 
368

Andrew Draper

P

ower Failure

Book I

Chain Reaction

By Andrew Draper

© 2010 by Andrew Draper

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any way without the written permission of the publisher.

This story is a work of fiction. The characters, events and dialogs are the product of the author's imagination. Any similarity to persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and unintended.

Cover Art

Concept - Andrew Draper

Graphic Design - David Beaty, Bushi Tales

Contact Lighthouse Communications at

P.O. Box 25945 Prescott Valley, AZ 86312

Lhousecommuni@yahoo.com

www.andydraper.com
Acknowledgements:

Without the dedicated support of the people named below, this book would still be a pile of random notes scrawled on cocktail napkins and scraps of paper sitting in a box on my desk.

To my wife Gwendolyn, the anchor of my world. Her unwavering belief in my creative talent sustained me when even my own seemed to whither. Nothing good in my life exists without her.

To my former Boss, Heidi Dahms-Foster, she took a big risk and gave me a chance to write about things that mattered, then taught me how to write about them in a way that mattered.

To my parents, David and Jeanne Draper, who believed that you can achieve anything you're willing to work for and that the value of the achievement was directly proportional to the degree of difficulty.

I only wish that my mother had lived to see this book published.

I couldn't have done this without all of you.

Andrew A. Draper

January, 2010

Power tends to corrupt, and absolute power corrupts absolutely.

Lord John Acton

April, 1887

Part 1 - The Opening Gambit

Chapter One

Colonel Alex Freemont stalked around Jackson Verde's office like a caged panther, his lean body tensed. Nearing fifty years-old and standing a shade under six feet tall, Freemont sported a full head of dark hair with just a splash of gray at the center of his forehead. His crisp uniform lay taut, stretched over a muscular frame. His physical presence, coupled with piercing brown eyes and razor-sharp mind, made for a formidable adversary. The effect was not lost on the smaller man watching the controlled power of his movements from across the room.

Stopping in front of an ornate beveled glass window overlooking the Charles River, the soldier turned his back to the director of research and development, tucking his cap under his arm. After several seconds he turned back, now facing the man across the room. Pompous and arrogant, Freemont stood staring for a moment and Jack could almost feel him searching for the slightest sign of weakness. Then the colonel spoke, his strong voice filling the spacious room.

"Jack, we can't let research with this kind of potential fall into the wrong hands. Ryan may be a brilliant scientist, but she refuses to grasp the national security implications of her work. You've had plenty of time to talk to her."

Jack groaned at the malicious barb, tension causing an involuntary clenching of his jaw.

"Alex, she's a pure researcher," he said, by way of diversion. "She just doesn't think in those terms."

Jackson "Jack" Verde, at only five-feet, seven, had to look up at his guest. Verde liked and respected junior colleague Jennifer Ryan, but the colonel's indomitable manner proved more than a little intimidating. Below his dark, curly hair, beads of sweat formed on his forehead despite the cool temperature of the room.

Verde watched intently as Freemont renewed his pacing, the confident steps cushioned by the deep pile carpeting of his office.

"Quite frankly, I don't care how she thinks," Freemont snarled. "Terrorists are out there right now, thinking up new and creative ways to compromise the security of this nation. If her work can be of value to the safety of this country, I want it...period."

Jack thought back on his limited contact with the career military man over the past six months and his stomach lurched in revulsion. He hated the man and despised his Gestapo methods.

He'd waterboard his own Grandmother. Jack thought, watching the man complete yet another circuit of the room.

What ever possessed me to trust him? How could I've been so naïve? No. How could I have been so stupid!

Colonel Alex Freemont was as cold and ruthless a personality as Jack had ever encountered. He also knew without a doubt that he had no choice in the matter. His mind raced, looking for a way to defuse the dangerous situation he unwilling found himself in.

Jack slowly walked to the elegant bar built in to the far wall of his office. Sliding the glass door to one side, he reached into the cabinet above and removed a laser-monogrammed cocktail glass, placing it before him on a silver serving tray.

Adorning the bar's top sat a matching set of crystal decanters filled with exotic distillations from around the world. It was only 8:45 in the morning, but Verde already knew this day would best be endured with the aid of a little liquid courage. Jack looked at his reflection in the bar's polished mahogany surface and didn't much like the view. Selecting the largest of the elegant carafes, he poured himself three fingers of first-class Kentucky whiskey, intentionally neglecting to offer anything to his unwelcome and domineering guest.

He swallowed deeply, the liquor burning a trail of fire down his throat before searing his tightly knotted stomach. He stared into the translucent brown liquid of the half-empty glass, regretting the day he ever told Colonel Alex Freemont about the 'Ever-cell' project.

Why couldn't I have just kept my mouth shut? He mentally castigated himself, cursing his unbridled hubris and the unintended consequences. When will I ever learn?

On the other side of the room, Freemont elongated his orbital path to meet Verde at the bar. Coming face to face with Jack, he spoke, the words weighted with a controlled venom that made the hair on the back of the smaller man's neck stand up.

"I'll say this one more time," Freemont's deep, resonant voice filled the room, the tones strong and confident. "You tell Dr. Ryan to prepare for me to assume control of her project," he paused to breathe deeply. "I don't need to remind you that this lab exists to serve the Army, do I?"

Jack blinked several times while the caustic remark saturated his chaotic mind, causing tendrils of fear to spread through his consciousness. He cleared his throat, using the time to carefully gather his thoughts.

"With all due respect colonel, Diversified Research is a private enterprise. You can't just order her to turn her research over to any unauthorized personnel, including yourself," he said. "We're not part of the Army. We just contract to the Pentagon...among others."

Jack saw the muscles in Freemont's face bunch in irritation, pinching the man's expression into tight angles.

"And you think you can keep the doors open developing a new and better toothpaste?" The career solider sneered. "Without defense department contracts, you'd be closed in a week. You know it and I know it. So, don't delude yourself into thinking you have any real control here. The one holding the purse strings has the control...and that means me."

Jack quietly swallowed the lump forming in his throat. He carefully contemplated his response, steeling himself before he answered, lacing the words with false bravado. "Of course military contracts are a sizable portion of our revenue, but don't think that just because..."

Freemont waved his hand, cutting Verde off in mid-sentence. "No. Don't you think that I won't pull every dime from this lab and watch it fold like a paper bag. Do you understand?" he pointed a thick finger at Verde. "I'm not asking for Ryan's cooperation in this matter. I'm ordering it...and I expect you to make it happen."

Jack felt the spike of adrenaline surge through his system at Freemont's callous words.

The Colonel picked an imaginary piece of lint from his uniform's lapel and continued. "I'm sure your competition would love a crack at...," Freemont lifted his head, eyes boring into the man before him. "What was it, twenty million...in research dollars?"

Knowing the colonel might very well carry out his threat to close the lab, Jack felt his resolve weakening. He took another large swig of his drink, feeling the whiskey further irritate his already-churning stomach.

Freemont took a step back, retreating out of Jack's "personal space". The physical separation between the two men did nothing to alleviate escalating tension crackling in the air.

"We've had this discussion before, but I'll say it again, since you've obviously forgotten. I provide the funding, and that means I control the resultant technology," Freemont said. "My order shouldn't come as a shock. You knew all along that any technology with military applications arising from this research would fall under my command. That caveat is in the contract and I'm exercising that prerogative now."

Jack stalked around the room, straining his intellect, blindly searching for a way to deter Freemont. "You can't be serious. I know you said that anything useful to the Army would be...but...Ryan herself said this project is nowhere near ready for field testing."

"That's for me to decide," Freemont growled. "Your job is to see that this project is delivered to me...as instructed."

Jack reached his desk and stopped, dropping heavily to his chair.

My God, he's really going to close the lab if I don't do what he says...or he could go after Jenny. I can't let that happen.

Jack threw up his hands in a gesture of surrender. "Okay, I'll do it."

He removed a long cigar from the humidor on the left end of the desk and took his time clipping the end off before lighting it. He expelled a thick cloud of aromatic smoke, trying to get a grip on his growing apprehension before continuing. "I'll try to convince Jenny to turn over the project to me...then I give it to you. However, I don't think she'll go for it. Anytime I mention naming someone to her project, even as a co director, she goes ballistic. If she gets one whiff of military involvement..."

Freemont leaned forward, both hands on the desk top. "So, are you telling me you can't make it happen?" his words smacked of an accusation, the harsh tone an open insinuation of incompetence. "That would be very disappointing."

"I didn't say that," Verde's voice wavered, fear mixing with the uncertainty plaguing his chaotic thoughts. "It just may take some time. She's very...proprietary."

Freemont again stood upright. "You've had plenty of time...months in fact...to soft-peddle the idea to Ryan. Now, get it done!"

Jack puffed several times on the cigar in silence before nodding his head. "Fine. I'll talk to her today."

"Good. Now that we understand each other, you tell Dr. Ryan to get on board. No ands, ifs or buts. Otherwise, I have no choice but make her life, and yours, dammed uncomfortable."

He turned his back on Verde, again facing the window. "Am I making myself clear?"

Hearing no response, Freemont strode across the room, stopping at the door. "Good. I knew you weren't a complete idiot."

With the insult still hanging heavy in the air, Freemont made his exit, leaving the door open as a last sign of self-importance and contempt.

Jack downed the rest of his drink. The threat ringing in his ears, he faced the empty office feeling he'd just sold Freemont the key to Pandora's box. He poured himself another measure of whiskey before returning to his desk.

I have to figure out a way to make this work. Jenny's just going to have to understand. It's for her own good.

A detestable sense of self-loathing swelled in his mind. Freemont's right. Like it or not, he's calling the shots.

Jack contemplated the inescapable truth of what he must do next. He took another sip of the fine liquor, his thoughts becoming dark and morose as he waited for the whiskey to deaden his senses

Hand on the desk phone, his stomach did another anxious cartwheel as he considered what he would say. He searched his unsettled thoughts for some plausible justification to get his preeminent scientist to release her project...for reasons he couldn't reveal...or justify. He punched the buttons and heard the sound of the ringing line.

Chapter Two

The angry shriek of the alarm clock woke Aaron Casey out of a fitful sleep. His head throbbed. Banging with the pulsing of his blood and the ringing in his ears, his body telegraphed the tell-tale signs of a yet another well-earned hangover. Aiming for the nightstand, he blindly slammed his hand down, knocking over a glass of water before hitting the clock and silencing the high-pitched wailing.

The house was still dark and the red lights on the clock blinked six o'clock. Sitting up, he rubbed his eyes and tried to swallow. His tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth, the gritty residue of too much alcohol clogging his taste buds. He swung his legs over the edge of the mattress and placed his feet on the cold floor, dehydrated muscles protesting in pain. He scrubbed his unshaven face in his hands.

Still a bit unsteady, he walked to the wall and turned on the light. The brilliant flash set off another denotation of pain between his ears. He snapped the lights off again.

"Another day. Oh joy," he groaned sarcastically to the dark and empty room.

Making his way down the hall to the bathroom, he looked at his reflection in the mirror. The man staring back had seen better days. The wrinkles barely noticeable a few months ago now shouted their presence from the polished glass. Puffy bags outlined the bloodshot eyes squinting in the harsh light of the room, detracting from his handsome features.

You look like hell. He reprimanded the man in the mirror. You better get your act together!

After showering, he made his way into the kitchen, guided by the frenzied bubbling of the coffee maker, and inhaled the warm aroma of the fresh brew. Grabbing the remote control, he turned on the T.V. and listened as the harsh sound of the CNN news broadcast filled the room.

The "brown bottle fog" in his head finally beginning to clear, he heard a small tinkling sound between headline stories. He recognized the noise as Rambo's collar tag. In the blink of an eye the small white cat perched on the arm of the chair, her deep amber eyes watching him expectantly.

"Are you ready for breakfast, you little fur ball?" he asked. Rambo meowed in agreement.

As he dished out her food, Rambo paced impatiently. She circled his legs, fluffing up her long white coat and swishing her tail in anticipation. Aaron set the dish down and watched her eat with a gusto that never ceased to amuse him.

While he gazed at her, his mind began to wander back to the dream he had last night. It was nothing new. It was the same dream that invaded his sleep almost every night. It was a dream that woke him up screaming, the sweat pouring from his body in spite of the December chill in the air. It was a horrific nightmare, the images a disturbing montage of fiery death he was powerless to prevent or control.

A knock on the door snapped him back with a start. Rambo never moved. She just cocked her head, rotated one ear toward the source of the sound like a satellite dish, and listened.

He walked to the front door and checked the peephole. The round, smiling face of his housekeeper, Mrs. Nunez, looked back.

It's 7:30 already?

Opening the door, he motioned her into the apartment with a wave of his hand. "Good morning Carlotta, come on in. How are you?"

The housekeeper took off her coat before answering. "Oh, just fine for a walking Popsicle. It must be five below outside."

Aaron left the woman and walked into the kitchen. "You want some coffee to take the chill off?" He called over his shoulder.

The Mexican woman responded with a hardy laugh. "I thought you'd never ask."

He returned from the kitchen and she accepted the large mug gratefully. He watched her sip the steaming liquid and warm herself. His heart went out to her.

At 33 years of age, Carlotta Nunez worked two jobs to support her three children. Aaron hired her to cook his meals and clean his apartment after she finally gathered the courage to testify against her horribly abusive husband, sending him to prison. He did it not because he needed her, but because she lived in the building and this job allowed her to bring her children with her after school and save the cost of childcare. That was a year ago, and the arrangement worked out well.

Aaron put on his coat and grabbed his keys. "See you tonight."

The slightly round woman waved as she started her work. "Have a good day!"

He looked at Rambo with mock impatience. "Are you coming, Princess?"

Rambo appeared at his side so fast she seemed to materialize in place. He picked her up, put her on his shoulder for the walk to the office and with a nod to Carlotta, closed the door behind him.

His heavy footsteps echoed quietly off the corridor's polished marble floor, the hollow sounds bouncing off white plaster walls as he approached the elevator. Reaching the doors, his temples throbbed, still fighting the after-effects of his over-indulgence in cheap scotch. He stepped inside the sparse interior of the car and pushed the button for the ground level, doors closing with a soft whirr.

The elevator made its steady descent to street level and he reviewed the dream in his mind as the numbers on the floor indicator regressed. His skin prickled with grating tension as the scenes replayed across his internal vision. He could almost feel the heat of the explosion, smell the stench of the fire's noxious fumes. He could almost hear the screams.

His toxic thoughts were interrupted by the chime of a small bell. The sharp 'ding' announced his arrival at the ground floor. Sighing, he put the images on the back-burner of his mind and began to look toward to the busy day ahead.

I'll be fine as soon as I get to work, get focused on something else.

He expelled a long sigh.

The days are still a lot easier to handle than the nights.

Snow crunched under his boots as he walked down the block in silence, alone with his ubiquitous demons. The cold, crisp air stung his face, but with the sun finally up, he knew another beautiful winter day lay ahead.

He enjoyed walking to the office in spite of the bitter cold. It allowed him time to concentrate on getting his day organized and his cluttered mind prepared for the mountain of tasks ahead.

He made his daily stop at the coffee stand to get his caffeine fix and chat with the owner, Jimmy Dentella. "Morning, Jimmy," he called from a few yards away.

