” she smiled at him.

“A milkshake?” His exasperation filled the question to overflowing. “You’re getting a Coke?”

Sara nodded. “Uh huh. I need something to wash down more aspirin for this headache and settle my stomach. I’d offer to split an order of fries, but all the grease.” She shook her head. “We have to think of your heart.”

“My heart?” His eyes widened at her. “My heart? I…”

Sara turned in her seat, touched his arm. “Zach,” she said. The calm in her voice focused his attention on her. “Have I been right so far?”

“Yes, but…”

“What kind of car are they looking for?” She poured a little more of the water onto the shop rag and used the vanity mirror to dab at the fresh blood smudged on her forehead. “Gonna be a nasty bruise.” She shook her head slowly and tugged a bit of hair loose to hide it.

“I don’t know.”

She nodded. “Neither do they. If we stay calm, behave in a rational way and not like criminals running screaming in the night, we are going to get away.” Her smile broadened, “and if you don’t, I’ll stun you and throw your unconscious body in the trunk. Are we clear?”

His mouth opened, but no words came. He nodded instead.

They pulled even with a four-foot tall, pink plastic rabbit with a speaker in its open mouth. “Hello, and [crackle] to [crackle]. Can I [crackle] your order?”

“Good.” She patted his arm. “Now, don’t say a word.” She steadied herself against the console and leaned over him to speak to the rabbit. “Yes, please. We’d like a medium Coke and a chocolate milkshake.” She turned to him, “Is chocolate okay, or do you want vanilla?”

He glared at her. “Chocolate is fine.”

She turned back to the speaker. “Sorry, a chocolate shake is fine, and one medium order of fries, please.”

“I have [crackle] Coke, one chocolate shake, and one medium [crackle]. That’s [crackle]-sixty, please, and [crackle] to the window.”

Sara retrieved a bill from her pocket. When they reached the window, a thin girl of about seventeen with stringy blond hair and several purple acne spots on her chin and cheeks opened the glass. She smiled at them, caught sight of the sheen of perspiration on Zach’s face as Sara handed her the money, and leaned out of her window.

“Excuse me, but is your friend okay?”

Sara spoke across Zach to the girl. “He’s my husband. He fell off his mountain bike earlier, trying to keep up with boys from the neighborhood, and hurt his arm. I promised him a shake and fries, because I don’t think he’ll be up for much else tonight, if you know what I mean.”

His eyes widened. He turned to glare at Sara again, sending wordless daggers in her direction.

The girl glanced from Sara to Zach, then back to Sara. She giggled as she took the bill. “That is so sweet. My boyfriend does that kinda stuff all the time so I know exactly what you mean.” She waved her hand in the air, dismissively, took the money, and disappeared.

Sara spoke over her shoulder as she leaned on his lap. “Would you please calm yourself? You look like you’re about to pop.”

He turned to face forward, working at relaxing the muscles cranking his jaw closed before he cracked a molar. He was still staring out the windshield when the girl returned with their change.

Sara put the change in the center console, and the girl handed her the order. She leaned out the window again. “Ma’am?”

Sara leaned toward the girl.

“I hope your husband gets better real soon, if you know what I mean.” She giggled again.

Sara patted Zach’s leg. “Don’t worry about him, dear. He has amazing recuperative powers with the right incentive.” She winked at the girl.

The girl giggled again and smiled at them. “That’s so cute. You two have a real good evening.” Then she stage-whispered, “go easy on him,” loud enough for Zach to hear. The window closed as she turned away.

He drove the Mitsu out of the drive-through as Sara replaced her earpiece. She directed him to park the car under a large tree in the rear of the lot where they weren’t visible from the restaurant. He backed into it and flicked off the lights. She rolled her window down and handed the milkshake to Zach.

“I can’t believe you made up a story like that. Why would you tell that poor girl I fell off a mountain bike?”

“Because you’re in pain. Would you rather I told her the truth? How’s your side, by the way?” She reclined the passenger seat again, closing her eyes.

“Better, thanks. How’s your head?”

She scowled. “Throbbing again. The nausea’s back. Must be the running. I just need to lie down for a bit, until my stomach stops trying to flip itself onto the pavement.” She took a breath and exhaled through pursed lips. “Did you get the backup drive?”

Zach’s hand moved to his pocket. “Yes. It was right where I left it.”

“Good. We need someplace safe.”

He laughed once. “Safe? Special Agent, I have the Secret Service after me. In about half an hour, there won’t be a safe place I can go on this side of the planet.”

“I have an idea.”

Before he could ask what she meant, she held up an index finger and pressed the other on her earbud. “Okay, we can go.” She gestured toward the road.

He pressed the accelerator and wheeled out of the parking lot. “Where to?”

“How much cash do you have on you?”

“Not much,” he said, checking his pockets. “Eighty or ninety dollars, I guess, why?”

“Not enough.”

“I can stop by an ATM,” he volunteered. “Or I have a credit card.”

She rolled her eyes at him. “Please. It’s bad enough we’re still in this car, but using a credit card? Do you ever watch vids? That would be like shooting flares off.” She hesitated for a second. “There’s a safe house on the beach we can use for a few days until you decide what you want to do next.”

He stared at her. “A safe house. On the beach. I’m curious, do they need to use that one a lot?”

“It’s more a rest and recuperation base than a safe house, per se, but I’m pretty sure it’s vacant currently.”

“Pretty sure?”

“Yes, Zach. Pretty sure.”

He chuckled. “I see what you mean about surprises in your work.”

“You have no idea. Finish your milkshake, we have to go to the airport.”

“Airport?” Zach asked, confused. “What airport? Why?”

She moistened her lips with the tip of her tongue before she went on. “The airport by the bay. It has long-term parking. We need another car.”

He stared at her. “Why?” he asked, not comprehending.

“We need transportation.”

“We’re in a perfectly good car.”

“And it’s a wonderful car, but it has Auto-nav and GPS, and it’s registered to you. It’ll be a simple matter for the police to access your data. Then they can use it to track this car and us. We have to get a few hours ahead of them to get some rest.”

“But they don’t know what we’re in, you said so yourself.” He gestured around them. “We can make a run for your safe house.”

“Zach.” Her words were calm. “We can’t stay with this car much longer. All they have to do is identify you as a potential terrorist threat to Stiles. Your driver’s license ID photo and information will pop onto every laptop in every police car in the state. Murphy and Newman already know what you drive, and in about an hour, so will the police. Someone will find us. This car is simply not an option, and you need to get on board.”

As they stared at each other, her words encircled him like iron bands—his life, if not over—was changed forever. Panic welled up in his throat, tightening until it felt like he was strangling.

Across the car, Sara closed her eyes. She was pale, even in the dim, overhead light from outside. He opened his mouth to speak, but she threw a hand up to silence him.

“Stop the car.” She shoved at his shoulder and turned toward the door.

The abruptness took him aback. “What’s wrong?”

“Stop now. Really. I have to throw up.”

“Emergency,” he said to the car. “Pull over and stop.”

He reached across the seats, gripping Sara’s arm and side as she pitched out the open door and wretched. He held her steady while the waves of nausea racked her and until they passed.

“Crap.” he said, helping her back into her seat. She propped her head against the headrest and closed her eyes. Perspiration glistened on her face. He touched the makeshift bandage on her forehead, carefully removed the tape, and examined the cut. The bleeding had slowed to a trickle, but the wound was ragged and raw, about an inch and a half long, and it needed attention. He re-taped it and put the last bottle of water in her hand. “Rinse your mouth out and drink some of this.”

“Thank you.” It was barely a whisper. She sipped some of the water, swirled it around her mouth, and spit it out the open door. “So much for dinner. Too bad. It wasn’t nearly as good the second time.” She chuckled, but the water bottle trembled in her hand.

“You should lie down.”

“I will. Soon.”

His stomach twisted on itself as he watched her—pale and injured, and wondered how he could have doubted her. No one had ever risked anything for him before, and never this much. He wanted to cradle her in his arms until she was better, but settled for taking her hand in his. “I don’t know what to do for you. Please,” he said in a choked whisper. “I’m…” he stumbled over the words. “I’m afraid for you.”

Sara licked her lips. “Drive to the nearest police department and turn yourself in. If we stay in this car, they’ll find us anyway, and I can’t do this on foot. I’m sorry, Zach. I really am. I blew it.”

“No, you didn’t.” He hesitated for a long moment. As his thoughts focused on Sara, the feelings flowing through him scared and confused him. “I’m the one who’s sorry.”

“What?” Her head turned in his direction. Her eyes were glazed again, like she was having trouble focusing. She braced herself against the dash with a hand. “Shit.” She spat the word out, and closed her eyes again. Most of her hair had escaped the knot on top of her head, leaving her with a disheveled appearance.

“I said, I’m sorry.” He stared at the floor, blinked at the burning in his eyes. “For being so dense, for not believing you, for not trusting you. Without you, I’d be on a steel table in a really cold room right now or in a ditch. I owe you my life twice over. I want you to know I appreciate everything you’re doing.”

Her mouth opened and closed, wordlessly. “Zach,” she whispered. She cleared her throat. “I’ll be fine after I’ve had a chance to lie down.” She laid her hand on his leg. “We just need to hold it together for a little while longer, to work together.” She swiped the back of her hand across her cheeks. “I wish I could tell you everything will be okay, but—”

“Then I’ll tell you. It’ll be okay. We’ll get another vehicle and get to someplace safe.” He touched her shoulder. “Just lie back for a few minutes. Please. You need some rest.”

“Maybe for a few minutes.”

He jumped out, ran around behind the car, reclined her seat back as far as it would go, and closed her door. Once he was back in his seat, he put the car in gear and pulled away from the curb.

CHAPTER 12

Zach touched Sara’s shoulder. “Sara?” She jerked awake, popped up straight, and dropped back onto the seat. “Too fast.” She brought a hand to her head and lay still for a moment.

“You might be hurt worse than we thought,” he said. “We should get you some real help.” He reached a hand over to move the hair from her face.

She brushed his hand aside and sat up. “Where are we?”

“About half a mile from the airport. Should we call a cab or try to rent a car?”

“No.” She closed her eyes. “Cabs log where they pick up and drop off fares. When they find this car, they’ll call the cab companies and we’re done. As for renting a car,” she squeezed her eyes shut before opening them again and blew out a breath. “My head’s bleeding and there’s blood on my blouse. I’m having trouble staying on my feet, and you look like a rabbit on the first day of hunting season. If I saw us walk into a rental office, I’d be on the link with the police before we got to the counter.”

“Yeah,” Zach added, “and even if we could get a rental, they’ll check the rental companies, get the transponder code, and track us down through it. We’re still screwed.”

Sara’s eyes blinked open. “The transponder.”

“Yeah, it’s tied to the Auto-drive GPS.”

She slowly turned toward Zach. “But if we turned the transponder off…”

“Can’t.” Zach shook his head. “It’s integrated with the autopilot. Most of the subsystems in the car, including the emergency alert systems and the navigation system depend on it. The rental company would have a fit.” He smiled at the thought.

“No.” Sara laid a hand on his leg again. “Not that car, this car.” She laughed, but this time the sound held relief. “Zach, you’re a frigging genius. What year is this car?”

He smiled. “It’ll be two years old in January. It’s my first ever new car. Laz talked me into—”

“Turn the car around,” she said. “Find us a light to park under. Quick.”

“But—”

“Zach, please. Now. This might just work.”

“That’s what I was going to tell you,” he said. “The lights are over there.” He was pointing at the parking lot in the distance to their left. He hesitated. “What about this car? What are you thinking?”

Sara grinned and leaned against her seat. “I have an idea. Please, take us in there.”

They rolled along the entrance road for airport parking until a large green sign with white Long Term Parking reflected in the headlights—its white arrow pointing to the left. He engaged the car’s manual control, slowed, and made the turn.

They followed the signs, stopping at the automated gate into parking. Zach grabbed the ticket the kiosk printed, and followed the entrance lane around into the football-sized lot.

“Are you sure you’re all right?” he asked her as they circled, hunting for an empty space.

“I’m a little tired.”

“You have a head injury.”

She chuckled. “I just need to rest for a bit.” She turned to him. “And the quicker we get you to a safe spot, the quicker I can close my eyes.”

He parked the car in the first open space under an overhead light. She released her door and pushed it up and open. “Pop the hood.”

“What?”

“Pop the hood, please.” She climbed out and walked around to the front of the car.

He did as she asked, and Sara lifted it. He stepped out of the car and moved around to where she stood, examining the components. “What are you doing?”

“Please, be a dear and get our screwdriver, would you?”

He stared at her.

She ignored him, leaning into the engine compartment.

He shrugged it off and retrieved the screwdriver from the bag on the car’s floor. “I…” Zach stopped himself from saying what was on his mind.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“Please. What?”

“You can’t disconnect the transponder,” he said, in his most reasonable voice. “The car won’t operate without it.”

“Yeah.” She cocked her head at Zach. “That could be a problem, but I’m not going to disconnect it.”

“What are you going to do?”

“There’s a third option. We short out the onboard vehicle registration. When we reboot the car, it’ll respond like a new system. The Auto-nav and Auto-drive systems will still work, but the car won’t show up as registered to you.” A grin spread across her face.

“That’ll…” He hesitated, realizing how stupid his next words were going to sound. “Void the warranty.” Yeah, he thought. It did sound every bit as stupid out loud as he expected. “Sorry. Old habits.”

She braced a hand on the open hood and stared at him. “You want to help, or would you rather go stand over there and watch?”

“What can I do?”

“Hand me the screwdriver.”

They leaned into the open engine compartment. “This one,” she said, indicating a small black box on the side of the compartment. “No, wait, that one.” She pointed to another.

“Are you sure?”

She shrugged her shoulders. “Yes, I’m sure.” She jammed the blade of the screwdriver under the locking mechanism of the plastic cover and popped it off.

“Only three wires?” he said. “I’d have thought it would be more complicated.”

“That’s what they always want you to think,” she said. “You’re less tempted to monkey around with it. The red one is power. The white,” she traced a larger gauge wire where it made its way down the firewall, disappearing under the car, “connects to the antenna. This one,” she touched the blue one that joined with the car’s wiring harness, “runs to the car’s dashboard computer. Here goes.” She unscrewed the wire from the mechanism and braced the screwdriver against the metal of the car.

He held his breath as she tilted the screwdriver against the connector. A spark jumped between the connector and the tool as they touched.

Sara reattached the wire to its connector. “Let’s boot it up and see what happens,” she said, over a smile at Zach. “If this works, the Auto-drive and Auto-nav systems should be available, and we can reregister the car to me.”

“And if it doesn’t?”

She shrugged. “Then we’re screwed and we’ll have to steal another car.”

“How about the drive restriction system?”

“You mean the thing that makes it impossible for anyone but you to operate the vehicle?”

“Yes.”

“No idea.”

He mentally crossed his fingers and sat in the driver’s seat. “Auto-drive.”

Nothing happened.

“Auto-drive,” he repeated.

Still no response from the car.

“Manual drive, then.” He gripped the wheel.

There was still no response from the car.

“Power on.”

The car sat, inert as a rock.

“Fuck.” Sara bit the word off.

“Yeah.” He agreed. “That didn’t work so well.” He raised an eyebrow at his useless car.

“Jump out,” she said. “When you bought your car,” she stared past him at the dead car, “didn’t you have to go through an initial boot sequence for it to learn your voice?”

He thought about it for a second. “Yeah, I did.” She was right. He had done something. He tried to remember. “It was at the dealer. I can’t remember what I did.” He got out as she did something he couldn’t see and closed the hood.

“Okay, let me give it a try.” She stepped around the front of the car, stumbling when her foot caught the wheel stop. Zach put an arm around her waist to steady her. She offered no resistance.

“I’m okay.”

“Yeah,” he smiled at her. “And you’ll be okayer when we get somewhere safe.”

She narrowed her eyes at him. “That’s not a word.” The edges of a smile tugged at the corners of her mouth.

“Sure it is. Google it.”

She leaned her head against his shoulder and closed her eyes.

“The trick,” she said to him in a gentle tone, “is not to look back.”

Zach recalled her leaving the lab that morning and wondered what she meant, but decided to keep his question to himself.

He helped her into the driver’s seat. “Press and hold the Auto-drive button.”

She pressed and held pressure on the two-inch diameter button on the dash. After a moment, the button blinked. She released it and the dash LEDs for the standby subsystems flicked on. “This is promising.”

The green stripe across the dash lit, blinked twice, and stayed on.

A soft, female, computer-generated voice flowed from the hidden speakers. “Initial boot in progress.  Transponder code resetting to new sequence. Please wait. Auto-nav initializing. Auto-drive initializing. Systems check. Check complete. Please state name for voice print.”

Sara inhaled and spoke into the microphone. “Goode, Sara.” She gave the car her driver’s license number.

“Accessing. Accessed. Voice print and operator license confirmed. Systems operational.” The button lit up in blue. The Mitsu’s basic female voice spoke, “Auto-drive activated. How do you wish to be addressed?”

“Sara.”

“Please state destination, Sara.”

They grinned at each other like children.

“Let’s go, Zach.”

“I’m sorry, Sara, I didn’t understand your destination. Could you please repeat?”

She rolled her eyes at the dashboard as he dropped into the passenger’s seat and closed the door. “Technology.”

“Are you sure you should be driving?” he asked.

“The attendant will be less likely to question me going into the wrong parking lot. Besides, I won’t be driving long, I’ll start the automatic systems as soon as we’re out on the road.”

“Less likely to…” He found himself indignant. “Why because you’re a woman?”

She raised an eyebrow at him. “I don’t make up the social conditioning, I just use it—to our advantage in this case. Now, please sit back and let me do this.”

He considered for a moment. He had to admit she knew more about it than he did. “Right.”

“Ready to go?” she asked.

“You do know where we’re going, don’t you?”

“Oh, yeah. I know where we’re going.” She threw the gear lever into drive and pressed on the accelerator.

“Wish I did.”

She patted his leg gently. “I understand, really I do. With any luck, this will be cleared up before you know it, and you can have your car and your life back.”

He shot her his best glare.

“I don’t know.” She scowled. “I just hope we can get where we’re going before things really heat up.”

“What’s to keep your colleague from checking my car’s transponder history to find it and checking security discs to find out which car left the lot?”

She shook her head. “Doesn’t work like that. Because of the privacy laws they passed a couple of years ago, the transponder is real time only. There’s no history kept anywhere. Once it’s rebooted, it’ll be much harder to find. Even if they do figure out we came to the airport, the only record of what cars entered or left the lot on what date are the closed-circuit cameras. There’ll be nothing to lead them to us through this car. The most they’ll get is confirmation of your car entering this area, and it leaving again. They’ll waste hours trying to figure it out.”

“Won’t it show a transfer out of my name? They’ll be able to track it down through Tallahassee.”

“It’ll be tomorrow before anyone can check, and it’ll still show the car registered in your name with the original transponder code. Since we aren’t supposed to know how to reset it, the current code won’t show up. That’s how thieves make cars disappear before they’re put on container ships taking them offshore. It’s a huge business.”

“How do you even know that?”

“It’s a long story. Hush, there’s the cashier.” She gestured toward the lighted booth ahead.

“Um. There’s one more thing,” Zach offered.

“What?”

“Your jacket. It’s starting to look a little beat-up.”

She cast a disapproving glance at her jacket. “You’re right.” She stopped the car and stepped out to brush her jacket off. As she did, she stumbled again and bumped the car. She regained her balance, crawled into the driver’s seat, and checked her face in the vanity mirror. “Now I need to do something about this.” She indicated where the blood from the cut on her head stained the collar of her white blouse. “No amount of water will fix this,” she said, with a disgusted tone.

“Turn this way,” Zach said. He reached up, and folded the collar inside the blouse, so the stain wasn’t visible under her jacket. “Wait a second, he said, and poured a little of the water onto the clean part of the shop cloth. He wiped more of the dried blood from her face, being careful not to start the cut bleeding again. A bruise was forming under the make shift bandage, and she was becoming increasingly pale. They had to get to a safe spot soon, or she would be in real trouble. “There.” He smiled at her. “All better.” He ripped another section from the cloth, folded it, and taped it in place of the one he’d removed.

“Let’s go,” She said, and drove toward the exit. She grabbed the ticket they’d gotten from the kiosk when they entered from where it sat on the dash. “Let me do the talking.”

He nodded.

Sara braked the vehicle next to the opening and handed the ticket to the woman in the booth.

The woman took the ticket and checked the time. “You only been in the lot for ten minutes.”

Sara smiled sheepishly. “Wrong turn. Sorry. I thought we were in short term parking.”

The woman’s laugh was deep and rich. “That’s okay, people do it all the time.” She turned away again. The LCD panel outside her booth glowed 0.00 in red digits. The woman turned back to face them again, her eyes glued to Sara’s forehead at the scalp line, where her injury was.

“It’s a beauty, isn’t it?” Sara said. She pulled the visor down and checked her forehead in the vanity mirror. “Renovating.” She slipped a hand around Zach’s fingers. “It’s our first house. We’re insulating the attic, and I bumped my head working up there.”

The woman bent down to glare at Zach. “Why you lettin’ her drive you around? She should be at home, with that bump and all.”

“His car is in short term, he flew in today from a business trip and his battery was dead. I had to come pick him up and I won’t let him drive my car.”

The woman nodded approvingly. “Okay then. You go get his car and go home and get some rest.” She waved them past.

“You’re too good at that,” Zach offered as they left the airport complex and headed west, toward the beach. “How you talk to people, and shorting out the nav system and everything else. I’d have still been there next week, trying to figure out how to do it without voiding the warranty.”

“Training,” she said. She engaged the autopilot, entered the destination on the beach, and leaned the seat back. “A tweak here, a nudge there. Attain the mission objectives and move on. They teach us to be visible on assignment and not to speak, so people will notice. It’s a big show most of the time. The opposite is also true. When you know what people are expecting to see and hear, you just fade into the crowd and they mostly don’t even notice you.”

“Is that what you did with me when you dropped off the sample?”

She smiled, as if recalling a pleasant memory. “Didn’t seem to work too well with you, did it?”

“Didn’t work at all, to tell you the truth. I looked up from my monitor and there was this… amazon.” He ignored her raised eyebrows. “Six feet tall, blonde, with eyes the color of clover honey, in the most severe black suit I’ve ever seen, with this little white curly wire going from her ear to her jacket.” He chuckled.

She rolled her eyes, but the smile stuck. “I’m not six feet tall. You make me sound like a circus freak, I’m a touch over five-ten, and that crap about ‘the color of clover honey—’”

“Is absolutely true. I could go on, but it would embarrass you.”

“I’m already embarrassed. Now you, on the other hand.” She rolled toward him in her seat. “With that hair of yours…”

“What’s wrong with my hair?” Zach checked himself out in the visor’s vanity mirror. “Looks the same as always.”

“Exactly. Like you combed it by sticking your head out the car window, but it always looks like that.”

“Yeah, well, people mostly don’t notice me anyway, so it doesn’t much matter.” He returned the visor to its usual place.

“Somehow, I doubt that. Listen,” she said. “We have to get you somewhere you can make hard copies of your results. Then you can release the information to the media.”

“What good will that do? The sample was blinded. You gave it to me, remember.”

“Yes, I did. And I have the information to raise the blind.” She pulled a crystal drive of her own from her pocket. “That’s your leverage. Once they know you have both parts, they’ll back so far off, you’ll probably be excused from paying income taxes for the rest of your life.” She returned the drive to her pocket. “Would you please get the shop cloth from the bag?”

He handed her the last bit of clean cloth and nodded at her head. “We really should do something about the cut on your forehead.”

“It’ll keep.” She raised the cloth to her forehead and put pressure on it. She winced.

“It hurts.”

“Hurts like a sonofabitch, but we don’t have time to worry about it right now.”

Zach snorted. “Tough girl, huh?”

She turned a narrowed eye in his direction. “Kick your ass anytime.”

“You’re on, Blondie.” He lifted his curled fists in front of his chest.

She glanced from his eyes to his fists, and back again. Her eyes sparkled. “That’s Special Agent Blondie to you, boy.”

“That’s Dr. Boy, to you, Special Agent Blondie.”

They stared straight-faced at each other for a long moment, then both cracked a smile by degrees. Zach relaxed into his seat and immediately stiffened against the pain in his rib. He moved his arm to his side as the Mitsu rolled through the evening traffic on autopilot.

“How’s your chest?” She reached out to him, concern in her eyes.

“I’m all right.” He sucked air back into his lungs through clenched teeth.

“You should lie back.” She reached over his lap and tugged the release lever. His seat dropped almost flat.

He bounced against the seat with a groan. “Oh, God! That’s worse, that’s worse.”

“All right. Wait a second.” She leaned over him. “Grab my neck.”

When he had, she braced her hand against the door, slid her other arm under him, and dragged him upright.

“Ow, ow, ow, that hurts.” He loosened his arm on her neck.

“All right, here we go.” She lifted her hand off the door, and released the lever with it. Zach’s seat popped upright, slapping against his back. He jerked forward in pain and her head bounced off the dash. They groaned at the same time, each falling against their own door.

“I can’t breathe.”

“I’m bleeding again.”

“And I can’t breathe.”

“I don’t feel good.”

The calm tone of her voice grabbed Zach’s attention. Blood was trickling down the side of her face again. Her hand was red, where she’d pressed it against her scalp. Her eyes rolled up in her head, and color faded from her face. She dropped onto his lap, her head landing on his crotch.

***

Don Brown sat on the penthouse balcony, his bald head purple with anger. “Don’t tell me you don’t know. Find him,” he said past gritted teeth into his link-communicator. Beads of sweat formed on his head despite a cool breeze blowing from the Gulf, bringing a much-appreciated change in temperature. He turned to a sound from the living room and frowned at Stiles’s latest acolyte adjusting her skirt as she moved across his view. She stopped at the mirror to check her hair and makeup before crossing to the private elevator, which would whisk her down to the garage, where a cab waited to take her home.

Brown disconnected the old-style smart phone when the elevator’s door closed behind her. He slid the glass door open and stepped into the living room, where he settled into a seat and waited, fuming.

Stiles strolled into the living room a moment later, calmness smeared across his face like cheap makeup. He tightened the knot on his bathrobe and plopped onto the couch opposite Brown. “What?”

Brown exhaled and ran a hand over his eyes. “Why do you insist on doing that?”

Stiles stared at him in wide-eyed innocence. “What the hell are you talking about, Don?”

“That girl…” Brown waved a hand in the air.

Stiles’s grin widened. “Rachel? A wonderful girl.”

Brown’s lips formed a tight line. “Exactly. A girl. Martin, you’re married, for Christ’s sake. Do you have to throw the campaign into the toilet before it even gets started?”

Stiles laughed. “Don, it’s nothing. She just recharges my spiritual batteries, so I can come back to it refreshed.”

The muscles under Brown’s cheeks bunched, but he knew when to let it go. “There’s another problem.”

Stiles straightened his robe, his attention focused. “What?”

“Marshall’s gone to ground.”

“What? Where’s Murphy?”

“Talking his way out of shit with the local police.”

Color flowed out of Stiles’ face. “What?”

Brown leaned forward, resting his forearms on his legs. “While you were getting your batteries pumped up, your pet psycho, Murphy, has been quite a busy little boy. So far, he and that dipshit Newman fixed your problem with Thomas. In the process, they lost Marshall, blew a hole in his house big enough to drive a small bus through, and totaled one of our SUVs. And guess what?” He stood and started to pace. “Our vehicle was destroyed by someone driving Murphy’s own personal antique Cadillac. The local police are investigating the crash. The medics are trying to talk Newman into going to the ER for head trauma again.”

“Again?”

“Again.” Brown turned and jammed one hand in his slacks pocket while he gestured with the other. “They just found him semi-conscious on the grass next to Marshall’s lab, where some old piece of junk car was burning down to the wheels in the street. Now even the goddamn Fire Marshal is involved, as if we needed more shit.”

Stiles’s mouth flapped open and closed a couple of times.

Brown stared at him.

“No. It can’t be.”

“Yes, it can. Martin, we have got to consider damage control. How we spin this in the next few days could keep us clear of the shit-storm. The first thing you’re going to do, is get rid of your little energizer bunny and get back on track.”

“Give me your iLink.” Stiles held out a hand.

Brown moved away from Stiles. “What’re you going to do?”

“I said give me your goddamn phone, Don.” Stiles snapped his fingers.

Brown reached into his pocket and pulled his iLink out. He held it to Stiles.

Stiles put it in his ear. “Connect. Murphy.” He hesitated. “Murphy. Who’s in charge there? Put him on, now.” He waited for a moment. “Hello, is this Officer Wilde? Hello, Officer. This is Congressman Martin Stiles. Mr. Murphy and his assistant are needed here. I’m sure you understand. Could you see your way clear to turn those boys loose?”

Brown stared at Stiles in shock, unable to fathom the man’s cajhones.

“Well, yes, of course, they’ll be down to the police station first thing in the morning to make a statement. You have my word.” He waited a second. “Could you put Mr. Murphy back on the link, please? Thank you, Officer. Hello, Mr. Murphy?” Stiles leaned forward in his seat. “About Dr. Marshall, find him and kill him.”

Brown’s mouth fell open. Before he could recover enough to grab the link, Stiles went on.

“Track the sonofabitch and whoever is helping him down and kill them. Do you understand? Good. Disconnect.”

CHAPTER 13

A groan worked its way up from Zach’s guts as he tried to curl around this fresh insult added to previous injury. Waves of pain throbbed from his side in its wake. Little flashing lights danced around the edges of his vision. With a whimpering cough, he dropped over on top of Sara.

The car rolled through the night, toward the beach, still on autopilot.

Zach lay curled over her, unable to move as the minutes dragged on. He struggled to catch his breath as he let this new pain pass. Each gasp brought a fresh, sharp jab to his ribs and tears to his eyes. With effort, he worked his way up in the seat and checked Sara.

She lay across the narrow gap between the seats, unconscious, her head still on his lap. His leg under her head was damp. He touched the spot with his fingertips. The blood on them was black in the passing street lights when he lifted them. Her forehead was sticky. The cloth she’d been pressing on her wound was gone.

Ignoring the waves of nausea his movements brought, he unbuttoned his shirt and slipped it off. He folded one of the sleeves over on itself several times, carefully pushed the edges of her cut closed, and applied pressure. He gradually increased it until a faint moan escaped her. He reclined his seat back, and gently repositioned her head while the Mitsu took them to the address she’d programmed in.

“I just hope there’s nobody using that safe house, or things are going to get really exciting.” Laying his head against the seat back, Zach tried to breathe around the pain and stay conscious to keep pressure on her wound.

***

“Destination reached.” The on-board computer broke the silence in the passenger compartment.

The car’s voice brought Zach around. The Mitsu pulled into the empty driveway of a dark house and stopped. Its headlights revealed doors built into the back wall of an empty carport. A five foot tall, square, green, recycling bin stood nestled in the corner closest to the house. One side of the carport was open to the shoulder-high hedges separating the house from the neighbor. The other held a wooden door with panes of frosted glass leading into the side of the house. They were alone.

“Lights off, system off,” Zach said. They dropped into darkness. “Sara,” he whispered. No answer. “Sara?” he repeated, a little louder. Concern added tension to his tone. A mumble came from where her head still lay on his lap. “Special Agent Goode,” he said, in a sharper tone. This brought a jerk from her. “Shh.” Zach grabbed her shoulder to keep her from sitting up too quickly. He worked his other arm from under her head where he’d been cradling it. He clenched and unclenched his fist to get sensation back.

A mumbled, “where am I?” drifted up from Sara.

“We’re here. Don’t sit up yet.”

“What happened?” Sara’s voice sounded groggy, sluggish. Her arm moved to the seat under him. He could feel tension flow into her hand as it found his leg. She tried to push herself up, but he tightened his grip on her shoulder. His free hand gently stroked her hair.

“Take it slow.”

“Why is my head on your leg?”

“You passed out. We both did.”

“God,” she groaned. “I feel like crap. Why are your pants wet?”

“Pretty sure that’s your blood on my leg. You started bleeding again.”

“Where did you say we are?” She shifted under his arm, but made no move to get up.

“We’re at the safe house you programmed into the car’s Auto-drive,” he said. When she started to move to sit up again, he added, “No. You’ve been bleeding. You’ve been unconscious. Please, don’t move yet. I’ll help you up, but you’ll have to tell me how to get the door to the house open. Is there a card reader or something?”

She shifted again under his arm, and then relaxed. “No. There’s a key. It’s in my pocket. I feel sick to my stomach, like I’m going to throw up, again.”

“You have a concussion. Lie still ’til I come around to get you out. What kind of a safe house doesn’t even have a card reader, anyway?”

“Zach, I lied. It’s not exactly an official safe house.”

“Then, where are we, exactly?”

“It’s my parents’ house. Please, tell me they’re not home.”

“There’s no lights. No car in the driveway. What does that mean?”

“Probably not.”

“Probably…?” Zach’s head dropped against the seat back. A mirthless chuckle worked its way out. “Hello, Mr. Goode, Ms. Goode? Hi, I’m Zach. That? Oh, your daughter’s been bleeding all over my lap from a head wound. She has a concussion and I’m pretty sure I have a broken rib. Could you give us a hand? Thank you. The car with your daughter’s blood all over it? That’s mine. Yes, it is nice, thank you. We’re on the run from stealing another one and blowing it up to cover up breaking into my own lab earlier tonight. Oh, yeah,” he concluded. “That’ll go over big.”

“Yeah, but the good news is they only have the one car and they almost never go anywhere separately. We’re most likely cool. I think I can sit up. I should try, at least.”

“Okay,” Zach said. “We’re going to do this. You’re going to put pressure here,” he moved his thumb on her hair. “I’m going to slide out of the car. Then—”

“Zach?”

“Yeah?”

“Sorry.”

He stared down at her. “What for?”

“For passing out. Very unprofessional.”

He stroked her blood-matted hair. “I won’t tell if you won’t.”

“It’s a deal,” she said.

Using the hand he’d been stroking her hair with, Zach reached for the door handle. As he did, he shifted his crotch gently under her head and realized everything wasn’t as numb as he’d first thought. He forced himself to think of something beside her head on his lap. “Ready?”

Sara nodded her head. He squirmed, wishing she hadn’t picked that particular movement. She patted his leg, and gave it a quick squeeze. “It’ll be all right.”

The passenger door of the Mitsu lifted forward easily to Zach’s push. Night air spilled in, covering them with the ocean breeze. Zach slid a leg out of the Mitsu, but he stopped when Sara’s grip tightened on the leg still under her head.

“What?”

She swallowed hard. Her nails dug into him hard enough to penetrate the numbness. “Slow, please. I’m still a little woozy.”

“Gotcha.”

She took a slow, deep breath. “Wouldn’t do to puke on your lap after you’ve been such a gentleman.”

This pulled a laugh from him, followed immediately by a whimper at the pain jabbing into his ribs. “No, but it’d sure be a funny story in about five years, when the emotional trauma wears off.”

A chuckle filtered up from Sara. “Maybe. I’m having a little trouble following the humor right now, though, what with facing state and federal prison and this damn headache.”

“I bet,” Zach offered. “Ready to try again?”

She nodded her head again. He rolled his eyes, wishing she’d find another way to express herself.

“Zach?” Her grip on his leg tightened.

“Sara,” he took a breath, past the pain, concentrating on fighting the urge to move against the pressure of her head. “I really need to get out soon, or you may have to reconsider your gentleman comment.”

She slid her hand off his leg and onto the seat. Her head lifted off him. “Go. Quick. Please.”

He grabbed the paper bag on the floor, slid out the door, and turned away in one, too-quick movement. He made it two full steps toward the back of the car before pain in his chest pulled him to his knees. Flashes of light danced around the edges of his vision again. Zach braced himself against the Mitsu’s side and forced himself to his feet. While he worked his way around to the driver’s door, he tried to coax air back into his lungs.

He stood at the door and turned, leaning his back against the composite and glass. Sweat soaked his shirt, creating a rivulet down his back. A sour taste burned into the back of his throat. He screwed his eyes shut and panted, willing his stomach not to turn on him while he caught his breath.

Zach gripped the driver’s side door handle and grunted the door open. Inside, Sara had worked herself to a sitting position. Her head lay propped against the headrest. A tear trapped in the corner of her closed left eye glistened in the dim light, refusing to run down her cheek.

Leaning in the opening, he put his head next to hers on the headrest. He worked his hand across her lap to where the belt was clipped. Pushing the button, he whispered in her ear, “Come on, slide your legs toward me.”

She turned slowly to face him until they were almost nose to nose. “I don’t think I can. Leave me behind, I’ll just slow you down.”