Dentella was old-world Italian. A big loud bear of a man, he was dressed in a well-worn parka with the hood pulled up against the cold. A long, dark mustache outlining his toothy smile, he reminded Aaron of a walrus...in a suit.

"Morning Aaron. How you doin'?" he asked.

"Can't complain. And you?"

Dentella's sizeable bulk, magnified by the puffy jacket, filled the small booth. His hands constantly in motion, he cleaned the stainless steel counter and arranged his wares while he spoke. "Same old, same old. I guess. What can I get for you?"

"Hmm, let's try something different today. How about a large Chocolate-Hazelnut to go, please."

"Coming right up," Dentella looked at Rambo, her graceful head peeking out of Aaron's partially zipped coat. "And for the lady?"

"Milk, straight-up," he said with a grin.

Jimmy busied himself preparing Aaron's order, the large brass coffee grinder emitting a malevolent howl as he continued talking. Aaron got all the neighborhood gossip from Jimmy and this morning it was not good.

"Did you hear?" the huge man paused, looking around to see if he were being overheard. Satisfied in his privacy, he leaned closer to Aaron and continued. "Word on the street is they pink slipped three hundred guys at Mid Atlantic last week, and another two hundred at General Building yesterday. That sucks! What are these guys supposed to do, with Christmas only two weeks away?"

Dentella poured some warm milk in a small metal dish for Rambo as he lamented and she purred loudly as she lapped it up.

He paused in thought as he carefully wiped down his cart again. "Aaron, you know I hate to ask, but do you need any help down at the job site? I know some of these guys that got the axe and they got families to take care of."

Seeing the genuine concern in his friend's eyes, Aaron responded tentatively. "I'll see what I can do."

The Italian gave him a conspiratorial wink. "Thanks. I knew you'd be a stand up guy."

Aaron smiled inwardly. That's Jimmy, always trying to help out his friends.

He grabbed Rambo, who meowed in annoyance, and accepted the steaming cup from Dentella.

Aaron waved good-bye, the little feline now tucked safely back inside his coat and his coffee in his hand.

"You be good, pizan!" Dentella yelled as he watched him walk away.

Aaron moved down the street and thought about the grievous news Dentella shared.

If I went ahead with the plumbing and wiring on thirty one it would put a huge strain on the budget...but it would open up more than a hundred new jobs.

Making the decision to go ahead with the work, he scratched Rambo behind her ears. "Well, I guess you gotta spend money to make money."

His pace quickening, he rounded the last turn onto Revere Street and saw his baby. The Boston Tower, Casey Construction's most ambitious project, stood gleaming in the newly risen sunlight. He took the concrete entry steps two at a time and pulled the door open, stepping inside.

The warm air surrounded him as he stepped in from the cold, and so did the noise of the multitude inside. The lobby of the Tower building bustled with the fervent activity of dozens of people, each on their own mission, crowded in line to catch the elevators. Sipping coffee and dodging each other with cell phones glued to ears, the over-dressed massed headed toward another "day at the office" while he joined the line and attempted to make his way upstairs.

Chapter Three

Jennifer Ryan looked at her watch, her long blond hair still damp from the shower.

Damn, I'm late... again.

She downed the last of her now-tepid coffee, grabbed her coat and headed for the office. She opened the front door, the cold air hitting her like an express train. The icy blast instantly chilled her to the bone.

The thirty year-old scientist made her way through the frigid streets, her mind, as always, centered on her work. She cursed herself. She still couldn't get the dammed battery to work properly.

It performs in all the simulations but the prototype burns out after just a few seconds. What am I missing?

Her insides knotted in disappointment and frustration.

Three months of redesign and it still isn't right!

After three years of work, she could feel how close she was to the solution. She angrily kicked a booted foot at the snow bank, sending a piece of ice skidding down the frozen sidewalk.

Eyes following the projectile's sliding path, she looked a block up the street and noticed a small group of children on their way to school. A snowball war raged among the motley assemblage of youngsters and their carefree laughter reached her as each pelted the others. She sighed loudly, momentarily envying them their innocent, care-free existence.

Oh, to not have the cares of adult life. No rent, no boss to impress, no grants to secure. Just unlimited time to do as you please...and to have their energy!"

She smiled at the thought as she watched them declare a "cease-fire", the entire boisterous pack scrambling toward a bright yellow school bus stopped at the corner. The boxy leviathan waited patiently, it's flashing red lights warning motorists of the children's imminent approach.

Watching the bus pull away from the curb, Jenny continued her walk, she also continuing her musings.

It seems that we use up a lifetime of energy before we're ten years old.

She stopped at a coffee stand in the middle of the block for a cappuccino and as she walked away with the steaming brew in hand, the answer came to her. Like a crack of thunder, it rang in her ears.

The problem with the battery is that it acts like a child!

The total simplicity of the idea made Jenny laugh out loud and she knew she had finally discovered the key to her problem...or at least part of it.

It has no pacing, no restraint. It's using all of its energy in an uncontrolled "super burst".

Her pulse quickened and the work center in the back of her mind raced as the wind picked up, chill gusts blowing in off the frigid Atlantic Ocean.

Beginning to really feel the cold now, a sudden shiver ran the length of her body. She contemplated the merits of this particular mode of transportation.

Taking the car is faster, until you add in the time to find a parking space, and then you have to include the ten dollar fee!

Nothing irritated Jenny more than paying to park. It was just one of her pet peeves. Fee or no fee, she silently reminded herself to drive the next time the temperature dropped near zero.

I've been working for months on ways to mitigate the affects of the heat. I can't believe I missed it. It's so simple!

As she rounded the last turn, the building appeared. Rising between the other monoliths dotting the sun-lit skyline, the new "Boston Tower" building sat right in the middle of the North End. The papers said the latest methods and techniques were used in its construction and the media dubbed it "The Castle of Boston".

She looked up at the 75 floors of glass and gold anodized steel as she ascended the steps toward the entry. The offices of Jenny's employer, Diversified Research Inc. occupied the Tower's entire 28th floor and she considered herself lucky to be working there. With its first class reputation and budgets, a position there embodied a research scientist's dream.

A cloud of warm air enveloped her as she entered the lobby. The hushed voices of dozens of anonymous people carried across the vast expanse, echoing off the travertine walls as they made their way to the elevators or down the corridors beyond. Soft light glowed in hundreds of silver points from a colossal crystal chandelier, the gold down-rod suspending it twenty feet above the mosaic marble floor.

She approached a guard sitting at a chrome and glass security desk in the center of the room, leaving a trail of wet footprints as she moved. "Morning Carl, how's it going?"

"Oh, just fine, and how are you?" he asked, his Georgia roots evident in this smooth drawling speech. "Are ya'll getting ready for Christmas?"

Jenny gave a good-natured groan while she passed through the checkpoint, swiping her key card in the magnetic lock on the door beyond. "No, I haven't even started yet. I always wait until the last minute. I'm so bad about that."

"Well ya'll better get a move on, it's almost here." He said.

Her face flushed in embarrassment at the admission of procrastination. "I will."

"See ya'll later." He said and she returned his small parting wave, walking away from the jovial security guard.

Moving down the hall, Jenny's mind was still working on the battery problem as she reached the elevator doors. The opulent glass and polished steel barrier parted soundlessly and she stepped into the posh interior of the car, touching the button for the 28th Floor. While the elevator climbed effortlessly aloft, she began to go over the last tests of the prototype in her mind, dissecting her failures one by one.

She had gambled on her own theory that the excess energy given off by radio-active waste could be safely manipulated to be useful, bringing her only laughter and scorn from the so called "experts" in the scientific community. Their cruelly rendered words still rang in her ears. It won't work...and even if it does, it's too dangerous. No responsible researcher would attempt it.

She remembered well the grim disappointments of her early overtures. After years of theoretical research, the Department Of Energy brass sent her a letter denying her application for research funding, dismissing her theory as "dangerous, ego-driven folly" without bothering to gain any real understanding of how the process worked. She clenched her teeth in anger, remembering how the self-appointed "deities" at the Nuclear Regulatory Commission questioned her for hours on why she wanted to do research on atomic waste, only to deny her request in the end. She smiles as she remembered cursing their inane shortsightedness.

Depressed and angry, she'd left her upstate New York home to work for a Manhattan chemical company developing food additives. It paid the bills, but it offered no challenge to a woman who earned a doctorate in chemistry at the age of 22 and a second one in nuclear physics at 24. For two years she marked time, plugging away at her job and continuing to develop her particle manipulation theory in her spare time.

My God! That was six years ago. Has it really been that long?

Staring at the elevator doors, she also recalled the day her life changed. After she had almost given up hope of ever being able to really see her theory to fruition, Jackson Verde walked into her office and made her an offer she couldn't refuse.

A grin crossed her face as the elevator moved skyward and she remembered her initial feelings of righteous indignation. The man who would later be her boss sat down in her chair and put his feet up on her desk.

She remembered being shocked into silence, staring wide-eyed while he reverently lit a cigar and blew out a thick cloud of aromatic blue smoke before speaking.

"Dr. Ryan, I'm Dr. Jackson Verde, and we're both busy, so I'll get right to the point. I work for a defense contractor called Diversified Research Incorporated. I read your latest paper on particle manipulation technology and I have two questions. Question number one; will it work?" he'd asked, pausing only briefly to await a reply.

Still too stunned to speak, Jenny nodded in the affirmative.

"Question number two; what do you need to make it work?"

Jenny remembered his total faith in her and her theory. In addition, she had to give him points for sheer audacity. Four years later, she was head of the chemical research department. The first class lab and skilled support staff gave her the freedom to devote a large amount of time to the particle manipulation project, code-named "Ever-cell", time that seemed wasted of late.

The bell above her head chimed, snapping her stroll down memory lane and signaling her arrival at the 28th floor. She stepped out of the elevator and strode down the hall, passing an eclectic collection of post-modern art hanging in the hallway to her office. Passing a uniformed solider in the hall, she concentrated on her own thoughts. Arriving at her desk, she sorted her email, discovering that Jack wanted to see her.

The problems with the prototype will just have to wait.

Reaching Verde's office, she tapped lightly on the partially open door. Jack called from in front of the bar across the room.

"Hi, Jen. Come on in." She stepped inside.

Decorated in dark woods and red leather, the space possessed the formal air of the exclusive men's clubs of the nineteenth century. She suddenly felt small pings of anxiety race through her.

He placed an antique flintlock pistol on a wooden stand, the small brass nameplate glittering in a shaft of sunlight streaming through the window. The silver-inlaid firearm took its place among a collection adorning a series of small glass shelves, their staggered formation flanking both sides of the bar.

"New addition?" She asked hesitantly.

He smiled. "I found one that belonged to Samuel Adams himself. It was actually a gift from George Washington."

She had no interest in firearms, antique or not, and knowing any response would seem contrived, she smiled uneasily and pressed on. "You wanted to see me?"

"Sit down, Jenny. I need to talk to you for a minute."

She swallowed hard and walked toward the overstuffed wing-back chairs on the opposite side of his richly appointed office and sat down.

The face of Jack shaking hands with Presidents and celebrities stared out at her from the wall behind the enormous oak desk. Their two-dimensional eyes seemed to follow her, making her senses crackle with nervous energy.

He lit a cigar and spoke, the authority of his tone penetrating the puffs of smoke. "We need to talk about the particle manipulation project."

Chapter Four

After waiting for several minutes, Aaron finally managed to catch an elevator, wedging himself in with a dozen or so others. As it sped upward, he marveled at the number of people already at work at eight-thirty in the morning.

Exiting at the 30th floor, he found the door to the office of Casey Construction already unlocked and he entered the reception area, loudly announcing his presence. "Diane, just once I would like to beat you to the office in the morning."

Diane Keller came around the tall file cabinet with a manila folder in her hand and big grin on her face. "Fat chance boss. If I ever let you beat me in, I'd never hear the end of it."

A stunning redhead, the twenty-six year-old had been Aaron's office manager for two years. Ultra efficient, without being stuffy or arrogant, Diane proved to be a genius at keeping him on schedule and was much more a trusted assistant then just a manager.

She saw Rambo's small white face peek out above the zipper of Aaron's coat and laughed again.

"I see 'Her Royal Tinyness' is with you today. Someone better warn the mice."

He joined in her infectious humor with a lop-sided grin. "No self-respecting mouse would dare show his face with her around."

Opening the door to his kingdom, he flipped the lights on and went inside. Rambo jumped from his arms and into a chair next to the desk, settling in with a yawn and a stretch. Aaron hung his jacket on an ornate teak coat tree in the corner next to the door.

The Spartan office was small when compared to the sprawling expanses occupied by most corporate executives. A neat, efficient workspace, it sported only a few pictures on the desk, while stacks of blueprints and reference manuals filled the bookshelves along the wall to his right. A bank of floor-to-ceiling windows to his left balanced the aesthetics, offering a stunning view of the city beyond.

The top of his desk, thanks to Diane, also represented a textbook study in efficiency. On the left end, a stack of file folders arranged in order of importance, on the right end rested an elegant gold writing set in an oak holder and he saw the day's mail placed in the center, awaiting his attention.

Sitting in his black leather high-backed chair, he briefly looked at the photographs standing in opposite corners of the desk. On the right, a crystal frame held a candid shot of his mother and his younger sister Beth. His favorite, the picture showed the two women smiling and obviously happy.

The photo was taken a little over two years ago and he thought about how much the lives of these two women had changed since then. His mother Ann, being devastated by the death of his father only one month after the photo session, and Beth, blinded in an accident by a drunk driver just a few months later.

He looked away from their smiling faces and tried to get motivated. He needed to tackle some reports that were due, but somehow didn't really feel like plodding through paperwork. The thought of spending endless hours writing detailed descriptions of complicated construction methodology for city bureaucrats who would never understand them made him visibly wince.

He couldn't bear to look at the other picture, the gold filigree frame resting on the far right corner. It still hurt too much to think of Heather. He started up his computer and began writing the first report, trying to fight off the memories, not an easy task when it came to her.

Aaron Casey had met many women in his life, but never had he known anyone like Heather Robbins. She was, by far, the most exciting woman he had ever known. A tiny pixie at only five-feet, three inches tall, Heather was blond and stunningly beautiful, her delicate features and captivating smile something out of Elvin lore. She had the look and style of a super model, tempered with the relaxed demeanor of the 'girl next door'. Her endless blue eyes complimented a warm and caring personality and as soon as he saw her, he fell for her like a cliff diver. Sitting in his office dodging the reports, his mind drifted back to their first, chance, encounter.

Aaron had grudgingly attended the annual party Boston College hosted for its prominent graduates. He could still remember the pungent smell of cigars and hear the string quartet playing elevator music in the hotel's dim ballroom.

Standing in a circle of admiring men both young and old, Heather exuded grace and charm. He remembered taking in every inch of her petite body, the sculpted curves sheathed in black silk. She made small talk, polite yet a little uncomfortable amidst all the unwanted attention.

While she enchanted the male attendees, he attempted to escape the clutches of the wife of the college president. A woman old enough to be his mother, Gloria Damian had an annoying habit of grabbing his ass whenever his back was turned. He still chuckled at the memory of her undisguised pursuit and his tactful evasions.

The evening wore on and he couldn't help staring across the crowd at this tiny little woman who had every man in the room at her feet. After several minutes of intermittent eye contact, she broke free of her admirers and headed to the bar, he followed her.