“You’re not as funny as you think you are,” he said, as he worked one hand around her legs and the other behind her neck.

“I wasn’t trying to be funny.”

“Good, because it isn’t working,” he said, recalling her earlier comment.

“I don’t think I can stand up. I’m so goddamn dizzy.”

“What?” He asked in mock surprise. “Because of a little head wound and loss of blood? For shame, Special Agent. I’ve been wondering what was keeping you upright all evening. Now get your ass out of that seat. I’ll hold you.”

She rolled her eyes at him and closed them again. “Yeah? What’s going to hold you up?”

“Don’t make me beg.”

“Later.”

He could’ve sworn her whisper had taken on a new, deeper tone. Shrugging it off as imagination, he slowly worked her legs around to the outside edge of the seat, and held her close as she stood. She pulled the Mitsu’s door closed as they stepped past it. With one arm around her shoulders and his other hand holding his shirt against her forehead, they stumbled into the carport and toward the side door of the house.

Sara pulled the key from her pocket as they walked. In the dark, she had trouble inserting the key and turning it, but finally the door to the house opened. Inside, the dark space felt small. Sara turned to the left where a tiny, red LED blinked, and pressed a code into the small keypad on the wall. The LED changed to a steady green. She turned toward what Zach’s now dark-adjusted vision identified as another, inner door. Next to the door stood a washer and drier. The wall on his left held a square, composite sink. He stepped toward the door, but Sara stopped him as he reached for the knob.

“No,” she said, her whisper hoarse. “No blood in the house. It’s a rule.”

Afraid to ask how such a rule came into being at her parents’ house, he merely nodded. “Okay.” He dropped the bag on the washer, kicked off his shoes, and undid his belt as Sara shrugged out of her jacket and shoulder holster. She leaned against a wall and worked on her blouse’s buttons as he let his trousers drop to the floor and stepped out of them. Her blouse joined his shirt on top of his slacks and they stood in the small, dark laundry room, Sara in her bra and black suit slacks, he in his stretch boxers.

“Where to now?” he asked, working at keeping his attention above her shoulders.

“I need to put my head down before I fall down.”

“We need to clean your cut so I can close it.”

“Bathroom, then. I can sit and you can work.”

“Lead on.”

“This way.” She stepped past him, opened the door into the house, and immediately lost her balance, bumping a hip against the washing machine.

“Careful.” He returned his arm to its place around her shoulders. She guided him past the combination kitchen and dining area on the left, the living room to the right, and through a short hall to a tidy bathroom. “Sit down, and put your head on the counter.” He laid the paper bag on the polished composite surface.

“You don’t have to tell me twice,” Sara said as she piled her shoulder holster on the floor in front of her. She sat down sideways on the toilet lid and laid her head on her folded forearms with a sigh.

He hooked the light switch and opened the cabinet under the sink. He examined first one, then another bottle, until he found the peroxide. After pouting some on the corner of a washcloth, he dabbed at the blood on Sara’s forehead. The cut was about two inches long and deeper than he first thought. He finished cleaning it. “Crap. What did you hit your head on?”

“Happened a little quick to pay attention to all the details,” she mumbled from her crossed forearms.

“I’m going to try to close this,” he said, “I can’t see bone, but I don’t know if it’ll work with something this deep.”

“That’s what the duct tape was for.”

“If this works,” he said. “It’ll be better.”

“Better than duct tape? This I have to see. Shouldn’t we put some antibacterial goop on it or something?”

“Not necessary with this,” he said, gently dabbing the cut dry with another corner of the cloth. The laceration had almost stopped oozing. “Okay, here we go.” Zach reached into the paper bag from the auto parts store and pulled out a three-pack of Magic Glue. He opened the package and removed a small tube. “Now lie still, this shouldn’t hurt.”

She stiffened. “Shouldn’t? Have you ever done this before?”

“Actually, no, but I learned about it in college. Laz…” He gulped. “Laz swore by it.” He popped the seal, gently pushed the edges of Sara’s wound together as she hissed in response, and applied the glue to the surface of her skin. After a couple of minutes, he tugged at the edge of the transparent, shiny, hard covering protecting the laceration. “Hey, it worked. Cool.”

“I’m impressed. Can I stay right here?”

“How about if you let me put another layer on and then you lie down?”

She nodded. “Can you please get me a towel for my hair? I don’t want to get blood on anything.”

“Towels?”

“Linen closet, hallway. There should be something for pain in the medicine cabinet.”

“Thanks.” He touched her bare shoulder with his fingertips and went in search of the linen closet.

A few minutes later, he returned with a couple of dark colored bath towels over an arm. Another towel was wrapped around his waist. “Come on, we need to get you horizontal.”

“Men. You’re all the same.”

He dropped a couple of ice cubes on the washcloth. “Here,” he said, handing her the ice. “Keep the swelling down.”

She stood, her shoulder holster in one hand, and led him to a small, dark bedroom off the main hall. “Promise not to laugh.”

“I promise,” he said, and flicked the light switch. A pink bedspread covered the double sized mattress. Slick, white, shelves hung on the pink-colored walls. On them sat an assortment of pastel stuffed animals and a child’s tea service. White, filmy curtains framed the window. In the corner, a child’s white unicorn rocking horse wore a pink saddle.

Facing one wall stood the plainest, tan-colored desk, as out of place in the pastel wonderland as if it had been dropped into the room by accident. Above the desk, a Cheetah Girls girl-band poster was tacked to the wall. He blinked. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen so much pink.”

“It’s my dad,” Sara offered, a bit sheepishly. “He labors under the delusion that I’m still nine. I’m sorry, but I really need to lie down, I’m getting nauseated again.”

“Yeah.” He pulled the dusky rose spread back. “In.”

When she was under the cover, she stared up at Zach and smiled. “Lying flat helps. Can I have a glass of water, please?” She batted her eyes. His eye roll brought a laugh and a groan from her.

“Let me put the clothes in water to soak, first. I’ll get you something for pain.” His chest throbbed, each breath sending waves of dull pain through him.

“Try the master bathroom. Don’t expect much. They tend to be on the stoic side.”

“At least you come by it honestly.” He turned and hit the light switch as he walked out. Back in the laundry room, he dropped their clothes into the washing machine, let it fill and interrupted the cycle to let them soak. On the way back to Sara’s bedroom, he stopped and checked the medicine cabinet in the master bathroom. Stoic was right, he thought. Grabbing the only bottle of ibuprofen, he downed a few, spilled three or four more onto his palm, filled a glass, and reentered Sara’s room. He placed the glass on the nightstand and handed her the pills, surprised when her hand wrapped around his in the dark.

“What?” he asked.

“Lie down.”

“I’ll hit the couch.”

“I can’t protect you in there.”

“Sara, I… you…” his stomach tightened.

“Don’t make me shoot you, I have a killer headache.”

“What if your colleagues show up?”

“This place is under the radar. My parents moved here after I applied to the bureau. It’s in my mom’s maiden name. She inherited it from her parents. The IRS couldn’t find us here. This is the safest place within a hundred miles.”

“I should…” Zach started.

“You should lie down before I have to hurt you. Is it this hard for every woman to get you into bed, or is it something about me personally you don’t like?” She pulled the spread back, her skin silver in the moonlight filtering through the window. The smooth surface of her bra shone white in the pale light. Zach closed his eyes and bit his lower lip.

He turned and closed the sheer curtains, and wincing with pain, groaned his way onto the bed. When he’d worked his way onto his back, she tossed the sheet and spread over him and shifted onto her side, her breath warm on his shoulder.

“That’s the problem,” he said. “There’s nothing about you personally I don’t like.”

She laid her hand on his chest where she’d punched him. “You weren’t very happy about my report style earlier.”

He snorted. “That’s about as much you as the shoulder holster you wear.” A stray beam of light snuck through the curtains, slicing into the room and exposing the unicorn.

“Exactly,” she whispered. “There was a time when it rubbed and chaffed, but now I feel naked without it.”

He tried not to think of her naked. It didn’t work. The more he tried, the more it didn’t work.

Her leg slid over his, nudging at the towel wrapped around his waist. The fabric of her trousers was smooth against his skin. “Zach?” Her whisper was little more than a soft breath on his skin.

“Yeah.” She was messing with him now—had to be, he thought. As he considered the possibility, it irked him. At least it had the effect of getting his mind off her bra and the breast inside it pressing against his arm.

“You asleep?” Her voice came out breathy and slurred.

“I wish.” He did. More than he hoped she would ever know. Her leg moved against him. He cleared his throat and adjusted his position to accommodate his reaction and dragged his thoughts, kicking and screaming, away from the thin material separating them. “Sara, I, um, thank you for saving my life.”

“Anytime.” She started quietly snoring into his shoulder. He moved a hand to her leg and slid it off his. As soon as he had, she shifted, giving him some much-needed breathing space. Her hand moved to his shoulder and he breathed a sigh of frustration and more than a little relief. Neither of them were in any condition for anything other than sleep.

He stroked the smooth skin of her arm, and closed his eyes, just for a minute…

***

Special Agent Johnson was doing his best to pace a rut in the suite’s deep-pile carpet. Three years to go until retirement, he thought. Three miserable years. A cushy assignment like this, closing in on the big two-zero, and now all hell had to break loose. Murphy and Newman stood at attention in Stiles’s penthouse. He secretly wanted to put his fist into Murphy’s face, might have if the Congressman weren’t running interference for the guy. Murphy was a cowboy—a clown. His file had more redacted text than declassified Area 51 information. Johnson had asked around on the down low, and Murphy was a lateral pass from OCIS—a spook. Not only was he in the Secret Service—his, Johnson’s Secret Service, but on his team. Except Murphy didn’t act like he was on Johnson’s team, he acted like it was Stiles’s team, and the team wasn’t big enough for two quarterbacks.

Murphy would go, one way or another. Newman, too. Johnson would find a way to encourage both of them to explore other options in government service—by the end of the week if he had anything to say in the matter.

Brown slouched in his usual chair. Stiles sat on the couch. Stiles. Stiles had requested Murphy by name. Now, he insisted on sitting in on a debriefing after a fiasco the media would delight in skywriting across the beach, because Stiles insisted it affected the campaign.

He turned his attention to Murphy and Newman.

“Why the hell you two were trailing him, is what I want to know.” Johnson stopped and stared at Murphy.

“They were following Dr. Marshall on my orders,” Stiles said, his manner contrite.

Johnson spun on Stiles. “Sir,” he said with enough bite on it to raise the politician’s eyebrows. Heat crept onto his cheeks. “I apologize for my tone, sir, but I asked Mr. Murphy a question, and I would like him to answer.” For non-department personal to attend a debriefing was unheard of. If they had the extra space, Johnson would’ve crushed this particular request at the outset. There was a reason Stiles wanted in on everything, and he, Johnson, was becoming increasingly more uncomfortable with the status quo. “Sir. It is highly irregular for a non-agency person to be allowed to sit in on these debriefings. Please try not to interrupt.”

“Of course, sorry, Special Agent.”

He returned to where Murphy and Newman stood.

Murphy inclined his head toward Stiles. “His orders, sir. We were to tail Dr. Marshall and report his whereabouts.” He resumed his stiff stance.

“Because of a suspected terrorist threat to Congressman Stiles?”

Murphy nodded. “Yes, sir.”

“And that threat is what, exactly, Special Agent Murphy?”

“We had reason to believe either Dr. Thomas or Dr. Marshall or both were planning to release falsified documents indicating a serious genetic abnormality.”

“And this information came from where?”

“Special Agent Goode’s preliminary report, sir.”

“Where is she, by the way?” Stiles asked. “She kind of dresses the place up a little, if you know what I mean.”

“Special Agent Goode has requested a few days off for a personal emergency.” Johnson took a slow, deep breath. His lips formed a thin line and addressed Murphy and Newman. “You two will go and get cleaned up and get some sleep. In the morning, you will return to the local police department and make a full report on tonight’s events. You will cooperate completely and answer all questions.” He crossed his arms over his chest. He nodded to the men. “Go home and get some rest. You,” he eyed Murphy, “are on duty tomorrow morning after your report. You’ll take the outer perimeter until further notice. There will be no more contact with anyone from GenTest until we determine what happened at Dr. Marshall’s home and laboratory tonight. Send in Hayes and Boone. Dismissed.”

Newman followed as Murphy strode to the door and out.

Hayes and Boone entered. Hayes’s upper lip had a sheen of perspiration, but Boone’s expression was flat as the wall.

Johnson pointed to the computers and the specimen trays sitting on the floor in the far corner of the room. “Which one of you wants to tell me about this?”

“Sir,” Hayes began, then seemed to run out of air.

“Sir,” Boone took over. “Mr. Murphy directed us to confiscate the equipment in question from GenTest. He informed us he would discuss his reasons for the confiscation at morning report.”

Johnson clenched his fists against his growing anger. “Are you following Mr. Murphy’s directions now, Special Agent Boone?”

She shot Johnson a quick glance before facing forward. “No, sir. I mean, we thought it came from you, sir.”

“Mr. Murphy didn’t tell you why you were to bring this equipment here?”

“No, sir.”

“No, sir,” Hayes added.

“Dismissed.” Johnson said to them. “You’re on duty tonight.”

“Yes, sir,” they answered in unison and took a step back before turning and stepping out.

Special Agent Johnson turned to Stiles and Brown. “Gentlemen.” He pointed to the conference table set up in the dining room. “We need to talk.”

CHAPTER 14

Sara’s arm lay across Zach’s chest as morning light filtered in through the window. The added weight left his chest feeling like his Mitsu was parked on it. His tongue felt like it was covered with carpet and his gummed-shut eyes refused to open against the sun. Trying to ignore the sensation of being watched, he slowly stretched his arms and legs awake.

She stirred next to him and rolled onto her back. In a sleepy voice, she said, “Oh, good morning, Daddy. What are you doing here?”

Zach tensed. Either her head injury was worse than he’d realized, or he was in deeper trouble than he thought. He held his breath, waiting to find out which. His body went taught as a fiddle string, when a deep male voice answered from the bedroom’s doorway.

“I live here with your mother. Perhaps you and your friend can join us at the kitchen table when you’ve showered. Your hair looks like you washed it in blood. Are the Feds going in for ritual sacrifice now?”

“Don’t start, Jack,” she said. Her voice took on a sharper edge, with an undertone of exasperation.

He grunted. “You can stop pretending to be asleep, young man. You aren’t fooling anybody. Here, you’ll need these.”

Zach’s legs jerked at what he assumed were his pants landing on them. “Yes, sir,” he said past the ache in his ribs, keeping his eyes closed.

“Sara, is that rolling abattoir in the driveway yours?”

“Sort of. Actually, it’s his.”

“That’s what I thought. You left the transmitter key in it, so I moved it into the carport and covered it.” He dropped the fob onto the covers over Zach’s stomach.

“Thank you, Jack,” she said.

“I thought I told you about calling me by my first name, young lady. Where’s your weapon?”

Sara pulled her hand from under her pillow and held the Glock up. “I thought you and Mom were on a cruise.”

“That’s next week.”

“Have fun.”

The man grunted and left the room.

Sara rolled onto her back and stretched. “You awake?”

Without opening his eyes, he answered, “Oh, yeah, I’m awake.”

“That was—”

“No, don’t tell me. Let me guess. Your father?”

“Yes.”

“Military?”

“Not since the Water Wars. Police. Detective. Retired,” she said.

“What a great way to meet someone,” he responded. “Bruised and bloody, and in bed asleep with his daughter. And, oh, yeah.” His hand fumbled toward the cloth material across his legs, and he recognized his pants. They were warm and dry. “He’s a retired detective. How’s your head this morning?”

“Hurts. How’s your chest?”

“Hurts like hell, thanks for asking, but I’m thinking that’ll be the least of my worries in a few minutes. You figure he’ll arrest me, or just kill me and dump my body in the Gulf, tied to concrete blocks?”

Sara laughed and winced. “His bark is worse than his bite.” She hesitated for a beat. “No, his bite is pretty bad, but he takes it all in stride. Should’ve seen his face when I told him I applied to the Secret Service.” She chuckled. “He looked like he’d swallowed a frog.”

“Great. This is all he needs.”

“You want the shower first?”

“No. I’ll just lay here and pretend to be asleep, fooling no one, thanks.”

Sara sat up, and plopped back, flat onto the bed, shaking the mattress and jarring Zach’s aching chest. Their matching groans started them both laughing, which led to more groans and left Zach panting for air past the stabbing sensation in his chest.

After a moment she said, “I don’t know which is worse, the vertigo or the headache.”

“I vote for rib pain as a write-in candidate.” The mention of the word candidate had them facing one another on the bed. “We are so in shit.”

“Deeply and securely. But a shower comes first.” Sara groped her way to the foot of the bed and slid to her feet, holding her head with both hands. She stood without support for a moment, staring straight ahead.

He watched her regain her balance and pull herself to her full height. She was lean and sinewy with just enough extra in the right places for his taste. He’d been right, she was a knockout under the suit. Her tawny brown hair with its blond highlights had fallen completely loose from its original knot on top of her head. It cascaded over and past her shoulders, half way down her back. Even disheveled and blood-matted, it shone in the morning light.

No, he thought, she shone in the morning light. He rubbed his fingers over his eyes, but the light through the window still bounced off her skin, creating an aura around her. “Wow,” was all he could say.

“What?”

“Tell you later. You need help to the bathroom?”

“No.” She shook her head slowly. “Jack will flow with a lot, but a strange man helping his twenty-six-year-old daughter into the shower? That might be too much for his heart.” A half smile crept onto her face. “I’m good.”

“Don’t get the glue wet,” he said when she’d made it as far as the door. “It’ll come off, and we’ll have to redo it.”

“Then we’ll have to redo it,” she said, hand on the knob. “I can’t walk around with hair like this in the daylight. I look like I just stepped off a battlefield. It’ll scare children.”

When she’d gone, he laid his head on the pillow and closed his eyes. “It scared the hell out of this grown man last night.”

Fifteen minutes later, Sara stepped back into the bedroom, still damp. A large, blue towel encircled her torso. Her hair was washed and brushed back. A small square of gauze taped to her forehead showed a streak of bright red. “All yours,” she said, her smile not quite hiding the pain.

Zach tugged his trousers on as he winced his way up from where he sat on the bed. “Give me ten.”

“Don’t hurry on my account,” Sara said, leaning over a little girl’s white, six-drawer dresser with gold trim. She pulled a pair of red thong panties from the top drawer. Noticing he was still standing at the door, she waved her fingers to hurry him along. “Go.”

He nodded, and headed into the bathroom across the hall from Sara’s bedroom. A new toothbrush lay on a fresh towel on the countertop next to the sink.

***

As he dried off, he checked his ribs in the mirror. A fist-sized bruise was forming on his right side over the tender spot. He flipped the towel over his neck, letting it hang over his chest.

After taking the deepest breath he could manage, he opened the bathroom door, turned left, and walked toward the combination kitchen and dining area. Sara sat at the table, a heavy, white coffee cup in her hand. She wore a white oxford shirt and cutoff denim shorts that exposed more of her bare legs than they covered. A lot more, he noticed. She also wore glasses. The delicate gold frames surprised him.

Next to her and facing Zach, a middle-aged man with close-cropped salt-and-pepper hair sat. A similar cup rested on the table in front of him. The man wore a tight-fitting tee shirt and loose jeans, and looked like he could bench press a corner of the house. He leaned back casually in his chair, lifted his cup, and sipped his coffee. One leg crossed the other at the knee.

Unsure what to do next, Zach stopped at the end of the hall. On his left an open, comfortable living room held a wicker couch and matching love seat. A couple of matching end tables supported reading lamps. A decent-sized monitor screen hung on the wall behind him and to his left. On the far wall, a large picture window behind the couch looked out onto the small front yard and street beyond. The front door was near the corner of the room to his immediate left. He stood, waiting for Sara’s father to acknowledge his presence.

The man gestured to the chair opposite him. “Dr. Marshall. Have a seat. We were just talking about you.” His deep brown eyes looked like they carried the weight of having seen too much gone wrong in the world.

Zach approached the table. Before he could pull a chair out, Sara’s father held a hand out, palm out. “Hold it.”

Sara’s face tightened at the sound, the pain from her headache clear. “Jack.”

Zach did as instructed. The man pushed his own chair back and stood.

“Wait there,” he said, and left the room, skirting past Zach and heading toward the master bedroom.

Zach stared at Sara, who smiled thinly at him.

A moment later, Sara’s father returned with a soft, pastel blue shirt and held it out to Zach. “Trade.”

Zach exchanged the towel for the shirt, the aching from his rib causing him to grimace as he shrugged into it.

Sara’s father cocked his head. “Let me take a look at that.” He brushed the shirt aside and inspected the faint bruise on Zach’s side. “Somebody knock you down?” he asked.

Zach shot a glance to Sara. “Twice,” he said, to the faint grunt from Sara as he buttoned the shirt.

Sara’s father eyed them, then walked past Sara, tossed Zach’s towel onto the washing machine, and closed the door before returning to his seat. “I can hardly wait for that part of the story.”

“Yes, sir,” he said. “And thank you, sir, for the shirt and your hospitality.”

“Sit.” When Zach had, he continued, “You’re welcome for the shirt, but so far, that’s all I’ve given you.”

“Yes, sir. Thanks just the same.” Zach scanned his surroundings. The wall behind Sara’s father held the door to the washroom. On Zach’s right was a sliding glass door he’d missed the night before. It led out to a small, concrete patio. Behind him was a small, tidy kitchen, separated from the dining area by a counter.

Sara’s father nodded. “I’m Detective Jack Goode, retired, and damned happy about it,” he said, without cracking a smile.

“Pleased to meet you, sir. I’m…” He held out his hand, and laid it on the table in front of him when Sara’s father ignored the gesture.

“I already know who you are. I just have to decide what to do with you, is all.”

“Jack,” Sara’s voice carried a plaintive tone.

He shot her a menacing glare over his index finger. “Okay, Dr. Marshall, from the top. Everything.” Goode dropped his finger at Sara’s eye roll and sipped from his cup.

Twenty minutes later, when Zach had related the whole story, Detective Jack Goode, retired, and damn glad about it, sat back and stared at him through narrowed eyes. Without a word, Sara’s dad stood and lifted his coffee cup. “You want a refill, honey?”

Sara handed him her cup, and he stepped into the kitchen. “Would you like a cup of coffee, Dr. Marshall?” he asked.

Zach swallowed and licked his suddenly dry lips. “Yes, sir, if it’s not too much trouble.”

He returned to the table, and placed Sara’s cup in front of her. He paused, running his fingers through her hair.

She responded with closed eyes and a smile.

After brushing the hair off her face, her father stepped back to the kitchen. “Do you take soy milk or sugar, Dr. Marshall?”

“A little milk, please, sir, and please call me Zach.”

Sara caught Zach’s eye and gave him a quick nod.

A commotion in the washroom off the kitchen drew Zach’s attention. A couple of moments later, a woman bustled into the kitchen. Sara’s mother was almost as tall as Sara, with silver highlights instead of Sara’s gold in her light brown hair. The only lines marring her face were small laugh lines radiating from the edges of her eyes and dimples at the corners of her mouth.

She stood and stared at Zach for a long moment. “You must be Dr. Marshall,” she said and extended her hand to him. “I’m Miranda Goode, Sara’s mother.” The strength of her grip surprised him. Her eyes held him with the same intensity as Sara’s. She blinked, breaking the spell.

She turned and walked to Sara’s father, giving him a peck on the cheek and whispering something Zach missed. “Oh, good, Jack, you made coffee.” She brought a cup and placed it gently in front of Zach on the table and went back to her husband’s side. In a low voice, she said, “Five bottles of peroxide and a roll of shop rags as requested, sweetheart.”

He grumbled something Zach couldn’t make out.

Jack Goode sat at the table again. Sara’s mother took the seat opposite Sara, and smiled at her over her coffee cup.

Goode stared at his coffee. After a long moment, he raised his eyes to Zach. Zach’s scalp prickled. Goode inhaled and, his voice glacier-cold, asked, “What’s your game, Dr. Marshall?”

Zach was taken aback. “I’m sorry. I don’t understand…”

Goode held up a hand to silence his wife and daughter and fixed Zach with eyes that gave nothing away. “It’s a simple enough question, sir. What game do you prefer? Just answer the question. Football, baseball, soccer, chess, backgammon, quiddich? What game do you like—?”

“Baseball,” he blurted without thinking.

Goode sat back in his chair and stared at Zach. “Why baseball, Dr. Marshall? The statistics? The RBIs? The lifetime averages? The betting?”

“No,” he said, “I’m sorry, I wasn’t clear. Not professional baseball, little league. Professional baseball is nothing but a corrupt, steroid-riddled show for the benefit of bookies and pharmaceutical companies.”

“What do you like about little league, Dr. Marshall?” Goode leaned closer to Zach. “Watching the kiddies play? Watching the little boys run around the bases, getting sweaty, stepping up to the plate and digging in, swinging their asses—”

Zach’s mouth dropped open. He shook his head and leaned away from Goode to breathe as heat flushed into his cheeks. Sara’s mother watched him as if waiting for something. Sara’s arms were crossed on the table. She stared at him with the same slate-flat expression as her father.

“Look at me, Dr. Marshall, not them.” The tone of Goode’s voice dragged Zach’s attention back to where Goode leaned forward, his forearms crossed on the table. “How are you with little girls getting to play, Zachary? Or are you a boys-only kind of guy?”

Zach’s thoughts stalled at the inappropriateness of the question. He scooted his chair away, shocked. He eyed the door, wondering if he could make it past Goode. “I’m sorry to intrude. I should be going.”

“Sit.” Goode’s voice was a whisper, but it carried the weight of someone used to being obeyed.

Zach froze. He had to force air into his lungs. His heart pounded.

Goode leaned in close to Zach. “I asked you a question, Zach.” The derision was clear in Goode’s accent of Zach’s name. “I said what do—”

“The game,” he said, a little too loudly. “I like the game. Because for a few weeks a year, kids get to play in the sun at a game everybody understands. And—”

Goode sat back and waved a hand in a dismissive gesture. “Well—”

Zach’s anger surged. He leaned forward this time. “I wasn’t finished.” He was trembling. His cheeks felt like he could’ve used them to light charcoal. “And every kid, even the one that’s too tall and gangly, and barely coordinated enough to tie his shoes, gets to play.” His hands clenched into fists on the table as memories he hadn’t thought of in years flooded into him. “And on one dog-hot August day, that kid accidentally catches a pop fly and puts his team up to bat in the bottom of the ninth.”

Zach’s eyes burned, his breath came in short hitches. “I love little league because any kid that hangs in long enough and has enough heart eventually gets up to bat. Even if he wears glasses and bats one-ninety, he still has the chance to slap a bouncing ground ball right between first and second with two men on. If he runs hard enough, and if the first baseman misses the ball, that kid can dive face-first into second and be a hero.”

“That’s a very stirring story, Dr. Marshall, but—”

“You be quiet,” Zach cut him off, carried forward by emotion. “I loved little league because every kid got to play, and every kid, no matter what else, just once, got the chance to be a star.” He blinked back tears at the memory of his childhood he’d never spoken about. He calmed his breathing and tensed, ready to walk out on this pompous nut job.

Goode shot forward in his seat again until he was nose to nose with Zach. “Why did you kill Dr. Thomas, Zachary?” The man’s voice carried a plaintive note, as if he actually cared about Laz or the people who knew him.

Zach’s anger flared to fury, red and hot. He gripped the table to keep from decking Goode. “Lazlo Thomas was my friend,” he whispered through gritted teeth. “And if I ever get my hands on the sonofabitch who killed him, I’m going to tear his goddamned heart out with my bare hands.” Zach blinked and looked around. He was standing, hunched over the table. Goode had retreated back into his own chair. Zach’s chair was behind him, where he’d shoved it when he stood. Pain knifed into his chest as he took too deep a breath.

Sara’s mother remained calm, staring at him. No, not at him, but into him, as if she could see his soul. Sara still regarded Zach with the same expression as her father. For the first time since this nightmare began, he felt trapped.

Zach cleared his throat. “I’m very sorry for my outburst, Ms. Goode,” he whispered, a little shaky. “Please accept my apology. Thank you for the coffee and the shower, ma’am. I think I’ve disrupted your family enough, and I should go, now.”

“Sit down, Dr. Marshall,” Goode said in an easy, cordial manner.

Zach stared at Sara’s father, speechless. His temper flared again. It took all his restraint to keep from going over the table at the man.

Goode’s face relaxed into a smile. “Please, Dr. Marshall.” Goode gestured to the table. “I apologize for your discomfort. Please.”

He turned to see Sara moving his chair in behind him. She laid a hand on his shoulder, gently guiding him down. “It’s okay, Zach.”

He settled into his seat, confusion overwhelming him. “I don’t understand.”

Sara’s mother sighed. “I hate when you do that at the table.”

“My prom date didn’t care much for it, either,” Sara said.

“That low-life,” Goode grumbled, his voice soft with caring. He grunted and said, “He wasn’t much of a loss.”

It was Sara’s turn to grunt. The similarity to the sound her father made almost caused Zach to smile.

Goode faced his daughter. “I believe him. I’m in.”

“In what?” Zach asked, shaking his head.

“You’ll be blamed for Dr. Thomas’ murder,” Sara said.

“What? But I didn’t, you saw—”

“Don’t forget the arson,” her father added.

Zach turned his head in Goode’s direction. “What?”

“A decent-sized chunk of your house was blown into the street last night,” Sara said.

He whipped the other direction, winced when his chest grabbed him again. “But I didn’t—”

“It’s all over the news feeds,” Sara’s mother said.

“But—”

“They’ll blame the car crash on him, too,” Goode added.

“Well, I did that,” Sara said.

Goode shrugged. “Just sayin’. They’ll never let you take the rap for it. They’ll bounce you, nice and quiet-like if you cop to it. Or they’ll have you guarding a sheep herder in the middle of Idaho. Either way, it’ll be the end of a career.”

“It’s shepherd, not sheep herder, Jack,” Sara said.

Her father grunted again.

Sara’s mother said, “They’ll probably get someone to kill him in prison…”

“It makes perfect sense.” Sara nodded. “And it’s very Murphy. If he can’t kill Zach himself, he’ll find some way to engineer it or manipulate someone else into doing it for him.”

“Be easy enough to carry out,” Goode said.

“Well, that sucks,” Zach said.

“Don’t get caught,” Goode said, turning to him. “If you get caught, you’ll never make it to trial.”

“I… is this supposed to make me feel better?” His gaze shifted from one to the other, finally landing on Sara.

“No, Zach,” Sara said. “It’s supposed to impress upon you how important it is that you not get caught.”

“It’s working.” Zach said. “But the only way to really end this is to take the fight to Stiles. Stiles is pulling Murphy’s strings, and I think I may know how to finish this.”

“Let’s hear what you have in mind” Goode said.

***

Murphy paced across the marble tiles in the lobby of the hotel that held Stiles’s penthouse suite. “Grow some balls,” he said into his link to Newman. His neck pulsed against the collar of his crisp, white shirt as he worked to keep his tone low.

“Hey,” Newman responded. “Are you trying to get me fired?”

“The Secret Service doesn’t fire people. They transfer you to a bank squad in Nebraska, or assign you to guarding a boxcar of counterfeit nickels waiting to be melted down, or some other bullshit assignment.”

“Great alternatives. Thanks.”

“I told you there were risks. You handle it. This is America. You just bluff them out and they get tired of asking, then they get occupied with something else, and you go back to work. Now, get a grip and find out where Gopher Girl scurried off to.”

“You heard Johnson. She requested a few days personal leave. Boone thinks her mother took sick or something.”

“Thinks? Boone thinks? Kinda convenient, don’t you think?” Murphy fisted the keys to his wrecked Caddy.

“Coincidence?”

“No such thing,” Murphy said. “Where’s her parents live?”

“I don’t know.”

“Find out.”

CHAPTER 15

Sara’s mother stood and walked around to stand behind Zach. She put a hand on each of his shoulders and squeezed. “I believed you without all that,” she said in his ear. “Sara believes in you, and that’s enough for me.” She straightened. “If everyone’s appetite isn’t completely ruined, how about some breakfast?”

Zach’s stomach was trying to tie itself into a knot. He pushed his fingers through his hair at the temples, and pressed his palms into his eyes while he tried to regain control of his breathing. His thoughts swirled endlessly around the past twelve hours, trying to paralyze him with confusion and grief.

Goode took a sip of coffee. “Yeah, and Sara’s never been wrong before.”

Sara’s mother cleared her throat. “Scrambled eggs and toast good for everybody?”

“Yes, thanks, Ran.”

“Good for me, too, Mom.”

“Dr. Marshall?”

He struggled to find his voice. “Yes, ma’am, anything’s okay with me.”

She released her grip and moved to the kitchen, where she busied herself pulling cookware from the cabinets.

On Zach’s left, Sara snorted. “Okay, Jack, you were right. The Secret Service was a bad idea.”

“Don’t call me Jack, young lady.”

“Then don’t start crap.”

“Children,” Sara’s mother spoke softly from the kitchen, where she leaned into the open refrigerator. “Play nice.”

“Yes, Mom,” Sara spoke in a contrite tone.

“Yes, Ran,” Goode grumbled.

He turned back to Sara and her father. “I’m sorry, but what was all that?”

“He,” she pointed a finger at her father, “told me not to apply to the Secret Service, and I did anyhow.”

“And,” her father continued, “she discovered I was right after all. Surprise.”

Sara rolled her eyes. “It only took me two years to figure out taking a bullet for most politicians isn’t as good an idea as putting one into them. How long did it take you to figure out there was a revolving door at the jail, and money was the grease?”

Her father shrugged his shoulders. “Till we paid off the mortgage. Seemed like a good idea at the time.”

They sat in silence, glaring at each other, until Sara’s father cracked a smile, and Sara followed suit. From his side of the table, Zach watched the exchange.

“When did the Feds start using black Mitsu hybrids?”

“Jack.” It was Sara’s mother, this time.

“I’m just curious where she learned that trick with shorting out the Auto-nav, Ran.”

“From you,” Sara said.

“What?” Goode asked. Indignation painted his face like cheap makeup.

“You and Uncle Hank.”

Goode spoke toward the kitchen. “Ran?”

Zach followed his look to where Sara’s mother worked at the counter, her back toward them.

“And why not, Jack? She learned how to swear from the two of you.”

A smile wrinkled the corners of the man’s eyes. “That, she got from you.”

It was like watching a well-oiled machine spin to life. Miranda turned, fisted her hands at her hips, and addressed Sara’s father. “Only because you’re so god damn irritating sometimes.” She glanced at Sara, then at Zach, and rolled her eyes. “Damn,” she said, and opened the refrigerator, putting the door between herself and them.

Zach wondered if they were all crazy, or if he was. He half-expected an oversized, vest-wearing rabbit to hop through the living room at any moment, check his pocket watch, and scamper out the side door.

Sara’s mother stepped to the table and poured coffee into his empty cup. “Would you like more coffee, Dr. Marshall?”

He touched her hand. “If everyone else is. I’m sorry, but what’s going on here? I mean, we’re just going to have breakfast like nothing’s wrong and I’m not a fugitive. Seriously?”

Sara’s mother looked from Zach, to Sara, to her father, and then to Zach. “What’s going on is some very determined people are trying to discredit and kill you.” Miranda said to Sara, “You’re the one with the head injury, right?”

Sara rolled her eyes in response.

“Just checking,” Miranda said, and returned to the stove.

Her matter-of-fact summary of his life imploding caught Zach off-guard.

“And then she decided to bring you home,” Goode added.

“He’s not a stray dog,” Sara said.

“You mean,” her father interjected, a look of surprise on his face. “He didn’t follow you home? You actually brought him here? On purpose?”

“What else was I supposed to do? I couldn’t very well check into a Holiday Inn, bloody and battered, and book the bridal suite. The Valet would have had a fit when he parked the car.”

“That’s a head injury for you,” Goode said, with a shrug. “Speaking of which, I hope you don’t think I’m going to clean up the mess on the seats.”

“It’s my blood, I’ll clean it up.” Sara countered.

“Uh,” Goode snorted. “What you’re planning on doing with the car would be my question.”

“It followed me home, Daddy. Can I keep it?” She batted her eyes at her father.

It was Goode’s turn to roll his eyes. “Don’t think for a minute I’m calling Hank to have the thing hauled away.”

Sara cocked her head at him. “To keep your only child out of prison? Heaven forbid.”

“Excuse me,” Zach said in a quiet tone. Sara and Goode went silent and faced him in unison. “I don’t mean to be rude, but what the hell was all that about games and kids a few minutes ago?”