He tried to be suave as he introduced himself and offered her a glass of champagne. She gave him an appraising glance, but still she accepted and they began the 'party small talk' dance.

After several minutes of superficial discussion covering everything including the weather and the Bruins Stanley Cup chances, Heather coughed, waving a delicate hand in front of her face.

"The smoke in here is getting to me." She'd said.

Not wanting the conversation to end, Aaron prayed he hadn't misread her signals. "Would you like to go out on the terrace and get some air?"

She shot him a sly look. "Sure, but won't you miss all the fun and excitement in here?"

He threw his hand to his forehead in a gesture of mock distress and did his best, but still pathetic, Scarlet O' Hara impression. "However will I survive?"

She laughed, flashing him a captivating smile that instantly set his insides on fire. With a flourish of his hand and a Rhett Butler bow, he led the way to the terrace. "After you, my dear."

As the two of them walked to the entrance, he dropped slightly behind and lifted a rose out of a table arrangement, presenting it to her at the door.

"Thank you for saving me from a slow, boring death in there." He said, offering her the flower, its delicate scent wafting up between them.

She smiled and graciously accepted the gift, gently inhaling the fragrance. "Thank you, but President Damian's wife seemed to be keeping you occupied."

Aaron shook his head and rolled his eyes as his face reddened in embarrassment. "Yes, and it will be at least a week before I can sit down again."

They both laughed and went out into the cool night air. On the terrace, the conversation came easily and he was delighted to find her as intelligent and sensitive as she was beautiful. The crickets chirped loudly and the full moon crossed a star-lit sky while they talked about everything from politics to kids. By the time he thought to glance at his watch, he discovered more than two hours had gone by.

The luminous dial on his wrist told him it was after midnight and although neither wanted the evening to end, he walked her to her car and kissed her good night. It was a long, deep kiss, the sweet taste of her on his lips long after she disappeared from view. He knew right then that if she would have him, his single days were over. Three months of whirlwind courtship later he proposed and she accepted, making it the happiest day of his life.

The cruel reality of the present intruded and shattered Aaron's sweet reverie. His emotional self didn't want to believe it actually happened, but his practical side refused to join in the delusion and the grim truth made his blood run cold.

Beth had told Aaron she was going shopping and would meet him for a late lunch. At three o'clock he began to wonder what happened to her. Beth hated being late and he made several calls trying to find her, all unsuccessful. What he didn't know, until later, was that she had picked up a passenger.

He sat in his office chair unblinking, while the excruciating memories continued to roll forward like a movie he couldn't stop. At 3:15 the phone rang and he instantly recognized the frantic voice of his mother on the other end of the line. Ann stammered and sputtered in distress as she tried to speak. 'Youu have to come to the hossspital quick! Beth was in an accident!"

Aaron heard those words and a burning rush of panic surged through his body. "Come where? Mom, where are you?"

"Mass. General. Aaron, she's hurt bad. You need to hurry."

The heavy rush-hour traffic seemed transparent as he raced across town and burst through the emergency room doors.

The E.R. at Massachusetts General Hospital resembled its counterparts all over the country, big on function but short on comfort and humanity. The antiseptic smell assaulted his nose while he scanned the crowd of sick and wounded, finding his mother sitting in a corner chair. He ran to her side, his face white with worry. "How is she?"

He sat next to his mother, holding her hand for what seemed like an eternity. His insides churning, he feared the worst. Time seemed to stand still as the two waited for some news. A doctor finally came through the glass doors separating the waiting room from examination cubicles.

"I'm Doctor Allen. Are you Miss Casey's family?"

Aaron nodded. "How is she doctor?"

"She suffered mostly minor injuries, but she's got a significant amount of windshield glass lodged in both eyes. We have an eye specialist with her now, but I don't know if the surgeon will be able to save her sight. We'll know more after she's finished, but I'm afraid the prognosis isn't good."

His heart sank, his only sister blind. It was almost too much for him to comprehend. Reeling in shock, he almost didn't hear the doctor mention a second victim. It took him several seconds to register the new information.

"A second victim, what second victim?"

The doctor flipped through the papers on his clipboard and read in the monotones only medical school can perfect. "Victim number two, her name is Heather Robbins..."

Aaron stopped him in mid sentence. "Where is she?"

The doctor looked up from his papers and studied him for a long moment. "Are you a relative?"

"No."

"No. Then I'm sorry, you can't see her right now."

"I said, where is she?" He barked, sitting up straighter in his chair.

"I'm sorry, if you're not a relative you can't see her right now." the doctor repeated.

Aaron had enough of the doctor's evasion. He stood to his full six-feet, four inches and leaned forward, towering over the doctor, his face tight, the expression menacing.

"She's my Fianceé. So you better tell me where she is right now, or you'll need a doctor."

The man studied him carefully, gauging the danger, then cleared his throat before speaking. "When the ambulance brought her in, she had sustained massive trauma to her head and chest. We tried to stabilize her so we could get her into surgery. While we worked on her, she went into cardiac arrest and after several attempts we were unable to revive her. I'm sorry, but we did everything we could."

Aaron's heart stopped as the words rang in his ears like Hell's bells. He staggered backwards until the chair stopped him and he collapsed into it. He tried to wrap his mind around the doctor's devastating words.

He's lying! It just can't be true. Heather can't be dead!

He looked to his mother to deny it, but the crushed and dazed expression he saw told him it was true. The love of his life was gone.

"Aaron!" Diane called, louder this time.

The sights, sounds and smells of the emergency room dissolved and he slowly became aware of his surroundings again. He noticed the picture of Heather in his hand. He answered Diane as he placed the frame, face-down, on the desk and tried to compose himself. "What? Oh, sorry Diane, what's up?"

She picked up the photograph, studying it briefly. "Aaron, you've got to stop blaming yourself. It was a tragic accident. It wasn't your fault." Diane paused, obvious concern filled her face. "She was a wonderful girl and we all loved her."

"Thanks Di, I think I just need to get my mind off it for awhile. What's on the schedule board for today?"

Quickly consulting her PDA, she tapped the screen with a stylus, rattling off a day filled with meetings and appointments. Aaron hardly heard her. His mind was nowhere near his body.

After the third question with no response, she realized he wasn't listening. "Look, you need to rest," she said. "I'll handle the Bergsten conference call and send the revised plans to the city architect. Why don't you go home and try to take it easy for the rest of the day. You're no good to me here."

Just about to refuse her, he suddenly felt waves of fatigue overrun his mind and body. It took a few more gentle pushes before he reluctantly agreed to her suggestion.

"Okay. I'll go, but you call me if you need me for anything."

She kissed him on top of the head and looked into his eyes for several seconds. "I miss her too. Just remember this, she loved you and all she wanted was to be your wife."

Diane's gentle reminder made him feel better, if only for a moment. "Thank you. That means a lot."

He collected a sleeping Rambo from her chair, an act she looked upon unfavorably. With Diane shooing him like a vexatious child, he left the office and the elevator delivered him back into the indifferent arms of the cold, lonely city.

Chapter Five

Jenny sat in the huge leather chair and tried to control her restless thoughts. As she looked around, she saw Jack's drink, momentarily forgotten on the bar. She found the presence of a cocktail glass odd, because Jack virtually never drank during working hours. Even stranger was the fact that he called her to his office so early in the first place.

Jenny surmised that whatever he wanted to discuss must be important, if he couldn't wait till the weekly staff meeting already scheduled for later that afternoon.

"Do you want some coffee or something?" he asked.

"No, thanks I grabbed one on the way in."

Picking up his drink, he walked around to the other chair and sat down. He took a sip and made his opening gambit.

"How's the battery project going?" he asked.

The question didn't totally blindside her and she studied him for several seconds, taking a moment to formulate an evasive, yet believable, response.

"For the most part it's progressing well, just a few bugs to get out."

Why the sudden interest? She wondered, her nerves tingling with foreboding.

Jack ran several research departments and she couldn't think of a logical reason he would be so interested in any one project. This, coupled with the appearance of the nameless soldier in the hallway, vaulted her suspicion into overdrive. Mentally confirming her chosen course of action, she decided to keep the true status of the project to herself.

"I hope to see some real results by the middle of next year. A full break down will be in the monthly report." She offered.

After years of allowing her creative control of her projects, she couldn't understand his sudden bit of micro-management.

"Jack, you and I have known each other for a long time, and you didn't call me in here to get a status report that you could have read in a memo, did you?"

He paused, then reached into his jacket and withdrew a long, thick cigar. He removed the band before igniting it with a gold lighter taken from his pocket.

"All right, I'll get to the point. You've been doing a great job and I think you've earned a promotion," he said, puffing a cloud of thick smoke between words. "You should be concentrating on recruiting new projects and talent and let the junior staff take on the existing work. The board members and I think you're ready for more responsibility."

She thought for a long minute, rolling the offer over in her mind, closely examining the ulterior motives that seemed to spring up like weeds. "What would I be doing if I'm not in the lab?"

Seeing a look of disappointment color his features, she backtracked. "Don't get me wrong. I have no objection to the other guys taking over the current projects, they're all capable. They can finish what's in progress. All accept the "Ever-cell" project. That's my baby, and no one touches it but me."

Jack briefly contemplated the cigar's charred gray tip, rolling off the burned tobacco into a crystal ashtray until it glowed cherry red.

"Don't panic. The project will be in good hands. I'll put a full team on it so we can get it finished..."

Fear spiking in her thoughts, she stopped him in mid sentence, leaning forward and sitting on the edge of the chair. "Jack, we've talked about this before. You know it's too dangerous. Have you thought about what the wrong people could do with this kind of power?" she shook her head, her mouth set in stalwart determination. "The potential for abuse is too great. We have a responsibility to see that this technology is used properly. I want to see people benefit from my work, not be killed by it."

She became a touch defensive and her voice climbed an octave as she continued. "I won't have my work go the way of Einstein's, or Fermi's! I won't!"

He puffed on his cigar, engaging her eyes for a long moment before answering. "Do you remember the rough time you had getting 'Ever-cell' off the ground? Don't you want to see others get the same chance you did? I think your talents would be put to better use finding those kinds of people and projects...and making sure they come to this facility instead of our competition."

A sizable twinge of self-recrimination and guilt gripped her.

I can't remember how many times I prayed for an outfit like this to help me. All those brilliant scientists with new ideas stuck in the same place I was back then.

"Well, you have a point. But I still..." she stumbled over the words.

He interrupted her and went on. "I've been talking to the board and we think that you would be the perfect choice to be the new Vice-President of Project Development." he paused again. "And if it makes you feel better, I will personally assume control of the 'Ever-cell' project and oversee its completion."

Disbelief poured over her in heavy waves. Hands shaking, she just sat there looking at him in stunned silence. The thought of that much power in the wrong hands scared the hell out of her.

It wasn't that she didn't trust Jack, he was a super guy. More than once he had gone to bat for her projects with the board. He was also a brilliant scientist in his own right. However, he still indirectly worked for the military and she knew if the Pentagon got their hands on her battery technology all bets were off.

Even Jack couldn't insure its security then. I have to buy some time...but how?

"All right Jack, I'll think it over and I'll let you know."

She could feel him about to push for an answer when they were interrupted by a knock at the door.

"I'm sorry Jenny, excuse me a minute." He turned, calling toward the door. "Who is it?"

"It's Murphy, sir."

He got up, went to the door and opened it. Sean Murphy entered the office with his ever present mail cart. "Sorry for the interruption sir, but your secretary isn't at her desk...and some of this mail is marked urgent."

Sean pulled a large stack of mail from his cart and placed it on Jack's desk.

As the two waited to resume their conversation, Sean caught her eye. Her stomach clenched in distaste.

Heading toward the door, Murphy paused. "Excuse me again, Jenny. Would you like your mail now or do you want me to drop it off in your office?"

"In my office please. Thank you." She answered.

For reasons she couldn't quite figure out, the ferret-like man made her skin crawl.

Murphy closed the door behind him as he left and pushed the cart down the hall.

Jack returned to his chair, finishing the drink. "All right, where were we?"

Jenny entered the lab, her meeting with Jack still churning over and over in her mind. She refused to believe that he was trying to get her to give up on the Ever-cell project. The project meant too much to her, and he knew it.

He must have some kind of reason for wanting me to release it, but what could it be?

She decided to put it out of her mind for a while and get back to work. The revelation she'd had earlier that morning begged to be tested.

She pushed open the polished stainless steel doors and moved in among her instruments, her "friends" really.

The lab was her home away from home. Surrounded by the pristine white walls and comforting familiarity, she felt safe and in control when she was working. Time to forget about Jack for a few hours and make some progress on the project, A dour smile made its way across her features. Unlike the rest of my dysfunctional life.

Her problem, with the battery at least, was simple. She paused to take stock of her successes over the past few months, and there is dammed little to be proud of, She thought. I still can't get it to quit overheating.

The heat is what causes the failures...and the faster the reaction, the more heat it generates and more heat it generates, the faster the reaction, until it spirals out of control and cooks.

This was the elusive little gremlin that plagued her for the past three months.

Somehow there must be a way to stop the energy curve from building so quickly. If I can slow the reaction down, the battery won't generate so much heat.

After pulling her hair out devising unsuccessful ways to dissipate the excess heat, the idea for a possible solution finally hit her. The children she saw playing expended tremendous amounts of energy but could not maintain that level indefinitely.

They'd have to switch to a different game, something less energy intensive.

She ran the idea through her mind a second time.

Like the difference between running at full sprint and jogging, both will get you through a race. But only jogging will get you through without total exhaustion.

She thought about her new "Tortoise and Hare" principal as she headed across the lab to the coffee station, cups hanging in neat rows on the wall. She picked up the pot and started to fill it. As she turned on the cold tap, the faucet head fell off into the sink, spraying water in all directions and soaking her from the waist up.

She let out a small, startled yelp as she snapped the water off and uttered an unintended curse. Picking up a towel near the sink, she removed her glasses and dried her face. She attempted to screw the nozzle back on, but after several fruitless attempts she decided to just use it the way it was and leave the repairs for the maintenance staff.

She again opened the cold water valve and finished her chore. As she did, she noticed that the water coming from the tap was very agitated and pulsating wildly as it flowed.

She picked up the fallen piece and held it in position. She noticed this had the effect of reducing, but smoothing out, the stream of the water. "That's it!" she said, her voice echoing in the empty lab.

Dropping the damaged part back in the sink, she went to her computer, her mind suddenly ablaze. With the prototype battery already secured in the test chamber, she tapped several new commands into the keyboard.

That's it! Adjust the collection grid. Larger grid-spacing, smaller charge...and a smaller charge results in less heat...I hope.

She prepared the new configuration and looked at her watch to time the test; it read 11:56 a.m. On the last trial of the battery, it lasted only eighteen seconds before suffering a complete meltdown.

I hope it works this time. If my guess is right, this will smooth out the energy stream and make it much more controllable.

She mentally crossed her fingers and started the test. The computer screens bathed her in an eerie green light as she monitored the reaction, now holding stable. She held her breath as the first ten seconds passed, then fifteen seconds. She prepared herself for the disappointment of yet another failure while she reviewed the past. She couldn't count the number of times that she had been in this situation with the prototype, only to have it collapse under the strain.

The key to success: don't let the battery generate the heat in the first place! How could I have missed it! It's so elementary. I can't believe it took me this long to see it.

Her adrenalin flowed through her veins like hot lava as her watch showed twenty seconds. She looked at the read outs, the indicators all within acceptable levels. She noticed a slightly elevated power out put, but nothing critical.

Her nerves crackled in anticipation. Do I dare hope for success after all these years?

Two hours later she had her answer. The temperature and power output levels never varied by more than five percent, a resounding success. Just as she congratulated herself on her achievement, her blood suddenly ran ice cold as Jacks words flashed through her mind.

He said he'd personally assume control of the project!

She knew, now that a fully functional design existed, she had suddenly become expendable.

Anyone can duplicate the battery design with the data here in the lab!

Apprehension gnawing at her in growing bites, she also realized that any half-way competent engineer could marry this new technology to existing laser or other weapons systems, making the potential for disaster multiply exponentially.

Her terrified imagination began to run wild. In her mind's eye, she could see a web of armed military satellites orbiting the globe. With the unending power capacity of her batteries, she knew there would be no limit to their destructive capabilities.

The visions causing her stomach to flip in rolling waves of nausea, she also saw fleets of space shuttles, powered by her technology, armed to the teeth and placed in some admiral's hands in the name of "national security".

The questions buzzed through her mind like angry bees.

How can I keep this awesome power from being misused? I couldn't possibly stand up to the military once they got their hands on it. What do I do? I'm just a scientist.

She thought of Tesla, Oppenheimer and Fermi and how the great contributions they made to science became perverted into the most appalling weapons ever created. She thought grimly of Westinghouse. She was well aware that the 'electric chair' device he built, only to demonstrate the dangers of Edison's AC power system, quickly became the industry standard for a century of government-sanctioned murder.

I just can't let that happen to the Ever-cell. I've got to figure out a way to keep it away from the military. God only knows what they'd do with it.

As she contemplated one terrifying scenario after another, she noticed that her hands were now shaking violently.

Jack's words again rang thunder in her ears. She understood the success of the test must be kept secret at all costs. She knew, no matter how pure the intent, that no one could be trusted with this kind of power. She made up her mind to tell no one about the test or the working prototype until she could come up with a way to protect its integrity.

The problem with that plan...is I have no clue how to pull it off.

Chapter Six

After finishing his rounds, Murphy arrived back at the mail room. Stepping through the grey steel doors, he surveyed his "kingdom" with a critical, roving eye.

Tucked back in the corner of the 28th floor, the mail center served all 500 employees of Diversified Research Inc. with both internal and external correspondence.

The portly man basked in bright rows of fluorescent lights and the hum of voices added to the drone of machinery, the gentle vibrations the lifeblood of his world.

Murphy erroneously felt his position at the head of the department gave him an equal standing within the company's political hierarchy.

His eyes fixed on Charlie Davis, the most recent hire under his direct control. Davis flitted in and around the cubicles and sorting machines, loading letters and moving packages onto carts for distribution. Davis saw Murphy enter and wove a path across the busy floor, intercepting Murphy at his office door. The younger man handed him a clipboard.

"Mr. Murphy, I prepped the afternoon deliveries and got all the outgoing packages ready to be shipped. I need you to sign-off the packing slips so the messenger can take them."

Only twenty-two, lean and tall, Davis was a bright kid who learned fast and moved faster. One of the senior managers had already twice requested his transfer as an assistant.

Smart and ambitious.

The burning envy turned Murphy's stomach rancid.

Little cockroach!

He signed the papers and handed them back to Davis, eyes finally falling on the door to his "private office".

Originally a large storage closet, he'd commandeered the room and furnished it to give himself an illusion of prestige unwarranted by his position or talent. While the tiny box lacked an exterior view, the small room did possess one unique quality that no other office in the building had. Located next to the security system closet, with the elevator shaft on the other side, it put him in a position of almost total privacy. The remote location also gave him access to all the equipment in the adjoining space, including phone lines and video surveillance feeds. Within a week of taking the office, he had his eyes and ears on everything that went on at Diversified.

Between the phone and video taps he installed and the mail he routinely read, he easily put together groups of sensitive and valuable documents, selling them to the highest bidder. This little side-line had made him a comfortable living for the past five years, but the ambitious malcontent still yearned for something more.

Moving inside, he locked the door behind him and closed the blinds, blocking out any observance from the drones populating the rest of the cube farm on the other side of the wire-reinforced glass.

Containing only the few...and barest...necessities, the office showed not one shred of personal warmth. It boasted no family photos, no office knick-knacks and few of the creature comforts common even in today's modern, minimalist workspaces.

He lowered his sizeable bulk into the chair and unlocked the large side drawer of the utilitarian steel desk. Inside rested a small but very sophisticated audio/video recording device. The drawer also contained the two other things he wanted hidden. One was a bottle of the best Tennessee Sour Mash Whiskey money could buy and the other was a small bag of very high-grade cocaine. He dumped out a small mound of the fine white crystals and sniffed them through a rolled-up twenty-dollar bill.

The drug slid through his system like a monorail train, numbing his nose as he turned on the wall-mounted plasma screen.

He took the bottle from the drawer and after dumping the cold coffee from a chipped cup, poured himself a drink, sagging deeper into soft folds of his leather chair. Leaning back against the chair's groan of protest, he put his feet up on the edge of the desk.

My favorite time of the day, he thought, a conspiratorial grin emerging on his round, piggish face. The work's all done, yet plenty of time to do a little snooping. Let's see what's going on.

Activating the video link, he looked for anything his real employer would be interested in. He watched the screen expectantly as it cycled through the feeds. Concentration high, he basked in the bird's-eye view of the unsuspecting people going about their jobs, completely unaware of his voyeuristic intrusion on their privacy.

Seeing her appear on the screen, Murphy stopped the automatic rotation on the scene in Jenny's lab.

If she only knew, he thought, mocking the image on the viewer. See, you're not as smart as you think you are.

He stared lasciviously as she donned her white coat, the starched fabric covering her ample curves. God, that's one good looking woman. Too bad she's such a stuck-up little bitch. He watched her intently as he sipped the whiskey, pornographic thoughts running rampant. Maybe she just needs the right man to tame her.

She darted from station to station around the lab, her agitations obvious to the man watching. His curiosity rising in a steep curve, he ransacked his desktop for the remote control and turned up the sound. Jenny's soft voice came from the monitor's built-in speakers, floating across the office.

"I can't believe it. It finally works, after all this time, it finally works."

He watched as her demeanor visibly changed. She began to move around the lab with swift precision. Something big had just happened, he could feel it. He continued to observe the action, trying to remember what she was working on...and then it came to him. The Ever-cell project. That's it.

He didn't know all the details, but he knew that if it worked it could power a car and that meant that everyone in the world would want one. His heart did an evil little two-step as he contemplated the monetary possibilities. This could be the big one, the one that puts me over the top.

The cocaine and the drink were momentarily forgotten in a rush of adrenaline while he quickly punched buttons, activating the DVR. Leaving the machine to its intrusive task, he went to his computer and tapped franticly at the keys, calling up the company's research information data base.

I'd better find out what this project is all about.

An hour of diligent reading later, he turned off the computer and rummaged through the desk drawer once again, this time removing a disposable cell phone. He touched the buttons, supremely confident his real employer would be very interested in this latest development. Listening to the computer-generated rings, he began formulating a plan to "acquire" the plans for the Ever-cell and if he could arrange it, the battery itself. He leaned back in his chair and smiled, silently taunting Jenny's image on the screen.

All that time, you thought you were better than me. Just think, in just a few days I'll be rich and you'll be up the proverbial creek. I kinda like the symmetry in that.

The rings stopped after three, giving way to the clear, crisp tones of a man's voice. "Hello?"

"I need to meet with you...right away," Murphy said, trying to keep the excitement racing through his veins from bleeding over into his words.

"Don't be stupid," The irritated voice on the other end chastised angrily. "We can't afford to be seen together. It's too dangerous. I've told you that before. Don't call this number again."

"Don't hang up," Murphy quickly continued, hoping his quarry hadn't abandoned the conversation. "You're going to want to hear this. Trust me."

The impatience remained thick in the voice. "So, tell me now...if it's so important it can't wait."

"I can't go into this on the phone," Murphy said, his nerves tingling in anticipation. "Meet me at the usual place in an hour."

"I said, I'm busy today," The statement fell like a boulder, the words weighted with annoyance at the disturbance. The speaker continued, noticeably obstinate and still clearly apathetic. "I can't make it."

Murphy's tone climbed an octave, the anxiety edging into the words. "Clear your schedule. What I have to tell you is worth it."

The mystery voice fell silent. The only sound on the line was the small puffs of his steady breathing.

Murphy's mind raced as he changed his tack, voice now taking on a hushed, conspiratorial air. "I'm telling you, this is big," he paused, dangling the chum before the wary shark. "It's probably the most important...and most profitable...meeting you'll ever have."

The bait disappeared with a small grunt and an undisguised warning traversed the wires.

"You better not be over-estimating your importance," the voice said. "I don't like wasting my time."

Murphy swallowed hard, gripping his emotional reigns tighter before speaking again. "I promise you, you're not wasting your time."

"Fine," the voice growled, thick and menacing. "I'll be there in an hour. Don't disappoint me...and don't make me wait."

While Murphy concocted an elegant and forceful reply, he heard the pronounced "Click" of the connection being broken before he could launch any retort. Bastard!

Pointing the remote at the monitor screen, he cut the power, breathing a heavy sigh of relief. He downed the last of the whiskey in the chipped cup and blew one last line of coke before he dropped the bag back into the drawer. Rising from the chair he donned his coat, closing the door behind him as he left.

He boarded the elevator and pressed the button for the basement parking garage. The car seemed to be descending at a crawl, allowing plenty of time for his mind to run through all the things that could go wrong at this meeting.

The only way to deal with Phillip Temple is from strength. I can't let him see any fear or indecision. If I do, he'll pounce on it...and I'm toast.

He examined his quickly coalescing plan, carefully reviewing each facet for any possible flaw. He took several cleansing breaths and steeled himself, his rodent-like sense of impending danger tingling uncontrollably.

The elevator doors slid open, dropping him off at parking level 1. He stepped into the cold of the afternoon air, the exiting vehicles creating a steady, chilling breeze as they rolled by. The frigid nip stung his cheeks as he walked, his footsteps masked by the noise of passing cars.

He touched a button on the keychain in his hand and a faint "chirp" echoed off the cinder block walls. A few yards away, the locks sprang open on a white convertible and its taillights flashed in electronic recognition.

Climbing behind the wheel of the BMW Z-3, he turned the key and listened to the comforting whine of the turbocharger, blipping the throttle several times to warm the engine. While the motor settled down to a quiet throb, he replayed the conversation with Temple in his mind. It struck him as odd that someone as greedy as Phillip Temple wouldn't jump at the chance to own this, or any other, new technology with so much profit potential.

Why is he being so paranoid? After all, he must know Ryan...and her work. I'm offering him the deal of a lifetime. What's the problem?

The tiny convertible tip-toeing along the icy roads, Murphy drove in heavy silence. He considered his "employer-turned-unwilling-partner" and his possible ulterior motives, all of them dangerous, some of them potentially deadly.

He's got something up his sleeve! I can feel it. No doubt, he'll try to screw me, he thought acidly as the city rolled by, streets and shops decorated in festive red and green holiday trim. I'm not going to let that happen...not again, not on something this big.

He looked out his right-side window at the steel gray waves of the Atlantic slowly coming into view between the buildings. Frosted with whitecaps, the crashing breakers were a sinister, symbiotic partner to his dark musings. Not one to trust in others, being completely untrustworthy himself, Murphy planned for the worst-case scenario as he made his way east toward land's end...and his destination.

Reaching inside the Beemer's center console, he removed a compact automatic pistol. He checked the safety before slipping the black weapon into the breast pocket of his jacket. No sense taking unnecessary risks.

He turned left along the water-front. Continuing north, he threaded his way between warehouses and dilapidated tenements that stretched down to the daunting granite blocks of the seawall. He came to an abrupt stop before an aged and crumbling red brick building. He looked up the façade at floor after floor of arched windows reaching into the prematurely darkening sky.

Above street level, the six-story building offered run-down efficiency apartments to those chiseling out a bleak existence on the wharfs that stretched along the rocky coast. Below the sidewalk, and hidden from the scrutiny of passers-by, the antiquated walls housed a small basement bar/nightclub. The low-end establishment opened nightly to a collection of hard-scrabble drifters and local toughs who wandered in from the surrounding docks and the ships moored along side.

The acid already brewing in his stomach flared hotly as he briefly considered the safety of his expensive sports car, the sleek machine now parked under a dim streetlight along the curb. He double checked the car's alarm system and crossed the frozen pavement.

Arriving at the non-descript entrance to the underground watering hole, Murphy watched four unsavory characters emerge from the bar and stagger up the concrete steps to street level. Wobbling to a stop just long enough to light up their foul-smelling clove cigarettes, the polluted men tossed ribald comments back and forth, reveling at the auspicious beginning of their evening of alcohol-soaked debauchery. He shook his head in disgust and descended the steps.

The bar's heavy door closed with a deep rumble, the noise seeming uncommonly loud as he entered. The darkness quickly enveloped him while the reverberating echo caused a collection of bleary eyes to momentary swivel in his direction. The hair on the back of his neck bristled in fear but the uncomfortable attention of the crowd lasted only a second or two before his presence blended into the scene, fading into alcohol-fogged insignificance.

Taking a step further, his senses were immediately assaulted by a suffocating cloud of thick tobacco smoke while his stomach recoiled at the rank smell of stale beer.

God, what a dump!

Feet sticking to the floor as he moved, Murphy settled onto a tall stool at the heavy oak bar, leaning on the brass rail.

The rock music coming from the ancient jukebox in the corner carried across the cold space, filling the room. The dim lighting created heavy shadows, the darkness concealing tables tucked into alcoves around the perimeter. Unintelligible snippets of muted conversations reached his ears, drifting on the smoky air.

He took in the dregs of humanity sitting at the other stools along the bar, the disheveled occupants already drinking heavily and talking boisterously among themselves. At the booth in the corner, he saw a trio of tired hookers sipping from large glasses. One garishly dressed woman tossed her head back in peals of manufactured laughter, desperately plying her much-abused wares to the men hidden in the darkness.

Off to his right, a battered black and white T.V. rested on a dusty shelf behind the bar, glowing with flickering light. Several patrons watched the hockey game playing on the screen, their bloodshot eyes fixed in single-minded concentration.

Turning back to the bartender, Murphy ordered a martini, drawing a contemptuous glare from the massive, gruff looking man.

"That'll be six-fifty." The balding, tattooed man's eyes hardened in antipathy while he created the concoction.

Continuing to scan the room, Murphy dropped a twenty-dollar bill on the bar for the drink and removed the toothpick from the glass, extracting the pierced olive with his teeth.

A sudden start rippled through him as a loud cheer erupted from the small crowd now gathered around the television.

Guess Boston scored. He thought.

He checked his watch and noted Temple should arrive in the next few minutes. Adrenaline running rampant in his veins, Murphy downed his drink in an effort to steady his shaky nerves and ordered a second. He better show up!