Goode stared at Zach. “That was called being questioned. I suggest you get used to the idea. At some point, you’re going to be questioned by other cops, most of whom will be seriously trying to pin something on you.”

“They’ll come at you in twos and threes,” Miranda said from the kitchen. “They’ll play good cop, bad cop, they’ll switch up on you unexpectedly.”

“They’ll lie to you and generally do anything they can to intimidate you, badger you, confuse you, and trip you up,” Sara added.

“Why?” He hadn’t had time to consider how his involvement in last night’s events might be misinterpreted or that he might actually be blamed. The possibilities set his heart racing and left his mouth dry.

“They’ll need a fall-guy,” Goode said, as he leaned toward Zach. “They’ll need to close the case. They won’t stop and they won’t play fair. So when it happens, have a lawyer, keep your mouth closed, and if you say anything, tell the truth, because it’ll be the only thing that can save you. Trust me.”

Sara touched Zach’s forearm. He stared at her fingers. His eyes drifted up to her face.

“And it’ll feel just like this except a hundred time worse—a hundred times scarier, Zach. How to keep you alive and out of jail is what we’re trying to figure out, but…” Her attention shifted to the table for a moment. She shook her head. “I promise you I’ll do everything I can to help you.”

“We all will,” her father said.

“Thank you.” He studied Sara, then her parents. “I don’t know what to say.”

Goode studied Zach, his expression giving nothing away. “That’s a good line. Stick to it.”

Zach stood. “I’m sorry. I need to step outside for a moment—to clear my head.” He walked around and through the small laundry room into the carport. The Mitsu’s deep, metal flake skin was cool under his fingertips as he stepped to the rear of the car and leaned against the trunk lid. Tears started as he thought of Laz, their friendship, and his carefully constructed life that’d been ripped away in a blink. He steadied himself, hands on knees, eyes closed, while panic scrabbled at his heart.

A hand touched his shoulder. “You okay?” It was Sara. She leaned on the rear of his car next to him.

He sniffed, pushing the feeling down. “Yeah. No. I was thinking about… everything. I’m scared.”

“Here.” She handed him a napkin. “I know. It sucks, but you can’t let these assholes win… we can’t let these assholes win, or it was all for nothing.”

“I just don’t want anyone else hurt.”

She touched his chin, pulled it around until he was looking at her eyes. “I know, but these guys have to be stopped, whatever it takes. Or you can quit now and let them bury you alive. Your choice.”

He nodded. “I know. I know it has to be done.” He took a breath and blew it out. “I’m ready.”

She took his hand and led him into the house. “We’re good,” she said to her father’s glance.

Something sizzled. Zach wrinkled his nose and sniffed. “Is that bacon?” he asked, his brow furrowing. “Real bacon?”

“Jack doesn’t like the soy version,” Miranda said from the kitchen.

“Stuff tastes like burnt plastic,” Jack mumbled.

Sara rolled her eyes and slid her chair back. “I’m going to help Mom.” She stood and went to the kitchen, taking up a position next to her mother, opened a cabinet door, and pulled plates out.

Sara’s father still stared at Zac from the other side of the table, his eyes as focused as twin lasers, boring two perfect holes through Zach’s head. “So, how’d you get roped into this disaster?”

“Laz and I have a small testing lab just south of town. We do DNA testing there.” He cleared his throat. “I mean we did testing there. We’ve known for decades the gene for psychopathy and alcoholism, among other disorders, is associated with Taql-A and C957T polymorphisms of the ANKK1 gene. I developed a cheap, easy test for twenty-three related genetic disorders, including psychopathy, while I was in graduate school. It was my thesis. They used to call psychopathy antisocial personality disorder before we discovered the gene responsible for it. Laz was working on his chemistry doctorate at the time. We worked together and discovered how to streamline the procedure. We got a patent on the process and decided to take advantage of it. Anyway, we got this sample a few days ago—”

“The one she brought.” Goode flicked a glance toward Sara.

“Yes, sir. It turned out to be positive for several disorders.”

“Including psychopathy.”

Zach nodded.

“And it turned out to be Stiles’s DNA.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Figures,” Goode said. He asked how the test worked, and seemed genuinely interested. Sara slid a plate containing scrambled eggs, bacon, and toast in front of each of them. Sara’s mother put the other two plates on the table as Sara topped off their coffee.

When they were seated, Zach spoke to Sara’s mother, “Thank you for breakfast, ma’am. I can’t remember the last time I had real bacon.”

“Neither can I,” Goode said.

“It was last week, dear,” Miranda said as she forked up some eggs.

***

After breakfast, Sara pressed her fingertips to her head and winced. “The aspirin’s wearing off.” She nudged Zach’s arm. “Could you glue me back up, please? I need to go and lie down for a bit.”

“Yeah, sure,” he responded, glad to feel useful.

“Glue? What glue?” It was Goode.

“Zach glued my cut last night.”

Goode’s attention darted between Sara and Zach and the corners of his mouth lifted. “Is that what the kids are calling it now?” Goode asked.

Sara rolled her eyes. “Zach used Magic Glue from an auto parts store last night to close the cut on my head. No stitches and it worked like a charm.”

Goode crossed his arms over his chest. “An auto parts store?” He turned his raised eyebrow to Zach.

“Actually, sir,” he said, “it’s cyanoacrelate. Chemically, it’s identical to what they use in the ER and most types of surgery instead of stitches—when there’s no tension on the edges,” he added. “It works great on facial lacerations.”

“What kind of doctor did you say you were?”

“Molecular biologist, but Laz is—” he stopped. “Was—” The word punched him in the chest. “Sorry, Laz was a biochemist. He swore by the stuff. He dated an ER resident for a while when we were in grad school. He dated a lot. He—” Zach blinked against the burning in his eyes. “He—” He pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and index finger and wiped them across his eyes. “Sorry.”

A hand touched his shoulder. He turned his head to see Sara’s mother standing over him. “Why don’t you show us how it works, Dr. Marshall?”

He swallowed. “Yes, ma’am. If you’ll tell me where my paper bag is, I’ll get it. Please, call me Zach, Mrs. Goode, all my friends do,” he said, remembering his last conversation with Laz.

She smiled at him. “Of course, Zach. Your bag is on the washing machine.”

He stood and went into the laundry room and grabbed his crumpled auto parts bag. He stared at the bag for a moment. “Last night,” he said to himself. The words held a new meaning now, and he shuddered at what they might mean tomorrow.

In the kitchen, Sara had already removed the gauze and laid her head on her crossed forearms, exposing her injury. Miranda held Sara’s hair away from the cut on her scalp. As he pulled the second tube of glue from the small box, Goode stepped around behind him.

“Jack?”

“What?” he said, eyes wide. “I want to see how this works. You never know.”

Zach bent over Sara, dabbing the cut where it had started to ooze again when she’d washed the blood out of her hair. A deep red bruise colored her scalp and extended onto her forehead.

“It’s simple,” he said, pushing the laceration’s edges together again. “You just have to make sure to get the edges tight, and the skin has to be dry, or it won’t stick.” He kept an even pressure on her skin as he applied the clear liquid and it hardened.

“What about bleeding?” Goode asked.

“You’d have to stop that first,” Zach said. “Also, if there’s any tension on the skin, it won’t work.”

“Knees and elbows and such.”

“Correct.” He applied a second layer, spread it further onto Sara’s skin. “Really active things.”

“Lucky it was my head,” Sara said.

Goode ignored her comment. “Go on.”

“Takes about two or three minutes to cure. It’s best to do a second layer, like this.”

“Infection?” Goode asked.

Zach shook his head. “Bacteria can’t grow in the stuff, and they can’t move through the glue.” He stood up. “If it’s clean to begin with, it stays clean.”

Goode leaned in and blew out a soundless whistle. “Slick.” He stood and offered his hand to Zach. “Thank you for taking care of my daughter.”

Zach took Goode’s outstretched hand. “Your daughter saved my life last night, probably more than once. How do I repay that?”

“It’s the job.”

Zach shook his head. “No, sir, she wasn’t assigned to protect me. The people she works with tried to kill me, and she stopped them.”

“If you two are finished bonding,” Sara said from the table, smiling at her own joke. “I’d really like to go lay down, before I yack up all over Mom’s floor.”

Sara’s mother touched Sara on the shoulder. “Come on, sweetheart. Leave them to it. You know how boys are.”

Goode stepped away, reading the back of the box the Magic Glue came in. As Miranda helped Sara toward her bedroom, he thought he heard her say something like, “I hope so, too,” in a low tone.

“Zach.”

He turned to face Goode, who’d moved to the laundry room door. “Yes, sir?”

“You up to giving me a hand?”

“Yes, sir. Whatever I can,” he said. The talking and movement had started his chest aching again.

Goode nodded as they headed into the laundry room. “And my friends call me Jack, not sir.”

He watched as Goode silently placed a plastic bucket in the sink in the utility room and turned the faucet’s handle. While the bucket filled, Goode opened the bag of shop rags and handed Zach several. When the bucket was half full, Goode turned off the water, grabbed the bag containing six bottles of peroxide and the bucket, and headed outside.

In the carport in the daylight, Zach got a better look at the outside of the house. It was a modest, cinder block construction, built before the Water Wars. Someone had enclosed the rear of the carport and added two sets of double doors, presumably for storage. The block walls were a medium moss green with the trim and doors done in white. He stopped for a closer inspection of what he’d thought was glass the previous night.

“Shatter-resistant, high-impact PMMA poly-glass,” Goode said from the other side of the car. “It’s sandwiched between two sheets of steel with plasma-cut pane openings.”

“It opens out.”

Goode nodded. “Very non-code. The jamb is steel, lag-bolted into the reinforced concrete wall.”

“Sounds like a bank vault door,” Zach said.

“Can’t be too careful,” Goode said. He circled around to the driver-side door of Zach’s Mitsu.

Zach stood opposite him and opened the passenger-side door, trying not to be sick as he stared at Sara’s blood in the daylight.

“Here.” Goode tossed a bottle of peroxide to Zach. When he caught it, sudden, sharp pain from his rib almost dropped him to the concrete. Jack popped the top off another peroxide bottle and poured it on a shop rag. He rubbed at the blood smeared on the inside of the door. “Good thing the seats in this bucket are dark leather. You’d never have gotten the blood out of the cushions if they were cloth.”

“No, sir, um, I mean Jack.” Zach poured peroxide on the seat. He watched it bubble and fizz as it worked its way down the seat to the rear, and started dabbing, ignoring the ache in his ribs.

“Did my daughter really knock you down?”

Pain cut Zach’s laugh short. “Twice, but the second time was more of a tackle than knocking me down. I landed on a root and she landed on top of me.”

“And you didn’t at least offer to kick her ass? You’re a better man than I am.”

Zach tried the laugh again. “You tried to take your daughter recently? She put me flat on my back in an alley ’cause I mouthed off to her.”

It was Goode’s turn to laugh. “That’s my girl. Takes after her mom.”

“Yes, sir,” Zach said.

Goode slanted a quick look at Zach, but offered no comment. When he’d finished wiping the door down for the third time, he hesitated. “About the little league story… you?”

“My brother, Dave,” Zach said, opening the second bottle. “I was playing shortstop. He’s the family geek.”

“You got a family where the molecular biologist isn’t the geek? What’s your sister, an astrophysicist?”

Zach chuckled. “Just the two of us,” he said, rubbing the seat again. He popped the release to get at the little stain on the rear carpet where a few drops of blood had leaked between the seat and seat back.

“What’s your dad do?”

“He was the janitor at the elementary school my brother and I attended. He also worked nights on the cleaning crew at the library.”

“No college?”

“Couldn’t get past the dyslexia, I guess.”

“Shame.”

Zach shrugged. “He worked hard, and we did all right. He taught us life isn’t about what you get, it’s where you turn what you got into who you are.”

“You talk about him in past tense,” Goode said.

Zach’s voice dropped. “He died ten years ago.” He went to work on the carpet. “I’ll go ahead and tell you. You’ll find out anyhow. My mother killed him.”

Goode kept wiping off the wheel where Sara had touched it.

“She has extreme antisocial personality disorder.” He hesitated a beat. “Psychopathy. She stopped her meds occasionally ’cause she didn’t like how they made her feel. There was a dog next door that bothered her by barking at night, and one morning, it was gone. They got into an argument.” He shrugged. “And she stabbed him to death. Her defense was it was his fault for not leaving if she was out of control. It was like she didn’t even care.”

Goode stopped rubbing the steering wheel. “I’m sorry.”

Zach continued working on the carpet. “Thanks, but it’s old news.”

“Your mom still around?”

“She’s at a facility for the criminally insane. My brother got married a few years ago. They have a little girl, Sasha. She’ll be two in July.”

“Good thing you two had each other,” Goode said.

Zach ignored the comment, not wanting to get into his relationship or lack thereof with his brother. Instead, he scrubbed the spots on the carpet with a soft-bristled brush Sara’s father had brought from the laundry room. He laid his head against the back of the passenger’s seat. Pain-soaked sweat trickled down his face and back and Goode’s shirt started sticking to his skin.

“Let me get that, Zach.”

“Thanks, Jack, but I’ve got it,” he said, without breaking rhythm. A few minutes later, his panting became groaning, his sweat-blurred vision tunneled, and the concrete bit his knees. Goode dropped his rag, and moved around the car to help him to his feet.

“Come on. Break time.”

Goode helped him into the house, as Miranda was finishing the breakfast dishes. When she saw them, she rushed over and glared at her husband. “Jack. What did you do?”

“Blame your daughter for this one. I didn’t break his rib, she did. Where do you want him?”

“Put him in our room. Where do you think?” She led the two of them to the master bedroom and helped Goode pull Zach’s shoes off when he was on the bed. “Close the curtains, Jack, please? And get me a couple of those T-3s, would you?”

He tried to roll off the bed, but Miranda sat next to him, and gently pushed him back down.

“Just where do you think you’re going, young man?”

She rested her palm on the center of his chest. When Goode returned, she held two pills out to him. She tilted a glass of water to his lips and he swallowed them.

Zach’s head relaxed onto the soft pillow. He had to get as far away from them as possible. They were eccentric as hell, but they were decent people. The thought of their getting caught up in whatever was happening to him was simply unacceptable. “I have to get out of here, ma’am. I can’t let this hurt you and Sara, and Mr. Goode.”

In the background, Goode laughed. “As if.”

Miranda put her hand back on Zach’s chest, her touch comforting, and spoke over her shoulder, “Jack, please close the curtains, honey.”

And then, the weight of the past twenty-four hours pressed in on Zach until he couldn’t it bear any longer. It was all so wrong. This wasn’t the excitement he’d wished for. This was a nightmare he couldn’t wake up from, and now it was spilling over onto innocent people. Tears trickled down his cheeks, mixing with his sweat. He closed his eyes, surrounded by panic that threatened to swallow him whole.

“Zach. Zach,” Miranda’s voice drew him away from his pain and fear. “Look at me, dear.” When he finally could, she ran her hand over his forehead, and brushed his hair off his face. “You don’t worry about us. You lie here and rest.” When he started to protest, she smiled down at him.

“I want you to stay here till supper. And if you try to get out of bed before one of us comes to get you,” she said, and smiled down at him, “I’ll break another god damn rib. Do you understand, dear?”

He swallowed, recalling his own mother. In contrast, Miranda’s smile looked genuine. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Good. That’s settled. Jack,” she said. “You come with me, and please get that no-good crony friend of yours, Hank, on the link. I have a favor to ask of him, if he’s sober enough.”

“Yes, Ran,” Goode said, sounding surprisingly meek.

Zach closed his eyes. Miranda and Goode moved to the door. They spoke in hushed tones as they stepped into the hallway and closed the door. She said something that sounded like, “You like him, too, don’t you?”

Goode exhaled. “I’d like him a lot better if I knew he was going to be alive this time next week.”

“Captain Goode. After thirty years, fifteen on the street, you know better than to talk like that.”

Goode grumbled something Zach lost completely as they moved further into the hall and out of earshot. He lay in the dark and apologized to Laz for their last conversation as he drifted off.

***

Murphy downed a Percocet with a swallow of water and went to work rifling through the silverware drawer in his apartment until he found what he was searching for. He lifted the folded envelope and carefully opened it. He tilted it till a postage stamp-sized square of thin cardboard dropped onto his palm. A dark, round, electronic radio frequency ID chip roughly half the diameter of a pencil eraser adhered to the thin cardboard. The chip was thin enough that Murphy could barely feel it when he ran his thumb over the paper square. A friend of his who did e-work for the company had sent him this upgraded version a couple of months ago to field test. He hadn’t had occasion to put the thing to use—until now.

He returned the paper square to its envelope and refolded it closed. So, Goode’s poor, aging mom had taken sick. What a coincidence. “Bullshit,” he said aloud, and scowled. There was no such thing. Not in his experience. He wanted a talk with Gopher Girl, but there was no address on file for her parents. He just had to figure out a way to get his little toy into her possession and he could do the rest on his own.

He inserted the transceiver of the burner link into his ear and dropped onto his couch, loosening his tie as he did. He placed the envelope next to his Caddy’s key ring. “Link. Contact The Boss and establish conference call with Sugar.” Murphy slouched onto the couch and slowly tried to work the kinks out of his neck from last night. He groaned when he found a particularly tender spot.

CHAPTER 16

Zach stirred to the voice above him. “Zach? Zach. Wake up.”

The dull throbbing in his chest was uncomfortable, but not unbearable. Everything was soft and fuzzy at the edges. His thoughts floated as if suspended in oil. He moved his hands across the unfamiliar bedspread under his fingers. A different, lightweight quilt covered him. He was—in Special Agent Goode’s parents’ house at the beach. She’d brought him here in his vehicle. She’d—she’d saved his life.

Zach’s eyes popped open. Late afternoon light filtered through the window, turning Sara’s hair amber. The half-light cast her face in shadows—her sculptured nose, smooth skin, and rose-petal pink lips stood out in relief. A pair of wire-framed glasses sat perched on the bridge of her nose. He sat up, and pain sliced through his chest, spinning the room around. He groaned, closed his eyes, and dropped onto the downy pillow again. They’d given him something for pain.

“Zach?” A hand touched his shoulder. He blinked his eyes open. She was still there, only now she sat on the edge of the bed where he lay. She seemed not to notice his hand on the smooth skin of her leg.

“Sara.” His tongue felt a foot thick.

“Are you all right? You looked pretty spaced for a few seconds there.”

“Help me up, please.” Once he was sitting on the edge of the bed, the room steadied, stopped swimming around him. “I’ve been having the worst dream…” The fading light caught the angry, purple bruise at her scalp line. “And it’s all true, isn’t it?”

She pulled a slow breath and blew it out through pursed lips. “Wow. This has really been rough on you. My mom was right to be worried. Would you like some dinner? If you’re not up for it…” She trailed off.

“Just tell me one thing?”

“Sure. What?”

“Did we spend last night in the same bed?”

Sara cocked her head to the side. “All that’s happened since yesterday, and that’s what you’re worried about?”

Zach shrugged. “Something had to go right. I’ll take that.”

She lifted one of his lids and stared at his eye. “I think the medication my mother gave you must’ve affected you more than she expected. We better get some food into you. Come on.” She grabbed his hand and tugged him to standing.

“Hey, wait.” He held onto her hand for an extra moment. “How’s your head?”

“Not bad. How’s your chest?”

The ache was a distant throb. “Not bad.” He touched a finger to her chin and eased her head to the side. When he was satisfied there was no new bleeding, he gave her hand a quick squeeze. “As much as it sucks to be me, I have to tell you, there are parts of the last twenty-four hours I wouldn’t trade for anything. I’m just sorry that knowing me has ruined your life.”

For just the shortest moment he thought he saw something flicker across her face. Just as quickly it was gone. She let her eyes drift to the floor. “We’ll—talk later.”

“Later as in after dinner or later as in if I’m still alive this time next week?”

“One thing at a time. Let’s eat.” She turned and dragged him to the door.

He entered the kitchen with more than a little trepidation. Sara’s parents sat at the kitchen table. He mentally shook off a twinge of sadness about Laz. Grieving would have to wait. In place of the earlier tee shirt, Goode wore a pale green oxford, with the sleeves rolled up to the elbows. Miranda was still an older version of Sara, in a faded blue blouse, the top few buttons open to reveal a pink tank top underneath. Her fingers touched Goode’s hand where it rested on the table. It brought a smile to Zach. They both eyed him, but she spoke, “Please have a seat, Zach.”

In the center of the table sat a plate of fried chicken. Next to it was a large bowl of mashed potatoes, and another of steamed mixed vegetables. A bowl with a green salad lay next to each of four plates.

Sara pointed to the seat opposite her father and took the remaining chair.

Goode spoke first. “About this morning, I, I mean we, that is...” He trailed off, then went silent under Miranda’s withering stare.

She nodded. “What my loving, doting, irritating husband means, is that we’re an odd family by some standards and we’re sorry if we’ve upset you.”

“Ma’am? No, I—”

“Shh. Let me finish, please.”

Zach waited.

“As I said, an odd family by most standards, but we’re also quite close, and we love our Sara very much. She and her father snipe at each other like that in fun. It’s a cop thing. She picked it up from him. It’s a way for them to talk through ideas and differences. What I’m trying to say, is they’ve promised a truce until this is cleared up.” She eyed Sara and Jack. “Haven’t they?”

“Yes, Mom,” Sara answered.

“Yes, Ran,” Goode said.

“Ma’am?”

“Yes, Zach, may we still call you Zach?”

“Yes, ma’am, of course.” He glanced at each of them. “Here’s the thing. I appreciate Sara saving my life and I thank you for your hospitality, but I can’t ask any of you to put yourselves at any further risk because of my problems. The people who are after me are trained killers.”

Sara’s father opened his mouth to speak, but stopped at Zach’s raised hand.

“My best friend, hell, my only real friend, as he reminded me just yesterday, is dead. The people who murdered him are after me, and I’m scared. I’m not scared enough to jeopardize your lives, though. I really should be going.”

Sara’s father raised a finger. When Zach nodded at him, he spoke. “Done?”

“Yes, sir.”

He nodded. “That was a brave speech, and I appreciate your position, but,” he leaned toward Zach. “I’ll let you in on a secret. We’re not going to let you walk out of here by yourself, so get the thought out of your head. Okay?”

“Why?” Zach asked, bewildered. “Why are you doing this for me? You don’t know me, I could be anybody.”

“That’s the point. You are anybody. They came to you, asked you to do a job, and when you did it they made you a target. If they can do this to you and get away with it, none of us is safe, and what I worked at for thirty years meant nothing. I’m not ready to admit that yet.”

Zach turned to Sara. “What about the car we stole?”

“Nothing’s been on the scanner yet,” her father answered. “But that could change. The car you blew up was no big deal in the overall scheme of things. From what Sara tells me, it was one fuel stop away from the junkyard anyway, and the guy never got a good look at her ID. It’ll take them a day to trace the VIN numbers of the burned-out shell once it cools down enough to get close to. Your car was a little trickier.”

“What did you do with it?” Zach asked, with some concern.

“Made a call,” Goode said. “It’s safe.”

“It’s started,” Sara said. “You’ve been on the news feeds already. You’re wanted for questioning in Dr. Thomas’ murder and the arson of your house.”

“Me?” Zach asked. “They killed my friend, blew up my house, and wrecked my life, and I’m wanted for questioning?” He shook his head slowly, unable to wrap his mind around the events that had brought him to this point. He could almost feel the zip-ties on his wrists.

“They cops want to close the case,” Goode said. “Unfortunately, it’s usually by pinning the crime onto the person with the least money or the one who can make the fewest waves.”

“Then I’m pretty much screwed.”

“Sums it up nicely,” Goode said. “But, sometimes they follow the evidence wherever it goes.”

“The only way out of this mess is to give them an evidence trail to Stiles and Murphy,” Zach said. Deep down he wondered if he could make it happen.

“That’s for after dinner,” Miranda answered, passing him the plate of chicken.

“I don’t understand,” Zach said. “How can you people take this so lightly?”

Miranda caught his eye. “We don’t. We take it very seriously. But this one,” she said, and nodded at Goode, “caught bad guys for fifteen years, and directed others to do the same for another fifteen. The one thing I saw consistently was that fear, and hunger, and lack of sleep all work against you and make you prone to mistakes.”

Goode added, “Without a plan, you won’t last ten minutes against professionals, and make no mistake about it, whatever else these guys are, they’re professionals. We know what they want and what they’re willing to do for it.” His eyes shifted toward Zach.

Zach placed the tiny portable drive on the table. “That’s what we use against them. A short video explaining who I am and why all this is really happening. If I have to, I can do it from an Internet cafe or even a public library. I just need a computer with the right apps.”

“We have one right here. It’s not the newest or the fastest but—”

“For the video part, maybe,” Zach said. “But I can’t send it out from here.”

“They’ll be able to trace the origin URL,” Sara said.

“And I won’t do that to you all,” Zach said.

“What about Tampa?” Goode asked. A scowl crossed his face. “I’ve still got some juice there.”

“Not against the Feds, Jack.”

“There’s DeWitt.”

“Who’s DeWitt?” Zach asked.

“Reporter,” Goode said. “An honest reporter. I’ll call him. We can set up a meet.”

“Might work,” Zach said. “I just need to get there.”

“We’ll need a car,” Sara said.

Zach switched his attention to Sara. “What about the Mitsu?”

“You can’t drive it,” Miranda said. “They’ll request Tallahassee ping the VIN for location.”

“We got the blood and prints taken care of this morning,” Goode said. “Already thought about Tallahassee.” He pulled a small, silver box the size and shape of a 9-volt battery from his pocket. “I took the liberty of popping this out of you car’s computer.” He placed it on the table so the electrical connections were clear. “With the main battery disconnected and without the computer’s backup battery, they can’t ping the VIN. You can’t drive it, but they can’t use it to find you, either.”

Zach thought for a second. “Wait. Sara transferred the car to her name last night, didn’t she?”

Goode shook his head. “Title still has to go through the local tag agency to be a legal transfer. It’s still registered in your name as far as the state’s concerned. All Sara did was reboot the software to allow her access.”

Miranda looked thoughtful. “I would think they’d have already ID’d Zach as a potential threat to Stiles to kick it up to federal level and push things along.”

“They may not want to take this up to the federal level,” Goode said. “If that happens, a lot of official types will get involved. There’ll be a huge manhunt for Zach, but a lot of questions’ll get asked.”

“Johnson’s not the reactive type.” Sara said. “He’ll want to check at the facts before he makes that kind of report to Washington. He’s only got three years left until retirement.”

“What about the car you used as a decoy?”

Sara nodded. “We’re clean. I got every surface either of us touched, inside and out. I don’t think they’ll be able to get any DNA off what’s left.”

“Good girl.” Goode said. “What about the first one, the Caddy?”

“Same thing. Internal combustion engine. Rag in the fuel inlet, boom. No prints or DNA there either.”

“Great,” Goode said, shaking his head. “You steal that one, too?”

“Actually…” A sheepish smile curved the ends of her lips. “It was Murphy’s.”

A grin worked its way over Goode’s face. “You neglected that part of the story earlier.”

“Concussion.” She tapped her index finger to her temple.

“Serves the bastard right,” Miranda said and shrugged a shoulder when they all gaped at her. “What? I can’t have an opinion?”

Goode grinned at Zach. “Don’t cross the women in this family.”

“Yeah,” Zach said. “I’m starting to get that.” His gaze shifted from Sara to her mother and back.

“Can we eat, now? I’m starving,” Sara asked.

“First sensible thing I’ve heard come out of your mouth in years.”

“Jack?”

“Sorry, Ran.”

As they ate, Sara speared a piece of broccoli from her father’s plate, popping it in her giggling mouth as he made indignant noises. Miranda jabbed her fork at her husband’s hand when he tried to return the gesture by grabbing the chicken leg off Sara’s plate.

It dawned on Zach. What he was seeing was the thing he’d never had—a family that shared more than a meal. They laughed at each other’s and their own imperfections. He was watching an intimate moment between people who cared for each other and it reminded him how devoid his life had been of it.

***

“We’ll be back in a bit,” Goode said, when they’d finished dinner. He and Sara stood.

Zach looked to Sara, uncertain what to do next.

Sara spoke, “We have to go get my car from where I parked it at Murphy’s.”

“Yes, dear,” Miranda said. “We’ll be fine. You two play nice and try not to shoot anyone.”

Goode grunted a response, then added, “I love you, Ran.”

She turned, then, the affection in her eyes palpable as she said, “I love you, too, Officer. Come home safe.” They exchanged a look as Goode closed the door between them.

“Would you care to give me a hand in the kitchen, Zach?”

“Yes, sure.”

Zach cleared the plates as Miranda loaded the dishwasher. “That was a great meal, ma’am.”

She laughed. “Then you should tell Jack. He cooked tonight. He always overcooks the vegetables a little for my taste, but he tries.”

“Can I ask you a question, ma’am?”

“If you’ll call me Miranda.”

“Yes, ma’am, Miranda. Why are you and Mr. Goode treating me so well? I mean, I appreciate your help and all, but I’m a stranger, and this is a huge inconvenience for you all, not to mention the danger.”

“You didn’t buy Jack’s explanation for a minute, did you?”

“No, ma—Miranda. Sorry.”

Miranda returned to loading the dishwasher. “Good boy. Skeptical. I like that. Before I answer your question, can I ask you one?”

“Yes ma’am, sure.”

“When you traded shirts with Jack earlier, he noticed you wear an engagement ring on a chain around your neck.”

He touched the gold band under his borrowed shirt.

“Can I ask why? If it’s too personal, I understand.”

“To remind me not to hope for too much. Until six months ago, I was living with someone. I met Kathy at Laz’s birthday party a year and a half ago, after we opened the lab. She moved in six months later. I was going to ask her to marry me. I really thought everything was fine.”

“It’s okay,” she touched his arm. “You don’t have to.”

“She left a note taped to the living room monitor. She said I was boring, and she’d met someone else.” He took a breath and exhaled it through his nose. “And she packed a bag and left. She came and got the rest of her things a few days later while I was at work. I haven’t heard from her since.” He tugged the chain hanging around his neck from inside his shirt and stared at the ring in his hand. “I was going to ask her to marry me, and you know what? I can’t tell you what color her eyes were. Is that the stupidest thing you’ve ever heard?”

“Is her last name Bailey?”

“Yes, it is. How…?”

“There’s been an interview with a Kathy Bailey on the news feeds. Let’s just say she’s not a big fan of yours.”

“Right. Figures. You know what else the note said? She told me she hoped I could find someone to pull my ass out of the lab long enough to have a life.”

“May I see it, please?” She indicated the engagement ring under his shirt.

He slipped the chain from around his neck and handed it to her.

She examined the ring for a long moment. “It’s beautiful.” She held up a finger when he started to speak. “Success demands sacrifices. You and Dr. Thomas learned that the hard way. In his case, too hard. I don’t know what brought you and your former lady friend together, but it wasn’t love. If it had been, I can assure you, she would have found a way to entice you from your lab. Her lack of understanding, and vision, and… appreciation of a good man is her loss, not yours.” She handed the ring back to him.

As he returned the chain to its place, she bent over to load the dishwasher with soap. “What color are Sara’s eyes?”

Zach laughed. “That’s easy. They’re a medium brown, with little flecks of gold. Why?”

She turned and faced him, still holding the box of soap, her face a canvas, with a study of seriousness painted on it. “You’re a smart man, Zach. You know exactly why you’re here and not face-down in a canal. Just like you know why Sara spent an hour talking with her father about her options before she went to get you for dinner.”

He opened his mouth, ready to speak, but found no words.

A smile flowed onto Miranda’s face. “And if you don’t, you think about it. I’m sure you’ll come up with something. Now,” she said, closing and setting the dishwasher. “Let’s go see what sort of mess Detective Jack Goode, retired and damn glad about it, and his former Federal Agent daughter left in the carport, shall we?”

Zach opened the door to the laundry room and passed through, into the evening, with Miranda close behind. The air outside was cooler than he expected, and a faint breeze blew in from the Gulf a few blocks away. The metallic sound of a knife being laid on the washing machine caught his attention, but he let it go when he realized the Mitsu was gone. “Where…?” he walked around the empty carport, confused. The car cover lay next to the recycling bin. The small bucket Jack had filled in the laundry room earlier, sat next to it, half full of dirty water.

“Uncle Hank.” Exasperation encircled the word like a large bow. Miranda held her palms against her waist as she surveyed the carport.

“Sorry?”

“Uncle Hank,” she started, “is one of Jack’s friends from the old days.”

“Oh,” Zach said, almost comprehending the nuances.

“Here.” She handed a corner of the car cover to Zach. “How are you at folding sheets?”

He faked confusion. “You fold sheets?” He answered her quizzical expression with a smile as he stepped away, straightening the cover.

She rolled her eyes at him.

“Can I ask where the Mitsu went?”

“Hank owns a junkyard. More specifically, he owns a junkyard and a flatbed tow truck. If it comes to it, he owns a junkyard with a car crusher.”

“Almost seems a shame,” he said as he folded the cover over and Miranda held it above her head so he could grab it and fold it again. The activity brought some mild twinges of pain, but he refused to say anything to his hostess.

“Better it in the crusher than you or Sara in a cage. He can disconnect the GPS, scrub the hard drive, and keep it indoors and out of the hands of the Feds ’til this is settled.”

He nodded. “Can I ask you a question off the subject?”

“Sure,” Miranda said.

“What made you want to be a stay-at-home mom?” Zach asked as he stopped to catch his breath. “I mean, I respect the decision, but it’s rare.”

She stopped folding. “What makes you think I didn’t work when Sara was little?”

“I… I don’t know. You just seem to be so in-charge around the house. It’s like you’ve always been right there. It’s nice.”

“Your mother worked?”

He nodded. “Librarian, when she took her meds. What did you do?”

“I taught hand-to-hand combat at the Police Academy.” She dropped the car cover to the concrete, slid a foot back, shifted to the balls of her feet, and lifted her fists into a ready posture. “You want to go a couple of rounds?”

His laugh pulled him to the side in pain. He held his hands up, palms out. “No, thanks. One bruised rib a day is my limit. I can see where Sara gets it from.” He rubbed his chest where she’d knocked him to the ground the previous night.

Miranda relaxed and retrieved the cover from the floor. “Sara doesn’t suffer foolishness well.”

She placed the folded car cover in the storage space and closed the door.

He hesitated, shifting his stance until she noticed. He looked toward the laundry room door. “Why the knife? I mean I thought the police were all into guns.”

“You’ve never heard of Dennis Tueller.”

“No,” Zach said, perplexed. “Is he a friend of yours?”

She laughed. “Dennis Tueller did a study in 1983 that became the standard for police departments. He proved a person with a knife can stab an adversary before he can draw and shoot a gun at twenty feet or less. I taught hand-to-hand combat including Tueller Drills for twenty years at the Police Academy.”

A knot tightened in Zach’s stomach. “Could I ask a favor?”

She cocked her head at Zach. “Sure. What?”

“Could you teach me something I can use if I’m cornered?”

Miranda eyed him. “I don’t know. You can’t learn hand-to-hand combat in a few minutes.”

“Listen,” Zach said. “I’m in trouble, and I know I need a new skill set. Something. Anything.”

She considered for a moment. “Okay. Just one.” She stepped to about two feet away and raised her palm to him. “Hit my hand.”

Forming a fist, he raised his hand and aimed it at her outstretched palm.

***

Murphy lounged on the couch in his efficiency apartment, waiting for the Percocet to kick in. His cat lay purring in the corner, curled around her catnip toy. He eyed the keys to his Caddy, where they lay on the coffee table next to the folded-over white envelope. “She’s up to something,” he said into his link.

“Come on,” Stiles said past a chuckle. “Gopher Girl?”

Murphy stifled a growl. “Hell, yes, Gopher Girl. She makes my neck itch, and I don’t like it when my neck itches.”

“Get real,” Stiles said. “She’s just—”

“A girl?” Murphy asked.

“Well, yes,” Stiles said. “But I was going to say she’s just a kid. She’s what, twenty-five?”

Brown, the third member of the conference call, broke in. “Don’t underestimate her, Martin. Both her parents were with the police.”

“It’s in her DNA,” Murphy agreed. “You think her disappearing’s a coincidence?”

Stiles snorted. “Her mother’s sick.”

“Then send her a get-well gift,” Murphy said.

“I already thought of that,” Brown said. “Asked the secretary to send her a card, but it seems their current address is unknown.”

“Johnson can find it,” Murphy said.