Three minutes later, a tall, heavy-set man pulled out the stool next to his and sat down. The expression on the newcomer's face bent into a swirling mix of anger, arrogance and blatant condescension.

The man opened the conversation in a harsh rasp, dispensing with any pleasantries while brushing a few errant flakes of snow from the shoulders of his greatcoat.

"Okay, I'm here." Temple said, his dark, beady eyes darting around the room intently, looking for any sign they were being overheard. "Make this quick. I have work to do."

Murphy cleared his throat softly, pushing his adrenaline-fueled anxiety to the back of his mind. "All right. I will."

The new arrival interjected. "And this better be good. I have to tell you, I'm not too thrilled with you dragging me out to this dump in the first place," the man's overly polite tone did nothing but further telegraph his overt displeasure. "Do you have any real conception of how dangerous this is?"

Murphy took a quick sip of his drink before answering. "I told you, it's worth it."

Temple drew a deep breath, leaning forward to close the gap between the two men. "You idiot!" he hissed. "I can't believe..."

He broke off his rebuke in mid-sentence as the bartender approached, tossing Murphy a withering stare that made him cringe.

"What can I get for you?" the bartender interrupted. "We've got dollar Bud drafts on special and..."

Temple cut him off, his courteous tone not carrying any of the anger he was directing at Murphy only seconds before. "Draft sounds good. Thank you."

Seeing the bartender depart, Temple turned back, eyes now hard chips of black coal. "I told you not to waste my time," Temple said. "So, get to it already."

Murphy could see the anger bubbling hotly just below the surface and held his stare for several seconds, pausing to collect his thoughts at the same time. This has to be just right.

"You know a Dr. Jennifer Ryan...researcher...She made a break-through...a big one."

MurphyHMurphy waited, taking a sip of his drink and letting the other man digest the intentionally vague revelation.

"So she did, did she?" Temple replied, his demeanor still non-committal, but somewhat less combative. "What kind of break-through?"

Time to set the hook. He thought, heartbeat thudding steadily in his ears.

"She calls it 'particle manipulation technology'. Ring any bells?"

"You're talking about cold fusion," Temple said, shaking his head and giving a small wave of dismissal. "It can't be done."

"I've heard about cold fusion. This is different. I did some reading and Ryan's project relies on capturing the energy released from radio-active waste. According to her papers, this is totally different from anything anybody's ever even tried before."

Temple cocked one eyebrow in skepticism. "I've read her papers on this and I'm telling you, it won't work."

He stood, ready to leave. "I told you not to waste my time, you idiot."

Murphy pressed on in hushed tones, in spite of the other man's obvious reticence. "Phillip, sit down. Please. I don't know what you read, but she really did it. The little bitch really did it. Now, for the right price, you can own it."

A long, protracted silence filled the space between the men, making the air thick and stagnant with tension.

Temple, sliding back onto the barstool, finally answered. "How do I know this is legitimate?"

Murphy breathed an audible sigh of relief, the small sound masked by the background noise of the club. "I'm telling you, it's for real. I've got the video to prove it."

Murphy drew a cell phone from his pocket and touched the front. "I took this while she was running the last test."

He slid the small device along the bar. Temple picked it up and touched the screen, activating the video player. He stared at the display in mild disinterest for several seconds. "So, what? You tapped her lab, big deal."

"Keep watching. Take a look at the readouts she's checking," Murphy said. "You recognize that equipment?"

Temple's eyes grew wide as the video progressed. He took a large swig of his beer. "This can't be real. The power level on those readouts is tremendous."

Murphy dared a thin smile. "I told you it'd be worth your time."

Temple expelled a heavy sigh as he handed back the phone. "All right. Assuming that what I just saw is real, and I'm not convinced it is, what do you want?"

Murphy's pulse spiked, blood racing at the thought of how much money rode on his next words. Gently now, not too much...and not too little.

"What do I want? Easy, I want a simple transaction. I bring you the plans for the design and you pay me...ten million dollars."

"Ten million dollars," Temple chuckled, again rising to leave. "That's not even remotely funny...even for you."

Murphy turned, swiveling his seat away from the older man. He leaned forward, elbows on the bar, as if he had not a care in the world.

"This is no joke Phillip. This project is real and I can get it. Question is, do I sell it you, or do I sell it to someone else?"

His heart nearly stopped beating as the silence stretched on, his internal clock ticking off several excruciating seconds.

Enough screwing around...time to close the deal!

He rotated on the barstool until he was again facing Temple. "Look, you saw the video...you know Ryan...you know this is real. You'll be rich beyond fantasy. Ten million is chump-change...in the grand scheme of things."

Temple's cold gaze burned as he regained his seat once more. "Listen Sean, the negotiations are over. Two million is all this project is worth...and all I'm going to pay. If that's not acceptable, you can take your offer to someone else."

Murphy sipped his drink, eyebrows knitted in tight angles as he pretended to consider his options.

Temple continued. "I think you'll want to take my offer for two reasons. One; you know you won't get a better price and two, you know you can trust my...err...discretion."

Murphy took another small sip of his drink, contemplating his next move in this little game of chess that would decide his future.

Temple broke the stilted silence. "You have three seconds to make a decision. Take it or leave it. One...two..."

Downing another sip of his drink, Murphy chuckled. "Don't get your panties in a bunch, I'll take it. But I want five million. I want half a million in cash up front, the rest wire transferred to an offshore account upon delivery."

After several tense moments, the owner of Temple Corporation, the premier electronics company in the Eastern United States, closed the deal. "Done. I'll have your first installment by the close of business tomorrow."

Murphy rose and leaned in closer to Temple, his voice a whisper. "Excellent. I'll call you later and tell you when and where. Be ready with my money."

Temple downed the dregs of his beer as he watched Murphy walk toward the exit. He murmured a curse, unheard over the background noise of the bar. "Five million or ten million, who cares?" he hissed. "You'll never live to spend any of it."

Chapter Seven

The Lincoln super-stretch limousine crawled through the congested streets of Boston's North End, making its way back toward Phillip Temple's office.

Inside the warm confines of the giant land yacht, Temple thought about the meeting with Murphy and what it could mean for his company.

This technology could be very useful indeed. If it works like he said, it would be a discovery of monumental proportions. This could be a really big score...if I play my cards right.

He scratched his chin for a moment in contemplation.

How did he get his hands on this anyway? For years the little worm gives me tidbits...then all of a sudden he comes to me looking for five million dollars. What a joke.

Reaching into his jacket pocket he withdrew a long, thin hand-rolled cigar. A diamond-encrusted lighter flared brightly in the dark car as he puffed the expensive tobacco to life. He watched the thick, aromatic smoke curl from the glowing red tip as the car crawled forward.

He didn't trust Murphy, only a moron would, but the possible payoff was so huge he couldn't risk being wrong. He knew Ryan from her published research and hearing her lecture. He also knew that she was a brilliant scientist possessing a tremendous intellect. That alone made her dangerous.

The more he thought about the particle manipulation project, the more that it made sense.

If anyone could develop a totally new type of power source in such a short time, it's Ryan.

He despised her. She was brilliant, respected...everything he was not.

The woman could fall off a ladder and come up with an anti-gravity device on the way down.

He considered this woman very dangerous.

If anyone's going to bring this to market, it's going to be me.

It didn't take long for him to decide what to do. He had to remove her as a threat.

He tapped the smoked glass between himself and the driver. The chauffeur touched a button on the dash and the partition slowly disappeared into the seatback. The driver's steely glance met his in the rear-view mirror.

The enormous black man behind the wheel spoke, the voice deep and gravely. "Yes sir?"

"Take the expressway...and step on it!"

"Of course, sir."

The driver tromped on the accelerator and cut the wheel hard, banking the huge black automobile into a left turn while the speedometer quickly climbed towards 60 mph.

Back in his office a few minutes later, Temple sat behind his antique writing desk, his mind racing as he assembled the pieces necessary to put his devious plan into motion. He knew he must do whatever was necessary to get his hands on the particle manipulation project. He also realized that while he had to solve the immediate problem first; acquisition, the next step was to find a buyer, and he had just the right person in mind.

He buzzed his secretary and issued a few instructions. Waiting expectantly while she placed the call, he began mentally spending all the money he was going to make if he could pull this off. Big house on Newport, new boat...Ferrari.

Ever since Murphy told him about Ryan's break-through, he knew that it would be worth billions to whoever could bring it to the open market. He also knew the oil companies would pay tens of billions to keep it off the market. He decided that fate had presented him with one of those rare, tailor-made, opportunities to play both sides of the equation.

Simple! I'll sell the prototype off to a foreign buyer and keep the design plans to secure the U.S. patent rights. By the time he reverse-engineers it, I'll be so rich it won't matter.

A smug, self-satisfied grin appeared on his face. It was a win-win situation and Temple was a man who didn't like to lose... at anything.

The sudden buzzing of his desk phone interrupted his thoughts and told him it was time to make his next move.

An ornate wall clock quietly struck the hour, the Westminster chimes' vibrant notes floating softly across the room as he picked up the phone. He touched the button to connect the call, heart now drumming a steady beat in his chest.

"Hello, Abdule. How are you?" He said, greeting Abdule Yashidda, chairman and owner of Yashidda Oil, one of the largest exporters in the Persian Gulf.

"Good morning Phillip, what can I do for you?" the Arab asked, obviously forgetting about the time difference. A rotund man in his early fifties, Yashidda stood just over five feet, seven inches tall and possessed both enormous wealth and a strict devotion to his Muslim faith.

"It's more about what I can do for you," Temple teased, enjoying the game. "I have a product that you might be interested in."

"Really? What is it?" the Arab asked, the overseas connection popping and hissing with static.

"I will soon have in my possession a new generation of energy technology that's quite revolutionary. I thought the control of such technology might be worth something to you?"

Temple gloated silently, knowing the man feared a discovery like this more than the armies of any nation. Yashidda's hesitation as he absorbed the revelation colorfully illustrated the depth of that fear.

Half a world away, the sands of Ryhiad, Saudi Arabia swirled, driven by the incendiary desert wind howling outside the window of Yashidda's palatial home.

The oil man was well aware a quantum leap like this would undoubtedly have catastrophic affects on not only his business, but also on the economic and political stability of the entire region.

"Tell me," Yashidda asked in a tentative timbre, "what is the nature of this technology?"

"It's called particle manipulation technology," Temple explained, "In its simplest application, a single disk the size of a watch battery could potentially power an electric car for decades. Larger units have commensurate energy delivery potential."

Yashidda's pulse quickened. A shrewd man, he knew if Temple called him, then he had the goods.

So, the Americans have developed a new energy technology. He sucked in a quick breath, his ruthless mind ticking through several possible response scenarios. An inconvenient, yet not completely unexpected, development. It was inevitable.

The revelation did more than trouble him. Creation of this kind of technology by western nations was the biggest fear of all the oil producing nations in the Middle East. Fundamentalist or progressive, they all relied on crude exports to the U.S. to drive their economies. If the cars in America suddenly went to this new power technology, the economic shock waves would cripple the region. He knew he had to keep this new battery out of production at all costs. Fortunately, he also knew the Americans were so greedy that they would sell anything to anyone for the right price.

He baited the trap. "What did you have in mind Phillip?"

"I was thinking that if I was able to bring you this technology, it might prove to be very valuable to you and your business associates."

The oil magnate easily recognized the leading statement. He twisted the large gold and diamond ring around his little finger as he waited for Temple to play the last card in his hand.

He hated dealing with Americans. They were so unpredictable and were, at times, capable of being truly devious. He despised them, they had so much and still they wanted more.

While the people of this country starve in the streets, the people in the U.S. grow fat and lazy. No more!

The inner revulsion swelled and his fingers tightened their grip on the phone as he came to terms with the truth. He knew he must do whatever was necessary to secure his nation's place in the world economy. He had no real choice but to give Temple what he wanted.

"How valuable?" He asked.

"I don't think fifty million U.S. dollars is too much to pay for continued economic security for your people. Do you?"

Yashidda nearly laughed out loud. What a fool! He could have asked for fifty times fifty million and he would've gotten it. Still, he kept the game going. "That's a lot of money, but I think arraignments can be made. When can you deliver this scientific miracle?"

"I can have it for you in less than a week...if that's satisfactory?"

Yashidda finished the negotiations, holding his breath for a few seconds while appearing to consider the figure. "That will be fine, but..." his voice began to drip with an open hostility, thinly disguised by soft-voiced diplomacy. "I would be very disappointed if you attempted to sell to someone else in the interim. Do you understand?"

Temple acquiesced, acknowledging the threat. "I wouldn't dream of it. After all, we're friends, aren't we?"

"Then we will consider the matter closed until I hear from you on a delivery date. Good-bye, Phillip."

Back in his Boston office, Temple hung up the receiver and sat back in his chair, beginning to breathe again.

I did it! I beat the Arabs. Better than that, I beat the Arabs and made myself rich in the process.

He pushed a button on the phone and spoke into the desk intercom, "Jill, can you come in here please."

Temple's personal secretary Jill Miller entered the room seconds later. A buxom twenty-four year-old, the curvy blond stood in front of Temple's desk. Tall and beautiful, she filled the room with an earthy, feminine sent as she entered.

"Yes, Phillip?"

Temple initially hired her more for her looks than her abilities. He was soon pleased to discover that not only was she reasonably competent, but she also enjoyed sharing her bed with powerful men. A posh apartment and fat salary ensured it would be him.

"Jill, would you care join me for dinner at my house tonight?"

"Just dinner?" she taunted, face breaking into a mischievous grin.

"Dinner... some champagne... maybe some...desert. It's a little celebration." He noticed her blush at his obvious innuendo.

"Of course." She accepted without hesitation.

He gave her attire a cursory inspection, noting the abundant cleavage pressing out of her blouse. "Oh, and don't wear anything too... complicated."

She smiled a knowing smile and returned to her desk.

Chapter Eight

Jack closed the file folder and rubbed his eyes, the lids heavy with fatigue. He felt like this day would never end. He still had not heard from Jenny and a sick feeling spread through his stomach as he remembered the callous threat Freemont launched earlier that morning. He got up from his chair and replaced the folder, then locked the cabinet.

If he couldn't get her to release the Ever-cell project, Freemont might pull the funding from all the contracts and close the lab.

Son of a bitch is just crazy enough to do it too! He thought, pacing the floor of his office as he considered his limited options.

He had to convince her to take him up on his offer of the new job. He grimaced at the thought of his future being in the hands of a megalomaniac like Alex Freemont.

God, I hate this! But what can I do? Freemont's not going to change his mind on his own and I can't change it for him. Jenny will feel so...betrayed.

The agitated man paced the floor, his nerves crackling with tension. He considered the near-impossible task of how to convince his top researcher to give up her pet project, at the same time wondering if there wasn't another way to deal with Freemont's unreasonable request.

Maybe if I want directly to the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs? No. That won't stop a juggernaught like Freemont.

The phone on the hand-carved oak desk began to chirp and he hesitated for a moment before answering it, confident he knew who would be on the other end of the line. He reached for the receiver and put it to his ear. "Hello?"

"Jack, Colonel Freemont here. I just wanted to know if you've spoken to Ryan yet."