“You think he’ll give us classified information?” Brown asked. “There has to be another way.”

“I’ll approach Johnson, personally,” Stiles said. “Tell him I understand the address is classified. Ask him if he could have the Bobbsey Twins take her mother a small gift from me. We don’t even want to know where they live.”

“Who?” Murphy asked. He couldn’t keep the nicknames straight anymore.

“Hayes and Boone,” Brown said. “He’ll just say something about them not being a delivery service.”

“They’re part of the team,” Stiles said. “Our team, and Agent What’s-her-name is a part of that team. I just want her to know her poor mother is in our thoughts.”

Murphy rolled his eyes at the line of bullshit.

“You think you can sell it to Special Agent Johnson?” Brown asked.

Stiles chuckled. “Don, I can sell condoms to Catholics. You leave that part to me.”

The connection was silent for a beat, then Brown spoke, “It might just work. What if she really is just visiting her sick mother?”

“Then she’s got nothing to worry about,” Murphy said. “I’d like to send her a get-well card, too.” He held a paper square slightly larger than a postage stamp between his thumb and index fingertips. Attached to the paper was the round RFID GPS chip.

“Good idea,” Stiles said. “We can make this happen.”

CHAPTER 17

Miranda shook her head. “Too slow. Try again, but move your right foot toward me and flick your right hand towards mine.” He tried again. “Better,” she said. “Now relax, don’t think about it, just do it.” They repeated the exercise for a few minutes with Miranda giving pointers.

“Better,” she said, and held up a hand. She opened one of the bifold doors on the back wall of the carport and pulled out a pair of padded sparring gloves, then smiled at his confusion. “I wear these when Jack and I spar in the back yard.” She pulled the gloves on.

“Now,” she said, “Again, but faster. Relax, and make a fist as your hand comes up.” After another twenty minutes, Zach stood, panting, chest aching. Miranda nodded. “Better. Now, remember, the way to think of these things is not ‘if this happens, I’ll do that.’ Instead, think in terms of ‘when this happens, then I’ll do that.’ Not if, when.”

He nodded. “When.”

“When—then,” she said. “When you see my nose…” she held her gloved hand up. “Then.”

He flicked his fist up. “Hit it.”

Her smile made it to her eyes. “Again. Moving target.” She raised her hand again, in a different place. “When.”

“Then.” Zach’s hand contacted hers.

“Always the nose. It hurts like hell and makes the eyes water. It’s involuntary. Again, but don’t shift your weight. It telegraphs your intention. Just snap your fist out. When.”

“Then,” he responded, with a sharp movement.

“Good. Again. When.”

“Then,” he said and flicked his fist toward her gloved hand.

***

Zach stood bent at the waist, hands on his upper legs for support, grunting past his aching side to catch his breath.

Miranda started to pull her sparring glove off. “That’s enough for one day.”

“More.”

She sighed. “You can’t learn it all in one day.”

“More. Please,” he said.

“You’ll hurt yourself, Zach.”

He stared up at her and wiped the sweat from his eyes, the weight of his future finally settling on him. “I’m already dead, and we both know it.”

Miranda went still as she stared at him for a long moment before nodding once. She shoved her hand into her glove. “When.” She snapped her hand up.

“Then,” he said as he hit it with the back of his fist.

“Faster.” She repeated the movement. “When.”

They went on for another forty grueling minutes, until Zach leaned against the rear wall of the carport and clutched his chest as Miranda put her equipment away. His sweat-matted hair and clothes stuck to him and dark spots danced across his vision, but Miranda had barely broken a sweat.

“Would you please toss the dirty water into the yard and bring the bucket?” She crossed to the side of the carport, opened the door into the house, and stepped in. She stood waiting for him in the laundry room.

He did as she asked and joined her, still trying to steady himself against the pain and shortness of breath from his workout.

“Go ahead and jump into the shower before Sara and Jack get home,” Miranda said as he opened the inner door. “I’ll put the bucket away.”

He nodded and stepped through the door into the kitchen. Behind him, headlights pulling into the driveway shone in through the frosted windows of the outside door.

“Zach,” Miranda said, grabbing the razor-honed fighting knife from where it lay on the washing machine. “Go inside.”

She pulled the door closed, leaving Zach standing alone in the kitchen. He ran through the possibilities of lights she didn’t recognize in the driveway and came up with—Murphy. Murphy had found them. Panic set his heart racing. Scanning the room, he located the knife block. He grabbed the first one his hand touched. A paring knife slid out. “Damn,” he said and tried another.

Satisfied with his choice of an upscale, gleaming nine-inch chef’s knife, he swung around toward the laundry room door and raised the knife to shoulder height. “Screw it,” he whispered. If it was Murphy, it was time to take the fight to him for a change.

The seconds stretched to eternity as he crept to the eerily silent door. His breathing shallow and muscles cable-taut, he strained to hear any telltale sounds. His hand trembled from adrenaline. It occurred to him in every vid he’d seen, the police always held their guns at chest height. He crouched, hoping to push the knife up and under any outstretched arm holding a gun that came through the door, and hopefully into the heart of that bastard, Murphy.

Zach’s hand shook increasingly with the images his imagination painted of Murphy, big as a locomotive, just on the other side of the door. He wiped sweat off his forehead. His heart raced as his fingers inched toward the knob, poised to strike.

He shifted his position to relax his aching side. Panting from the tension, he listened, almost afraid to breathe. His fingers, slick with sweat, closed around the doorknob. He turned it and whipped the door open, ready to spring.

“Zach?” It was Sara. She spun to face him, surprise on her face.

He jumped, unable to speak through his gritted teeth.

She stood in the laundry room, her parents behind her. They stopped their muted conversation and gawked at him. Sara focused on the knife in his hand and coiled into the same fighting stance her mother had displayed in the carport. Her eyes glinted in the kitchen’s fluorescent light. “Put the knife down.”

“God.” He dropped the knife to his side, his hand shaking uncontrollably. He had to blink against the sweat burning in his eyes. Sara’s hands were on his shoulders even as he dropped to one knee on the white tile floor. He started to rock back and forth, trying to catch his breath.

“What the hell are you doing?”

Goode’s voice came from the laundry room. “Looks like he’s still hungry. Chicken’s in the fridge.”

“Jack!” The women’s voices sounded in unison.

Miranda moved to Zach’s side. “It’s my fault. I didn’t recognize the headlights and sent him inside. I didn’t think…”

“Dr. Marshall.”

Zach’s eyes opened to Goode’s hand in front of him. Zach grasped his hand. With a wheeze in the back of his throat and Goode’s help, he stood. When Goode released him, Zach wiped his eyes and his nose with the back of his hand. “Thank you. I’m sorry. I was…”

“You were going to back Ran up with a kitchen knife?” Goode threw a hard chuckle into the room. “I’m impressed.”

“It was all I could find. I may not be your caliber, but I owe Murphy some payback,” he said, feeling a little foolish on reflection.

Goode’s nose twitched, and a smile crept onto his lips. “Can’t argue with the logic. How about we sit down?”

Zach nodded. “Good idea.” He and Goode sat at the table.

Miranda gently took the knife from Zach and carried it to the counter. Sara stood, arms crossed, and shook her head at Zach.

Goode leaned back in his chair and regarded Zach. “A kitchen knife,” he said, again. His tone barely contained his amusement.

He met Goode’s look with one of his own. “It’s all I could come up with. Besides, all she had was a knife.”

Goode shrugged. “Well, yeah, but Ran could kill half the neighborhood with that thing and not break a sweat.”

Miranda’s, “Jack,” floated to them from the kitchen area. A moment later she took her seat at the table. “They picked up a rental.”

Zach scanned their faces, confused.

Sara answered his unspoken question, “The headlights my mom didn’t recognize. We stopped and I rented a car. My dad followed me home in his. He parked behind me in the driveway.”

“Rented? Why? Didn’t you say you have a car?”

She nodded. “If Murphy suspects I’m involved, the first thing he’ll do is get one of his spook buddies to track my vehicle on the sly.”

“Where is it?”

“Walmart parking lot,” Sara said. “We went by and retrieved it from Murphy’s street. That’s why we were gone so long.”

“Walmart?” Zach asked.

“Yeah,” Goode said. “Anybody asks, she needed to pick up some things for her sick mother.”

“And open all night.” Miranda said. “Good idea. We can move it tomorrow.”

“A diversion for Murphy,” Zach said, finally understanding, “that can’t lead him here.”

“I’m ready when you are,” Sara said.

Zach shook his head at her. “I can’t pull you any further into this. No.”

Sara returned it with narrowed eyes. “Yes.”

“No.”

“Don’t be stubborn.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. You’re still a federal agent, for God’s sake. You can’t throw that away over this. Not really. Not when it comes down to it.”

Sara held up her hand, the rental car’s key ring dangling from her index finger. “How were you planning to get out of town, walk? ’Cause I’m not handing you the keys to a car rented in my name. You’ve already stolen one.”

He felt the blood rush into his face. “You stole that car.”

She shrugged a shoulder. “Prove it,” she said, swinging the keys in a small arc. “Now, am I driving my rented car that I got with my government employee discount or would you like to arm wrestle for it? Best two out of three?”

He turned from her smug smile to her parents. Miranda blinked innocently at him, but offered no comment. When his attention fell on Goode, he shook his head slowly. “Don’t look at me. I haven’t won an argument in thirty years—with either of ’em.”

“That’s settled,” Sara said. “What do we need?”

Resigned, Zach thought for a moment. “A web cam, a blank crystal disc, a computer, a marking pen, and someplace to put it together.” He turned to Sara’s father. “It’s time the public heard from the opposing team, for a change.”

Goode nodded to Miranda. “I’ll go and find DeWitt’s number, if you’ll get the flash drive.”

***

“How’s it coming?” Sara asked. She set a glass of water on the desk beside Zach’s arm and peered over his shoulder at the screen. Her hair brushed against his shoulder when she leaned forward, hands resting on her thighs. She wore a lightweight knit top that was long enough to be a short dress over a pair of black stretch pants that ended just past her knees.

He leaned back in the chair and rolled the tension out of his neck. “Almost finished.” He checked his watch. Between writing the script, rehearsing, taping, and editing, he’d been at it for almost two hours without a break and he was beat. He stopped and regarded her. Her glasses were on again. He liked how they fit her face. “It’s been a while since I edited vids.”

“It’ll be fine,” she answered. “How much longer do you think?” She stood and touched his shoulder with her fingertips.

“Not long. I didn’t want to change it or try to polish it up too much. I want it to appear as if I’m in hiding, but not somewhere in the Middle East.” He leaned back and closed his eyes, enjoying her touch. Her subtle vanilla scent wafted to him and a smile crept into the corners of his mouth.

“Sorry we don’t have anything faster. It works well enough for my parents to send and receive vid-mail.”

“And it’ll be fine for this. I’m surprised it had the software I needed. I really appreciate everything they’ve done.”

“Once they’ve made up their minds about something…” she trailed off. “They seem to like you for some reason I can’t figure out.”

“They’re good people.” He exhaled and with a few keystrokes, added the video file to the folder with the other information on Stiles. “Was your dad able to contact that news feed guy he knows in Tampa?”

“Not yet. But he says DeWitt has a worse schedule than most of the detectives he’s forever chasing around town. He also thinks DeWitt is the best one to break the story, but he has a backup contact just in case. Here,” She handed Zach a crystal drive. “This one contains the information about who’s DNA you tested, with times and dates. All my notes are digitally signed and dated.”

“Say goodbye to your career,” he said, and plugged the second drive into an empty port. Sara grunted once. He copied and moved folders and files between the two until both contained all the information in question. “Computer, unmount drive—Goode.”

“Process complete,” the computer said, as the icon spiraled down and disappeared from the screen. He unplugged it and handed it to Sara. Outside, the sky had gone black. “Sorry I took so long.”

She shifted her hands on his shoulders, found the tense spots, and started kneading into the knots. “Sorry I can’t be more help with that. I’m not much with computers.”

Groaning at her touch, Zach suppressed a chuckle as he thought about her shorting the Auto-nav in his Mitsu and forcing it to reboot. “That’s okay. It gives me something to do besides pace while your dad tries to contact DeWitt. I guess I lack patience.”

“Sometimes patience sucks.” She pressed deeper into the muscles at the base of his neck.

He let out a low moan as her fingers found a particularly tight spot. His head rolled back to rest against her abdomen. He could feel her heart beating through the muscles under her shirt. “Is that so? Any idea where we’ll be crashing tonight?” The gossamer-thin bra and the red panties he’d glimpsed that morning flashed through his mind and he allowed himself a small smile. “Not that last night in the pink palace wasn’t the perfect end to the perfect day, but—ouch!” He tried to pull away as her fingers clenched his shoulder muscles, but she squeezed harder, holding him where he was.

“Ow, ow, ow.” He shrank from her grip.

“My Mom put sheets on the couch for you, smooth-talker,” she said. She used the same throaty whisper she’d used yesterday morning when she’d leaned toward him and snapped her card down on his desk. “We’re safe here, but as I said, Jack—”

“Would have a stroke. Yes, I know. When this is over…”

She nudged his head forward with her body. “Focus.”

“Yeah.” He leaned forward in the chair, and noticed her fingers still on his shoulders. “Computer, unmount disc—Backup.” When the icon disappeared, he unplugged his crystal drive and laid it on the hard copies. “I just hope this works.”

“It has to. We can’t keep this up forever,” she said, turning to leave.

Zach sighed as he stood and followed her. “I know.”

In the living room, Miranda sat reading on one of two couches. Zach sat down at one end of the other. Sara curled up opposite him, tucking her feet under her, and laid her head on one of the pillows.

Miranda looked up from her ebook reader. “How’re you doing?”

Sara shifted toward Miranda. “Not too bad lying down. The Tylenol-threes help. I just wish the dizziness would go away.”

“It will, in a day or two. Your father stepped outside to check the security cameras.” Miranda turned her attention to Zach. “He got through to his DeWitt. I’m afraid Jack was a little cryptic.” She absently brushed a stray strand of hair from her face. It was the same gesture he had seen Sara use.

The door to the laundry room opened and Sara’s father stepped into the dining area. “The cameras are pointed right, and the motion detectors are working.”

“Cameras with motion detectors?” Zach asked.

“The feed from the cameras is accessible from any screen in the house, or an iLink,” Goode said, with a grin. “The cameras have auto-sensing motion detectors. Servomotors turn them toward any movement. Proximity alarms alert the police if anyone the biometric program doesn’t recognize comes within ten feet of one of the cameras.” He sat on the couch next to Miranda and handed Zach a tablet. On the screen were views of the house and yard from a dozen angles.

“Pretty sophisticated security system for a residence, isn’t it?” Zach asked, and handed the tablet to Goode.

Goode frowned. “Not if you’re a retired detective. Lotta bad people out there. Some of them I put away at one time or another.” He glanced at Sara and Miranda. “Can’t be too careful.”

He nodded. “Did it catch us last night—I mean when we got here?”

“Sure did. The way you two stumbled around, holding each other up, you looked like you’d had one hell of an evening.” He chuckled. “Seen people in the morgue in better shape than you two last night.”

“Better erase the disc,” Sara said, stirring on the couch.

“Thought I’d keep that one for posterity.”

Miranda rolled her eyes and Zach covered his mouth with a hand to avoid being caught in a smile at them.

Zach cleared his throat. “Miranda said you got through to your reporter contact, DeWitt.”

“I did. I used a burner phone so it can’t be traced by DHS. I told him I was acting as a source and to be available tomorrow morning for a call that could make his career.” He eyed Miranda. “And no, I did not use Zach’s name.”

“Was that enough?” Sara asked.

“It was plenty,” Goode said. “He knows what he’s doing.”

“When we call, I’ll get off the Interstate. As soon as I do, Zach, you’ll call him. I’ll make a U-turn and get back on 275. If DHS catches the call and pings the ’Link, they’ll think we’re on a surface street.”

“What’re the chances DHS is involved?” Zach asked.

Sara shrugged. “Johnson is cautious, and I haven’t heard anything, but you never know. Murphy might even pull something off the books. Better to be careful.”

Miranda closed the cover of her ebook reader and stood, taking her husband’s hand in hers. “Come on, my love, it’s bedtime.” She eyed Zach and Sara. “Don’t stay up too late. You two have a busy day tomorrow.”

“Yes, Mom.” Sara said without opening her eyes.

Miranda tugged Goode toward their room.

When they were alone, Zach leaned against the couch’s back, letting his head rest on a soft afghan draped over the surface. As grateful as he was, letting these people—these strangers—risk so much for him was insane, except he had no where else to turn. He rolled his head to where Sara lay curled up on the couch with her eyes closed and hated the spot saving him had put her in. He watched the way the light caught her, sure he’d never seen anyone as beautiful as she was.

After a few moments, she opened her eyes and moved her head to get a better angle on him. He shifted gears, hoping he’d covered his longing in time. “You’re wondering if this will work,” she said.

Part of him questioned whether his effort had been too slow. “I’m wondering if it will be enough. I’m wondering what I did in a former life to rate you and your family helping me like this.” He blew out a breath. “I’m wondering if I’ll be alive for my next birthday.” He closed his eyes and shook his head. “Sorry. I’m wondering if I’ll get the chance to put things right with my brother.”

She stretched out on the couch, and slipped her feet between his back and the cushion. “What is it between you and him? Your file said you two hadn’t talked in years, but it didn’t say why.”

“He’s afraid. When he and Beth got together and started talking about having children, I was still in grad school. I was working on the test.” He rolled his eyes and shook his head once. “The test that has brought everyone so much happiness. We haven’t had a close relationship since my mother…” He let the rest go. She’d already read his file and it had to be in there. “We drifted even further apart when he realized what my thesis was about.”

“Why wouldn’t he want to…?” she trailed off as realization swept over her face. “That’s so sad.”

He chuckled once, but there was no mirth behind it. “Best part? Beth snuck samples of their DNA to me without telling him, before she got pregnant. She hugged me and cried when I gave her the results. Their kids are safe from it. They don’t carry the gene, I do. I asked her not to tell Dave. I wanted him to…” He shook his head. “I don’t know what I wanted him to do. Forgive me on his own, I guess.”

She stared at him. “But if you have the gene…?”

“It’s not expressed in me. That’s the part that’s so ironic. Carrying the gene doesn’t mean that much. There’s a possible chemical marker in the blood a pair of researchers in Europe found last year, based on my research. Now we think there’s an expression enzyme that turns the gene on, but it’s all so new, no one knows for sure.”

“So even if Stiles has the gene—”

“He may not have the expression enzyme. Or he may, hell, I don’t have a clue, and I invented the test. That’s why all this gene crap with Stiles is so screwed up. We really just don’t know enough to use this information to make decisions that can affect people’s lives—at least not the way he’s proposing.”

She nodded her understanding, and said, “So, all the public opinion he’s whipping up is just fear-mongering to get votes. And you…”

“Just have to be mindful of who I think about having children with.” He sat up and turned toward her, excited to talk about the work he’d spent nearly a decade on. “It’s like Tay Sachs Disease. If you’re an Ashkenazi Jew, you just have to be a little more careful is all. The exact inheritance pattern for psychopathy isn’t even completely known. I’ve been so careful all my life because I was as afraid as Dave is. Fear is a terrible thing.” He laughed. “Ever heard of Robert Hare?”

She shook her head.

He slipped his wallet from his pocket and pulled a much-folded piece of lined notebook paper from it. He unfolded the paper and stared for a quick moment at the hand-written items it contained. The memories of his mother and his anxiety that he’d grow up in-and-out of institutions like she had clutched at his throat. Zach’s hand trembled as he passed it to her. “He was a psychiatrist. Fifty or sixty years ago, he came up with a list of the twenty traits psychopaths tend to exhibit. Before my test, they used it for diagnosis and for prognosis. If a patient had a high enough number of the traits, they were diagnosed with antisocial personality disorder.”

Sara sat up and narrowed her eyes at him. “They just counted behavior traits?”

He nodded. “It was more complicated than that, but it was the best they had. Anyway, I memorized all twenty, and I’ve based my behavior, hell, my whole life on being the opposite of everything on that list since I was fourteen.” He took a deep breath and blew it out. Finally telling someone was like the eureka moment of finally understanding a problem after struggling with it for weeks or months.

“This makes perfect sense,” she said as she read. “Your code name during meetings was The Mad Monk. We just didn’t have all the pieces for the behavior to make sense.”

“Then you’ll love this bit. Remember I said my mother was a librarian? I found an old book in the library from eighty years ago explaining psychopathic behavior as humanity’s next level of evolution. It called them Indigo Children.”

“You’re joking.”

“Nope,” he said. “That’s me. The Indigo Man. Isn’t that a laugh?”

“It’s… I don’t know.” Sara shook her head.

“I know.” He relaxed. “I just hope once this information about Stiles is out, I don’t have to sneak into a foreign country. You wouldn’t know anybody who can make a good fake I.D., would you?”

She chuckled. “No, but I’m sure my dad does.”

“Well, let’s just hope I don’t need one.” He watched her as she read over the items on the list, imagining her older, with a few streaks of gray in her hair and little laugh lines at the corners of her eyes. He found he liked the image and wanted to be there to see it.

When she finished, she met his gaze. “I wonder who you really are, underneath all this.”

“Sometimes I wonder myself.”

She folded the paper. “Can I keep this for a while? I want to think about it.”

“Sure,” he said with a shrug to cover a little twist in his gut. “I memorized them years ago.”

Their eyes remained locked for an extra moment and he almost leaned toward her—started to, but the second he tensed, she unfolded her legs and stood. “Better get some rest. Long day tomorrow.” She shot him a quick smile and started toward her room.

Alone on the couch, Zach levered himself flat, ignoring the sharp ache from his chest. He sighed and wondered if he’d missed a moment he’d regret for the rest of his life. Too many moments had slipped away in his life, and he regretted every one.

CHAPTER 18

The aroma of freshly brewed coffee filled the house. A sheet covered Zach where he lay on the couch. Blunt-edged, faded thoughts rolled around in his head. When he stretched, barbed wires of pain scraped through his chest. Wincing from the effort, he rolled onto his side and opened his sleep-gummed eyes to Sara’s parents’ comfortable living room.

Miranda stepped from the kitchen and smiled. “Good morning. As soon as Sara’s out of the bathroom, it’s your turn. Are scrambled eggs and bacon all right?”

He inhaled slowly, checking for pain. “Actually, coffee is plenty for me, thanks. I’m not much of a breakfast person and I’m a little anxious to get this over with.” Zach eased into a sitting position and rubbed his palms over his face.

She returned a moment later with a steaming cup of coffee and a bottle of aspirin. She placed them on the coffee table in front of Zach. “Sleep okay?”

Shaking the cobwebs from his thoughts, he realized she was waiting for his answer. “Yes, ma’am. Thank you. Pretty good, considering.” He took the cup by the handle and sipped, sighing as the hot liquid flowed over his tongue and into his belly.

“The label says two,” she said, spilling four tablets onto Zach’s palm, “but we can make an exception just this once.”

The bathroom door opened. Sara walked across the hall and into her room as he watched from the corner of his eye. Her hair was in its usual topknot and a dark green towel wound around her torso. The way she moved, from the set of her shoulders to her graceful steps, held his attention until she disappeared into her room. Suddenly self-conscious, he glanced at Miranda, and caught the tail end of her smile as she turned back to the kitchen.

He took another long sip of coffee and slowly worked his way to standing. Halfway to the bathroom, Goode stepped out of the master bedroom. He wore a tee shirt and jeans again today, and carried a small canvas bag.

“Mornin’,” Goode said. His smile reached all the way to his dark brown eyes.

“Good morning, sir.”

“Jack.” Goode stopped, barring Zach from stepping into the hall.

Zach cocked his head. “Sorry?”

“Jack. You can call me Jack, remember?”

Nodding, Zach said, “Yes, sir, I mean, Jack. Sorry.”

Goode’s face softened. “Tell me, what do you do for fun?”

“Fun? I don’t—” He stood, rooted to the floor, remembering yesterday’s innocent opening question.

“Fun. You know, the thing you’re supposed to do when you’re not at work.”

“I… I mean. That is, I—”

The ends of Goode’s lips pulled up slightly. “It’s not a trick question, man.” A twinkle flickered in his eyes.

“Run. I mean, I run, for relaxation.”

Goode’s face contorted into a contemplative look as he nodded. “How far? I’m just curious.”

Zach relaxed. “Usually five or six miles. Three or four times a week. It gets me outside.”

Goode frowned. “I lift weights and swim. And go a couple of rounds with Ran in the back yard every now and then to keep in shape. Or at least I did ’til four months ago.” He rolled his right shoulder. “Pulled a friggin’ rotator cuff.” He gestured in the direction of the kitchen. “She’s got me doing yoga till it’s rehabbed.” He rolled his eyes. “Yoga. Can you believe it? Next, she’ll have me on my toes in a tutu.” He stepped around Zach and tapped him on the arm. “Get showered and dressed. You two need to get this done while the news feeds are still hot for your story.”

“Anything new?”

“Just the thing on the feeds accusing you of clubbing kittens on your vacations.”

Zach cocked his head, hoping Goode was joking, half afraid he was serious.

“It was a joke. Lighten up a little.”

Goode passed by, continued through the living room, and headed into the kitchen. Miranda’s quiet laugh floated through the air, followed by what Zach imagined was the sound of a hand lightly slapping an arm. He remembered to breathe and headed for the bathroom.

***

Murphy piloted his rental car through the beach’s usual morning traffic half a mile behind Hayes and Boone. His personal mini tablet was connected to the dash. Its special app pinged every time the micro RFID GPS chip he’d hidden inside Stiles’s get-well music box passed a transceiver, and those were buried in the traffic infrastructure all over the county. Hayes and Boone had given Stiles the stink-eye over being sent on a delivery errand, but in the end, they’d agreed to do it, just as he’d predicted they would.

Hayes and Boone had avoided him like he was contagious at the morning briefing, and he’d ignored them. He’d begged off a couple of hours to go answer the local cops’ questions, and pick up his rental car, and time was tight. Because of the previous night’s fiasco, Johnson had assigned him to perimeter. Johnson refused to report Marshall’s behavior as a direct threat to Stiles until he knew more. Murphy considered Johnson a foot-dragging federal bureaucrat.

Murphy checked the tablet. They were still headed north—still on the beach. Murphy slowed before he started onto the four-lane bridge leading from Sand Key north toward Clearwater Beach. No need to crowd them. Once he had the location, he would wait until Hayes and Boone started back. Then he could use the RFID transmitter in the tablet to find the chip’s location and go have a nice quiet talk with Gopher Girl and her mom and pop. Once this thing with Marshall was finished, Stiles was going to be president. Murphy held no illusions about politicians and loyalty. He’d managed to collect enough dirt on the esteemed congressman that it would be in everyone’s best interest to keep Murphy happy. Visions of a supervisory field posting danced in his imagination.

He pulled the rental onto the shoulder and stopped in the shade under a stand of palms, a few dozen feet from the sand and water. As he sat and watched the sailboats and jet skis on Clearwater Bay, he twisted the silencer onto the barrel of his backup piece, a Beretta M96A. His thoughts swirled around his life, spent in other places full of sand and palms, doing things for the OCIS and his country he could never tell anyone about.

He hated palm trees, sand, and salt water.

***

Zach sat in the passenger seat of the rented, late-model Ford subcompact. Sara, her crisp, sharp demeanor restored by her freshly laundered white blouse and black pants, turned east, onto the beach causeway toward the mainland.

“Here,” she said, and handed him a pair of mirrored aviator shades and a baseball cap.

He turned them over in his hand. “What’re these for?”

“Facial-recognition software. The average person is photographed seventeen times a day after they leave their house. The mirrors screw up the biometrics and if you tuck your ears under the hat, they can’t ID you by your ears.”

He put the glasses on, checked his reflection in the vanity mirror, and grinned. “Ears? Really?”

“Yes. Really,” she said. “Fingerprints, facial structure, and ears are unique, and the FR software can pick you up using any of the three.”

He pulled the cap on.

As they drove away from the beach and her family’s home, he watched Sara check the rear-view mirror several times. After a few seconds, she engaged the Auto-drive. “What?”

“I’ve been thinking about something.”

“Scary way to start a conversation, but okay, I’ll bite. What?”

“Why do you call your father by his first name?”

She shrugged a shoulder. “I don’t.” She thought about it. “Not always.” She hesitated again. “’Cause it irritates him, I guess.”

“No it doesn’t. Well, maybe on some level it does, but he tolerates it.” They moved off the causeway bridge onto the mainland and into Clearwater’s center.

“Well, it’s not like I don’t respect him,” she said. A hint of confusion crept around the edges of her words. The car stopped for a red light at Ft. Harrison. On the street, men and women in dark suits, brief cases in one hand and go-cups of coffee in their other, scurried toward the courthouse. Uniformed police seemed to occupy every corner, and Zach was suddenly glad for the shades and ball cap.

“Of course, you do. You respect your mother, and you never call her Miranda,” Zach said, as the light changed and they continued through town. The car’s Auto-nav function timed their movement to the lights, allowing them to roll through the steadily growing, morning congestion with a minimum of stops.

“No, I don’t think I could, but it’s different with my dad.”

“He knows that, too, but I think I understand why he puts up with it.”

She smirked at him. “Okay, Dr. Marshall, amateur shrink, why do I?”

“You call him Jack to show him you’re worthy of his respect, because his opinion means so much to you. He lets you because he does respect you.”

She considered his comments for a long moment. “What about my mother?”

“She has love and respect from both of you, and she stands in as the referee to remind you two where the limits are. It’s really cool to watch.”

Her brow knit. “How was it for you?”

“My brother and I mostly fended for ourselves. With both our parents working long hours, our little nuclear family succumbed to the fission age. We grew further apart until…” He swallowed. “My father’s death. By then, we were two strangers who sat at a funeral and mourned the loss of two parents we hardly knew.”

“Two?”

He nodded. “My mother couldn’t make the festivities. She was a guest of the state at the time. We essentially became orphans. Didn’t you… I mean, I thought you read my file. This must be in it.”

“Your file has the basic facts, but not any of the repercussions—not what it did to your family—to you.”

He shook the memory off like the old baggage it was. “We stayed with an aunt and uncle until Dave left for college and I left for Chicago a year later. They tried. They were good people, but it wasn’t the same.” He’d promised himself that one day wouldn’t define his life, but he was finally realizing it had, in so many unpredictable ways. “I think I finally understand what Kathy meant when she left.”

“That Bailey bitch?” Sara sneered as the words spilled out.

He laughed. “The same.”

“What did she say that was so profound?”

“Ask your mother when you see her.”

“I’m asking you.”

He told her about his conversation with Miranda about sacrifice and love while she and Jack were out. When he finished, she sat quietly contemplating for long minutes.

“It’s a lot, sometimes,” she said at last.

“Yeah,” he said, his voice thick with emotion. He stared out the window as they moved through the Clearwater traffic, remembered being a child, standing outside other kids’ houses at dinner time, watching the life he might’ve had, always shining, always out of reach. At dinner the previous night he’d felt the longing again for the first time in years. “Bet it’s tough.”

“It is, sometimes,” she said. “I mean, remembering stuff is easy, you just set up your email to send you reminders.” She went on, in a thoughtful tone now. “It’s thinking about them, being distracted by it. Always measuring yourself against what you think they’ll approve of.”

The car stopped for a red light. He pulled himself from his thoughts and said, “Like joining the Secret Service?”

She chuckled once. “That was me trying to prove something, and I did, but I have questions about why I’m doing it now.”

“Like the whole thing with me?”

“Yeah,” she said, “but there’s more. What I’m about to tell you could put both of us in federal prison.” She moved closer, adopting a conspiratorial tone. “The Justice Department is investigating Stiles. They recruited me to help gather information on him. I’ve been passing them intelligence and audio recordings for weeks. They have almost enough to indict.”

He stared at her, having trouble believing what he’d just heard. “You’re a mole for the Justice Department, gathering intel on the illegal activities of a presidential candidate? That’s just over the flippin’ top.”

“You should’ve heard Jack’s reaction when I told him,” she said with a scowl.

“I think I can guess your father’s reaction,” he said, considering the risk she was taking by telling anyone something as explosive as this.

“The politicians we guard just expect us to take a bullet for them, and we aren’t even people to most of them. A few think they’re above the law, and it’s starting to piss me off.”

“Like Stiles.”

She nodded. “Exactly. He and Murphy are two sides of the same counterfeit coin.”

“Birds of a feather.” He grinned at her. “They just need a little tar to make the combo complete.”

The car started across the causeway. Both sides were lined with people fishing from the rocks or moving watercraft into the surf, oblivious to the sinister plots of their politicians. “In a way, I’m glad of this. It gave me a chance to talk to my parents. They think very highly of you, you know,” she said, changing the subject.

He laughed. “Your parents? They’re nice people, but they don’t know the real me at all.”

“Don’t underestimate my dad’s instincts about people. He was a detective for a lot of years, and my mom’s no slouch either.”

Zach smirked and made a quick, dismissive noise as the car started up the incline of the bridge portion of the causeway.

“Hey,” Sara pulled the folded-up, hand-written list he’d given her the previous night from her jacket pocket. “You think you know yourself?” She held out the piece of paper, stained and torn, faded and rewritten, showing the years it’d spent in Zach’s wallet. “You structured your whole life around your fear of becoming the person on a bullshit list some guy made up fifty years ago,” she said and hit the button for the window. Cool morning wind poured in on salt-tinged air. “I have news for you, Zachary Marshall,” Sara said over the road noise. “You could never be anything on this list.” Her hand moved to the open window. The wind clawed at the paper.

“No!”

She released her grip.

A sudden intake of breath caught in his throat. He spun in his seat as patterns and behaviors he had spent his life avoiding flipped once in the wind. The list that had been his constant companion for over a decade disappeared in the distance behind them.

He blinked. “That was—”

“Fear. That’s all it ever was. You don’t need it anymore.”

He slowly turned back around in his seat and closed his eyes, willing his hands not to shake. His heart pounded in his ears and his skin tingled, like stepping into fresh air and sunlight after being trapped underground. His breath gradually returned to normal.

“But don’t believe me,” she continued in a softer tone when she raised the window. “Be who you are, not a facade you constructed based on a list. Stay alive and find out for yourself what they think.”

He cleared his throat, and when he could talk, he said, “That’s a challenge I’d like very much to win. I’d like to have those kinds of distractions someday—people who mean something looking up to me, being proud of me. Maybe I’ll even hear myself referred to as Uncle Zach by my niece, someday.” He forced himself back on track. “Your contact at the Justice department. Did you get in touch with him or her while we were at your parents’ house?”

She scowled. “I tried this morning. He was in a meeting. I’m hoping the media hype surrounding this mess hasn’t spooked him.”

“Wouldn’t he want to push forward? Stiles is…” He stopped. “The terrorist threat, namely me, would take precedence over the other investigation.”

“Bingo,” she said, her scowl deepening.

“Great,” Zach said. “You’re up to your ass in alligators, and your contact person’s the one who gets scared. Great government we have.”

She shrugged. “Washington can be a dangerous place, politically.”

“Yeah.” Zach stared out at the bay beyond his window again and envied the scores or people lining the water with nothing more pressing to do than fishing. They settled into the quiet as the car moved through the steadily increasing rush hour traffic on the Hillsborough side.

“Tampa Veterans Memorial Parkway, two kilometers,” the car’s navigation computer informed them, breaking the silence hanging over them. Zach stared out over the bay, where the morning clouds had dissipated. The now cloudless sky lent a cobalt hue to the color of the water as they passed the big hotels near the water on the Tampa side.

Zach asked, “Ready?”

“Not yet,” she said. “It’ll take DHS a few minutes to commandeer a police drone even if they’re involved. Let’s get closer to downtown.”

Three minutes later, Sara pulled the car off the Interstate and into the usual Tampa morning snarl. Zach pulled his iLink from his pocket and turned it on. “I hope this works, or I’m history.”

She shrugged a shoulder. “My dad seems to think this guy is an ethical reporter, if such a thing exists.”

As soon as she was able to hang a U-turn back toward the Interstate, Zach dialed the number Sara’s father had given them.

A young woman’s voice answered, “Hello. Tribune dot net.”

“This is Dr. Zachary Marshall. Terrell DeWitt, please.”

“Yes, sir can you hold?”

He checked his PCOD. The stopwatch numbers climbed to fifteen. “Only for about another forty-five seconds.”

A middle-aged male voice answered. “Terrell DeWitt here, to whom am I speaking, please?”

Zach mentally crossed his fingers. “My name is Zachary Marshall and you probably have some questions for me.”

“If this is Dr. Zachary Marshall, you want the police. They’re the ones who have questions for you, sir.”

“That may be true, Mr. DeWitt. However, if I let them ask me anything, Congressman Stiles’s hit men will make sure I don’t live any longer than they let my business partner live. If you’re not interested, we can hang up now.”

“Wait.” The voice hesitated. “Are you saying that Congressman Martin Stiles is trying to have you killed? Do you have proof?”

“Yes, sir. I have proof, I have the reason, and I have a witness.”

“Listen, I don’t know who you are, but—”

“Excuse me. You know who I am. What you don’t know yet, is what I found in my genetic testing lab two days ago and made me a moving target. If you want to go to the feeds with something that will blow your competitors away,” he said, reading the business name on the note Goode had given him. “Meet me at the Curry Shack downtown in one hour. If you’re not interested, perhaps your counterpart at the Sentinel will be more receptive.”

“Wait.”

“One hour, Mr. DeWitt. Someone I trust told me you’re one of the few honest reporters left on the street.”

DeWitt hesitated, the twos adding up for him. “I am. Honest, I mean.”

“Approach from across the street and wear something red. Come alone or you can read the story on your competitor’s website.” Zach disconnected, and turned the wrist component of his iLink off again, flipped it over, and popped the battery and SIM card out. He replaced the battery. “Okay, let’s go.”

She gaped at him. “Why put the battery back in?”

He said, “If I pull the SIM card, I can still use it as a watch, and it’ll connect to hot spots and get on the Net anonymously. It still acts as a Personal Communications and Organization Device, but the ’Link portion doesn’t work and it can’t be traced.”

She raised an eyebrow at him and nodded.

“I looked the manual up on line last night.”

“Okay, then,” she said.

***

Sara led Zach across the glassed-in tunnel from the parking garage to the fourth floor of the Camson Hotel. A few people moved through the halls, some carrying luggage. “We need to find a vantage point where we can see the street in front of the hotel and still not be seen.”

He nodded in agreement. “Let’s go upstairs and check things out.” They turned the corner at the intersection of two hallways and headed for the elevators.

A few moments later, they stepped off the elevators and approached the window at the front of the hotel. They stood at one of the sixth floor bay windows next door to and above the Curry Shack.

“Think he’ll show?” he asked Sara. She stood next to him at the window. Traffic moved on the street below. He held the crystal drive and several pieces of paper in his hand. He tapped the papers lightly against his leg.

“Yes, I do,” she answered in a hushed tone. “It’s too good to pass up. Our concern is watching for any unusual activity on the street before he gets here.”

“Police?”

“Yes, but I don’t know how much technology Murphy has access to at this point. Just pretend to be a couple, and keep an eye open for anything out of the ordinary. Every ten minutes, we’ll move to another floor. I’ll go first, and you follow me in two minutes. That way, we won’t stand anyplace long enough to be noticed, and one of us will be at the window at all times,” she said, in a quiet tone. As she stared out the window, one of her fingers hooked his. “We’ll do six, four, five, three, and two, then the lobby. And go fifteen minutes late. Just stay back a few feet or to one side, so you aren’t seen through the window.”

He nodded, and set the timer function of his PCOD.

***

Zach approached Sara at the third floor window after their third move. Her jacket hung over her arm and the light through the window cast her in silhouette. He strolled up next to her at the window and took her hand in his. Despite its conspicuous design, from four feet away, the curled white wire was nearly invisible in her hair.

While he scanned the street, Sara rolled the tension out of her neck, and laid her head on his shoulder. “See anything?”

“Just the maid on the fifth floor. Do they usually carry Uzis in this hotel?” He let a smile touch the corners of his mouth as he spoke.

“Oh, yeah,” she whispered, her head still on his shoulder. “They’re very security conscious here. Didn’t you know?”

“Um, not to be nosey, but where’s your weapon, Special Agent Goode? Your father would not be pleased.”

“Right here, Jack Junior.” She shifted her suit jacket draped over her arm. “My shoulder holster is folded underneath. I was getting warm in the jacket. And that’s former Special Agent, if you please.”

“Former Special Agent. Sorry,” he said. A phone company truck stopped across the street. “We should come here for a few days after this is all over. You see that?” He indicated where the truck driver was setting up bright orange cones on the street.

“Yeah, I do,” she said, glancing again along the rooftops across the street.

“There’s DeWitt,” he said. A middle-aged man walked briskly along the opposite side of the street, stepped off the curb, and headed to the restaurant. “Wow, you think that sweater’s red enough?” The man had a sweater the color of a fire truck on a sunny day draped over his shoulders with the arms tied around his neck.

“Wow,” Sara said. “Can’t miss him in that. Bright enough?”

“Yeah, I kind of expected a flower or something.” The hair on his neck prickled. “You getting a funny feeling?”

With a sharp intake of breath, Sara stepped away from the window. “Roofline. Silhouette,” she whispered, already starting to walk away, still holding Zach’s hand.

He caught sight of the black form, just visible at the corner of the building. “Crap.”

“Come on.” She tugged him through the hallway toward the stairs.

“Why are we running?” He gripped his side as he ran.

“Because,” she said, over her shoulder, “I don’t know if they saw us at the window, or at the other windows. We have to get off this floor.” They burst into the stairwell, and Sara started down the steps two at a time, Zach close at her heels.

CHAPTER 19

Sara hit the second-floor landing and stopped.

“Lobby?” Zach said, two steps behind her.

“No. They’ll come in through the lobby. They’ll have someone behind the hotel, in the alley.” She put a restraining palm on his chest and peered over the railing. She leaned in close and whispered in his ear, “Come on, but be quiet.”

Sara led the way across the second floor landing. Fluorescent lights on the stairs and landings cast harsh shadows on the beige cement block walls and bare concrete floors. She stopped Zach with a touch of her hand on his arm. In front of them stood a red steel door with a large, white number two stenciled on it. She thumbed the aluminum release lever and pulled the door open.

A maid’s cart stood halfway down the hall. Large, fluffy towels sat piled on top. A mop and a broom protruded up from a bucket at the front, but the maid was nowhere to be seen.

“Stay here,” she whispered to Zach.

He held the door open a crack and watched from the stairs as she strolled up to the cart. Sara knocked gently on an open door frame.

“Excuse me, Miss?” she said in a quiet tone, “I locked my key card in my room. Could you please open it for me?”

A young woman’s voice trickled from the room. “Si, which room, please?”

“Dos un cinco, por favor,” Sara answered.

Zach let the stairwell door close until he could peer through the crack with one eye.

The maid, who barely topped five-foot-three and a hundred pounds, followed Sara out. The young woman turned and strode in the direction of the room Sara indicated, walking ahead of Sara, who worked to keep up with the smaller woman’s short, quick, gait. The maid reached into a pocket of her black pants and produced a small plastic card. When they were about four doors from the stairs where Zach waited, they stopped. The maid slipped the key card in and touched a finger to the bioreader. The door opened.

“Gracias,” Sara said again, as the young woman returned to work, her thick, black ponytail splayed out behind her and bounced with each step. Sara entered the room and closed the door behind her.

Zach stayed where he was. Muffled sounds from other parts of the hotel filtered through the quiet. Movement vibrated into his fingertips as the elevators’ electric motors started and stopped. Distant background noises from the street in front of the building reached him.

Sara cracked the door and gestured to Zach.

He slipped into the hall and trotted toward her. She pulled it open and stepped back. Before she closed the door, Zach lifted the ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign from the handle and tucked it into the key slot.

“How did you know this one was empty?” he asked.

“Lucky guess.” She said, unclipping the small comm unit from her belt.

Zach stepped further in, past the large bathroom to the left, and took in the room. Upscale art hung on the muted pastel green walls. A large, blank monitor screen hung suspended a few inches above a polished, dark wood dresser. A king-sized bed filled a portion of the large room, several rows of pillows of various sizes and shapes were lined up along its headboard. Beyond the bed, a round table with two antique chairs stood in front of a large window. Sara’s shoulder holster hung next to where her suit jacket lay draped over the back of one chair. A bowl of fresh fruit sat on a crisp, white linen tablecloth covering the table.

Zach stepped past Sara to the window. The man’s silhouette still searched traffic moving on the street below with what appeared to be binoculars. Zach stepped back from the window. “I don’t think he saw us.”

Sara sat on the edge of the bed and adjusted a knob on the miniature transceiver. “Damn. I knew I should’ve been scanning channels. It only makes sense they’re using a different band. Damn.”

“What now?” he asked, returning his attention to the roofline.

She held up a finger. “Ha, I got you, now, bastard. There’s just the two of them. The guy on the roof is Newman. He’s surveying the street and Murphy is watching the alley. If Newman spots you, Murphy’ll go in from the rear exit. They think you’re going to walk right into their hands.” She smirked. “Guess that won’t be working out so well for them.”

“How’d they find out?”

“Murphy must’ve called in to Quantico for a ’link scan and had them listen for your name or some other word you used. It’s fairly easy to do with the NSA computers monitoring all iLink calls. I didn’t think he had enough time.”

“Shit.”

“Yeah, technology’s a bitch when it’s being used against you.”

“How did they get here so fast?”

“Do you know how fast those tanks we drive will go when you floor the accelerator?”

“No.”

She shrugged. “Now you have an idea. That’s why we spend four weeks in driving school learning how to push them to the limit. I’m surprised they’re here, though.”

“Why?”

“After last night, I’d have expected Johnson to tighten the leash on both of them. They’re not at their posts. Johnson’ll blow a gasket if he finds out.”

Zach focused on the dark monitor screen, thinking. He snapped his fingers and turned to her. “We can call DeWitt. Tell him Murphy and Newman are outside. He can walk out and see Newman on the roof.”

“And do what exactly? Walk up to Murphy and ask him whether he’s a hit man assigned to assassinate the evil Dr. Marshall? Wave to Newman?”

“Yeah, you’re right,” he said, shaking his head. “He probably called them.” He dropped onto the bed next to her.

“Or he called the police, who called them. Or, he’s clueless about them. Same thing. It doesn’t matter if you’re telling the truth or not. He gets a story either way. Even if he didn’t ’link you out and they plucked your call off the satellite, they’ll pick it up again when you call DeWitt. They’ll know you’re close by, if not where you are in the building.”

He stared at the iLink unit wrapped around his wrist. “Traitor.”

“It’s…” She stopped and listened to the earpiece. “Murphy’s going into the restaurant. Probably going to check inside for you.”

“I am so screwed,” he said, and lay back on the slick bedspread. He covered his eyes with an arm. “He’s either going into the restaurant to keep an eye on DeWitt, or meet him. Either way leads to a bad end if I show up downstairs.”

She patted his forearm. “We’ll wait here for an hour or so, till they get tired and leave. We need a new plan.”

“Okay. I have an idea. We just need to get out of here.” He smiled.

“Let’s hear it,” Sara said.

“Murphy and Newman are tied up watching DeWitt. We leave them to it while we drive to the nearest copy center, make a dozen copies of everything we have, and mail packages to multiple news outlets at the same time. Someone will break the story. All we have to do is find a place to lay low for a few days until things really heat up for Stiles.”

“We use DeWitt as a decoy. I like it. It’s simple enough. It might work,” Sara said. “We can even get a courier service to deliver his package to his office—with apologies for running him around.”

Zach considered the money in his pocket. “I’m pretty sure I don’t have the funds on me to pay a messenger service, especially if I can’t use a credit card.”

“I think I can get it,” she said. “After all, they haven’t tagged me yet as near as I can tell, and the sooner we get this over with, the quicker we can get back to real life.”

Zach considered the possible implications of her statement for a long moment, both for himself and Sara. He knew it had to end, but the thought of turning himself in to the authorities sent his stomach into free fall.

“It’s time we got a couple of steps ahead of these assholes,” she said. “Leave them standing around looking stupid while we drive away.”

“We should go now. We’ll need to put some space between us and them.”

“Let me try to find out what they’re plan is, first.” Sara lay back on the bed next to him, and touched her earpiece. “Murphy just told Newman to keep a close watch on the street for you.”

“I need to say something.”

“Sure. What?” She rolled her head toward him.

Zach shifted onto his side and propped his head on his hand. “I wanted to thank you. At first, I couldn’t figure out why you were risking your life, why you were tossing your career into the trashcan to help a nobody. I even wondered for a while if you were playing me to find out if there were any more backups before turning me in.”

Sara rolled onto her side, facing him. She propped her head up to match his.

“I didn’t trust you,” he continued, “because, well, because I don’t trust people easily. I don’t know if it’s the genetics, or learned behavior, but either way, I’m sorry I doubted you. You’ve been injured, and you exposed yourself and your family to danger to keep me safe. I just hope you let me find a way to show you how much you, I mean, all this, means to me.”

When she spoke, her voice was barely a whisper. “Stay alive until this is over and then tell me.”

He wanted to stay there forever. “We should go.”

“Yeah, it should be safe now.” She rolled to the edge of the bed and stood in a fluid movement.

He followed her example, grunting once at his uncooperative chest. They smoothed the bedspread.

He pulled a data crystal out of his pocket, handing it to her. “Here.”

She held the tiny drive between her thumb and index finger. “What is it?”

“An operating system. It runs entirely off the data crystal. It’s for use in hostile situations where the Net connections are under surveillance. Everything it sends can be encrypted and disguised and buried in other files if needed. All anyone watching would see is the occasional extra pixel lines in a photo of a street, or a page of benign text.”

She narrowed an eye at him. “What about the browser and url?”

He shook his head. “The browser is set up to hide the url. It’s completely anonymous.”

“It’s a stealth system.” She shifted toward him. “And since it runs from the DCD, it doesn’t leave a footprint on the computer. What about sudden increases in the sheer amount of traffic from a location?”

“In a public location, there’s enough general bandwidth use that the signal just gets lost.”

“Public, like a library or Net cafe?”

“Exactly. It’s not perfect, and the NSA computers are quite a bit more powerful than the ones in China or the Middle East this was designed to circumvent, but it should give us enough time to send the files to all the media outlets with time to get away.”

“Is this thing legal?”

He nodded and grinned at her.

“And you downloaded this thing from a government website?”

“Nope.” He shook his head. “The Air Force developed it for the OCIS, but they released the core system under Freedom of Information. A bunch of computer nerds picked it up, polished it and distribute it for free under the name Paranoid OS. You pop it into the drive port, reset the bios to boot from the DCD, boot the computer, and keep hitting enter till you get a home screen.”

“How does the receiving party unencrypt the message?”

“The program sends an instruction to unzip the message. Then it shows a pop-up window asking if they want to read a message from the sender and a space to type in a private key. We’ll have to call them or send a hard copy with the password.”

“Why?”

He shrugged a shoulder. “A backup to the backup plan. Hoped we could hand the information to DeWitt, he would see it as credible, coming from me, and we wouldn’t need it.” He chuckled once, without mirth. “That’s me. Always thinking in terms of lost information and backups.”

She shifted her eyes from the tiny drive to him. “Zach—”

He folded his hand around hers and closed it on the data crystal. “You hang onto it, just in case… you know. Promise me if anything happens to me, you’ll get the data on Stiles out.”

Sara slipped the crystal into her jacket pocket. “I promise.” She checked her earpiece one more time. “It’s as good as it’s going to get, unless you want to rent the room,” she said, and shrugged into her shoulder holster and jacket, stopping at the mirror to adjust the fit.

The thought brought a tight smile to his face. He almost laced his fingers with hers, but thought better of it. He turned the knob and pulled the door open.

The sound of an explosion rumbled through the floor.

They both froze. Zach inhaled a sharp breath as alarms sounded throughout the building. They stuck their heads into the hall. A faint rain of fine dust floated down. “No,” he gasped. “Have they blown up the building?”

Sara pulled him back from the door as several others opened. Worried faces poked into the hall. She tugged him further into the room, taking his place at the doorway.

“What the hell did that maniac do?” Zach asked in a whisper as shock and dust from the ceiling settled on him.

She eyed the hallway. “It wasn’t this building.”

“You’re right.” He gestured at the ceiling. “If it had been, the fire sprinklers would be going off,” he said.

“Uh huh.” She shook her head, her disbelief clear on her face. “It must’ve been the restaurant. That’s why Murphy went in, not just to look for you, but to plant a charge.”

Zach paced the length of the room trying unsuccessfully to burn off his adrenaline overload. “Unbelievable,” he said, running his fingers through his hair. “They blew the god damn restaurant up.” He ran his hands along his scalp until his fingers laced behind his head. “DeWitt was in there. Now he’ll think I tried to blow him up, too.”

“Calm down,” Sara said. “You have nothing to gain by it. He’s your lifeline, but this screws our plan B. We have to get out of here, now. The building is bound to be evacuated.”

“If we go out the front door with Newman on the roof, he’ll be able to pick us out like we’re wearing signs.”

Sara nodded in agreement. “And if he sees me with you, any advantage we have will be gone.”

“Upstairs. We can take the skywalk on the fourth floor. The way we came in. It’s at the rear of the hotel. Newman won’t be able to see us.”

“The elevators will be locked,” she said. “And everyone will be coming down the stairs.”

“Follow me.” He grabbed her hand and led her into the confusion.

Around them, guests milled through the screeching wail of the fire alarm to the stairs, where a bottleneck had formed. “My turn,” she said, slipping between him and the wall. She pulled her ID out of her pocket, and held it high. “Federal agent. Let us by.” When no one moved, she said it louder. “Federal agent. Move!”

A path cleared for Sara, who put her ID away, grabbed Zach’s hand, and pushed forward. They entered the stairwell and, hugging the wall, climbed the stairs against the crowd.

By the third floor, the stairs were empty. They ascended the steps at a run, and stopped at the door to the fourth floor. Zach leaned against the wall, eyes closed, gritting his teeth against the pain in his chest, trying to catch his breath. Sara stood propped against the wall next to the door with her head resting on her forearm for a moment. Zach grabbed the handle and opened it a crack. Seeing no one, he pulled the door open and pushed through. “Come on.” They ran onto the glassed-in walkway leading to the hotel’s parking garage.

Sara grabbed his arm. “Stay down. It’ll be harder to see us from the alley if we aren’t standing.”

“Okay. Let’s go,” Zach said, and dropped into a crouch.

Halfway to the parking garage, Zach stopped. Smoke billowed out of the rear of the Indian restaurant. He inched closer to the edge of the walkway. Several people sat or lay in the alley below. The left side of one man’s shirt was ripped. The shirt, the exposed skin underneath, and the side of his face were black. A few feet away, a woman knelt, covering another man’s face and torso with a jacket where he lay in a spreading pool of crimson. Many of the people in the alley milled around, while others helped the injured move away from the fire.

“Christ,” Sara whispered, her voice full of disgust.

Zach shook his head in disbelief. “Is that guy just plain nuts?”

She duck-walked back, clasped his hand, and dragged him toward the parking garage. “Yes, he is. He’s also getting desperate.”

“That makes two of us.”

They trotted to their car. Its lights flashed as Sara approached. She leaned against the rear fender and gestured, waiting for Zach, who clutched his chest as he caught up.

“We have to get out of here. Right now,” she said. Meanwhile, shouts filtered up from the alley. A woman began wailing, masking some of the other noises.

Zach bent at the waist to catch his breath past the biting ache in his chest. “No argument from me there.” He surveyed their surroundings. “There’s no one else here. Wonder why?”

“Most people are conditioned to the idea of moving down the stairs to the lower levels in a fire drill. The average person wouldn’t think of exiting to the parking garage.”

“Makes sense, I guess.” Sirens wailed in the distance, growing louder by the minute. Acrid smoke from below was beginning to filter into the parking garage.

She stepped around to the rear of the small sedan. “Okay, here’s what we’ll do.” She stopped and nodded her head toward the trunk lid. “You’re going to jump into the trunk and ride in there until we put some distance between us and this mess.”

“I’m going to do what?” He stared at her in disbelief.

“Jump into the trunk while I drive us away from here.”

He shook his head. “I’m not getting into the trunk of this thing. Are you crazy?”

A small group of two men and three women dressed in business casual wear scurried out of the walkway and split up. Each made for what were probably their cars at just short of a run.

She walked around and stood, facing him. “Zach,” she said, her tone hushed. She touched his upper arm again. This time her fingers worked their way around and gripped it. “Be reasonable.”

“Reasonable? Reasonable is getting into the trunk of a car while you drive away from the scene of the crime?”

Sara closed her eyes, thinned her lips in frustration, and rolled the tension out of her neck. She continued to speak in quiet, controlled tones. “Zach, they’re searching for two people. Two men, granted, but every cop for fifty miles knows your face by now. If one happens to see you accidentally because the light hits you just right, we’re done.”

“What about the mirrored sunglasses?”

She shook the idea off. “Too risky. There are thousands of cameras in a city this size, and any one of them can accidentally pick you up. Then, it’s only a matter of a few minutes until the facial-recognition software puts a name on your face. If Stiles and Brown spin this right, there’ll be vigilante groups scouring the countryside for you with torches and shotguns by sunset. Please.”

“What if they see you?”

“I’ll take off my jacket and holster and wear my glasses.”

“Oh, yeah, that’ll make a big difference,” he snorted.

She laid a hand on his chest. “My face won’t register on the F-R software. They’re looking for you.”

“Wait a second.”

Sara watched without comment as he turned away, and walked the length of the car and back. She stepped in. “Zach. Trust me.” Two cars went past on their way to the exit. The approaching sirens grew louder.

“How long?”

She shrugged. “I don’t know.”

He hesitated.

“Tick tock.”

“Okay,” he said.

Sara touched the button to release the latch and the lid popped open. They stared into the tiny space, to each other, and into the open trunk once more.

Zach said, “I don’t think I can fit in there.”

“Where’s the trunk?” Sara stood, hands fisted on her hips. “The rental guy said there was a trunk.”

“Technically, it is,” Zach offered.

“That’s not big enough to put a person in,” she said, still staring at the open trunk. “Not nearly.”

Zach braced a hand on the trunk lid. “Well, maybe next time you should specify, ‘a trunk big enough to hold a body,’ or maybe you should’ve asked about the New Jersey Special,”

“Well, fuck me,” she said in exasperation.

He shrugged, still staring into the diminutive space. “It’s worth a try,” he said.

She spun on him, eyes wide. He realized what she’d thought he meant. “No,” he sputtered. “I meant in the trunk.” Her head cocked to the side. “No,” he tried again, heat rushing to his cheeks. “I meant me. In the trunk. I think it’s worth a try. Alone. I mean.”

They stared at each other for a long moment, until Zach shot her a grin. She rolled her eyes and cracked a smile.

He shot a quick glance at the opening, then to Sara, back to the trunk, and settled on her again. He raised an eyebrow. “On the other hand…” he trailed off.

She grunted.

He considered the hard composite trunk floor against his already-aching ribs. This was going to hurt. Clutching his side and grunting, he lifted a leg and climbed in, folding his wiry, six-foot frame into the cramped trunk. “No fancy driving, no running into things, and no grabbing air.” He made an up-and-down motion with his outstretched hand.

“I promise.”

“Hey,” he said. “Do me a huge favor, and find a place nearby and let me out, just for a minute. Someplace out of the way, and private—no cameras, but close to a busy intersection. Can you do that?”

“Yeah. I know just the place, if they haven’t torn it down.”

Zach stuck a hand up as Sara closed the trunk lid. He threw her a grin through the narrow space. “Promise you won’t forget me?”

“Lie still and try not to make any noise.”

“Okay, but that doesn’t sound like much fun.”

She brushed his hand away from the lid. “I’ll see you in a few minutes,” she said, on a smile, and closed the trunk.

CHAPTER 20

Zach lay quietly in the trunk as Sara wheeled the rental car down the ramps toward the parking garage’s exit. The surrounding air was still, and he caught the faint scent of rubber from the spare tire under him. At the first turn, he realized direction made all the difference. He’d positioned his head on the driver’s side. Now, each right turn shoved his head against the thinly carpeted rear wheel well with the expected uncomfortable, unpleasant, painful, mind-numbing results.

“This was a really bad idea,” he grunted, as she whipped around another right turn, ramming Zach’s head into the wheel well again.

Her muffled voice made it through the rear seat, “How are you doing back there?”

“I’m okay, but this has turned out to be even less fun than I thought.” His voice echoed in the trunk, the sound muffled. His chest bounced on the thinly carpeted deck and his head thumped against the wheel well again as they bounced over a speed bump. “Ouch.”

Her laugh sparkled through the seat to him. “Don’t be such a wimp.”

“Wanna trade?”

“Quiet, we’re coming to the exit.”

They pulled into the queue and moved ahead, barely slowing. Zach held his breath when he heard a middle-aged woman’s greeting, muffled by the carpet surrounding him. He listened intently as Sara handed the cashier the ticket.

“Do you know what happened?” The woman’s excited voice made it into the trunk.

Yeah, Zach thought, I know what happened. A crazy man with C-4 just blew up the bridge back to my life.

“Someone said something about a gas line,” Sara answered.

The woman’s voice said, “You go ahead. They’re evacuating the hotel and parking garage.”

Sara pulled out of the garage. The car dropped a few inches, sending Zach bouncing against the trunk deck. Stars flashed in his vision and he bit his tongue. “Ow,” he mumbled past his throbbing tongue as she made a sharp right onto the street.

After a few minutes that seemed to Zach like hours in the increasingly warm and stuffy trunk, they slowed, turned, and bounced up onto something. The movement rocked Zach side to side in the cramped space. A crunching noise came through the car’s composite body. They pulled to a gentle stop, and the car’s auto-system pinged into standby. The driver’s door opened. Sara climbed out, closing the door behind her. She stepped around to the rear of the car on what he now recognized as gravel. The trunk lid opened, spilling cool, fresh air and light into the space.

“Hello,” she said, her face a deadpan, as her eyes darted right and left, checking out their surroundings.

He tried to smile at her while maintaining pressure on his stinging tongue with his lips. A slurred, “That was fun,” worked its way out.

“What happened to you?”

“Somebody drove off a cliff or something,” he said, scowling up at her. “And I bit my tongue. Any other questions?”

She looked down at him, and cleared her throat in an effort not to laugh. “You want some help out, or are you good where you are?”

Zach levered himself out of the trunk. “Thanks, I’ve got it. You have the tape?” he asked. They were on a gravel lot behind an old, three-story brick building. Boards covered the windows on the first floor, and many of the window frames on the floors above were empty of glass—and not a camera in sight. “How did you find a parking space behind a deserted building?”

“Tampa’s an old city. She held out the roll of dust tape they’d used on the junker’s window last night. “Besides, I grew up not far from here.” She flicked a glance toward the downtown high-rises a dozen blocks away. “In an area called Hyde Park, not far from Old Tampa Bay.”

“You wouldn’t happen to have my shades and hat up there, would you?”

“Yeah. What’re you planning?” she asked, as she stepped to the open driver’s window and pulled his things off the dash. She handed them to Zach.

He slipped them on, tucked the tops of his ears under the hatband as Sara had instructed, and checked his reflection in the driver’s side window. “Giving us something we desperately need,” he said. “Time and distance.” He took the roll she offered and slipped his iLink’s earpiece into his ear. He pulled the wrist unit off, opened it, and replaced the SIM card. Then he spoke the code to establish a connection. “Emergency. 9-1-1. Connect.”

A moment later, the call connected and a young, female voice answered. “Hello, Tampa Police and Safety Department. If you would be more comfortable speaking to a recording, please press star or say ‘automated’ now.”

“Hello, is this the police? Hey, you better send somebody over to The Curry Shack, a gas main just blew up and there’s people hurt.” He started across the gravel lot toward the street in front of the building.

“Are you reporting an explosion, sir?” the voice asked.

“You betcha, lady,” Zach answered. “It’s at The Curry Shack, downtown. You get that, or should I spell it for you?” While he spoke, he pulled about a foot of tape loose. Using his teeth, he ripped it loose. He doubled it over several times, sticky side out, until it became a two-sided pad, approximately the same size as his iLink wrist unit. Pinching the pad between his thumb and index finger, he started around the building and out of the parking lot, toward the nearest intersection. As he walked, he tore another strip of tape off the roll.

“Can I please have your name, sir?”

“Yes, ma’am. It’s Zachary Marshall, with two l’s,” Zach said, slipping the tape roll onto his wrist.

“Please hold,” the voice on the other end of the connection said. It was replaced by an instrumental version of an oldie tune Zach didn’t recognize. It might have been The Beatles or The Rolling Stones, he couldn’t be sure.

“Yeah, right,” he said.

A moment later, a mechanical voice said, “You have reached the emergency number for the Tampa Police and Safety Department. In a few moments, you will be asked a series of questions to identify yourself and the nature of your emergency. If this is not an emergency, please disconnect and link to the non-emergency number. Otherwise, please hold. Your call is very important to us. Wait time is currently less than ten minutes.” The music returned.

“Perfect.” He pulled the earpiece from his ear, stuck it and his wrist unit onto the pad of tape he’d formed and covered it with the second piece. “A ten-minute wait to report an emergency.” Zach crossed the street behind a lone, large delivery truck stopped at the light. Careful to avoid being seen in the drivers-side rear view mirror, he pushed the tape onto the inside surface of the steel frame that served as a step into the cargo area. Then, he quickly wrapped the second piece of tape around the frame a couple of times to keep the link firmly attached.

Satisfied, he finished crossing the street, reversed direction, and returned to the parking lot where Sara waited. She took his hand in hers and they watched. After a couple of minutes, the light turned green, and the truck pulled away from the intersection, with Zach’s link attached to the rear frame.

Zach’s eyes met Sara’s as a puff of air ruffled her white collar. He caught vanilla on the breeze and knew he would remember this moment forever.

Zach swallowed. “How long you figure it’ll take them to track it down?” he asked, as the truck turned a corner, and rolled out of sight.

“Hopefully not until we’re well away from here,” Sara said. She released his hand, stepped around to the rear of the car, and popped the trunk lid open.

“Aw, come on,” he said, and kicked at the gravel. “Again?”

Sara nodded. “We have to get you out of the city, and this is the safest way.”

“Unless someone rear-ends the car,” he said, pouting. “Then it won’t be such a good idea.”

She indicated the trunk with a tilt of her head. “Come on, be a good boy, and when we’re outside of town, mommy will buy you an ice cream.”

Zach cast a sidelong glance at her. “You think to entice me into the trunk of your car with ice cream? My mother warned me about ladies like you.”

She narrowed her eyes. “I could show you what my mother used to do to me when I was feeling petulant.”

He smiled at her. “I’ve met your mother, and now I am scared.”

She crossed her arms and cocked her head at Zach. “How about it’ll hurt less if you go ahead and get in on your own. Is that better for you?”

Zach threw a leg over the rear of the Ford. “Oh yeah, much.” Once again, he lay on the deck inside the trunk. “I’m starting to feel like a trunk troll or something.”

She nudged him further into the space. “Trolls live under bridges, not in car trunks. You’re thinking of gremlins.”

“How d’you think a gremlin becomes a troll? They get kicked out of their car trunk and have to take up residence under a bridge.” He grumbled. “You know, that could be next. I don’t actually have a house any more. A bridge is looking better and better all the time.”

“Where can we get a sleeve of crystal drives for cheap?”

“Where America shops,” Zach responded.

“Next stop.” She laid her hand on his head and gently pushed it down before she lowered and latched the trunk lid. Then, she crawled into the passenger compartment and cracked the rear seat open a few inches. He still couldn’t see anything, but the added space allowed air circulation and gave him just enough room to transfer his weight from his shoulder onto his back. He bit back on a groan as she settled into the driver’s seat and turned the climate control to its coldest setting. “Here we go.”

Zach bounced along in the trunk, his head and chest taking turns banging on the deck under him. Before Sara came up with this insanity, he had no idea city streets were as full as they seemed to be, of potholes, bumps, and what he was convinced were cobblestones. She answered each “ouch” from him with a “sorry” or “oops,” until he finally asked, “Could you at least try to miss one, once in a while?”

“No,” she responded, laughing. “What would be the fun in that?”

“Hey,” he said, from where he lay. “I was wondering something.”

“What’s that?” She looked at him in the rear-view mirror.

“I’ve been wanting to ask you when we had a minute. Do you have any plans? For when this is over, I mean.”

She hesitated. “We should have this conversation another time.”

“You mean bouncing around flat on my back with a cracked rib in the trunk of a rental car isn’t the right time? Who would have thought there would ever be a better time?”

“Zach…”

“No,” he said. “I understand.” He turned his head to stare at the inside of the hatch in the stuffy darkness. The silence between them settled onto his chest as he lay in the trunk and Sara drove. Road noise vibrated into his bones until Sara braked the car to a stop.

“We’re here.” She hesitated.

“I can’t go into the store with you. There’s too much of a chance someone would recognize me in there.

“I know,” she said. “And there’s, like, fifteen cameras on the building and in the parking lot. We can’t risk it.” She blew out a breath. “But you can’t stay out here and sit next to the car, either. You’ll draw attention like flies to poop. Someone will recognize you.”

“Great analogy,” he said from the trunk. “I’d better stay where I am.”

She shifted in her seat. “You can’t stay in the trunk of the car. It’s eighty outside. You’ll die in there.” She huffed out a sigh. “I can leave the engine running with the main air conditioner on.”

“No. That’ll draw as much attention to the car as my sitting next to it. Just go and come back. I’ll be okay.” He pushed the seat open far enough to see her face. There was genuine concern there as she considered the logic of his response.

“I don’t like this.”

He waved a hand to dismiss her. “The accessory air conditioner runs off the solar panels on the roof and hood. It’ll keep the car from getting too hot. That’s what it’s supposed to do.”

She stared into the rear-view mirror. “Okay, you win this one. I’m going to park in a shady spot, then run into the store and get the drives, envelopes for them, and a marker. Anything else we need?”

He paused, considering for a second. “Aspirin or Tylenol? All this bouncing around has given me a hell of a headache and my side hurts like crazy.”

“Anything else?”

“Those padded cardboard mailing envelopes for the crystal drives, if they’re cheap.”

“Okay. Stay put. I’ll be back as quick as I can,” she said as she opened the door and climbed out into the growing afternoon heat.

Zach pulled the rear seat almost closed, so no one casually glancing into the car could see him. He lay with his eyes closed in the quiet car, listening to the distant parking lot noises. As much as possible, he slowed his breathing, working to ignore the oppressive heaviness of the air. Around him, other cars moved in the distance. Buggies occasionally chattered across the asphalt, sometimes accompanied by sounds from children, and once, a car rolled slowly past the rear of the Ford. He held his breath, hoping it wasn’t a police car, alerted to the make of their getaway vehicle.

Heat filled the car like water dripping into a sink. The rising temperature and stillness ate into him, despite the vehicle being parked under one of the few skimpy trees in the lot. The flaw in Zach’s plan became obvious after the first few minutes. There wasn’t enough air circulation between the passenger compartment and trunk. As he waited, sweat beaded on his brow and trickled down his temples, where it collected in his ears in the quiet, dark heat of the trunk. Sweat stuck his shirt to his skin as the temperature climbed from stifling toward unbearable.

He was on the verge of pushing the rear seat down, rolling into the passenger compartment, and taking his chances stepping into the fresh air, when the trunk unlocked. It opened to reveal Sara’s face, cool air filling the trunk. He squinted his dark-adjusted eyes against the intensity of the bright blue sky above. She handed him a bottle of cold water a small bottle of aspirin. He took them from her, twisted the caps off, and popped three or four aspirin into his mouth. He washed them down with half the water. “Thank you. It was starting to get a little warm in here.”

“Let me drive around and get you cooled off. Are you okay?”

Zach held the other half of the cool water bottle to his head. “Yeah, I’m fine, but it’s a little hot out today to leave the kids in the car while you shop, Mom.”

Sara snarled a response he missed and closed the trunk lid before walking around to the driver’s door and dropping into the seat. She started the car and turned the air conditioning up to full.

He pushed the seat down and slid his upper body into the much-cooler passenger compartment, letting the chilled air flow over him, careful to stay below the windows. “Okay,” he said, after a few minutes. “That’s better.”

“Maybe we should find another parking garage and wait until it gets dark and the temperature drops.”

“No. The quicker we get out of town, the better off we’ll be.”

“I really am getting a little worried about you in this heat.”

“I know, but we can’t keep this up all day. Let’s go.”

She nodded. “Okay.”

“Damn, I knew you were going to say that. You’re supposed to at least try to talk me out of it.” He smiled up at her as he slid back into the trunk space.

She stared hard at him from where she stood. “It’s not safe, Zach. Either we wait for dark in a parking garage, or we make a run for it, now. You decide this one.”

“Go. We need to get this done,” he grumbled, and pulled the rear seat up behind him, dropping him into darkness once more.