The tone of Freemont's voice told him all he needed to know. The Colonel wasn't going to change his mind about this and Jack began to sweat inside his heavy wool suit. He also knew Freemont, as dangerous as he was, must be handled carefully or when the sky fell in it would land on everyone.

He lied through his teeth, struggling in an uphill battle to gain a reprieve. "I think we should wait. I talked to her today and she said it would be at least a year before the battery was ready for any kind of serious field testing."

He naively hoped that this news might make Freemont reconsider assuming control of the project at this stage. Verde thought that if he could buy some time he might be able to either talk Freemont out of interest in the project, or come up with a bulletproof way to keep him away from it.

Freemont didn't like being put off and, showing his volatile temper, yelled into the phone. "I told you I wanted that project under my control, and I meant now!"

"I'm sorry Colonel, but she's being difficult. I even offered her a Vice Presidency to get her out of the research department. She said that she had to think about it."

Jack could hear the expanding anger in Freemont's caustic words as the solider began to berate the scientist. "You tell Ryan if she knows what's good for her, she'll take the new job and forget about the Ever-cell project. I don't need her permission to take it! If I consider her work to be of military value, then under authority of the Science and Technology Act of 1947, I can assume direct control of any project that presents a significant security risk or military benefit." He paused to draw a breath, his voice returning to normal. "Also tell her I'm empowered to take into custody any and all persons that may have a bearing on those projects, and that means her! You might also remind the esteemed Dr. Ryan that the STA allows me to hold anyone I detain indefinitely."

Jack's heart skipped a beat, afraid Freemont would make good on his threats. His palms grew sweaty, the damp skin clammy against the phone.

All it would take is one call to Army Intelligence and she could disappear forever. She's no match for somebody like you.

His stomach clenched in a tight knot as he scrambled for an idea, any idea...any possible way out. He had to do something to calm the Colonel down and he had to do it fast.

"All right Alex, I'll talk to her again tonight and do a little arm twisting. I'll even offer her a big raise to take the job," he continued with his platitudes, hopping to defuse the situation. "Just let me handle it, all right?"

Freemont ended the call with another, even more forceful ultimatum, sending Jack's stomach into another spasm. "Don't screw this up Verde. You do whatever you have to, but get me control of that system. You have forty-eight hours. No excuses!"

Freemont hung up, ending the discussion and leaving him listening to the dead air. Verde replaced the phone in the cradle, a sticky film of bile now burning his throat. He again punished himself for his arrogance, his critical error in judgment.

Christ, Jenny I'm so sorry. I thought I could handle Freemont. I let my ego put your life on the line. How could I be such a fool?

He called Jenny's office and got no answer, so he tried the lab.

What if I told her the truth? He thought, as his conscience continued to silently rage in protest. Would she be able to handle it, or would she do something stupid, like fighting Freemont? No. I can't tell her. She'd never understand.

He fervently hoped that she would listen to reason and transfer the project, to protect herself from Freemont if for no other reason. I have to convince her to turn over the reigns to Freemont, no matter what it takes. He scrubbed his face in his hands, self-loathing welling up to gnaw at his innards. I know her. She's got too dammed much integrity...she'll want to fight him. All I can hope for at this point is to keep both of us alive and out of federal prison.

Jack finally reached her at the lab. "Hi Jenny, its Jack. Are you free for dinner tonight? I'd like to finish our conversation on that promotion I mentioned this morning."

Chapter Nine

Yashidda sat in his office on the other side of the world thinking about what Temple said and the words sent clouds of dark fear racing across his mind.

The United States government could easily seize this new technology and use it to force my country to its knees. He shuddered at the thought. I won't allow this nation's leaders to become puppets of the infidels in America. They will not blackmail us into slavery.

He knew that he had to not only acquire this technology but he had to eliminate the source of the research as well. He paced the floor nervously, white robes billowing in the draft his agitated movements produced. While he walked, he began to come up with a plan to solve all his problems.

The Americans would pay more for this energy technology than they do for oil. Their own liberal environmentalists would force it down their throats...no matter what the cost.

If he could eliminate the scientist while keeping the design secrets, he could then produce the battery himself and his country would be free from dependence on oil exports forever.

The scientist who developed this technology must disappear, he thought.

He prayed to Allah for strength. If he could secure this new technology for his country, he would be a national hero. If he failed, well, failure wasn't really an option. He knew he must succeed.

The greedy American pigs would finally get what they deserve. Allah be praised!

Yashidda knew he needed someone for the 'wet work' this job required. The choice was easy. He could think of only one man suited for such a delicate job on U.S. soil. He punched the buttons on his phone. Majors will get me what I need quickly...and more importantly, quietly.

The phone was ringing. Clenching and unclenching his fists in tension, Yashidda listened to the computer-generate tones, hoping the man was in. He wanted him on the job immediately. This was too important a mission to be left to less than the best. He got an answer on the third ring.

"Hello?"

"Good morning, Clark. This is Abdule."

Clark Majors pressed the phone to his ear, pacing as he listened. Moving around his Venice, California townhouse, he dragged the phone's cord behind him, glancing out the window at the stunning view of the man-made canals while the setting sun burnished the sky in pastel hues of red and blue.

A former U.S. Army ranger and demolitions expert, the professional mercenary now hawked his talents on the open market. Today, his potential employer would be Yashidda.

"What do you want?" Majors snapped, the sharp bark designed to put the other man on edge. The tactic was completely successful.

Yashidda spoke, the crisp words betraying none of the man's boiling inner turmoil. "I have a problem that I need you to handle for me. I want you to bring me a certain piece of scientific research."

The former army captain hesitated before he answered. Majors possessed a genius, if deviant, mind and reflexes to match. Ruthless and cruel, he could be counted on to deliver, as long as one ignored the means to the end.

"No problem. But why me?"

"If this was an ordinary, how do you Americans put it, smash and grab, then I wouldn't need you, now would I?"

Majors cleared his throat loudly. "You have my attention. Go ahead."

"I'm sending you a dossier on a research scientist named Ryan, I want you to go to Boston and find out everything she knows about the particle manipulation project she's working on.

It had taken Yashidda's men only an hour of Internet searching before they found Jennifer Ryan. His cronies discovered her name in a scientific 'Who's Who in America', along with a paper she published several years ago, detailing her theory of energy transfer from radioactive isotopes.

"What do you want me to do after that?"

"Get the design specifications and prototype for the device and bring them to me."

"Sounds too easy," Majors paused for a breath, then continued, the non-committal tone intended as a warning to the other man. "What are you not telling me?"

"Just one minor detail, a little cockroach named Temple is looking for the same thing, so you need to move fast."

Yashidda's carefully worded answer elicited a small pause and a tentative reply, one barely perceptible over the telephone's tenuous connection. "Okay..."

The Arab continued, flavoring his words with the promise of impending wealth, confident greed would overcome the mercenary's reticence. "He tried to sell me the plans for fifty million of your dollars. If you bring me the plans first, I'll pay you five million U.S. dollars, no negotiations."

Majors quickly agreed. "Okay. I'll do it. But, as a rhetorical question, what if this Temple gets in my way?"

Knowing Majors was a trained killer, Yashidda told him what he wanted to hear. "I leave the operational details entirely up to you. Use whatever methods you deem necessary, but do it quickly and with the utmost discretion. It can never be known that I or my country was ever involved."

"Is that all?" Majors asked. "If not, this is the time to say so."

"Only one more...minor...thing. After you get what I want, dispose of Dr. Ryan...and anyone she told. I can't have her talking to your CIA or FBI. This technology must disappear...completely."

"No problem, but this is a complicated job. I'm going to incur certain 'expenses'," Majors said. "I'll need the first half-million up front...non-refundable."

The line went silent for interminable seconds as Yashidda considered his options. "I am willing to meet your stipulations. However, I must insist that the payment make the contract irrevocable. Any failure to deliver would be grounds for termination."

The open threat didn't seem to faze Majors. Abdule assumed the mercenary had been in this business for too many years to even consider reneging on a contract.

"Consider it done," Majors said. "Deposit the earnest money into my numbered account and I'll call you as soon as I have the goods."

Immediately after he hung up, his BlackBerry chimed, signaling the arrival of an email.

He opened the attached file, and discovering it contained the complete dossier on Ryan, briefly looked it over, noting the extensive slate of academic achievements.

"What a nerd," he said to the empty room. "This is going to be a cakewalk."

He closed the screen and tapped the keys to dial a number he never thought to use again. Nervous energy spiking, he hoped his call would be answered.

"She better pick up." he groused aloud.

She's probable still pissed off at me, but for this kind of money, she'll just have to get over it.

"Hello?" the soft, feminine voice floated over the wireless connection, bringing a flood of memories to his mind.

Chapter Ten

The clock on the desk reminded Jenny she had a dinner date. Turning away from the glowing screen of her laptop, she yawned and stretched. Rising from her chair she reined in her disconcerted thoughts. She knew she wasn't going to turn over her project to anyone, for any reason, and mentally practiced what she would say to her friend and mentor.

It's too vulnerable to abuse, and it's not open for discussion. That should work...it's gotta work.

She cringed in fear that her project might be confiscated by the military and she couldn't allow that. The memory of the nameless solider she passed earlier in the day returned to haunt her, sending an arctic chill down her spine.

I won't willingly put a potential weapon like this into anyone's hands.

She knew that when she perfected this technology people would have a virtually unlimited power supply at almost no cost.

In addition to the free power, it would solve the problem of what to do with all the nuclear waste that's already scattered throughout the world.

She'd finished a second test of the updated design and discovered it put out enough energy to run almost indefinitely. With the modifications she made to the grid, it generated more power than even she ever imagined. The success of this new test made her tingle with both excitement and trepidation in equal proportion.

Her heart swelled in pride and vindication to know that she was right about particle manipulation, but that excitement was tempered by the reality of her discovery's potential consequences. She struggled to control her mounting apprehension, wracking her brain for a way to insure the secrets wouldn't fall into the wrong hands.

A sharp bolt of alarm raced through her body, causing her forehead to break out in tiny beads of sweat. Jack...our dinner.

She wiped her palms, suddenly damp and clammy, on her lab coat.

If this discovery becomes public knowledge, I'll loose any ability to control its implementation. I can't let that happen. The fact a working prototype exists must be kept secret.

She went to her computer and encrypted the data for the design. She unplugged the external hard drive and put it in her purse. I'll put it somewhere safe after I meet with Jack.

That took care of the plans, now she hurried to secure the battery itself as Jack was already ten minutes late. She was so preoccupied with her own thoughts that she didn't hear the soft swish of the door behind her.

Completely undetected, Murphy hid behind the file cabinet, eyes following Jenny until she hung her white coat and headed for the door.

Watching the door swing shut, he made his move. Sitting in her chair, he tapped away at the keyboard.

Jenny was half way to the elevators when she suddenly stopped. My keys! Crap, I left them in my coat. She turned on her heel and headed back down the hall. She pushed the door open and made a beeline for her coat, finding her keys in the pocket, right where she'd left them.

She reached for the door and fireworks burst before her eyes as a hard, sharp blow fell on the back of her neck. The pain in her head exploded like a grenade. Flashes of light popped and danced across her vision like camera strobes. The sudden shock triggered an animal panic that enveloped her while another blow fell, and then another.

Uncontrolled terror burned like a flash-fire across her senses as she clawed the air, trying to escape the horrific onslaught. Dropping to her knees, she raised her arms above her head, trying to protect herself, but the futile gesture was too little, too late. Another wrenching crash against her skull and the room began to spin, turning her world into a sick montage of fragmented images.

She sagged to the floor as her vision dimmed to a gray haze. In a last, feeble attempt to fight back, she threw a blind kick and felt it connect. She registered a scream of shock and pain before a final, devastating blow landed on her head, imploding her world like a ball of crushed tinfoil.

Murphy hit her with the butt of his pistol one more time before she finally lay still. He pulled the purse from her still-clenched fist and emptied it on the desk. As he went through the contents, he cursed her aloud. "Bitch! Look what you made me do!"

Eyeing the small silver device, he gloated in triumph. You thought you were so dammed smart, didn't you? Guess you were wrong.

He dropped the empty purse and began to scan the room for the prototype. He pulled open cabinets and rifled the shelves, finding nothing.

He stared at the inert form lying on the floor and a new wave of frustration pulsed within him, fueling his rage. Blood surging through his veins, he cleared the top of her desk with a broad sweep of his arm. The violent outburst scattered debris in all directions. All right, you conceited bitch, where did you hide the battery?

Taking a few deep breaths, he regained a modicum of self-control and began searching her desk. Pulling pens, file folders and a half-empty box of herbal tea from the top drawer, he dropped the items in a haphazard pile next to her body. He pulled the now-empty drawer free of its guide rails, tossing it aside. Reaching a hand into the locked drawer below, he groped among the papers until he felt a hard object. Finally! He raised the small plastic case to the light, staring in awe at the two silver-dollar sized disks that lay inside.

Pulse beginning to settle, he was already counting his money when the door opened for the second time.

## Jack walked into the lab and called out. "Jenny, Are you ready to go?"

Limbs frozen in utter astonishment, Jack's face went from disbelief to searing horror at the sight of Sean Murphy leaning over Jenny as she lay in a crumpled heap on the floor. Snapping out of his shock-induced immobility, he screamed, rage pushing his voice to a grating screech. "You bastard! Get away from her!"

Drawing his muscles tight, he took three quick strides and launched himself at Murphy, bracing for the impact. The two collided with bone-jarring force, pain racing a trail from Jack's right shoulder down his spine. The flying tackle sent both men spilling to the floor in a tangle of arms and legs.

First to recover his senses, Murphy slammed his open palm into Jack's nose, snapping his head back and sending a splash of crimson blood against the wall.

Jack instinctively grabbed at his broken nose, and Murphy capitalized, landing a punishing blow to his ribs.

Breath forced from his lungs, Jack gasped as his bruised lungs screamed in protest. He rolled to the right before Murphy could land a follow-up punch and then scrambled to his feet.

Circling the room, the two men punched and dodged like boxers in a cage match. Each man stalked the other like a predatory animal, probing...searching for a weakness. While Jack was taller by several inches, the advantage offered by his longer reach disappeared under Murphy's larger, lower center of gravity. Ignoring the radiating screams of his battered body, Jack lunged for Murphy and locked his arms around the other man's portly waist. The inertia carried the pair back several feet, knocking over a computer station, the monitor shattering in an explosion of red and yellow sparks.

Seeing his target through a blood-red veil, Jack snapped out a strong right jab, connecting with Murphy's soft middle. Hearing the satisfying grunt, he threw a second punch at the other man's face.

A stinging jolt raced up Jack's arm and he heard a satisfying "click" as his fist smashed into Murphy's jaw.

Howling in pain, Murphy ducked the follow-up punch and the crack of a solid right cross to his opponent's chin finally gave him a slight advantage. He used it to roll to his feet and draw the pistol from beneath his jacket. He pointed it at Jack, a wild look now shining from his cold, dark eyes.

As soon as he saw the automatic's sleek black silhouette, Jack knew there was no escape. The split-second realization was quickly overshadowed in the condemned man's guilty thoughts.

I failed Jenny...again.

In that fleeting instant, the hole in the end of the barrel reminded him of a train tunnel, the cavernous maw just as dark and just as big.

"It's nothing personal Jack. This is business." Murphy hissed, his words echoing softly in the nearly destroyed lab.