Sara spoke just loud enough to be heard past the car’s noise, “Then our next route is out of town. Are you sure you can stand it back there till we get to the Interstate?”

Zach repositioned himself in the cramped, dark space. “I’m good. Let’s roll.” He patted the flash drive in his pocket.

The trip across town was a repeat of the escape from the parking garage. Stop and go, bumps and potholes, with the effect of tossing Zach around the trunk like a sack of discarded rags.

After about forty minutes, a sharp turn shoved him into the wheel well again. Acceleration pushed him toward the rear as the whine from the car’s tires rose to a higher pitch than they had reached before.

“We’re on the Interstate. We can relax a little, now,” Sara called out, from the front seat. “Are you okay back there?”

“Great,” Zach mumbled, as he settled back. “I’m good,” he shouted through the rear seat. “Couldn’t be better. Just get us to a safe place, okay?”  A muscle spasm in his neck, an aching between his temples, and a nagging pain in the small of his back were all competing with his broken rib for attention. But he’d be damned if he’d come off like a wimp to a woman who had demolished two vehicles and blown up a third to ensure his safety.

“I’ll pull over at the first place I can and let you get up front.”

“No hurry. I’ll just lie here, in the dark, curled up in the trunk of a car.”

“Anybody ever tell you you’re a smart-ass?”

“You?” he pushed the seat back a little further open.

“You’ve been spending too much time with my father.”

Zach laughed. “I’ve been thinking. I should spend some time bonding with your dad. He seems like he’d be fun to hang with.”

“I will kill both of you.”

“Aww, it’d be fun,” he went on. “We could go on fishing trips and stuff.”

Sara started to laugh. “Jack doesn’t like to fish.”

Zach thought for a second. “Okay, just a thought. How does he feel about the dog track?”

“Zach.”

“Wait, how about strip clubs? Bet we could invite Uncle Hank.” The car shifted in the lane, bouncing Zach’s head against the wheel well again. “Hey!”

“Shut up, Zach.”

He laughed. “I just thought, your dad being a former cop—”

“Zach, shut up. Really.” Her voice carried an edge.

“What is it?”

“There’s a state trooper behind us. His lights just came on.”

CHAPTER 21

Zach worked his fingers around the side of the open seat and tugged it closed it as Sara pulled onto the shoulder of the highway.

“Don’t move,” she said, as she braked the car to a stop.

Zach barely breathed as he lay listening to the State Trooper saunter past the rear wheel, less than a foot from his head.

“Morning, ma’am,” a deep, male voice said. “Driver’s license and registration, please.” After a brief rustling from the passenger’s compartment, the same voice said, “Please stay in your car, ma’am.”

The sound of boots on pavement passed Zach again, this time headed to the rear of the car. He broke into a sweat that had nothing to do with the heat. The minutes crept by at what seemed like a geologic pace for Zach. A nerve in one of his calves started to twitch. He closed his eyes and worked to relax the muscle.

The footsteps returned. “Do you know why I stopped you today, ma’am?”

Zach wedged his shoulder against the wheel well, pressing his foot against the inside surface of the trunk, hoping to avoid a full-blown cramp.

“I’m sure I don’t, officer,” Sara said. “I know I wasn’t speeding, because I had the Auto-drive engaged and set to two miles an hour below the posted limit.”

“No, ma’am,” the trooper said. “Your rear tire is a little low. If you’ll pop the trunk, I’ll put your spare on for you.” He tapped his palm twice against the roof of the car.

The sound pierced Zach’s focus, causing him to jump. He froze, holding his breath, hoping his movement hadn’t alerted the trooper to something amiss. Sweat beaded on his forehead. The twitching in his leg evolved into a mild cramp, as he’d feared.

“Thank you, officer, but it isn’t necessary,” Sara said. “I’m aware of the low tire. A light on the dash indicates tire pressure, and it’s not blinking yet, so the tire’s not dangerously low. There’s no spare in this model, only a container of compressed nitrogen for emergencies.”

“You sure, ma’am?”

Sara laughed. “That’s why I rented the car. So I can call the rental company if I have trouble. It’s only a few miles to the next exit.”

The cramp abruptly worsened, twisting Zach’s foot in an unnatural direction until he wanted to scream. He clenched his teeth to keep from groaning.

“If you like, ma’am, I can wait until someone gets here.”

“Thank you, officer, but if it’s all the same to you, I’d prefer to wait in an air-conditioned restaurant, rather than out here in the heat.”

Tears trickled down Zach’s cheeks. The barbed wire contraction twisted through his calf muscle.  He tried not to think about it with as much success as not thinking about an alligator while it gnawed his foot off.

“Yes, ma’am.” A few long moments later, the footsteps passed him again, then receded.

Sara started the car and accelerated onto the interstate. A nerve-straining few minutes later, she said, “He just pulled onto the median and turned around. I think we’re okay.”

“Yeah,” Zach grunted. He forced his foot against the rear shock pillar, trying desperately to quiet his leg.

“I’m going to drive on for a bit before I pull off.”

“Okay,” he said, panting from exertion. He caught his breath and said, “I’m going to just lie here, like luggage, being quiet and pretending my leg isn’t trying to twist itself off at the knee.”

“Whiner,” she said, and turned the radio on.

“Uh,” he grunted, dropping his head on the thin, felt deck cover.

A few minutes later, Sara lowered the radio’s volume. “How’re you doing?”

He was still working the cramp out of his leg. “Peachy. You?”

“Fine.” The short, clipped speaking style had returned to her voice.

The noise from the tires dropped and he shifted as she pulled onto the shoulder and stopped, again. His arms and legs were numb, his chest ached, and he felt like he’d have been better off if she’d tossed him out the back of the car and dragged him behind it.

Sara walked around to the rear of the car, lifted the trunk lid, and held out a hand. “Come on, out. We’re on the other side of Sarasota, just west of Sarasota Springs. You should be okay to sit up front with the shades on.”

“I can’t move,” he said. His legs refused to accept signals from his brain, and the right side of his chest felt like someone had jammed a knife into it.

“Okay.” Sara moved to close the trunk hatch, but he threw a hand up, catching it.

“No,” he laughed. “I’ll be a good boy, I promise.”

She crossed her forearms over her chest. “Stop fooling around.”

“Okay,” he said, and grunted against the stiffness as he levered himself out of the trunk.

“Oh, God,” he said, as he leaned against the car. He stood on the asphalt, swaying on knees too keen on bending, waiting for the pins-and-needles sensation to recede from his legs, savoring the scent of fresh air. “That didn’t work exactly like we planned.”

She inhaled through her nose and blew the breath out through pursed lips. “I had no idea Murphy was this crazy.”

He surveyed their surroundings. They were parked in the stingy shade under an old-style billboard. Farm scents from the fields around them tingled the hairs of his nose. Other cars sped past them, leaving road noise and hot breezes in their wakes.

“What time is it?”

“Almost three. Do you want to drive on or find someplace to crash?”

“How’s your head?” He lifted his hand toward the bruise Sara and her mother had covered with makeup a few hours ago. She closed her eyes and turned her head toward his fingers.

“Hurts. Not bad. How’s your chest?”

“Hurts,” he said, mimicking her matter-of-fact tone. “Not bad. Where did you have in mind? You’ve had a hundred and eighty relaxing minutes with the stereo to think about it, while I was pretending to be luggage to the steady deafening hum from the rear tires.”

“Don’t be so dramatic. It’s only been a little over two hours, and I didn’t have the radio on the whole time.”

“What did you say? I’m sorry, I can’t hear you because the road noise made me deaf. I’ve been locked in a compact car’s trunk for three hours.”

She rolled her eyes. “Miami might be our best option.”

Zach turned a disbelieving look on her. “Miami’s another two or three hours away, if traffic stays clear.”

“And it’s the most populous city in the state.”

“You speak Spanish?” he asked.

“Not much more than I did with the maid at the hotel. You?”

“A little. Ft. Lauderdale might be a better choice.”

“We aren’t looking for a house, Zach.”

“No, but a gringo couple in a rental car in Miami? We’d have a better chance of survival with the police.”

“It’s not that bad.”

He laughed. “It’s worse than that. There must be someplace closer with a library or an office supply store with rental computers between here and Miami.”

“We’ll be easy targets here.”

“But not Miami?”

“Not nearly as much. Any place your name comes up between here and Miami, the local police will be alerted, and your sheet transmitted. We could be in the center of a very tight net within twenty minutes. It’ll take at least twice as long in Miami. No one talks to the cops there. It’ll increase our chances of escape considerably.”

“They won’t talk to the cops because our bodies’ll be in the everglades.” His chest ached and his head was pounding. Her skin had gone pale again and dark circles were forming under her eyes. He made a decision. “I need a shower and we both feel like crap. I say we drive to Naples, find a place, get some rest, and finish this first thing tomorrow.”

Sara slipped her hands into her pockets and closed her eyes. “You’re probably right, I just want to end this as soon as possible. How about Fort Myers? It’s halfway to Miami.”

“Okay. I’ll update the drives tonight. We’ll send everything electronically and mail hard copies tomorrow morning from Miami and disappear for a few days while the shit hits the fan.”

Sara chewed her lower lip and nodded her agreement.

He hesitated a moment. “I understand Stiles is untouchable. When this hits the media, he’ll probably have to withdraw as a candidate, but is there any way we can see Murphy prosecuted? I mean, I’ll still be wanted for questioning about Laz’s death and the torching of my house.”

She shook her head. “Murphy will likely disappear into a federally-sponsored hole. I can explain my actions and then provide you with an alibi for most of it. What time did you leave work?”

“I don’t know, about six-thirty or seven, I guess. The guard should have the time logged if they haven’t tampered with it.”

“Did you go straight home?”

“No. I went to get a sandwich. You ate half, and the pickle.”

She frowned at the memory. “Okay. Did you talk to anyone there who would remember you, or get the receipt?”

“Yeah. People who work there. I’ve known Big Tommy since I moved to St Petersburg. The receipt is in the console. I always keep receipts. For the accountant.”

“Good,” she nodded, thinking. “It’ll be touchy, but with the media circus and the witness statements, you should be okay. We’ll have to cross Murphy’s bridge when we get to it, but I’m pretty sure he’ll never do time, no matter what.”

Zach climbed into the front passenger’s seat and put on his mirrored shades and hat as Sara accelerated them back onto the interstate.

***

Open pastureland and palmettos slipped by as miles rolled away under the Ford. Zach’s thoughts shifted along the last two days, trying in vain to put meaning to all the pain and loss. Outside the car, the harsh, sunlit Florida afternoon worked itself into a full-blown swelter.

“How’s this?” Sara asked a few minutes later, as she took manual control of the car and veered onto the exit.

A large sign beside the road proclaimed fuel and lodging, but Zach shook his thoughts away too late to register any of the places listed. Sara stopped at the light. The road sign read Pine Ridge Road. Another indicated the sleepy, retirement city of Naples lay a few miles to the right.

“It’ll be fine,” Zach said, rubbing his fingers over his face and stretching.

“You’re quiet.”

“I’m trying to figure it out.”

“What do you mean?”

“Why me? Which one of the gods did I piss off to end up this deep in the septic tank?”

“I don’t—”

He shook his head. “No, I’m okay. Just wallowing in a little self-pity. I’ll get over it. Hey,” he shrugged. “I’m out of the lab.”

She stopped the car at the red light for the crossroad. “Preference for dinner?”

The sun was closing in on the evening horizon. “What time is it, anyway?”

“Almost four.”

“Wow. Guess we got kind of a late start, what with almost getting blown up and all. I dunno. A burger’s fine.”

“Burger it is.” She pulled the car onto the crossroad and found a Kombo, a combination truck stop and fast food burger place half a mile away. After they’d filled the low rear tire, Sara pulled into the drive-through.

“Two Kombo cheeseburgers, fries, and…” she turned to him. “Coke?”

“Please.”

“Two Cokes, please,” she said into the microphone.

“Pull around, please,” the voice from the speaker said.

At the window, a young man took Sara’s money and passed their food out. She handed the bag to Zach, placed the drinks in the console cup holder, and eased the car forward. He opened the paper bag, allowing the pungent aroma of artery-clogging, deep fried heaven to fill the car. Zach’s mouth watered as he closed his eyes and inhaled.

“Hey, pass one this way,” Sara said, as she turned the car east.

Zach removed one of the burgers, unwrapped half of it, taking care as he folded the paper down, and handed it to Sara. He put the other burger and fries on the floor by his feet. Then he split the bag the food had come in down the seam, and spread it on Sara’s lap to protect her slacks from spills.

She smiled at him. “Thanks. I’ll find us a place to stay the night. We’ll both feel better after a shower.”

Zach nodded and stared around at the early evening, chewing a mouthful of burger. About a quarter of a mile past the Interstate, they found a small, local motel with a vacancy sign.

She parked in front of the well-lit entrance to the motel and patted his knee. “You stay here. Best if I go in alone to register.”

He shrugged. “I just need a shower and a bed, and I’m good.” When she opened the door, he added, “Anything’s better than the trunk of a compact hybrid.”

She threw Zach a wicked grin before climbing out of the car. “Anything? I dunno, anything covers a lot of ground, and I can be very creative.”

He grinned at the thought. “I bet. You came up with the trunk. They have a special school to teach you people how to torture us poor civilians?”

“Why, no,” she said in mock surprise. “It’s just a gift for some of us. I’ll be back.” She handed him her half-eaten burger and stepped out of the car.

He watched her walk away, appreciating the graceful way her tall frame moved. His thoughts drifted back to the night before last, when she had curled up next to him in her bed. He was still smiling at the thought when she returned ten minutes later.

She opened the door and dropped in beside him. “What were you thinking about?”

He shook the last of the fantasy away. “Reliving a pleasant memory. Why?”

“Must’ve been a good one. You looked like you’d have been happy to stay there.”

“Yeah,” was all he could come up with for an answer as warmth crept into his cheeks.

She pulled the car around to a door about halfway to the end of the building and parked. “Come on.”

He dragged himself, groaning, out of the car. “I don’t think I’ve ever been this stiff and sore,” he said. “I feel like I’m a hundred years old.”

Sara ignored his complaints as they approached room number eight. She slipped the room card into the reader on the door and a small LED blinked green. With a twist of the knob, she gestured for Zach to enter.

He entered and took in the room at a glance. Typical Florida motel. Deep pile, industrial carpet in patterned tan and dark green covered the floor. The single, king-sized bed sported a slick, colorful spread, splashed with irregular shapes of reds, blues, purples, and greens on a light mauve background. A large, framed beach scene hung on the wall and a wide-screen monitor sat on the dark brown, wooden dresser. The obligatory air conditioner filled the space under the picture window with a soft rattle, and he smelled almost-fresh paint, almost masking the scent of carpet cleaner.

As he surveyed the room, holding the bags from the superstore and auto parts place, Sara stepped past him, her overnight bag in hand. She dropped the room key on the dresser as she passed it. Placing her bag on the white countertop containing the sink, she checked her forehead in the mirror.

“Um,” Zach started. “Where am I staying?”

She regarded him in the mirror. “Right here.”

His mouth went dry. “And you?”

“Right here.” She turned to face him as she shrugged off her suit jacket, revealing her black shoulder holster straps over her white blouse. “Asking for two beds would have been conspicuous. Make yourself comfortable, Zach, but not too. I’m here to protect you, not have sex with you. Dibs on the bathroom.” Without another word, she kicked off her shoes and went into the bathroom, closing the door behind her.

He stood as still as if cast in bronze and stared at the closed bathroom door. Then, he inhaled a breath and blew it out his nose. “Yeah,” he whispered. “Shoulda known that was too good to be true.” He peeled out of his shirt, and dropped onto the bed. A small groan escaped him when his broken rib reminded him of its continued presence. A minute later, the toilet flushed, and Sara stepped out. “Your turn.”

Zach dragged himself off the bed again and headed for the bathroom. “I need to shower and rinse my shirt.” He grabbed the bottle of aspirin  on the way.

***

Zach lay face up on the bed while Sara showered. He worked at breathing, inhaling through the dull ache until he encountered the catch where his rib pain increased by orders of magnitude. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Gasp in sudden, sharp agony, wishing he had something a little stronger than aspirin. Wince and exhale. Repeat. Outside, the afternoon was giving way to a tepid Florida evening.

He was almost asleep when she stepped out of the bathroom. One of his eyes opened to her long, taut legs flowing out from the pastel oxford shirt she wore unbuttoned to the mid chest. Her hair hung loose, cascading past her shoulders in blond waves, brushed off her face and shining. She held her shoulder holster loose in one hand as if it were merely a fashion accessory, and moved toward the bed in long, graceful strides.

She surprised him by walking around to the side of the bed closest to the door where he lay and sitting on the edge next to him. He shifted to give her room, rolled onto his side, facing her, and waited, focusing on her face.

“I should explain,” she said.

“Hey, no,” he whispered. “You don’t owe me anything, especially an explanation.” He touched the back of her hand with his fingertips. “I understand.”

She took his hand in hers. “Tell me what you understand.”

Zach exhaled. “I’m just a guy,” he started. “I’m the kind of guy someone like you wouldn’t say ‘Hi’ to on the street. I just happened to be the lab rat you dropped a DNA sample off to.” He hesitated before telling her the rest. “And poured a thousand dollars worth of chemicals down the drain to get you to come back every day for a week so I could see you, talk to you. Joke was on me, though. Every time you did, my tongue tied itself up in knots, ’cause I’m nowhere near your league.”

Sara blinked, but said nothing.

“I’m a nerd. I’ve never been good with women, especially women as pretty as you. Hell, I never even had a girlfriend in high school. I worked in a bar in college and dated three girls. The thing with Kathy was a fluke. Laz practically shoved me into asking her to move in. Then, you wandered into my life. I saved your message on my voicemail asking what the holdup was so I could listen to it, again and again.”

Sara took a deep breath and swallowed, dropping her gaze to the floor.

“I don’t lead an exciting life.” His voice went thick with emotion, “Except for the last forty-eight hours, anyway. Since yesterday, I’ve been chased, threatened, saved, knocked down twice—by you.” He saw the beginnings of a smile touch the corners of her mouth. “I’ve been involved in two car thefts and seen a real family care for each other. I’ve been rescued, folded in half like a ventriloquist’s dummy, and smuggled cross-country. You dragged my ass out of the lab long enough to have a life. If I’m still alive this time next week, I owe you more thanks than I can ever give you.”

“I let your friend die.” The words floated quietly from her. Her eyes glistened.

He squeezed her hand. “You had to choose. You told me so yourself.”

“I knocked you down and broke your rib.”

“You saved my life. It’s a good trade.”

“You’re wrong, you know.” She studied the carpet. “About what you think you understand.”

“Then tell me. I’m right here.” He gave her hand a gentle squeeze.

She slipped off the bed, and walked to the light switch. Hooking it with her finger, she flicked it and plunged the room into near-darkness before returning to where she’d been sitting. Pulling his arm up to the pillow, she lay down on the bed next to him, between him and the door. She moved in close to his body, forcing him to grunt his way toward the center of the bed. Then, she settled her head on his arm and wrapped it around her neck, cradling his forearm between her breasts. “My mother was right,” she whispered. “You’re not very bright, Zachary Marshall. From the first time I laid eyes on the mop you call hair, and the silly, crooked grin you give when you think you’ve been terribly clever, I wanted you, but not for just one night. I let my emotions decide for me, and your best friend died.”

Zach reached behind him with his free arm, grabbed the bedspread, and wincing from the bruise on his chest, pulled it over them. He gently put some open space between Sara’s hips and his, slid his forearm to a more comfortable position across her chest and closed his hand lightly around her arm. His nose brushed her hair, filling him with the scent of vanilla as he tried to ignore the erection straining at his trousers. “Lazlo Thomas was the best friend I ever had, and I loved him like a brother.” Zach blinked hard. “I’m gonna miss him, miss going to his funeral and seeing him one last time, but I have to tell you, I’m glad you picked me.” He brushed his lips against her shoulder and settled in, waiting for sleep.

CHAPTER 22

Zach awoke the next morning, alone and on his back on the hotel bedspread. Every muscle screamed for attention, trying to drown out the dull ache from his chest. His erection was where he had left it last night, but Sara was not. Rolling his head to the right, he checked the bathroom door. It was open and the bathroom was empty. Stretching against his body’s protests, he yawned. “First, shower, then brush teeth,” he said, aloud. “Then, find Federal Agent, print earth-shattering documents, ruin presidential candidate’s career, and turn myself in to be questioned for murder and arson.” As he lay on the wrinkled bedspread and laughed, his chest reminded him who was boss. “I need a shorter to do list.”

Half an hour later, he was brushing his teeth, waiting for the half dozen aspirin he’d taken to kick in, when the door opened. Sara stepped in, a small cardboard box containing two cups of coffee and a folded-over paper bag balanced on one hand. She wore jeans and a tee shirt. Her hair was brushed to help hide the bruise under her carefully applied makeup.

His mood brightened. “Donuts?”

She placed the box on the dresser and approached him, smirking over his shoulder at his reflection. “Bagels. Nice bed head.” She reached up and tousled his hair.

“Thanks. Good to see you, too. I thought all cops ate donuts.”

“Federal agents eat bagels. Besides, I want to keep your arteries open for a long time.”

He grinned at her past his toothbrush. “No problems there. Good genes.”

She moved close behind him, ran her hands over his chest, down his stomach, and hooked fingers in the pockets of his pants. “Your jeans felt pretty good last night.” She nuzzled his shoulder. “Maybe tonight we can check the fit.” She gently bumped against him with her hips.

His sharp inhalation sucked toothpaste into his throat, bending him, gagging and sputtering, into the sink, where he dropped his toothbrush and alternated between coughing and groaning.

Sara stepped to his side and slapped him on the back.

“Ouch,” Zach said, as he sidled away from her. “That hurts. You trying to kill me?” He couldn’t help smiling at her as he said it, though.

She stuck her lower lip out. “You were choking. I was trying to help.”

His laugh brought another shard of pain through his ribcage. He shuffled her away from the sink, held up an index finger, and rinsed his mouth. Standing, he slipped his arms around her and pulled her close. “Thank you.”

She circled his waist with her arms and laid her head on his chest, holding him for several long moments. “Want a bagel?”

Lips forming a grin, he asked, “Is that what the kids are calling it now?”

Her smile broke into a laugh, and she swatted his ass. “You’ve been hanging around Jack too much. I liked you better when you were quiet.”

He shared her laugh. “Then you’re going to be really unhappy tonight. What kind of bagels do we have?”

“One blueberry and one with everything.”

He brightened. “I want the everything.”

She sighed. “Patience, patience, young man. You’ll get everything.”

He brushed her forehead with his lips. “No, I mean the bagel.”

She bumped his hips with hers. “Is that what the kids’re calling it now?” She turned away from the sink, snagged one of his belt loops, and tugged him toward the coffee by his trousers.

He sighed. “I can see starting this game with you was a mistake.” He put an arm around her shoulder.

“You’ll just have to keep up.”

“Or be thrown off, bruised and bleeding.”

She raised one eyebrow at him.

“Something Laz said.”

She stopped and turned to Zach, a touch of sadness on her face. “I wish I’d gotten to know him.”

“Me, too. He’d have liked you.” He sat on the foot of the bed.

She handed him one of the coffee cups. “I brought cream and artificial sweetener.” She opened the paper bag containing the bagels and sat next to him. “I didn’t know which kind you’d want.”

“I like both,” he said. “My preference is the everything, but I’m okay with the other.”

She cut both bagels in half and handed him one. “Me, too. I thought we’d share both, so we could sit in the same car with each other and not gag.”

“Good thinking.”

“You want cream cheese?” she asked.

“Is there any other way to eat a bagel?”

“My mother likes to dip hers in her coffee. She says it helps to cool the coffee if it’s too hot.”

“Nah, if it’s too hot, you just blow gently over the top.”

Sara stopped moving. Her eyebrows inched up her forehead and color rose into her cheeks.

“No, I didn’t mean—”

She smirked. “I’ll try to remember that.”

It was his turn to roll his eyes.

Zach sipped his coffee. The hot, rich liquid warmed him. They chewed on the bagels in silence for a few minutes.

He held up the thumbnail-sized crystal flash drive in his outstretched hand and considered it. “The interface is common enough,” he said. “We just need something manufactured within the last five years or so with a laser read-write port to access it.”

“Well, there sure as hell isn’t one in this place for the guests,” she said. “From the looks of the front desk, they don’t even use a computer for reservations.”

He nodded. “We’ll be harder to track if we stay away from big chains. How are we on money?”

She shrugged a shoulder. “We can eat. If we stay on the run much longer than four or five days, I may have to think about a second job.”

“I do have a savings and checking account.”

She shook her head. “Too easy to track. We’re okay for now. Focus.”

“We need a computer.” He turned the crystal drive over in his hand, thinking about the information it contained.

“Let’s get out of here,” she said. “I want this thing done.”

He stared at Sara with narrowed eyes. “You aren’t going to try to entice me into the trunk again, are you?”

A smirk flickered over her lips. “No. You can ride up front with the adults this time, but only if you’re a good boy and wear your shades.”

Zach upended his cup, draining the last of his coffee, almost feeling human again.

She stood, and walked to the dresser. “Besides, I picked up a couple of things I think will help.” She reached into a small, plastic bag on the dresser and pulled out a pair of scissors.

“What do you have in mind with those? Zach asked.

She stepped past his knees to one of the two chairs flanking the room’s picture window and patted the back. “Time to change your look.”

“You’re joking.”

The wicked grin spread over her face. “I’ve always wanted to try this.”

Zach shook his head. “Come on. This isn’t a vid. It’ll never work.”

She narrowed her eyes. “Come here. What do you have to lose?”

“My hair?” He suppressed the urge to throw his hands over his head and run out of the room.

She opened and closed the jaws of the scissors a couple of times. “You have plenty.”

“I won’t after you get done.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I strongly suspect it.” He backed up a step. “And that’s the most a scientist gets a lot of the time, so I’m good with it as a working theory.”

She held the scissors up and crooked a finger at him. “Consider it an experiment.”

“What’s the hypothesis?”

“That I can cut hair.” She grabbed his hand, pulled him toward the window.

“A proper hypothesis is supposed to be stated as a null hypothesis.”

She cocked her head at him.

He blew out a breath. “A null hypothesis is a statement about one thing being unrelated to another.”

“Okay, then,” she said, frowning. “My lack of ability to cut hair will be unrelated to how it looks in the end. Have it your way, but I prefer to be positive about things.”

“That’ll be easy enough to disprove. Just tell me what you have in mind.”

“Hmm… Maybe a reverse Mohawk.” She shrugged, twisting the scissors in her hand, letting the light from the window glint on them.

Zach’s eyes widened. He cocked his head to the side. “A what?”

“I’m kidding. Come on, take your shirt off and sit down.” Sara turned away from Zach and patted one of the chairs at the small, round table next to the bed. “The sooner we get this done, the sooner we can get on the road.”

He hesitated for a moment, then stripped off his shirt and slouched over to sit on the chair she had indicated. She wrapped a bathroom towel around his shoulders and set to work, pinching his hair between her fingers and snipping with the scissors while Zach sat, eyes closed and motionless.

After what seemed to Zach like an eternity, she stopped snipping and brushed her fingers through his hair. She stepped around and eyed him carefully. “One of your ears is lower than the other.”

“Everybody has one ear lower than the other.”

“Well, it wasn’t before we started.” She smirked as he reflexively reached up and touched his ears.

Zach snorted at her, then ran a hand over his scalp. “It doesn’t feel that different. What’d you do?” He stood and stepped around the bed to check out his reflection in the mirror. “Hey. It’s spiked.”

“It seemed like the easiest thing to do with your hair.” She turned to the bag that had held the bagels and scissors. “Besides, it’s so unlike you, it’s perfect. Especially with this.” She reached in and pulled a small tube and a pair of plastic gloves from the bag.

“What’s that?”

She turned to face him and held the tube out for him to see. “Hair dye.”

Zach took the tube. “It’s black,” he said in confusion.

“Very good, Zachary. Do you know all your colors?”

“But my hair is already black.”

She grabbed his hand, hauling him from the chair and carefully taking the towel from his shoulders. “No, your hair is dark brown.” she took the dye from his hand and tugged him toward the sink. “This is black. Punk rock black, goth black, coal black.”

His gaze shifted from the sink to Sara. “Are you sure about this?”

“With your hair spiked, this color, your mother wouldn’t recognize you.” She started the hot water running and pulled the gloves on. “This’ll be fun.”

***

A stranger’s reflection stared back at Zach from the mirror. He turned his head slowly from side to side, trying to get used to his hair. He had to admit, she was right, though. With his hair like this, two days worth of stubble on his cheeks and chin, and the mirrored shades she’d bought, he wouldn’t recognize himself in a crowd.

“Can I shower before we get on the road? I have hair all over me.”

“Yes. You should. Wash your hair a couple of times to rinse the excess dye out.”

He stood and headed for the shower. “Okay. Give me twenty minutes.”

Sara waved her fingers toward the bathroom. “Go. Twenty minutes. Besides, I wanted to get a shower myself before we head out.”

“Um…”

Sara stopped. “What?”

“I’m thinking your basic black suit doesn’t go with my new look unless we’re trying for a Willie Tut hanging with the FBI suits on a vid look, or something.”

Sara’s brow wrinkled. “Who’s Willie Tut?”

Zach shook his head. “Wow, they really don’t let you out much, do they? He’s a modo rocker. Came out with a new vid about three months ago. You really haven’t seen any of his stuff?”

“No.”

He raised an eyebrow. “How about Boba Funk? Sheba?”

She shrugged her shoulders. “What can I say? You’re right, though, I should stay in jeans and wear a different jacket.”

***

As he stepped from the bathroom, Zach moved to make room for Sara to get past him.

“I’ll be out in a few minutes.”

Checking his reflection in the mirror again, he played with his hair, trying to get used to the spikes of newly black hair sticking out at odd angles. After a few minutes, he reached for the wrap-around shades. With them in place, he decided the result was as effective as they had hoped. On the other side of the door, the running shower started him thinking about the legs he’d seen the day before. He cleared his throat and stepped away.

Zach paced the room while Sara showered. While he waited, he switched the screen on and started flipping feeds absent-mindedly to pull his thoughts from the fiasco his life had become. A familiar sight caught his eye, and he had to go back three feeds to find it. He recognized the dark green, concrete-block house in the background at once.

“No,” he said. As dread turned his gut to ice, a young man’s grim face filled the screen, the microphone the newscaster clutched was steady as he spoke.

“Sara.” His voice caught in his throat, little more than a croak. He sat, transfixed, and watched. “Sara.” His voice was louder, this time. He stood as the bathroom door opened, unable to tear his eyes away from the screen.

“What is it? Something new about you?” Sara asked, a smile on her face as she stepped out of the bathroom. A fluffy, white towel wrapped around her torso. Another towel wound around her head like a turban. “Have they dredged up another old girlfriend to besmirch your name and…” she trailed off. “What is it?”

Speechless, his attention returned to the screen as she approached.

Sara stared at the screen. Her curiosity became confusion. Then, realization turned to horror. She moved to Zach’s side as, on the screen, deputies removed two black plastic body bags on stretchers from her parents’ house. Yellow crime scene tape roped off the area. She slowly dropped onto the foot of the bed and sat motionless, her unblinking eyes wide. Shocked disbelief filled her face as the color drained away. “That’s my parents’ house.” Her voice sounded far away.

On the screen, the scene shifted to a cutaway, then to a newscaster in a studio. The woman described a neighbor finding the bodies—a man and a woman—and calling the Beaches Police and Safety department. She added that names were being withheld pending notification of the next of kin.

Sara sat on the foot of the bed, face blank. When the newscaster finished and moved on to another story, she continued to sit, still and white as an alabaster replica of herself.

Zach moved into her line of sight and knelt in front of her. She stared through him as though he were made of smoke. “Sara…” he stopped. Whatever words he might’ve had to say dried up on his tongue and blew away on his breath. “I’m so—”

“Don’t.” Her whisper was soft as the vanilla scent coming off her. “If you don’t say it, it won’t be true.” Her eyes swam in tears and she blinked a couple of times. “Just don’t.”

“Sara.” He took her hand in his. Her skin was cold as frost in February. “Sara, get dressed. We need to go. Now.”

“Yeah,” she said, absently. “I have to get home.”

“Sara?” he asked, as she stood and walked toward the bathroom.

Halfway there, the towel fell off, landing in a heap on the floor. The muscles of her legs and back moved under her skin. Reaching up, she grasped the second towel and dragged it from her head in slow motion. It landed a few feet from the first. She shook her hair loose and turned to face Zach, seemingly oblivious to her own nakedness. “Where’s my clothes?”

“You took them into the bathroom with you.” He fixed his gaze on her face and inclined his head toward the open door.

She nodded. “Right. I’ll just be a minute,” she said, her tone quiet and wistful. She turned and walked back into the bathroom, closing the door behind her.

“Oh, shit, oh shit, oh shit,” Zach repeated, until it formed a mantra. He threw their few belongings into the small bag they’d brought, dropping it next to the door. His fingers trembled as he slowly peeked out through the drawn curtains. Nothing moved. The quiet unnerved him more than a parking lot full of police cars, or worse, big, black, SUVs with a fresh coat of black tint on the windows would have.

He blew out a breath, closed his eyes, and let the curtain drop into place. “We have to get out of here,” he whispered, to himself. “If they know about Sara’s parents, they know she’s been helping me.” He blew out a breath. “We’re really screwed now.”

He ran his fingertips to his scalp and tunneled them through his hair. “They’re dead because of me.” Tears stung his eyes.

He grabbed the Ford’s keys and paced.

As he approached the door for the sixth time, he stopped. His eyes lost focus. Panic turned his gut to ice. He’d managed to keep it at bay since Sara had rescued him the first time. It surged through him now, tightening in his throat.

A hand was around his. Sara’s red-rimmed eyes filled with tears she tried desperately to blink back. “We should go,” she whispered.

Her cheeks were turning blotchy, her shoulders sagged. She was on the verge of losing it, and the thought scared him more than anything in the past two days. He wanted to hold her, comfort her, but it would have to wait until he got them out of the motel and to safety.

She clutched his hand and cleared her throat, a quiet, choked sound. “I said, we should go.”

“This has to stop, god damn it.”

“It will Zach, but you’re the only one who can stop it.” She stepped closer to him, laid her head on his shoulder, and sniffled.

He let his free arm drift up and around her shoulder. “I will. I promise.” He led Sara to the car, opened the passenger door, and waited while she crawled into the seat. He reached one arm behind the seat and pulled the release with the other one, easing her seat down.

“What’re you doing?”

He spoke softly. “I thought it would be a good idea for you to lie down for a minute and try to get some of the blood back to your head. I’ll drive for a bit. Okay?”

She nodded. Her eyes closed, and she ran a thumb over the corners to brush away the tear forming there.

Zach ran back to the room and grabbed their bag. He tossed it onto the rear seat, climbed in, and started the car.

“Don’t use the Interstate. They’ll be looking for us there.”

“Okay.” He pulled the car to the motel’s exit and stopped. “How about if I take Pine Ridge Road west and catch Tamiami Trail? It’ll take us across into West Miami and Hialeah. If we can’t disappear there, we’re really screwed.”

Sara narrowed her eyes. “How do you know that?”

He shrugged. “I grew up in Pembroke Pines. It’s in central Lauderdale Metro.”

“Right. Lauderdale.” She said it like she was reading a stranger’s file. “Your aunt and uncle live in Chicago. That’s where you went to school, but you’re from Lauderdale.”

He nodded and wheeled the little car onto the road in front of the motel. “Wonderful place for a couple of kids from the Sun Belt. Winters blow, big time. We’ll have to go, so you can meet Uncle Aden and Aunt Mackenzie. They’re vegan, organic pot farmers. It’ll be fun to see the shoe on the other foot for a change.”

Sara stared at him, her brows knit. “That wasn’t in your file.”

He shrugged. “Guess big brother doesn’t know everything, yet.” They shared a forced laugh. He pulled up to the Interstate overpass and stopped at a red light behind a blue mini-van. Three cars waited in the lane next to them.

The light turned green. The two cars in the lead slammed on their brakes as a large, black SUV ran the light and careened around in front of them from the exit ramp. Sara started to pop up at the sound of squealing tires, but Zach’s arm shot out and held her flat.

He faced straight ahead and watched the SUV from behind his mirrored shades. The truck disappeared in the rear-view mirror as traffic started again. On the other side of the Interstate, he motored into a truck stop parking lot, driving around behind the combination sub shop, convenience store, and fuel station. He whipped the little car into an out-of-the-way space and killed the engine it used to charge the batteries on the road.

“Come on,” he said, as he turned the car off, popped the hood latch, and stepped into the morning sunshine. He reached into the back seat and grabbed the bags containing their clothes and equipment.

“What’re you doing?” Sara asked. She slid to her feet and closed the car door.

Zach stepped around to the front of the car and opened the hood. Inside, he found a black box similar to the one in his car. He grabbed the thick, white antenna cable and yanked it free. He dropped the hood, continued around to where Sara waited on the passenger side of the car, and took her hand. “We tried doing this the smart way,” he said, tugging her toward a row of eighteen-wheelers parked in rear of the lot. “Now we’re going to do it my way.”

“What are you talking about? What’re you doing? They’ll be here any minute. The car has…” she trailed off. “A transponder.”

He nodded, continuing to pull her toward the trucks. “Sure does. And if they know where we slept last night, they sure as shit know you rented a cute little white Ford diesel hybrid. Betcha they have the transponder code, and they’re going to shut the ignition off in a minute, try to find it on a tablet screen, and troll around for stalled cars alongside the road.”

“So what’s your plan?”

He chuckled mirthlessly as they walked. “There’s a long tradition in science of exploring unconventional, avant-garde methodology when traditional concepts fail. It’s a standard, accepted, scientific method of accomplishing tasks that call for highly lateral thinking and unorthodox techniques.”

Sara was silent for a few steps. “You don’t have a plan, do you?”

“Not a shred. This is called winging it.”

She sighed. “You’re going to get us killed, you know that, right?”

Zach forced a grin, pulling harder on Sara’s hand. “Maybe, maybe not. If they know you’re involved, they know you’re in charge.” He gestured over his shoulder at her when she inhaled. “Don’t argue. You’re in charge. You’re a planner and a doer. They know what you’ll do next, to some degree. But,” he tugged her into the shade of half a prefab house attached to the rear of a long-haul truck. The open side was covered by a sheet of heavy-grade translucent plastic. “They can’t factor in the unexpected.” Zach placed the bag on the pavement, unzipped one of the side pockets, reached in, and withdrew the parts-store screwdriver. Holding it up to the light, he turned it around, as if inspecting the tool. “Knew I should’ve bought a better one.”

He stepped to the corner of the prefab house section and popped several large staples holding the plastic sheet over the opening. They dropped into his hand. “In you go,” he said. “While you go unlock the door, I’ll tap the staples back in place.”

She stared at him in disbelief. “We don’t even know where this thing is going. It could be anywhere.”

“And anywhere is better than here. Now, don’t argue. If we don’t know where we’re going, they can’t know where we are.”

Crawling through the opening, Sara mumbled, “This is nuts.”

“Can’t argue with that.” Zach replaced the staples, carefully tapping them into the recycled plastic studs at the edges of the prefab house section. Satisfied, he returned the screwdriver to the side pocket, picked up the bag, and walked around to the door on the other side of the building section. Sara held the door open a crack, pulling it wider to allow him to lift the bag in and scramble in behind it. Once inside, he grabbed the bag and her hand, and moved quickly toward the front of the section.

“Where are you going?”

“Bedroom.”

The tug on his hand pulled him up short.

He rolled his eyes at her. “For a closet to hide in. This is too exposed.” He gestured to the plastic sheet with the bag. “We need to keep out of sight.”

“Oh.” Sara allowed herself to be led again.

They crept through the rooms until they found a bedroom with a walk-in closet. Once inside, he pushed the door closed and they sat, leaning against one wall in the gloom, their bag at their feet. Sara let her head drop onto Zach’s chest and he circled his arm around her. She turned into his embrace, pulled her knees into a fetal position, and sobbed, each ragged breath knifing into Zach’s soul. He leaned his head against the wall and fought to steady his breathing as tears ran down his cheeks.

A few minutes later, a rumble from the big diesel engine shook through the floor and walls. The structure shifted around them as they started moving. The truck’s maneuvers through the parking lot and onto the road jostled them until, at last, they started to accelerate onto the Interstate.

Sara’s sobs settled into sniffles. Zach relaxed and let her calm down. When her breathing slowed mostly back to normal, he shifted and pulled the door open.

“Aw, crap.”

Sara moved next to him, wiped her fingers over her eyes, and continued the motion by scraping the back of her hand under her nose. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

“I was right, they’ll never expect this.”

“Zach, what is it?”

He sighed. “It’s ten in the morning and the sun is over there,” he pointed to the winter sun hanging in the sky beyond the plastic sheet.

Sara’s eyes widened with realization. “Oh, hell.”

“Got that right.” He shook his head. “We’re heading north.”

CHAPTER 23

By noon, the prefab house section Zach and Sara rode in started over the Skyway Bridge into St. Petersburg. They sat on the bare, recycled plastic floor, their backs propped against the wall next to the open closet door. From the top of the bridge, sunlight sparkled off the wave crests like distant diamonds on the Gulf of Mexico even through the translucent plastic covering. Zach was surprised at the relative lack of road noise rumbling up through the wheels.

Sara shifted but kept her head on his shoulder. “My ass is asleep.” It was the first thing she’d said since they entered the highway. Her breathing had finally wound down into a slow, silent, rhythm and stayed that way for over an hour.

In response, he shifted onto his right hip for the fourth time since their stowed-away voyage began and bent his right leg until his foot was under him. “Mine too.” He scowled at the prospect of having to get up. “Wonder where he’s headed?”

“Doesn’t matter.” She sat next to Zach on the floor, her long legs crossed at the ankles. Her hands were folded together on her lap. She held his left hand between hers.

“No, I suppose not.” His right arm was still around her shoulders. His right hand had lost sensation somewhere south of Sarasota. Outside, the horizon tilted the other direction, telling Zach they were on the north side of the bridge. Home. The eye of the storm. “We’ll get this stuff copied and sent, and it will be over.”

“No it won’t.” Her voice sounded distant.

“I don’t understand.”

“I’m going to kill that sonofabitch,” she said with cold finality.

“You’re upset—”

“I’m not asking you to help, Dr. Marshall, but that bastard, Murphy, killed my parents. I’m going to watch him bleed and die like the dog he is.”

“We’re talking about the guy who killed my best friend and is currently trying to kill me. I’ll hold him down while you cut his throat if you want, just please don’t call me Dr. Marshall in that tone.”

“Sorry.” Her voice softened again. “Zach.” She squeezed his hand.

“What about planning?”

“No planning. I’m going to walk up to the bastard, shove the barrel of my gun in his gut, and empty the magazine into him.”

“Sounds good to me.” He watched the waves glitter in the distance, realizing he no longer had any realistic, long-term goals.

“No. I can’t ask you to be a part of this.” The red-rimmed intensity in her eyes pierced him. “I like you—”

“I like you, too,” he smiled. “Wanna go steady?”

A smile flicked over her lips and was gone. “Shut up, Zach. You can be the most ridiculous boob I’ve ever met, but I like you. I’ve liked you since the very first time I laid eyes on you, and I don’t want you involved in this.”

He slid around to face her, letting his numb right arm drop onto his leg. “Have you not been paying attention, Special Agent Goode? We’re way past that. It’s because of me, all this,” he said, pulling his hand from between hers and gesturing in an arc around them, “is happening.” She started to speak, but he touched his fingers to her lips. “In case you haven’t been keeping track, he killed my best friend, burned my house down, trashed my career, tried to kill me, and murdered the parents of the only woman I’ve ever loved.” He blinked back tears. “And in case you missed it, I really liked your parents, too. They died because of me, so fuck all that, because if you don’t kill him, I will. Now, do you want to go steady or not?”

Even as he said the words, Robert Hare’s list crossed his thoughts. He wondered if this qualified as glibness or grandiose self-worth, and decided it didn’t matter.

Tears trickled down Sara’s splotchy red cheeks as she closed her eyes, but a hint of a smile worked its way onto her lips. She sniffled and leaned into him. Her arms went around his waist as she buried her face in his neck. He inhaled the vanilla scent slowly, savoring the moment, knowing it would never come again. He worked his arm around her waist and pulled her close. She shifted and found his lips with hers.

He relaxed into the kiss and wished the weightless feeling in the pit of his stomach could last forever. Around them, the vibrations traveling through the floor changed. The trailer was slowing. He pulled away from her lips. “I’ll take that as a yes.”

She held him tight. “Zach,” she said. “This can’t possibly end well.”

He moved far enough away to see her face. “You know, the illusion that this could ever be a normal, traditional relationship is pretty much lying in a shattered heap in an alley somewhere in Clearwater. It is what it is, and wherever it goes…” He held out his hand.

“We go together,” she said and took his hand.

He frowned.

“What?” Sara asked.

“It’s just… I feel like I’ve done half of Hare’s list in the last three days. You sure you still trust me?”

She snorted. “If you still think that list means anything, you really are crazy.”

The trailer shifted left, then right, bouncing them around. Sara pushed him toward the closet door. “We’re pulling off the main road. We should think about getting out of here.”

“We have to get up and move around to work some of the stiffness out. We may have to leave in a hurry.” They crawled into the closet and Sara closed the door.

“Right. Give me a hand up,” Sara said.

“I was going to ask you for help,” he said, steadying himself with one hand braced against a wall.

“Shit. Lean on me.”

“Come on.” He shoved himself up, clasped her elbow with his hand, and pulled her to standing.

“God. My ass hurts,” she whispered, moving her hands behind her.

Zach said nothing as she limped around the closet.

They staggered as the trailer slowed again. It bounced up an incline and over a bump as it entered a parking lot. He opened the door a crack and peeked out.

“Where are we?” Sara asked.

“South side. Probably down around Fifty-fourth Avenue.”

“We’re stopping.”

“Yeah,” he said. “We should wait here for a few minutes, then try to work our way to the door and out.”

“My thought, exactly. If we get separated, we’ll need a place to meet.”

He thought for a quick moment. “Behind Carol’s Deli on Sixteenth. Up on the north side of town.”

Outside, shoes on concrete headed toward them.

“Shh.”

The door clicked. A voice rasped into the trailer, “I don’t know who you are, but your chance to come out before I call the police is right now. I suggest you take advantage of my generosity.”

“How the hell did he know?” Sara whispered into Zach’s ear.

He shrugged. “Move to the back, away from the door. I’ll go out and when I get the chance, I’ll take off headed south. If he comes inside to check, kick the plastic loose and run for it.”

“What if he chases you?”

“Go out the door with your bag and go north. Carol’s on Sixteenth.” He kissed her forehead.

Zach touched her hand before pushing the bifold doors open. Drawing a deep breath, he stepped into the bedroom. “I’m here. I’m coming out.”

Zach walked to the open door with his palms out in surrender. The truck driver stood on the concrete lot. He was a stocky, forty-something man in a dark blue coverall. His full beard was shot here and there with gray, and a cap with a cloth neck flap covered his head. Stepping back, he motioned behind Zach.

“You come on out, too, young lady.”

Zach rolled his eyes at Sara, who walked toward the door, hands raised, holding her overnight bag containing their supplies. “Hide?”

She shook her head. “Together.”

He turned his attention back to the man on the ground. “We’re coming out, sir. We don’t want any trouble.”

The middle-aged man narrowed an eye at Zach, and tipped his red cap back on his scalp. The hat’s cloth neck cover flicked in the breeze. “Got a funny way of avoidin’ it, dontcha, kid?”

“I can explain.” Zach descended the metal steps. They were in a deserted parking lot. To Zach’s left, an old, abandoned Mexican-turned-fried chicken fast food place stood mute testament to the economic state of the area. On his right, a gutted gas station loomed.

“Good. I can hardly wait. Meantime, sit your ass down right there.” The man pointed a two-foot long, black, metal stun baton at the trailer tires. “You, too, Missy.” The man gestured to Sara with the baton.

Zach did as instructed. Sara joined him on the ground, propped against the other wheel.

“Put your hands on your head.” The man pointed at their heads with the baton. “And stick your legs out and cross your ankles.” When they complied, he shifted his attention from Zach to Sara, then back to Zach. “Slow. Take them shades off, boy. I like to see who I’m talking to.”

Zach slowly slid the shades to the top of his head.

“Better.” The man held an old-style cellular phone in his other hand. “Now, convince me not to call the cops, and make it good, ’cause you got one chance.”

Sara inhaled to speak, but Zach cut her off. “My mother-in-law’s sick. We just got word this morning she’s in the hospital. My wife and I,” he said, nodding in Sara’s direction. “We were on our way up from Lauderdale, when our car broke down. Instead of spending the day fooling with it in Ft. Myers, we decided we needed to get up here as soon as possible. I’ll go back for the car tomorrow.” The ease with which the lie rolled off his tongue surprised Zach.

The man glanced from Zach to Sara, and back again. “Good story, kid. Total bullshit, but still, not bad for made up on the fly. Now, if nobody has a better line…” He shifted his attention to Sara, his thumb poised over the phone’s screen.

“If you call the police, sir, you’ll be causing this man’s death.”

Zach whipped his head to Sara. “Don’t.”

“Yes.”

“No.”

“Hey,” the man growled. “Fight on your own time. You.” He pointed the stun club at Zach. “Quiet. Let the lady talk.” He nodded at Sara. “Now, you was sayin’?”

“I’m a Secret Service Special Agent. I have my creds in my jacket pocket. This man is in my protective custody and I’m transporting him to Clearwater. He has information vital to an investigation regarding high-level illegalities in the government, and if you call the local police, we’ll both be dead before morning.”

The man chewed on his lower lip. “Zat so?”

Sara nodded. “Yes, sir, it is.”

“I look stupid to you, Missy?”

“No, sir, you look like someone who wants to know who’s in his trailer.”

“You got some ID, you say?”

Sara nodded again. “In my upper left inside jacket pocket. I will slowly unbutton my jacket with my left hand. When it opens, you will see a shoulder holster. My weapon is in it. I will reach into my jacket with my left hand and remove my credentials. If you like, I will remove my weapon and place it on the ground at my feet.”

The man stared at her for a long moment. “Okay. Really slow.” He stepped closer to Sara, turned the stun club’s power to full, and lowered the tip to within an inch of her leg. “No funny business.”

“No funny business,” Sara echoed. She moved her hand toward her jacket.

The man glanced at Zach. “What’s your name, boy?”

Zach swallowed. “Watson, James Watson, sir. I’m a computer programmer.”

The man’s gaze traveled up Zach’s wrinkled slacks and over the bright yellow Hawaiian print shirt Sara’s father had given him, coming to rest on Zach’s coal black, spiked hair and mirrored, wrap-around shades. “Yeah, you look the type. You do anything wrong to get this important information, Mr. Watson?” He took the credentials Sara offered and examined them.

Zach shrugged. “Wrong place, wrong time. Other than that, no, sir.”

The man nodded, handed Sara her credentials. “Guess you two can stand up.” When they did, he continued, “Name’s Hank. Hank Brume.” He gestured to the Glock with his chin. “Pick up your gun, ma’am. How far you say you’re goin’?”

“Clearwater.” She bent over, plucked her gun from the ground, and wiped it with her jacket.

The three turned together at the sound of another vehicle crossing the concrete behind the trailer. A black SUV threw a cloud of dust into the air as it ground to a halt. Two men piled out. Zach recognized the driver as Newman, the one Sara stunned outside GenTest. White tape still crossed his nose. The passenger, who Zach identified as Murphy, sported a bandage above his left eye. They rushed around the doors and toward the front of the truck, their hands reaching under their jackets.

“Run, Zach!” Sara screamed as the men raised guns.

Zach sprinted for Newman. Shots exploded around them as he slammed his hunched shoulder into Newman’s gut, driving him into the front fender of the SUV. Zach stepped back. Newman crumpled to the ground, a red-rimmed hole in his chest. Zach spun. Murphy was gone. Brume lay face-down in the lot, his stun club a few feet from his outstretched arm. Beside the trailer, Sara sprawled, facing the sky, her Glock still in her hand. A patch of crimson stained her white blouse. Zach stepped toward her, his stomach in free-fall as the world collapsed around him.

“Freeze! Don’t move,” a voice rasped from behind and to his right. Zach stopped. Murphy stood and propped himself on the hood of the SUV, both hands holding his gun. An expanding circle of red, already the size of a fist, colored his shirt. “Far enough, Dr. Marshall.” Murphy winced from the effort of shouting. He coughed. “You drive. In.” He gestured the gun at the SUV.

“But…” Zach hesitated. He had to get to Sara.

“Get in the god-damned truck, Marshall, before I shoot you in the balls and leave you both for dead.” He coughed again. This time a spot of red touched a corner of his mouth. “I don’t have all god-damned day and I have a couple of questions to ask you.”

“What about Sara?”

Murphy inclined his head toward where Sara lay on the concrete. “Who? Gopher-girl? Fuck her. Now.” Murphy lowered his gun toward Zach’s crotch. “What’s it going to be?”

Zach climbed in through the open driver’s door.

“That’s what I thought, pussy. In.” He gestured with the gun for emphasis.

As soon as Zach was in the driver’s seat, Murphy opened the passenger door and climbed in. “Drive.”

He turned toward Murphy. “What about Brume and Newman?”

“Who?” Murphy’s facial expression mirrored his question.

“The old guy in the coveralls.”

“Fuck ’em.” Murphy coughed again. This time, a trickle of blood ran down his chin. “I said drive.” He shoved the gun barrel into Zach’s side. “Or, swear to God, Marshall, I’m going to blow a hole in you big enough I could step through, and drive this piece of shit myself.” Murphy pulled a white handkerchief from a jacket pocket, and with another wince of pain, pressed it against the hole in his chest. “Go south and take the first left.”

Zach backed the SUV from behind the trailer. In the distance, sirens grew louder. “You’re going to need that looked at, Special Agent Murphy.” Zach turned the wheel to the left and pulled into a break in traffic. The truck was straight manual drive with only a basic GPS system.

Murphy leaned against the door, still pointing his gun at Zach’s side. “I’ve had worse. Take the next left and get on the interstate headed north.”

“Where are we going, if you don’t mind my asking?”

“I’ll tell you when to turn. Just drive.”

When the light changed, he pressed the accelerator. The big machine powered up the ramp. “I have to say, Agent Murphy, I’m impressed. How’d you find us so fast?”

Murphy laughed. “That was easy. We found the car about twenty minutes after you bugged out of the motel. Good thinking, by the way, sticking it in a parking lot and popping the antenna. Stupid GPS signal kept registering the thing in a different lot a hundred yards away. Only two vehicles left the truck stop parking lot between the time you got there and when we showed up. We chased the other one down half way to Miami. Funny, really, picking the one headed north. Gotta say, your luck’s shit.” He laughed again, but this time, the sound was a little strained. “Speaking of lucky, I’ve been wondering, Doc, how is Gopher-girl in the sack?”

“Why do you call her that?” Zach merged the SUV into the left lane and pressed the accelerator. The speedometer climbed to eighty in a couple of heartbeats.

Murphy shrugged a shoulder. “Stiles came up with it. It stuck. She runs errands. You know, go for this, go for that, a go-fer.”

Zach nodded. “Sorry to disappoint you, but we haven’t… you know.”

“Too bad.” Murphy shifted in the seat, grunting in pain. “Well, enough chit fucking chat, Doc. Where’s the other flash drive?”

“What other flash drive?”

Murphy shifted the gun and pulled the trigger. The sound exploded in the closed SUV. Zach shrieked. The muffled sounds of blaring horns sent him swerving back into his lane. It took Zach two full seconds to realize blood was oozing out of the hole in his left thigh, soaking into his pants. The road swam in front of him until a cracking sound on his head brought him around again. He lifted his hand and felt wetness on his scalp. Blood stained his fingertips.

“I said, don’t you pass out on me, Doc, now drive, god-damn it.”

Zach pushed down on the accelerator with his good leg. The throbbing in his left leg intensified.

“Go ahead, fuck around, Doc. I got nine more shots, and you only need one leg and one hand to drive. Now, answer my question or we’re going to play kneecaps.” Tropicana Stadium passed by on the right, almost too quickly to notice.

“Sara took it.”

“Okay, fuck you.” Murphy pointed the gun at Zach’s injured leg.

He jumped. “Okay! Okay. I have it.” He nudged the accelerator again.

Murphy’s smile widened, revealing blood-accented teeth. “Good. Now we’re getting somewhere. I’m not such a bad guy, as long as you don’t screw with me.”

Zach seethed with fury. “Screw with you? You’ve killed everyone who means anything to me, ruined my career, burned my house down, kidnapped me, and shot me in the leg. You’re insane.” Zach’s foot pressed harder as he spoke. The SUV passed two other cars as the speedometer passed ninety.

“Hey, Doc. Nothing personal. It’s just business.” Murphy coughed again. Tiny drips of blood spattered onto the windshield. “Slow down. You’ll draw attention to us.”

Zach gripped the steering wheel, his knuckles white, as the speedometer crept over a hundred miles an hour. “You killed my best friend,” he said in a calm voice. “You killed Sara’s parents. You killed Sara and it’s nothing personal?”

“It was just orders.” The scenery rushing by grabbed Murphy’s attention for a second. “I said slow down.”

Ahead, I-275 lifted into a graceful, banked curve to the left that took it over a crossroad. Zach relaxed and smiled as he focused on the tip of Murphy’s nose. “When.”

Murphy lowered the gun and cocked his head. “What?”

“Not what. Then.” Zach’s right hand flicked toward Murphy’s nose, catching it dead-on with the flat of his fist, just the way he and Sara’s mother had practiced. There was a satisfying crunch as the blow crushed cartilage. Murphy’s head snapped into the bullet-resistant side window. He pulled his hands to his face, screaming in surprise and pain.

“Now it’s personal.” Zach faced forward and shoved his foot to the floor. Murphy’s response was barely audible over the whine of tires on pavement as the speedometer swept past a hundred and twenty. He aimed the SUV at the graceful, curving overpass. “Should’ve put your seat belt on, asshole.”

Brilliant azure sky filled the windshield as the SUV crashed through the metal guardrail and launched into the open space between the columns holding up the northbound ramp above them and the concrete wall to their left. Zach slipped his weightless foot off the accelerator when the screaming from the engine replaced the whine from the tires. He relaxed as the world tipped over on itself, rushing toward them at a sickening angle, and waited to die.

The steering wheel bent like putty in his hands as the front end impacted, throwing dirt and grass up in a curtain. The air bag exploded, throwing a wall of stinging white into his face. The smell of gunpowder and burnt rubber filled his nose. Alternating flashes of blue sky against dark green flickered through Zach’s peripheral vision. Safety glass shattered and filled the truck’s cabin as the world outside rolled over and over. Each turn brought more sounds of twisting metal mixed with new screams from beside Zach.

Then, everything was quiet.

CHAPTER 24

Zach opened his eyes to a flood of pain. He looked around, dazed, surprised that the world was right-side up. The barbed-wire sensation around his chest was joined by a deep ache in his left leg. The windshield was a mosaic of crazed fracture lines, impossible to see through. He was alone in the crumpled cab of the SUV. The steering wheel was bent into an odd shape, and the deflated airbag lay limp across his lap. Outside, tires screeched against pavement, and several people raced toward him. A young man’s face peered in through his missing side window.

“Hey, man! Are you all right? Can you hear me?”

Zach’s hand moved to the seatbelt release button and pressed it. “Help me out,” he said to the stranger who gripped the door. Zach pulled on the latch, even more surprised when the door creaked open. Shattered remnants of safety glass rained down from the edges of the window opening. He smiled at the thought of Sara climbing from Murphy’s Cadillac, but his smile turned to sorrow at the memory of her lying in the parking lot where he’d left her. He swung his legs out, feet contacting the grass at the edge of the road below the overpass. His rescuer, a boy of about seventeen, offered Zach a hand as he climbed out of the SUV.

“Holy crap, dude, you think you ought to sit down or something?”

The fresh air helped. They were coming for him. “Where’s your car?”

“Dude, dontcha—?”

Zach grabbed the boy’s arm. “The other guy in the SUV car-jacked and kidnapped me. If I don’t get out of here right now, I’m a dead man.”

The teenager looked behind the SUV. A couple of bystanders stood by as one knelt over Murphy’s crumpled body where it lay on the grass. Two or three more trotted in Zach’s direction. “I don’t think he’ll be doing anything, dude. He looks pretty wasted.” In the distance, sirens sounded.

“Please,” Zach pleaded. “Get me out of here, or his colleagues are going to kill me.”

The kid thought for a moment. “Okay, dude, let’s break chocks.”

“What?”

The kid looked around. “You know, break chocks, bone out, shake this spot.”

Zach nodded. “Lead on.”

He led Zach to his car, parked on the crossroad’s shoulder. Zach dropped into the passenger’s seat as the boy climbed in, took the wheel, and drove away from the scene. Zach was sweating, his leg was bleeding, and his breaths were short and shallow. His hands shook from the adrenaline rush. The scent of cheap cologne and old socks permeating the car helped him stay conscious.

“You okay?” the young man asked. “Your leg’s bleeding.”

“Guy shot me,” Zach said. His leg was throbbing, and it felt like someone had shoved a red-hot poker through it.

“No shit. That’s gotta hurt.”

Zach rolled the window down and leaned his head out the opening in time to wretch. Wave after wave of nausea racked him.

“I should probably stop.”

“No,” Zach shouted. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and let the air blow onto his face. “Does this car have Auto-drive or Theft-lockout?”

The young man smiled sheepishly. “The Auto-drive needs a part, so it’s just in manual mode. This year was before the lockout option. Why?”

Zack nodded. “Good. How about Auto-nav?”

“Auto-nav still works, but only as GPS. Dude, I’m gonna get in a shit-load of trouble for this, ain’t I?”

Zach leaned back in the passenger seat and shook his head, trying to slow his swirling thoughts. Safety glass fell from his spiked black hair. “No. When I let you out, and the police pick you up, tell them I had a gun, and I made you drive me away. You’ll be fine.” He checked the blood-soaked hole in his trousers. Blood was leaking onto his leg. It wasn’t arterial. “Do you have a shirt or something I can wrap my leg with?”

“Yeah, here.” The teenager reached into the back seat and retrieved a black tee shirt. He handed it to Zach. “You gonna steal my car?”

“What’s your name?” Zach asked, as he wrapped the tee shirt around his leg at the wound, tied it in a knot, and tightened it, applying enough pressure to stop the bleeding. His vision went dark around the edges. “Ow. Crap, that hurts.” He leaned his head against the seat for a moment until the pain eased.

“Tyler. My name’s Tyler. You okay, dude? You don’t look so good.”

Zach nodded, almost giggling at what he was about to say. “I’m fine, Tyler. Yes, I’m going to steal your car now. It’ll be better for you if I do.” This definitely qualified as criminal versatility and manipulation. He brushed more glass from his hair and shirt. “I promise I won’t hurt it, and you can get it back from the police impound in a few days. I’ll put the keys under the driver’s seat and lock it up. Now, please pull over.”

When Tyler stopped the car, Zach turned to face him. “Okay, buddy, out. Remember, tell them I had a gun. Big, black, and blocky. And let me have your link, please.”

“Dude. The car, okay, but I need my iLink to post this. I’m gonna be famous.”

Zach rolled his eyes. “Okay, but no vids of me.”

“Deal.” Tyler grinned. “A gun. You mean like a Glock?”

“Yeah, just like a Glock, but don’t say it was a Glock, or they won’t believe you. Just say it was a big-assed black gun and you almost peed yourself.”

The kid stepped out of the car and flashed Zach a grin. “Got it, dude. Can I pop the trunk? My stuff’s in there.”

Zach nodded and Tyler reached down close to the floor to pull the release. When Tyler got out, Zach tried to crawl across into the driver’s seat. His left leg refused to obey, and he had to use both hands to lift his foot over the console.Zach settled into the seat as Tyler grabbed a small duffle out of the trunk and closed the lid. A beat-up Dodgers baseball cap was stuffed between the seats. Zach tugged it on, pulling it low over his eyes and tucking the tops of his ears under the band to avoid the multitude of traffic cameras and their facial recognition software he knew he would pass.

Stepping away from the car, Tyler lifted his hand and extended his index and middle fingers in a “V” shape. “Peace out, dude.”

Zach returned the gesture. “Peace out, dude.” He slid the gear lever into drive and punched the accelerator, peeling away. He tapped the GPS screen on the dash, and it flashed to life.

“Can I be of assistance?” the unit asked in a calm, female voice.

“Nearest Stuff’s-A-Buck store.”

“Surface streets or interstate?”

“Surface streets only,” Zach said, glancing out the windows for police drones. The sky around him was still clear, a good sign. The passing landscape jittered and smeared around him. He forced himself to take long, slow breaths and his head cleared a bit more.

“Calculating route. Route calculated. At the next street, turn right.”

He followed the unit’s directions south to St. Pete, just past Thirty-eighth Street north. He swung the car left and pulled into the parking lot of a strip mall. With Tyler’s car safely in a parking space, he climbed out and steadied himself against the roof and open door while he scanned the lot. “No police. Good.” Still shaky from the pain and adrenaline overload, he slipped the keys under the driver’s seat, locked the door, and limped away.

Reaching into the pocket of his trousers, he fished out the last of his money. He counted twenty-seven dollars and sixty-three cents as he brushed more safety glass from his hair and clothes. Absent-mindedly, he fingered the ring where it still hung around his neck. “First things first,” he said out loud, squeezing his eyes shut against the memory of Sara lying on the ground.

He straightened his clothes, walked into the store, and made an immediate left toward the bathroom/medical supplies. Less than three minutes later, he had peroxide, gauze pads, surgical tape, a washcloth, and two bottles of water in a basket and was on his way to the cashier. He grabbed a new pair of blue-mirrored wrap-around shades as he passed the display. At the cashier’s aisle, he picked up an old-style pre-paid phone that came with ten free minutes.

A young, full-figured, brunette girl behind the counter, wearing more necklaces, bracelets, and piercings than he could count, watched Zach. She raised an eyebrow as she scanned his items. “Are you all right?”

Zach tossed her an easy smile. “What? Oh, yeah. I was working on my car and the wrench slipped.” He handed her the money, pretty sure his recent interactions would count as pathological lying.

“Okay.” She smiled back at Zach as she counted out and handed him his change. She bagged his things and placed the bag on the counter.

“Oh, I almost forgot.” Zach took the bag. “Where are your picture frames?”

“To the right, in the rear.” The girl gestured to that part of the store.

“Be right back.” Zach picked up his bag and headed toward the rear of the store. The smile dropped from his face as he walked. At the rear wall, he found the doorway to the storage room. Seeing no one watching, he slipped through, easing the door closed behind him. Moving past stacks of boxes, he found the rear door of the store, pushed it open, and poked his head out. The only car in the narrow employee parking lot was a small, red, Oatsu Urban Electric. He searched the surrounding buildings and found no cameras. “Excellent.” Zach stepped out and half-walked, half-limped across the parking area to a break in the head-high concrete block wall surrounding the property and onto the sidewalk beyond.

He hobbled to the next strip mall, worked his way through a shoulder-high wall of matted, overgrown hedge, and hid between a recycling container and the rear of the building. “First,” Zach whispered, “the blood.” He loosened the tee shirt around his leg, twisted the cap off the peroxide, and trickled it onto where blood stained his pants. The liquid bubbled and fizzed, and as it calmed down, he dripped more onto the stain. Then, he opened one of the two bottles of water and rinsed out the peroxide. He blotted the wet spot with the washcloth, thankful his trousers were dark navy blue. With the cap replaced, he undid his belt and dropped his pants to his knees.

Two round, ragged holes perforated the front of his left leg about half way between his hip and knee. A deep bruise was already forming on the skin between. The inside one would be the entrance wound, and the other one where the bullet exited. Blood oozed from both but at a much slower rate than before. “That’s good, at least,” he mumbled. “Nothing to dig out.” Pain fountained through him, sending his surroundings spinning, as he spilled more peroxide into the wound. He dropped to the rough asphalt surface and hissed through his teeth until he was sure he wouldn’t pass out.

Working quickly, he pulled a couple of pieces of gauze from the box. After patting the skin dry, he placed the rest over the holes, and taped them tightly to his leg. When he was satisfied the dressing would stay in place, he pulled his pants up. He laid Tyler’s tee shirt on the recycler and poured the remainder of the peroxide onto it, thankful the shirt was black. While he let it work on the blood, Zach stripped out of the bright yellow shirt Sara’s father had given him and tossed it into the recycler. His head throbbed in time with his leg.

“Should’ve spent another dollar for aspirin or something.” The thought reminded him of Miranda pouring the tablets into his hand yesterday morning. Swallowing back the grief before it overwhelmed him, he rinsed Tyler’s shirt with half the remaining water. He twisted the shirt to wring as much of the water and peroxide out as possible and pulled it over his head. It felt okay in the warm sun, but when he stood up, Zach wished he’d moved slower.

Working to keep his teeth from chattering from the adrenaline burn off, he slid back down behind the recycler, upended the bottle and swallowed the rest of the water. He tossed the empty bottle into the recycler and peeked around the corner. Seeing no one, he hobbled into the open and hurried across the narrow asphalt. He checked both directions before he shoved out between the bushes and onto the sidewalk.

A few cars sat parked along the street. Small houses shaded by occasional trees lined the side opposite where Zach walked. Two blocks further on, a city utilities truck stood parked on his side of the street. As he walked, he thought about how the past three days had ruined his life.

He leaned against a telephone pole and rubbed his thumb and index finger over his eyes, pressing on the bridge of his nose. Clearing his throat, he pulled the pre-paid mobile link out of his pocket, activated it, and requested a connection.

“Hello, Carol’s Deli, can I help you?” The woman’s voice sounded rushed. The contrasting quiet of the background told Zach the lunch business had been brisk, but had mostly cleared out.

He mentally crossed his fingers. “Is Big Tommy there, please?”

There was a moment’s hesitation. Uncertainty reached back at him through the connection. “Yeah, he is. Can you hang for a second?”

“Yeah,” he said into the link. “I’m cool.”

A long moment passed before Tommy’s deep booming voice leapt out of the link. “This is Big Tommy. Can I help you?”

Zach mentally crossed his fingers. “I’ll need a hundred and twenty grams of salad and a little gravy for the mashed potatoes to go with my gray suit, and put it on my bill.” He closed his eyes and held his breath.

The longest seconds of Zach’s life passed, and then Tommy’s voice came back, a little lower. “Happy Thanksgiving, Ebenezer.”

“And Merry Christmas, Tommy Cratchit. I’m sorry to have to ask, but—”

“Shh.” Big Tommy cut Zach off. “What can Tommy do for ya, buddy?”

“Kate gave me my ring back.” Zach crossed his fingers, hoping Tommy remembered their conversation from a few months ago when Kathy had left him.

On the other end of the line, Big Tommy blew out a long breath. “Gave your ring back. That sucks.”

“Yeah, and it’s not like I can wear it around my neck on a chain or something.”

“Low blow,” Tommy said. “Guess you wanna be rid of it, huh?”

“Yeah. It’s time. Ideas?”

Big Tommy went silent for a moment. “Well, Sam’s Pawn’ll give the best money, All Star is good, but my cousin Marti manages Green for Gold.”

“Okay,” Zach said. “I know where All Star is, but where’s Sam’s and Green for Gold?”

Big Tommy gave Zach the addresses. He was already headed in the right direction, and Green for Gold was only about a mile south. There was a pause. “You need anything else?”

Zach blinked. “I’m cool.”

“You been watching the news feeds?”

“No, man, too much happenin’. Wassup?”

“Shootin’s and stabbin’s and all manner of crazy stuff. People drivin’ off overpasses. It’s turning into a busy news day. You should check it out.”

“When I get a minute, I will. Hey, gotta go. Thanks, again.”

“Right. Remember what I told you, you need anything, you call Big Tommy.”

“Thanks, dude. Peace out.” The words caught in Zach’s throat as he disconnected the link and tossed it into the bed of the parked city truck. He touched the ring where it still hung on its chain around his neck. “Focus.” Zach shifted his gait to accommodate the stiffness starting in his leg and continued south on Fourth Street.

***

Zach stood outside Green for Gold, his soiled tee shirt and pants finally dry. He checked his leg. No new blood stained the material. He fingered the diamond ring on the chain around his neck and rang the buzzer for admittance. Setting his jaw, he walked through the steel-grated glass door and opened the inner door when the lock clicked.