Jack saw the muzzle flash, but didn't live long enough to hear the faint 'pop' of the shot. The slug tore through Jack's chest like tissue paper, severing his aorta. He stared a cold gaze of hatred at Murphy and collapsed to the lab's cold tile floor, his body landing just a few feet away from his associate.

Murphy watched in gruesome fascination as a red lake slowly appeared, the pooling blood surrounding Jack's body in a protective moat.

"Dammit!" Murphy swore, his profane flare echoing off the walls. He kicked the still-warm corpse. "I hate complications."

Chapter Eleven

Aaron opened his apartment door and saw Carlotta sitting at the kitchen table reading the newspaper. She greeted him with a smile. "Hello, Aaron. How was your day?"

He answered her with a small, weary smile of his own. "Not too bad I guess, what's going on here?"

Aaron set Rambo on the floor and dropped his keys into a basket sitting atop an end table to the left of the door. He was tired, it had been a long day and he just wanted to take a hot shower and unwind.

She came into the living room and gave him the once-over. "You look beat. Sit down and rest. I made some chicken manicotti. I'll fix you a plate. Have you eaten at all today?"

"I stopped at Geonelli's and got a bite at lunch time." He lied, wanting to avoid her steadfast insistence that he eat.

In truth, he spent almost the entire day wandering the city, eventually ending up at the cemetery visiting Heather's grave. He replaced the flowers and talked to Heather's headstone as if she were present. He'd visited her grave every Friday since her death. Being there helped him feel her presence, but the searing loneliness almost killed him every time he had to walk away.

He couldn't believe more than a year had gone by already. It seemed like she was with him just yesterday. He still could feel her. Sometimes he still thought he saw her, going into a fashionable shop or disappearing down a side street. It crushed him to know that tonight he would sleep alone...again.

After the accident, Aaron wanted to kill the man who caused it. The police report said that the young truck driver responsible for the crash was drunk. Later, Aaron was even cheated out of confronting the man in court and showing him how he had destroyed their lives. The driver lingered in a coma for three weeks and then died, robbing Aaron of even the slightest retribution.

The driver's insurance company awarded Beth a large settlement, but Heather was gone and no amount of money would bring her back.

As he continued his dark thoughts, Rambo jumped in his lap, snapping his concentration and giving him quite a start. "You little monster!"

He scratched her ears and Rambo replied by meowing softly and licking his face. She looked at him with her amber eyes and meowed again. Kneading his thighs like a loaf of bread, she curled up in his lap to go to sleep.

As the cat was settling in, Carlotta came in from the kitchen. "Dinner's ready."

Aaron got up, over Rambo's protest, and went into the kitchen. Carlotta was dishing out the food when he interrupted her, "I'm sorry Carlotta, it smells great, but I'm just not hungry."

She wasn't so easily put off. "Look, you need to eat. If you don't, you'll get sick,"

He was in no mood to eat and tried to be polite "Carlotta, I appreciate the gesture, but I've had a long day and I just want to take a shower and go to bed."

She stared at him for a long moment. "Look, Aaron, I know that you visit Heather's grave on Fridays and I know when you come back the last thing on your mind is food, but you need to eat."

"Thank you so much, Carlotta. I don't know what I'd do without you." He said, escorting her to the door.

The woman flashed him a big smile. "I do. You'd starve yourself. Heather would never forgive me if I let that happen. Now you go eat and try to get some rest. I'll see you on Monday."

Genuinely touched by her concern, he ushered the housekeeper out the door with the promise he would eat later. Rambo rubbed against Aaron's leg and gave a long, low meeeoww. "Yes, I think she is a good friend too," he answered. The cat purred loudly. "Do you want to share some manicotti?"

Rambo shot into the kitchen like a champagne cork.

After dinner, Aaron stood beneath the steaming spray of the shower until it ran cold. Still toweling his hair dry, he made his way back to his room, picking up the phone. Aaron called his mother to see how Beth was doing, and see what Christmas plans they were concocting. He really didn't feel much like a party, but it was important to his mother that they all get together for the holidays.

Aaron knew all of them being under the same roof gave his mother a sense of normalcy, something missing since his father's death. He believed it a small inconvenience to make his mother happy.

The call revealed that both the women in his life were fine and awaiting his return for holiday festivities.

He finally crawled into his bed. As he was about to turn out the light, the phone's demanding ring broke the silence.

Who could that be? Aaron asked himself, picking it up. "Hello?"

The voice on the phone boomed in his ear, "Hey Aaron! How's it going?"

The voice belonged to his Navy buddy, Ed O'Brian. "Ed, is that you, you old squid?"

He chuckled and was joined by the laughter of man on the other end of the line. The two had been friends for decades and shared the camaraderie only military service can build.

"Just thought I'd call and see how you were...and ask if you're going to make the ice festival this year."

Aaron thought about it briefly and agreed to go. "It starts on the 20th, right? I wouldn't miss it."

The Woonsocket, Rhode Island ice festival was an event straight out of the works of Norman Rockwell. He could already envision the kids skating on the town's outdoor ice rink, the people walking through town window shopping and enjoying the holiday season in a very picturesque, care-free, evening. Aaron knew his mother and Beth would get a big kick out of it, and he looked forward to a cup of their world famous hot-buttered rum.

It'll be fun, and right now I could use the distraction.

He told Ed to meet him at Walnut Hill Plaza and they could take in the sights from there.

"Right-on buddy," O'Brian said. "I'll see you there. And don't forget to bring that terminally beautiful sister of yours. I miss her."

Aaron cracked a knowing smile his friend couldn't see. Over the years, Ed had spent a considerable amount of time, both before and after her accident, trying to work up the courage to ask Beth on a date and, so far, hadn't made it yet.

"She'll be there, but you keep your roving hands in your pockets or I'll beat you like a Tom-Tom," He said, then he burst out laughing. "See you later, Ed."

"See ya, Aaron."

He clicked off the nightstand lamp, replaying the day in his mind like a looped videotape until he finally fell asleep.

Part Two - Little girl lost

Chapter Twelve

As he moves down the crowded sidewalk, the piercing squeal of spinning tires assaults his ears. Only then does the car speeding toward the end of the block enter his perception. He shakes his head in disgust.

Idiot! You're going to kill someone that way!

A sudden sense of familiarity burns in his thoughts, overwhelming him. He has been here before, but he doesn't remember when or why. It's just a feeling, simmering on the back-burner of his consciousness, leaving clear memories struggling to bubble to the surface.

He watches in horror as the light blue sedan races around the corner, sliding on the icy pavement. He sees the out of control car is headed for a small black convertible waiting at the intersection. He frantically waves his arms and yells a warning, but no one seems to hear him. He tries to signal the people inside the sports car, but they don't see him.

Time and space stretch and warp as he continues his attempts to attract the attention of the people in the waiting convertible. Pedestrians rush past him on the sidewalk, looking right through him, giving him an unnerving feeling of invisibility.

Adrenalin rushing through his veins, he bolts from his spot at the curb and darts into the street. His legs pump as he runs through the heavy, viscous air, but he never seems to get any closer to the other side. Finally reaching the center divider, he jumps over the bushes and screams yet another warning, still unheard. His entire body burns with the effort of the run, but the other side still seems miles away.

At the last second, the sedan swerves to avoid the little convertible, but the driver's wild gyrations are woefully inadequate.

He watches in horror as the out of control sedan careens off a light pole before smashing into the defenseless sports car. His stomach drops as glass and plastic fragments spray outward in a rainbow colored arc.

Plunging into the convertible's door, the heavy sedan folds the steel like paper, the sudden, earsplitting crash nearly knocking him off his feet.

After what seems like an eternity, he finally reaches the wreckage, spotting a small trail of white smoke curling up from beneath the sedan's folded hood. A short bolt of red-hot panic rips across his mind like a bullet train, causing his body to flare with additional adrenalin. Quickly forcing his mind back under control, he begins to allow his years of training to take over.

Objectively assessing the scene, he sees no movement in either of the stricken vehicles. He tries to open the still-smoking sedan, but the distorted door is jammed tight. Using all of his adrenaline-fired strength to overcome the resistance, he forces the broken door back against the fender with a groan of tortured metal. Looking inside, he sees the battered form of the driver slumped behind the wheel.

The young man is unconscious and a wet, crimson ribbon runs from a jagged gash in his forehead. Checking his neck for a pulse, he barely feels the weak beats. He struggles to pull him from behind the distorted steering wheel as he looks through a spider crack in the smashed windshield at the mortally wounded convertible beyond.

Dragging the unconscious man toward the curb, he steals a glance in the convertible's window and sees a face he recognizes. In a rolling landslide of shock and fear, he realizes the other driver is Heather. She is conscious, the pain clearly etched in the pleading look on her face.

His mind reels as he struggles with the inhuman choice; stop and attempt to rescue her, or take the injured victim he already has to safety. He doesn't hesitate for more than an instant and with a Herculean effort he sprints to the curb, depositing the young man on the sidewalk, out of harm's way.

His first victim safe, he turns in a mad dash for the other. His muscles scream with the effort of the run. Half way back to the wreckage, he can almost see Heather's face. He finally closes to within a few dozen feet, reaching out to the injured woman.

He never saw the spark, nor did he feel the flame race across the gasoline pool insidiously creeping to ensnare both vehicles. The searing heat envelops him as the liquid ignites.

A brilliant red and yellow fireball of artificial sunshine lights up the dark street while the explosion's shockwave hits him in the chest with a sledgehammer blow. The force of the blast knocking him backwards, he lands on the cold hard floor of his bedroom with a dull thud.

Coming fully awake, Aaron lay on the floor struggling to rebuild reality as the dream slowly faded away.

He wiped the beads of rapidly cooling sweat from his forehead and stood up. The clock on the nightstand told him it was a little after one o'clock in the morning. Christ, not again.

His nerves still jangled, he headed to the kitchen to get a drink, thinking that it might help erase, or at least ease, the memory of the dream still running roughshod over his subconscious. He listened to the ice crack as the rum hit it. He raised the glass, seeing the world through the amber haze. Knowing he'd never be able to go back to sleep, he downed the last of his cocktail and decided to throw on his clothes and take a walk.

The night air's artic cold stung his face as he made his way down the dimly lit street. Moving through the moonlit night, he continued to replay the dream in his head for the umpteenth time.

In reality, he knew the events played out in the dream were the product of his imagination, but to him it didn't matter. He wasn't able to save Heather, or keep Beth from a life of blindness. His pain had slowly eaten at him for months. Like so many Piranha, the sharp bite of guilt also gnawed at his mind, never stopping, never allowing him a moment's peace.

Deeply immersed in his dark thoughts, he trod the cold, empty streets of Boston. His logical mind knew he wasn't to blame, but his emotional self was still too consumed by crushing grief to sort out the subtleties.

He listened to the cadence of his own footsteps in the snow and drank deeply from a flask he pulled from his pocket. Lubricated by the alcohol, he slipped deeper into the well of pain and self-loathing he'd created.

He still missed Heather so much. He ticked off his failures on the fingers of his guilty conscience.

Wasn't I the one trained to protect people?

I'm the one who loved her. I'm the one she trusted to keep her safe...I'm the one who let her die.

The self-recriminations flowed like water, and his grief-stricken mind laid it on thicker and heavier as his blood alcohol level climbed and the minutes melted away.

The sudden blast of a car horn derailed his despondent train of thought, snapping him back to the present. Stepping out of the street and away from the irate driver's middle-finger salute, he looked up and saw a lighted sign shining in the dark. He took in the words, Coffee shop, open twenty-four hours.

After more than an hour of walking aimlessly, the cold was creeping into his bones and he decided to go inside.

He pushed open the door and welcomed the wall of warm air that quickly surrounded him. A row of tall bistro tables stood empty. He ignored them and approached the counter. "One large coffee to go, please."

Taking the proffered drink from the pretty, teenaged girl behind the counter, he silently paid the bill and strode back toward the exit.

Stepping back into the freezing night, he realized he'd been walking in circles and the new building now lay only a few blocks away. Making his way across the street, he headed over to the "Tower". He figured he could do some paperwork while no one was around to smell the rum on his breath. He could get something accomplished and maybe get his mind off Heather, for a while at least.

Flask again in his hand, he poured a heavy dose of rum into the fresh brew. He drank gratefully, adding some more artificial warmth to his body and propping up his self-delusions.

Arriving at the construction entrance a few minutes later, he slid back the gate. He unlocked the freight elevator doors and began the ride up to the thirty-first floor. Turning on the lights, he thought about the men who would learn they had jobs again. He silently thanked Jimmy and went to work, grabbing a clipboard from his field desk. He went about the routine tasks of inspecting the job and inventorying supplies as his alcohol-infused mind began to wander.

He'd resigned his commission in the Navy with mixed emotions. He loved his career in the service, but knew his father's death meant he must return home to assume leadership of the family business, to see to the care and comfort of his mother and sister. He inherited a legacy of integrity and craftsmanship and he swore he wouldn't let his father down, but that was before the accident...before the fear of failure began stalking him day and night.

Dutifully preparing notes on the tasks for the next day, he walked around a pillar and a strange noise stopped him in his tracks. He called out to the empty floor, "Is someone there?" but heard only his own voice echo in reply.

Getting no response, he went back to his work. As he approached the ceiling-high stacks of steel studs and drywall, he heard the sound again, but the echoes were closer this time. A low-pitched groan of pain floated across the maze of building materials, reminding him of a wounded animal. He now knew it was not caused by the rum or his overactive imagination.

The noise repeated and he began to search in earnest for its source. He followed the faint, repeating sounds to a corner of the unfinished floor and his stomach clenched into a hard knot, shocked by what he found hidden behind the trash bunker.

He carefully turned the body over and saw the face of a woman, so badly bruised and covered with dust and blood he couldn't tell her age. He instantly knew this was no accident. He removed his gloves and touched a finger to her cold neck, checking for pulse he really didn't expect to find. A spike of relief flashed through him when he felt the intermittent beats. She was, unbelievably, still alive.

The badly injured woman moaned softly, the tiny sound sending a vile chill along his spine. Opening one eye, she tried to speak. Bending over her, he put his ear to her mouth. The voice, forced and faint, pleaded. "Help me, please."

As he assessed her condition, he tried to reassure her. "It's going to be all right. I'm going to help you."

Looking down at her, his fists clenched in anger and revulsion. His entire being screamed with inner rage and he wished he could get his hands on the monster responsible.

The injured woman again mumbled something and he held her head while he tried to make out her words.

"Get me... out of here.... please," she gasped, a trail of blood running from the corner of her mouth.

He tried to calm her as he took his cell phone from his pocket. "I'm calling an ambulance, just hang on."

She hissed between clenched teeth, "No hospital, please...not safe," then she sagged lower. Her undamaged eye, a deep blue, beckoned him before she lapsed again into unconsciousness.

Aaron had seen enough to know this woman was beyond scared. He picked her limp body up and carried her to the elevator. He had to help or she would die. He couldn't let that happen. He couldn't fail, not again.

As the elevator descended toward the ground, he called Carlotta. He knew she had a friend who was a nurse. His housekeeper gasped in shock and horror as he explained the situation.

"You take the poor thing to your place," she said. "I'll call Kim and have her meet us there."