Inside the pawnshop, the smell of disinfectant cleaner and old tools caught him off-guard. Screens of various sizes surrounded Zach. Half of them were running feeds of his SUV rollover crash. Both the northbound I-275 overpass and Roosevelt Boulevard underneath were closed. Several screens showed iLink footage of a black-haired man in a yellow, Hawaiian print shirt Zach knew was him but still didn’t recognize, limping away from the wreckage. Another young man in a dark tee shirt walked beside him. The two got into a blue car and drove away. Three screens were running real-time, aerial footage of the resulting chaos. Several other muted screens showed a well-dressed woman standing in front of a hospital emergency department, holding a hand microphone. Zach couldn’t make out what the story was about without the sound.

As he watched, he realized he felt nothing for the destruction he’d caused. “Lack of remorse and lack of empathy,” he said to himself, ticking off two more from the list.

He shook his head and turned toward the woman behind the counter. She was dark-skinned and stocky. A long, purple cloth wrapped around her hair and cascaded over her left shoulder. Her blouse was white and crisp and Zach smoothed the wrinkles in his borrowed tee shirt, suddenly self-conscious about the smell of blood and peroxide surrounding him. They were the only two people in the shop. “Hi,” he said, offering a tenuous smile.

A broad, white-toothed grin spread across the young woman’s face. “Good afternoon,” she replied with a thick island accent. “What can I do for you?” She crossed her forearms and leaned on the glass countertop.

He returned her smile with the best he could muster. “I’m sorry, but are you Tommy’s cousin, Marti?”

The woman’s grin amped up to dazzling. “You a friend of Tommy’s? He’s my Auntie Trish’s little boy. He helped me to get in from Grand Cayman two years ago.” Her eyes narrowed at Zach. “You the one Tommy called about?”

Zach nodded and fished the ring from inside his shirt. “What would be a good price for this?” He slipped the chain from around his neck and handed it to the woman. A faint, sweet scent of lilac floated around her.

She stared at it for a long moment, then back at Zach. “This real?”

“Yes.”

Her eyes widened. “A real diamond? Why?”

“I just want to get rid of it. I have a project to finish that needs a little more cash than I have right now.”

“This is worth…” The woman shook her head, a frown working its way across her face, her brow knit in concentration. “You should take this to a jeweler. There’s one jus’ down the street.”

He shrugged. “I need a good laptop with a decent battery, a sleeve of crystal flash drives, twenty mailing envelopes, and two hundred dollars.”

“For this?” she held the ring up.

“And no questions.”

The woman’s eyes narrowed as the smile fell off her face. “We need ID.” She pointed to a large sign on the wall behind her. She put the ring on the countertop and pushed it toward Zach. “We have to keep records—the police…”

He laid his hand on hers. “Do you have two minutes?”

“I…”

“Just two minutes.” He held up two fingers to emphasize the point and reached into his trouser pocket. “Aren’t you just a little curious?” He pulled the crystal flash drive from his pocket and held it out. “This’ll explain everything, I promise.”

She considered the drive he held for a long moment. “Tommy sent you?”

“Yes. Tommy’s a good friend, and I hated to ask this of him. I wouldn’t have if there were any other way.”

The woman nodded, a short, choppy gesture, took the drive from Zach, and plugged it into her countertop computer.

“You see all the files?”

She nodded again as her eyes moved over the screen.

“Open the one titled General Explanation, Text. It’ll make everything clear, and it’s why I need the money and equipment.”

She opened the file and started reading. As she read, her fingers floated up and covered her mouth.

“The woman? Agent Goode?” Emotion thickened his voice as he said her name. He gestured to the screen. “They killed her this morning. The wreck you’ve been watching on the feeds? That was me. The guy who shot her because she was protecting me, kidnapped me. He was taking me to a secluded place to kill me and I drove off the overpass to escape.”

“That was you in the yellow shirt?” Marti asked, her eyes wide.

Zach nodded slowly.

“That other man, he kill this woman?” She gestured to the computer’s screen.

“And her parents, and my best friend.” Tears swam in his eyes. He brushed them away with his fingertips.

“All that because of this?” She inclined her head toward the computer.

He nodded again.

She sat on the stool behind the counter. Concern replaced the shock on her face. “Whatchu going to do?”

“Make sure people know who they’re voting for.” He reached into his back pocket, removed his drivers license from his wallet, and laid it next to the ring. “I have no use for that ring. I’ll probably be dead by this time next week, but I can guarantee you won’t want this ID on your records.”

Marti examined the ID then Zach, her black eyes shining into the corners of his soul. She blinked and reached under the counter.

He inhaled a sharp breath and pulled back a half step. He relaxed again when she held up a tube of fresh crystal drives.

“Tommy say to help who he send. You don’t need no laptop, you need these.” Marti pulled the first crystal flash drive from the tube and placed it in the second drive port of her computer and touched several places on the screen. “Look around the store. This will take about a quarter of an hour.” She smiled her broad grin at Zach as the machine copied the files.

He slipped his ID back into his pocket, leaving the ring and chain on the countertop. He wandered through the store, idly checking out tools, electronics, and sports equipment. Most of the inventory was older and well used, but a few pieces were in surprisingly good shape. He was looking at a carved blue and brown stone chess set, his thoughts crowded with memories of Sara, when Marti called out to him.

“Hello?”

He straightened. “Yes. I’m sorry, I was looking at the chess set.”

“The carved one? It’s nice. It only went up three days ago. Maybe you’ll come back and buy it when this is all straightened out.” She held out a small transparent sleeve of twenty crystals. There was a paper bag on the counter next to her arm. She placed the sleeve inside and slid it to him. It was half full of padded mailer envelopes and multiple hard copies of the text file of his explanation and research findings. She’d even included a marking pen.

She turned away, hit a few keys on the cash register, and slid a small, plastic card through the machine. “There’s two hundred on it. Should be ‘nuff to mail those.” Marti picked up the chain and ring and held it and the card out to him. “Tommy trusts you, so I trust you.”

He dropped the card in the bag, took the chain from her, and held it between his index fingers. Leaning toward Marti, he slipped it over her head and placed it around her neck. Touching her scarf with his fingertips, he leaned closer and brushed his lips against her forehead.

“You keep this. I don’t need it any more.”

She held his hands in hers. “Don’t do nothing stupid, Dr. Marshall. This will be right here for you when you come for it. Tommy don’t trust many people. You be safe and come back.”

He gave the woman the closest thing to a smile he could manage. “Thank you, Marti.” He slid his hands away from hers and cleared his throat. “I have to go now. I have some things to take care of. Can you tell me where the nearest library is? I need to look up some addresses.”

She nodded, returning his smile with one that almost made it to her eyes. “Closest library’s down on Mirror Lake Drive. Big pink buildin’. Can’t miss it.”

“Thank you for everything.” He slipped his mirrored shades on, folded the top of the bag over, and carried it out the door. Outside, he brought a hand up and faked a cough as a police car passed by. Zach watched it disappear in the distance and rubbed his face. Three day’s worth of stubble covered his cheeks and chin. He surveyed his surroundings for anything unusual. A few cars moved on the street. An older couple strolled hand-in-hand, stopping to window shop. He turned south and walked away.

CHAPTER 25

Don Brown slouched in one of the chairs, turning the silver Kitaro Cup ring on his finger with his thumb. Stiles paced the living room of the beach penthouse suite. Brown lifted the short, heavy glass in his other hand and tossed a slug of Stoli down his throat. He briefly considered pouring Stiles a scotch, but the man had been eating benzos like they were candy for two days.

Across the room, the eighty-six inch holographic display was replaying long-distance footage from someone’s personal link. The scene showed an unidentified black-haired man in a yellow Hawaiian-print shirt limping away from a wrecked black SUV leaning on another young man. The footage switched to a recorded interview of the second man.

Nineteen-year-old Tyler Williams described his assailant. “Dude. He was, like, the most polite kidnapper I ever heard of. Dude was, like, chill.” Tyler grinned and made the peace sign as if to punctuate his comment. In another room, Special Agent Johnson was mumbling into his iLink and gesturing with both hands.

“Goddamn it, Don, how could things go this wrong?”

Brown shrugged and threw the last of the contents of the glass past his tongue.

“We can salvage this.” Stiles started pacing again. “We can spin this. We just have to come up with—”

“Spin this?” Brown lifted an eyebrow. He laughed, the sound a sharp, mirthless crack in the quiet. “We’re hosed. Boned. Finished. We’re done. Have you been paying attention?” He stood and crossed the room to the bar where he poured himself another vodka. “Let me round it off to big numbers for you. One member of our protection detail is in a body bag, another is in surgery, and a third is lying dead next to one of our SUVs, which is totaled. That makes two of those we’ve lost, by the way. Two other agents are missing, and the last two are jumpier than feral cats on meth.”

Stiles’s face turned bright red. “We—”

“If we spin our asses off, we will be goddamn lucky not to end up in prison.” He slammed another drink of the harsh liquid. “It’s over.”

The red washed out of Stiles’s face, leaving it ashen.

***

Everything ached. Zach’s left leg throbbed from the gunshot wound, and the barbed wire encircling his chest stabbed into each breath. His throat tightened and tears burned his eyes at the memory of Sara sprawled in a parking lot.

Hands in his pockets, paper bag tucked under an arm, he limped east on First Avenue, occasionally stumbling and having to stop and regain his balance. Focusing his thoughts on staying upright and inconspicuous, he hunched his shoulders a bit more to give the air of someone without hope and realized he had become that person. “Stop it,” he said to himself. “It is what it is.” The phrase only took him back to Sara. The memory of the glittering waves of the bay, of his arm around her shoulders as she cried swept over him and bowed him further. “And wherever it goes, we go together.” Zach tugged a free hand out of his pocket and scraped sore fingers over stinging eyes. Maybe he wouldn’t have to miss her for long before Stiles’s hit men finished him.

The walk was shorter than he expected. He circled the library as casually as possible, scrutinizing his surroundings for police cars, black SUVs, guys in suits and shades, helicopters, or anything else unusual. Cars were parked on the streets and in the lot. People ambled by in the shade of the huge old oaks lining Mirror Lake Drive and Fifth Street. No one paid him any attention. Satisfied, he approached a side door past a young couple lounging on the grass near a half full rack of bicycles. Scanning the lot one last time, Zach stepped into the cool, quiet library.

He stopped and stood to one side of the door, glancing around the open space and orienting himself. A dark blue banner hung from the ceiling, indicating the periodicals section. “Okay,” he whispered. He shifted the paper bag and shuffled toward the restrooms at the front of the building.

The image in the men’s room mirror shocked him. His newly cut spiked hair was more tousled. Tiny bits of broken safety glass sparkled like glitter under the LED lights. Dark stubble graced his sunken cheeks, and his skin was almost as white as the tiles on the walls. When he removed his shades, dark circles accented the red-rimmed eyes staring hollowly back at him. He almost laughed. He wouldn’t have recognized himself on the street. He rinsed and dried his face and headed to the periodical section.

He stood at the computer reservation desk. The screen blinked, requesting he scan either a library card or a current local ID. He mentally crossed his fingers and held his drivers license under the scanner. The screen flashed, directing him to a computer.

He sat at the computer and pulled up the major news-feeds from across the country. He copied the snail-mail addresses of the largest national and Florida news feeds. He addressed the remaining envelopes to the other candidates’ press offices and law enforcement agencies. Then, he plugged his data crystal into a port on the computer and pulled up the text of his letter. After carefully adding two paragraphs to the end, he copied the changes to all thirty data crystals Marti had given him. He checked the vicinity for other patrons. Seeing none close, headed to the reference desk.

“Excuse me,” he said to the reference librarian. “How do I print a copy of a letter?”

The man behind the desk gaped up at him like he’d asked for a book on how to grow wings. “Print? On paper? You mean a hard copy?”

“Please. It’s for a resume, and they want hard copies.” He thought about the stealth OS he had downloaded as a plan B. It was in Sara’s jacket pocket. The memory of her fussing with her stupid jacket in the mirror at the hotel yesterday, hiding her stupid gun, made him miss her more.

“Do you have a library card?” The man scrutinized Zach over his glasses.

Zach shook his head.

The seventy-something year old man raised a bushy, gray eyebrow at Zach. “An ID?”

“Sorry, I forgot it at home.” He used his most sheepish, embarrassed look. It was one thing to let the workstation reservation reader log his license, but handing it to a person who might recognize his name from the feeds was a risk he was unwilling to take. “I had to walk all the way here and I just need to make a few hard copies. Can you please help me? I really need this job.” He was getting better at lying, he noticed, and decided being emotionally shallow helped. He mentally ticked off another trait. Pretty soon, he’d have them all, like a collection of poisoned fast food toys.

The man hesitated just long enough for Zach to grow uncomfortable and start wondering if he’d been recognized. The librarian reached to a slot behind the counter and pulled out a card with a magnetic stripe on the back. He typed a few strokes onto the keyboard in front of him and slid the card through the slot. He held it out to Zach. “This is a temporary card. You can put money on it over there.” He pointed to the wall to Zach’s left, where a machine stood. “And pick up the hard copies here when you’re done.” He indicated the printer behind where he sat.

Zach took the card. “Thanks.”

“I have a grandson about your age.”

“Can you tell me where the nearest post office is?”

“Out the main entrance, then south on Fifth Street to First. One block east, and turn south. It’s all columns and arches. You can’t miss it.”

“Thanks, again.” He nodded to the man, shuffled over to where the librarian had indicated, and put ten dollars on the card. Next he printed new copies of his letter and returned to the workspace he’d created. Carefully folding a copy of his letter and research findings together, he slid a set into each padded mailer. He added a data crystal, sealed them, and dropped the envelopes into his bag. Finally, he attached the files to emails telling them to expect hard copies through snail mail and sent one to everyone.

Zach cleaned up the area he’d used. He tucked the bag containing the envelopes under an arm and limped toward an exit different from the one he’d entered.

***

The middle-aged postal clerk pushed the pile of envelopes into the basket behind him. “That’ll be one hundred eighty-six dollars and twenty cents.” Zach handed the clerk the card Marti had given him earlier. He slid it through the card reader. He blew out a silent breath. “Wow, that was close. You want the rest on the card or in change?”

“Change, please. I had to work through lunch.”

The clerk nodded and counted out Zach’s change.

“How long to deliver those?” he asked, as an afterthought.

“The in-state stuff will deliver tomorrow.” He considered for a moment. “The east coast letters will be three or four days. The west coast addresses will be four, maybe five business days.” He looked back at Zach. “We can up the three to Los Angeles, San Francisco, and Seattle to ‘express’ for twenty-one more dollars, total. That’ll get them delivered day after tomorrow.”

Zach thought about it for a second and pulled out all the cash remaining in his pocket. “Do it.”

“Important stuff?”

Zach smiled. “Resumes. I’m a web designer, and I just got my walking papers from the place I’ve been at for two years.”

“Ouch. Right before Christmas? Sucks.”

“Yeah, they’re downsizing, and I was low guy on the totem pole. You know, I’ve never understood that saying. Seems to me, if you chop the top of a pole off it has no effect on the whole.” He made a gesture of a pole with his hand and a chopping move at the top. “But remove the low man,” he said, chopping at the bottom of the imaginary pole, followed by pivoting his forearm over in a falling motion, “and the whole thing topples.”

The clerk chuckled. “Must be why the economy is so screwed up. They’re getting rid of the wrong guys.”

“Yeah. There you go.” The clerk finished the corrections to the postage and handed Zach the change. He looked at the coins. “Sixty whole cents.” He closed his fist around the money.

“Try not to spend it all in one place.”

Zach dropped the money into his pocket. “Good advice. Listen, thanks, and Happy Christmas to you.”

A genuine smile warmed the man’s face. “We’re not allowed to wish people denominational greetings, but same to you, sir, and good luck to you for next year.” He offered a hand to Zach.

His mission accomplished, Zach strolled out of the post office, shoved his hands into his pockets, and stared up at the bright blue sky. The winter sun fell on his face and the warm, Florida air moved in and out of his lungs. Turning his back on the warmth, he walked to the corner and headed north, across the broad, three-lane street. He wanted to thank Big Tommy for everything and say good-by.

***

Carol’s Deli was the emptiest he’d ever seen it when he walked in. He realized he’d never been in the place during off-peak hours. Having no career and nowhere to live finally settled on him. It was a freedom Zach hadn’t experienced since college at the end of finals, when the pressure was suddenly gone. Screens dotting the corners of the deli were still running the aftermath of Zach’s catastrophic escape from Murphy. He ignored them and stepped up to the counter where Big Tommy was wiping down the prep surface. “Can I get a little service here, big guy?”

Big Tommy’s expression of mild annoyance evolved through shock, and into relieved joy when he recognized Zach. “Oh. My. God.” He dropped his rag and ran around the counter. The cashier stood in open-mouthed surprise.

Big Tommy’s arms were around Zach’s shoulders before he could react, squeezing until Zach had trouble breathing and his broken rib threatened to come between him and consciousness. Tommy lifted him like a rag doll, spun him around, and gently lowered down onto the floor.

“Zach. Sit down. I didn’t recognize you with that hair and those shades.” He turned to the cashier. “Tiff, can you get my friend a bowl of soup? Thanks.” He stared at Zach. “What the hell happened to you? Christ. You look like you been dragged behind a horse.” Big Tommy wrinkled his nose. “You smell like you been dragged behind a horse. You been sleeping in a ditch?”

“Thanks.” Zach sniffed at the combination of peroxide, blood, and sweat. “It’s good to see you, too. I spent the last of my cash on postage, so this’ll have to be on my account.” He flicked an embarrassed grin at Big Tommy. “Actually, I seem to be without a place at the moment, since the Secret Service asshole blew up my house. You think I could I hose off behind the store?”

They both laughed as Big Tommy led Zach to an empty table and sat facing him. “What the hell happened to you?” Tommy asked again. “I saw that shit on the feeds, but I knew it was BS, then you dropped off the planet till that call this afternoon.” He eyed Zach’s hair. “You don’t have a yellow Hawaiian print shirt, do you?”

Zach smiled. “Not any more.”

Tommy’s eyes rolled. “Okay,” he said. “You talk, and I’ll feed you, but I want to hear it all.”

An hour later, both Big Tommy and Tiffany, the cashier, sat at the table in open-mouthed shock as Zach finished his story and a second bowl of minestrone soup. Tiffany stood and put a hand on Tommy’s shoulder. “I’ll start getting ready for the dinner crowd. You two finish talking.” She leaned over and kissed Zach’s cheek. “I’m so sorry about your friends, but God, what a story.” She shook her head and walked behind the counter.

Tommy reached into his pocket and laid a set of keys on the table. “I want you to go to my place and get cleaned up, you know, shave and stuff.” He wrinkled his nose again. “And wash those pants and burn that shirt. Use anything you need, and get a new shirt out of my closet. I’ll write down the address. I’ll call my lawyer and get you some new clothes this evening.”

“Thanks, but I can’t.”

“Where you gonna go, that barbecue pit that used to be your house? You gotta get cleaned up for the press when this hits the blades.”

“Let’s not kid ourselves, here. I’m going to do jail time. It’s just a matter of how much until they kill me.”

Tommy shook his head. “I don’t know, Zach.”

Zach ran his fingers through his hair. “Christ, Tommy, I drove a car off an overpass today and killed a guy. I kidnapped a kid and stole his car to leave the scene of a fatal accident.” He blew out a breath. “And that’s just today. All that stuff Murphy did? I can’t prove I didn’t do it. They’ll be months just trying to figure out all the shit to charge me with.”

“Witnesses…” Tommy trailed off.

“They killed all the goddamn witnesses.” He dropped his head onto his hands, supported by his elbows on the table, the weight of it all finally too much. “They killed everybody. They killed Sara, her parents.” He couldn’t hold it back any longer. The sobs came in convulsive waves. “They killed Laz. Bastards. They killed me. I’m just too stupid to quit breathing.”

Tommy moved his chair closer, threw an arm the size of one of Zach’s legs around him, and let him cry it out on one huge shoulder. “Too smart and too stubborn, you mean. And you ain’t alone. You got a witness, Zach.”

He lifted his tear-streaked face from Tommy’s shoulder. “I don’t understand.”

“Zach. There’s something you maybe been too busy to catch on the news feeds.”

He sniffed. “What?”

“That Secret Service woman?”

He cocked his head. “Sara?”

“She somebody special to you?”

“Yes, she was. Very special.”

“She’s alive. The news said so, ’bout two or three hours ago.”

“What?” he whispered and blinked two or three times at Big Tommy. “No. Sara?”

Tommy’s grin widened until his big, black, smiling face threatened to split. “Yeah, her. They said so. She’s in intensive care, but the doctors think she’s gonna be okay.”

Adrenaline surged through Zach as he stood to face the screens where Tommy pointed. Several showed the same well-dressed newswoman he’d seen on the muted screens at the pawn shop. She stood in front of Bayside Hospital’s Emergency Department sign. Big Tommy retrieved a remote and increased the volume, drawing Zach toward one of the screens.

“Again, at the top of the hour. Police are still waiting for Secret Service Special Agent Sara Elizabeth Goode to regain consciousness after being gunned down early this afternoon along with two males on St. Petersburg’s south side. Names of the deceased are being withheld pending notification of families.”

Blood pounded in Zach’s ears. He stumbled against one of the tables. Tears blurred his vision as his knees buckled. Big Tommy helped him to his feet and led him to the men’s room. “Come on, kid,” Tommy said, in a quiet tone. “We gotta get you cleaned up. They’ll never let you into expensive care lookin’ like that.”

Zach turned and grabbed Tommy’s arms. “She’s alive.”

Big Tommy nodded, turned Zach around, and pushed him toward the men’s room door. “I’m gonna have to call Marti, tell her not to get too attached to that ring. I think you’re maybe gonna need it before long.”

CHAPTER 26

Zach sat across the scratched metal table from two detectives. Karen Preston, his bulldog of a lawyer, sat in the other uncomfortable plastic chair next to him, wearing a cream-colored silk blouse and navy blue power suit. She made a show of checking the wrist unit of her PCOD, where the time was displayed in large, white numerals. “Gentlemen,” Preston said. “Could we please wrap this up? My client has technically been released. We’re just awaiting paperwork processing.”

Detective Blunt, the shorter of the two, leaned forward. “Listen, counselor. Your client can go when we say he can go. We’re going to get to the bottom of this thing, and then we’re going to start recommending charges be brought against him.”

Zach watched Blunt and wondered what genetic combination was keeping the man’s heart pumping. He was a good sixty pounds overweight, had the sallow complexion of decades of poor lifestyle choices, and desperately needed a shave and a change of deodorant. Zach remained quiet, his hands folded on the table, following the advice Detective Jack Goode, retired and damn glad about it, had given him at the kitchen table a scant four days ago—“have a lawyer, keep your mouth closed, and if you say anything, tell the truth, because it’ll be the only thing that can save you.”

Preston matched Blunt’s stare and leaned in. “Please do, detective. Dr. Marshall has been completely forthcoming with his statements. He voluntarily agreed to come in for questioning,” She touched the face of her wrist unit. “Three days ago.” She blew out a breath, heavy with exasperation. She reached into her pocket, pulled out a small plastic box of breath mints, and plopped them on the table between them.

Behind Blunt, his partner, Detective Decker, bit his lip to keep from smiling.

Preston was saying something, “…Now, if you don’t mind, detective…”

Blunt held his ground. “I still want to know where the gun went,” he said, leaning back, and crossing his arms over his chest.

Preston rolled her eyes and pulled one of the yellow legal pads from her briefcase. As she leafed through it, she said, “Dr. Marshall previously stated—”

“I want to hear it from him,” Blunt said, and pointed a finger at Zach.

“Detective Blunt, you have heard it from my client. So has the Justice Department, the Department of Homeland Security, and the FBI’s Office of Professional Standards, and a virtual parade of government agencies. Now if there’s nothing else…”

Decker spoke up for the first time, “Humor us, please.”

Preston turned to Zach and gestured toward the detectives with her head.

Zach spoke, “I don’t recall ever having or touching a gun, detective.”

“What about Tyler Williams’s original statement, that you took his car, describing said weapon as ‘a big-assed, blocky thing?’”

“Which he later recanted,” Preston said. “And changed to—she flipped a page in her notepad, ‘I guess I was a little freaked out and stuff.’”

Zach shrugged, fighting the smile. “As I said, detective, I had just been in a significant car crash, and my memory is a little hazy. Is there any proof I had a gun?”

“You know there isn’t,” Blunt scowled.

“And does Mr. Williams say I ever actually threatened him with a gun?”

“You know he doesn’t,” Decker said.

“Dumb-assed kid can’t say enough nice things about you,” Blunt said past a scowl.

Zach shrugged. “Sorry. Can’t help you.”

A uniformed officer opened the door and nodded to Decker and Blunt. The two stood, but Blunt spoke, “This isn’t over, Dr. Marshall.”

Zach sighed. For him, it probably never would be. Still, he managed a smile. “Have a nice day, detectives.” After the pair stalked out, Preston reached into her brief case. “I thought you might want to see this.” She pulled out a hard-copy newspaper and laid it on the desk in front of Zach.

“I haven’t been keeping up with world events for the past couple of days.” He picked up the paper.

Preston scowled. “They ought to give you a medal for what you did.”

“They going to pin it on my new orange jumpsuit?”

Preston said, “Don’t be too quick to pick out your new wardrobe, Dr. Marshall. Most of your rights were violated during this fiasco, not the least of which was a clear attempt to deprive you of your fundamental right to survival by a representative of the federal government. I’ve already had calls from half a dozen human rights organizations offering to lend legal assistance. This is the kind of high-profile case most lawyers dream of.”

Zach grunted, wishing he was certain any of it made a difference. He focused on the story. The headline read, “PRESIDENTIAL FRONTRUNNER DROPS OUT”. It went on to say that not only had Congressman Stiles dropped out of the race, but he and Don Brown were being charged with conspiracy to commit murder, arson, kidnapping, and other crimes to be specified later.

Zach read in silence, rubbing a hand over his mouth. He supposed he should be elated, or justified, or even satisfied, but all he felt was sadness. “Somehow, it doesn’t seem enough for all the pain they caused.” He hadn’t mentioned Sara’s parents and no one had said anything to him about them. He wondered when they would get around to blaming him for their deaths.

Preston shook her head slowly, her jowls moving with the effort. “It isn’t.” She patted his forearm. “But it’ll have to do.”

The uniformed officer motioned for Zach and Preston to follow him. They stood and left the interrogation room, where Zach had spent three of the most miserable days of his life. Two nights in a cell and questioning by an alphabet soup of agencies was an experience he hoped never to repeat. His leg ached from his wound, but it had improved and his limp was barely noticeable. He hoped to ditch the cane in a couple of weeks.

They stepped into the hallway, where Big Tommy greeted them. He threw his arms around Zach and lifted him, grunting, off the floor.

Preston stepped aside and chuckled for the first time since Zach had met her.

When the spots retreated from Zach’s vision and his broken rib allowed him to breathe again, he said to Big Tommy, “Man, you have to stop doing that. People will talk.”

“Let ’em,” Tommy said. He turned to Preston. “How’d he do?”

“So far, so good,” she said, shaking his hand. “Thanks again for the opportunity to defend your friend, but we really should go,” she said, gesturing to the uniformed officer, who waited to escort them through the building. After what seemed like an eternity in a maze, the officer led them through a gray steel door into an enclosed garage. The LED lights overhead cast a cold blue light onto the unmarked police cars parked in the space. Big Tommy’s silver Mercedes sat in one of the spaces. Zach stopped, unsure what to do.

“We couldn’t take you out the front,” said Tommy. “The press is creating a mob scene. This is the biggest story of the last ten years. I’m still not sure how to get you out. Lay you in the back seat and make a run for it, I guess.”

Zach and Preston followed Big Tommy down a short flight of steps to the concrete floor. They spread out at Tommy’s sedan, one on either side of Zach.

Zach patted the trunk lid. “I have an idea.”

The uniformed officer retreated through the door. The three started to laugh as Zach explained.

***

“Come on. Please.” Zach pleaded, drawing the word out. He stood at Bayside Hospital’s intensive care nurses’ desk. It’d been easier to get around the Justice Department guard in the hallway. He was an older agent, who’d recognized Zach from the feeds, smiled, and let him through, but prune-faced Marylyn the nurse presented a different set of variables.

“Dr. Marshall, for the third time, the answer is no.” She frowned up at him. Her stare was as flat as her desk, and about as encouraging.

“But Marylyn,” he tried again through his forced smile. “Listen, it’s important. I have something for her, something I have to give her. The news feeds said she was awake and—”

“Dr. Marshall.” She spoke slowly and softly as if trying to get a simple point across to an especially slow child. “For the last time. You cannot go into intensive care. Only family is allowed in intensive care, and you are not family.”

Zach reached into his pocket, pulled out the tiny box, and flipped it open, showing Marylyn the ring Big Tommy and Marti helped him pick out. He briefly considered whether this was manipulative behavior, and decided Sara was right. “There you are. As soon as I give her this and she says yes, I’ll be family,” he pressed on, as Marylyn stood, gaping at the ring. “And besides, she has no family. They were killed a few days ago, and—”

Marylyn snapped out of her reverie. “What?”

Zach stopped. “They were killed. I thought you knew…”

“Dr. Marshall, for your information, her parents are in with her right now. If you don’t leave immediately, I’ll call security and—”

“What?” Zach asked.

“I said,” Marylyn started, but her desktop ’link sounded. “Wait right there while I get this, please.” She turned her head for a moment and connected the call.

Zach stepped around the desk and strode toward Sara’s room.

“Dr. Marshall,” Marylyn hissed from behind him. “Stop now. Stop.” From above, speakers announced a Code Orange in ICU. “Dr. Marshall, you cannot—”

Zach spun on the ICU nurse. “Marylyn. I’m going to find out who’s in there posing as Special Agent Goode’s parents, and it’s going to take more than you and a couple of rent-a-cops—”

“Zach?”

Zach’s breath caught in his chest at the familiar voice behind him. He turned, afraid to look, unable to stop. Miranda Goode stood ten feet away, leaning out of Sara’s room.

“Ms. Goode, this young man—”

Miranda stopped Marylyn with a raised finger and stepped into the open area.

Zach’s voice deserted him, leaving him silent and bewildered. He blinked. “I thought you were…” The words caught in his throat, like bones. “We thought…” he tried again, stopped. He couldn’t say it.

She waved a hand. “Don’t worry. We rescheduled the cruise.”

Zach tried to laugh, but it came out as a half sob. His lips tightened into a line and he closed his eyes as tears trickled down his cheeks.

“Jeez.” Miranda moved to face him. “Lighten up, Zach. Pull yourself together. You can see Sara, but don’t let Jack see you cry. Cops never forget.”

Marylyn stepped around to them. “You know this man?”

“Oh, yes, we know him,” Miranda said, brushing her fingertips over his shirt to straighten imaginary wrinkles. She looked at his still-spiked hair and suppressed a chuckle.

“Is there anything I can do?”

“No, thank you, Marylyn. We’re fine. Zach’s a little surprised to see us is all.” She returned her attention to Zach. “When Boone and Hayes knocked on the front door, we went out the back and through the hedge into the Walinski’s yard, and called a cab. If they were there, Murphy had to be right behind. Murphy apparently followed them, broke into the house, killed those two kids, Hayes and Boone, and tried to pin it on us.” She sighed. “What a dick. We are so better off without that guy.”

“You’re both okay?” He still couldn’t completely believe it.

“Of course. Why?”

He opened his mouth to tell her how glad he was, but the words tripped over each other on the back of his tongue. Instead, he stood rooted to the spot, grinning like a fool and not caring.

“You go see Sara.” Miranda moved around him and scooped the speechless nurse up. “Come on, Marylyn. Let’s go cancel that alert before things get crazy around here.”

Zach brushed the tears from his eyes as he approached Sara’s open door. He stopped short of entering and knocked. Sara sat propped in her bed, her arm in a sling. Her hair was loosely pinned up and faint circles had formed under her drooping eyes. She smiled at him. “Hi.”

Zach closed his eyes tight for a moment and blinked back the tears. “You’re all right.”

“Well, duh.” Her words were slurred. “If you don’t count being shot in the chest. No pain, though. Good meds.”

“Shh,” Zach said. “Please don’t talk.”

“I wish that was all it took,” her father said. His comment got him a sidelong scowl. Sara’s eyes narrowed as she tried to focus on him. Goode covered his smile with the fingers of one hand and stood from his chair. “She’s all yours. Good luck.”

“You were right,” Zach said to Goode as he approached. “About the questioning.”

“Did you get a good lawyer?”

Zach nodded.

“You told the truth?”

“Yes, I did.”

“Best you can do,” Goode said and tapped Zach on the arm as he passed.

Zach limped across the room and stopped next to Sara’s hospital bed. Her eyes moved up from his leg. “Nice cane, Dr. Boy. Heard you caught yourself a bullet.”

“I did.” He smiled at her reference to an earlier conversation. “Cute sling, Special Agent Blondie.”

“Former Special Agent.”

“Whatever.” He waited a beat. “I… spoke to Laz’s parents… they…” He closed his eyes and bit down on the memory of that video call. The last thing he’d expected was for them to thank him for being Laz’s friend with tears in their eyes, but they had.

“You know,” she said, blinking a couple of times to focus on him. “That limp’ll be the center of conversation at every party we go to for months.” She patted the stingy hospital mattress next to her.

Zach swallowed hard at the implications of her words. “You saying you want to spend time with someone who’s genetically positive for psychopathy?”

The rude noise she made caused him to laugh.

He winced at the pain from his rib, slid a hip next to hers on the bed, and took her hand in his. “I’m so sorry. If I’d known you were alive—”

“You’d have what— told Murphy to put his gun away and kiss your ass?” She shifted on the bed, groaning a little. “Did you really launch one of those monster SUVs off an Interstate ramp and kill that bastard?”

“I did. You think they’ll try to make me pay for the truck?”

Her laugh started her coughing. When she finally caught her breath, she was pale, and her eyes were glassy.

Zach waited till she settled onto the bed. “We’ve been through a lot in the last few days. Most of it pretty emotional, and you’re kind of wasted right now, so if you want to think about this for a few days or something, I understand.” He took the ring from its tiny velvet box and slipped it on her finger. It wiggled. “We’ll have to get it resized.”

She closed her hand around his. “Later.” She grabbed his tie with her good hand and tugged. “Come here.”

He grinned. “I think you need to rest.” Zach gently moved his arms around her and into her embrace.

As he brushed his lips against her forehead, she whispered, “You just wait till I get out of here.”

END

AFTERWORD

About the author

Here we are, again. Like the caterpillar’s question to Alice, I’ve always found “Who are you?” to be the most difficult one to answer. More so because it has always struck me as less about personal trivia than the more esoteric aspects of personality, like “what are your beliefs,” and “what is your philosophy,” or “what color are the glasses through which you peer at life?”—not to be confused with the question I’m more commonly asked—“what color is the sky on your planet?”

My home is Florida. It’s who I am. But my Florida isn’t tied tightly together by six-lane ribbons of asphalt, or littered with strutting, pastel, multi-million-dollar beach sandcastles. It’s a Florida of scrub palms and sand spurs; of cool December beach breezes, forty-minute four o’clock August thunderstorms, and sultry, honeysuckle-scented summer nights. And when I say Florida, I mean all of it. I’ve lived in every corner of my prickly paradise, from the rusty buckle of the bible belt up in the northeast corner, to a stone’s throw from Ft. Lauderdale’s Slip F-18; from Gainesville’s pines dripping with Spanish moss, to walking distance from where the road ended for Jack Kerouac. I’ve watched the sun rise over the Atlantic and drop, hot and red, into the Gulf on the same day; walked the backroads; raced motorcycles across the Everglades under a full April moon; and awoke, bleary-eyed and cotton-mouthed, on Key West’s Duval Street more than once. I wouldn’t trade those memories for a mountain of gold.

Please stop by http://www.mjcarlson.com or

https://www.facebook.com/pages/MJCarlsonAuthor/541197405998287?ref=hl

and say hi

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I hope reading this was as much fun for you as writing it was for me, because I had a blast. No one writes a book in a vacuum, and for all those kind souls who offered words of encouragement, suggestions, or or just put up with my sustained absences, I thank you. I would like to take a moment to specifically mention my ever-patient editor, Jennifer Zebel. Also, Laurie Andrews, Glenn Boutilier, Dave Brunetti, Nataleigh Palmer, Cheryl Bartoszek, Justin Gregoire, and the Central Library critique group in Cocoa, Florida. They read these pages before there was a story, and without them, there would have been no book. I would also like to mention my Wise Reader and muse, Sparkle. Without her, life would be a pale facsimile.

As always, any errors and omissions are fully my responsibility. Also as always, the reader who finds the greatest number of errors in this book may choose to have a victim named after him or her in a subsequent book.

OJW Conversion -

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

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