He hung up just as the elevator reached the ground floor. He carried the still-unconscious woman to a company truck parked at the site and gently put her in the front seat. The ride back to his apartment building took only a few minutes, but to him it seemed like a lifetime. His heart pounded furiously against his ribs as he rounded the last curve and slid to a stop. The battered woman was still out cold and he checked her pulse again before he lifted her from the seat.

He moved quickly through the lobby and took the elevator to his floor. The minutes stretched into hours as the car crept slowly upward. The doors slid open just as Carlotta was coming down the hall and she almost burst into tears as she got her first look at the woman cradled in his arms.

"Who would do such a thing?" she asked as they reached his apartment.

Aaron answered her, his mind aflame with an incandescent rage he could barely contain. "I don't know who did this, but I'm going to find out...and when I do, they won't be able to identify him with dental records."

Once inside, he put the woman down on the guest room bed while Carlotta ran to the bathroom for a towel. He sat on the edge of the bed, pushing the blood-soaked hair out of her face and his rage flared anew at what he saw.

Her left eye was a blue-black mass, the distended lid swollen almost completely closed. Her cheeks and jaw were dotted with random bruises, the spots painted an angry shade of blood-filled purple. He also noticed her fine features were spoiled by a split upper lip and twin tracks of dried blood that trailed below her nose.

The doorbell rang, its chime floating across the room. He went into the entryway while the returning Carlotta did what she could to make the injured woman comfortable.

He opened the door and saw a young woman in green floral scrubs standing in the hall, a medical bag in her hand.

"Hi. I'm Kim. Carlotta called me. She said someone was hurt?"

Aaron ushered the heavy-set, dark-haired woman into the living room.

"Thank you for getting here so fast. She's in there." He pointed down the short hallway.

Aaron and Kim entered the guestroom, finding Carlotta leaning over the bed, uttering Spanish curses as tears fell from her eyes. They watched for a moment as she gently wiped blood and dirt from the woman's face.

"What have we got?" Kim asked, breaking the unnatural silence.

"She's been beat up pretty bad." Carlotta said between strong sniffs. "I hope we're not too late."

"I'll take it from here." Kim said, putting a stethoscope to her ears and grasping the woman's wrist to feel her pulse. "Let me get her vitals."

Kim went to work with a swift precision, the skills undoubtedly born of many night shifts in the E.R.

Aaron silently watched while he paced the room with the fearful concern of an expectant father.

Dear God, please let her be all right. Please don't let it be too late.

Half an hour went by and he couldn't stand it any longer, he went to the kitchen to get a drink and remove himself while Kim and Carlotta did what they could for his "guest".

Finally, after what seemed to him like days, they came into the living room to give him the report.

"Well, I think you got to her just in time," Kim said, putting her hands on her hips. "Here's the deal; First of all, I don't like this. She belongs in a hospital, but she is still refusing to go."

"Objection noted, go on." he said.

"She came around a few minutes ago and in spite of the lumps, she doesn't show any signs of a serious head injury but she probably has a mild concussion. She also has a couple of broken ribs, along with a laundry list of cuts and bruises. I'd say this girl is lucky to be alive."

Aaron felt the relief wash over him like a warm bath. He shook Kim's hand in earnest gratitude. "Thank you so much for all your help. I can't tell you how grateful I am."

Kim looked at him, eyes strained with fatigue, "It's no problem, I'm happy to help. Just let her rest now, and if her condition changes at all, call an ambulance, whether she wants one or not."

Carlotta said good night and Kim picked up her bag. The two ladies headed toward the door with Aaron escorting them. He stopped half way across the room and picked up his checkbook from the oak roll-top desk against the far wall. "What do I owe you, Kim?" he asked, pen poised.

"You don't owe me anything."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes. Just get her to go to a hospital if you can...and make sure she presses charges against her husband...or boyfriend...or whoever did this to her."

"I will."

The nurse shook her head, giving him a look of somber resignation. "I've seen this too many times before. If she goes back to him; the next time...and I can tell you, there will be a next time...he'll kill her for sure."

He thanked both women again and closed the door behind them, listening to the murmur of their voices retreating down the corridor.

Going back to the bedroom, he looked in on his unexpected guest, noticing she was once again asleep. She looked better then when he found her, but that wasn't really saying much. He also noticed that all the bruises hid a stunning girl.

"Who did this to you?" He quietly asked aloud.

In her sleep, her silence remained unbroken. He watched her chest slowly rise and fall, his own exhaustion finally overwhelming him. He grabbed an old desk chair sitting by the window and dragged it to the bedside. He decided he would stay with her, so she wouldn't be alone when she woke up in a strange place.

The minutes ticked by. He kept watch over the injured woman until he sagged in the chair. He fell asleep sitting up and slipped into a deep, dreamless abyss, his chin resting on his chest.

Chapter Thirteen

The Regency Resort's Crystal Château ballroom looked resplendent in full Christmas regalia. A Dickensonian time capsule, decorations of red and green velvet carried the hotel's Victorian holiday theme throughout the large expanse.

The charity cocktail party was already in full swing when Colonel Alex Freemont had arrived forty-five minutes earlier. A string quartet floated gentle notes over the heads of the animated, bubbling crowd. The soothing melodies of Yuletide carols had no affect on his brewing anxiety, the little electric shocks knotting his neck muscles into tight cables.

Verde better come through...or else...and why hasn't he called back by now? How hard can it be to get control of one lousy project?

He scanned the crowd and noted the guests were strictly "A" listers, filling the room with a large cross-section of Gen-X celebrities, business tycoons and politicos from all along the greater eastern seaboard.

Magnificently dressed women, ranging from political trophy wives to silicone-enhanced Hollywood starlets, balanced their voluptuous bodies atop tall stiletto heels and the champagne classes clinked with the bright ring of fine crystal. Their perfectly coiffed hair and imported perfumes enticed the young men to surround them in packs, their pheromone-fired desire hidden beneath the thinnest veneer of diamond-draped civilization.

The women smiled graciously, joining in the boisterous conversation and laughing at the ribald jokes, while under Armani tuxedos, the men's cultured facades hid a barely restrained primal hunger that would demand eventual surrender and satisfaction.

Ignoring the rest of the crowd, Freemont spied the Governors of Massachusetts, Rohde Island and Connecticut locked in deep conversation, sipping drinks on the other side of the room. The two men and one woman spoke in hushed undertones, punctuating their words with clear, demonstrative gestures. Freemont strained to make out what these powerful people were saying.

Tearing his attention away from the gubernatorial coffee-klatch, he continued his visual sweep of the crowd as he gingerly sipped at three fingers of Bushmills Irish whiskey, neat. He checked his watch and angrily saw that his cohort was almost half an hour late.

Were the hell is she? He thought, anger buzzing in his mind like an annoyed wasp.

A few minutes later, he finally eyed his quarry standing in the corner, leaning against the bar and chatting with the wife of a belt-way lobbyist. He watched as she accepted a large glass from one of the three mixologists serving the throng of influential guests milling around.

"About dammed time she got here." He groused in a low hiss. He caught her eye and she acknowledged him with a small nod of her head. She moved to an elegantly adorned banquet table a few feet away, pulled out a chair and sat down, placing her handbag in front of her. He slowly approached and took the chair next to her.

"Clarissa, glad you could make it," he greeted, the words laced with half-hearted sarcasm. "I've been waiting for you."

Clarissa Geovoni smiled at his amusing attempt to chastise her. An olive-skinned Italian-American of astounding beauty, her long dark hair framed a face of classic Mediterranean features. Instantly transfixed, Freemont swallowed dryly as his eyes roamed her body, pausing for a long look at the abundant cleavage straining the straps of her black silk cocktail dress.

"Hello, Alex." she said, her voice a soft caress to his ears.

His gaze continued down her body, eyes drinking her in from firm legs to the red-lacquered toenails peeking demurely out of a pair of open-toed shoes. He noted the nail polish matched her lipstick.

"You look great," he said. "Sorry to take you away from your date."

He took another sip of his drink, trying to sweep away the raw, carnal thoughts skittering across his mind.

"Thank you. He's planning to slip away from his wife and meet me upstairs later. I'm alone...for now."

"So am I. General Omar invited me as his guest."

"Is everything in place?" she asked, casually sipping an apple Martini from an over-sized glass.

He stiffened in his chair for a second, then relaxed. "Not yet...but it will be soon."

"What do you mean, 'not yet'? Time is running out."

"Verde is being difficult. I had to apply a little more pressure."

"You're not serious! I'm not missing out on millions of dollars because you can't control one errant scientist. I did my part. Now you do yours!"

"I'm sure it was tough duty." Freemont answered sharply, his voice equal parts resentment and jealously. "And keep your voice down."

Eyes flaring brightly, Clarissa snapped out an angry, burning retort. "Don't tell me how tough it is! You don't have to sleep with him. He's such an adolescent...a horny little adolescent at that."

They both looked across the dance floor at Zephrem Dumont, Chairman of the Senate Armed Services Committee. The ASC's elite membership hears the big-ticket budget requests the military brings before Congress. Without the approval of the ASC, the military can't buy so much as a bus token. The ASC oversees hundreds of billions in defense spending annually and its members are universally recognized as the most powerful law-makers on Capitol Hill.

Feeling a twinge of male disdain, Freemont noticed that Dumont hadn't let himself go as many former athletes do when their careers change direction. Fifty-five years-old, Dumont's intelligent eyes burned from beneath a thick mantle of close-cropped salt and pepper hair and his jacket rested on hard-muscled, broad shoulders. Freemont begrudgingly admitted that the man was still quite handsome and a small cluster of admiring women surrounding Dumont seemed to agree.

He turned away from Clarissa and emptied his glass. "As long as he delivers when the time comes. We need him to get the contract through the appropriations committee. He is on-board, right?"

She shook her head in visible contempt. "He thinks he's in love with me."

His eyes again met hers. "I'll take that as a 'yes'."

"Yes. We'll have what we need...when we need it."

"Good. Without him, we've got nothing...except a colossal waste of our time."

"I told you I did my part. He'll get the contracts approved, but you've got to get the product lined up. The contract approval is meaningless without control of the patent."

Intentionally ignoring her rebuke, he continued. "You took care of the other details as well, I presume?"

"Of course I did. I bought the blocks of stock in the production company and the contract approval is all lined up. Now all we need is the project design to secure the patent rights."

"I'll have that in place by the end of the day."

"Really, you're sure? I thought you said Verde's being 'difficult'."

"Yes. He's dragging his feet about getting me control of the project, but it's nothing I can't handle."

She gave him a questioning glance, then shrugged her delicate shoulders. "Well, I'm glad that's settled. Enough business for tonight, since we're both 'unattached'...at least for the moment, let's enjoy the party."

He slid his hand under the tablecloth and rested it on her thigh. He relished the feel of the warm flesh against his fingertips.

"Oh, no you don't," she playfully warned, lifting his hand from her leg and pushing it away. "You know the rules."

He exhaled an artificially heavy sigh. "Yes, I know. You'll sleep with anyone but me."

She flashed an impish grin, her green eyes lighting mischievously. "Sorry. I don't sleep with my partners...makes things too complicated. It's bad for business."

His eyes met hers in a sideways glance. "And when this is over?"

She leaned over and her lips just brushed his ear, sending a shiver racing down his back. "When this is over...and we're both disgustingly rich, that pesky rule will no longer apply."

A quick glance around the room confirming they remained unnoticed, she caressed his manhood through his uniform slacks, the sudden touch causing him to shift uncomfortably in his seat.

"I promise; it'll be worth the wait." She breathed into his ear, then licked the lobe for good measure.

"Of that I have no doubt." He agreed, swallowing dryly. "Would you like another drink?"

"Yes. Thank you."

He stood and moved toward the bar. He handed over his glass and the bartender refilled it. Ordering Clarissa's Martini, he withdrew his phone from his jacket and dialed as the bartender mixed the concoction. After the sixth ring, he closed the cover. Dammit! Why doesn't he answer?

Taking the drink from the bartender's outstretched hand, he returned to the table and his "partner".

Unbeknownst to Freemont, on the other side of town Jack Verde's cell phone continued to chirp in the holster attached to his belt. The electronic plea for attention went unanswered, the sound bouncing off the cold steel walls of the trash dumpster before fading into silence.

Chapter Fourteen

The morning sun streaming through the windows woke Aaron and he was instantly aware of the events of the previous night. Sitting up in the chair, he stretched his sore muscles and looked at the young woman lying in the bed. She looked helpless as she lay there sleeping, her chest rising and falling, her breathing slow and steady. He also noticed Rambo had curled up in a ball, fast asleep at her feet.

"Rambo, get off the bed." He scolded gently.

The cat sat up, meowing coarsely at him as she stretched and flexed her long claws.

"Oh, I get it," he said in mock amusement, "You're standing guard, right?"

In response, Rambo puffed up her long white fur from head to tail in an attempt to look bigger and more formidable, a tactic Aaron found funny. He smiled at the feline's display.

Oh, you're so tough. You look like a giant cotton ball."

He picked Rambo up and moved her to the chair. "All right killer, you watch her. I've gotta have some coffee."

Rambo followed him into the kitchen, meowing impatiently for her morning meal.

After he fed the cat, he took his coffee back into the bedroom and again sat down next to the bed. He sipped the steaming brew, looking down at his guest, wondering who she was and how she got in this condition. He'd checked all the news broadcasts and discovered she wasn't on any of them. It puzzled him that no one had reported her missing. He found the same when he'd read the newspaper.

No mention of a missing woman. How weird, that nobody is looking for you.

He sat at her bedside on and off for the entire day and into the evening. At about eight p.m. he heard a small groan and he went to check on his ward. As he walked through the door, he saw that she was awake, her good eye searching the room.

After taking a brief moment to register his presence, a piercing scream began in her throat, only to quickly die on her lips. She grabbed her chest, hissing in pain and crawled backward on the bed, her face a mask of blind panic.

"Stay back!" she gasped, the effort causing her to cough violently and again wrap her arms protectively around her battered ribs.

He took a step back. "It's all right. I won't come any closer. You're safe."

She started to get up and he headed her off with an outstretched hand.

"You've been injured. Just stay still. You're safe here."

She looked up at him, her face lined with fear and pain. She cowered against the bed's carved headboard.

"I said stay back!" she yelled again, pressing tighter against the headboard as the pain racked her body.

He could tell she was still in a daze, but coming around. He spoke quietly, hoping the calming tones would reassure the frightened girl. "I won't hurt you. I'm here to help."

The woman blinked several more times and looked around, trying to understand her surroundings, alarm still evident in her weak voice. "Who are you?" she wheezed coarsely. "Where am I?"

He took a step forward and she again struggled to move away. She jerked the lamp off the nightstand to her right, swinging it menacingly. "Stay back! I mean it!"

"Just stay still. You had an accident, but you're going to be all right."

Her speech was slightly garbled, due to her split lip and her broken speech told him she still struggled to stay coherent. "Accident? What accident? Where am I?"

"Don't worry. You're safe. My name is Aaron Casey. You're in my apartment."

She glared at him. "How did I get here?"

"I brought you here. I found you. You were injured," he again moved closer. "You can put down the lamp. I won't hurt you. You're safe here."

Her doe-like eyes following his every move, he slowly reached for the chair next to the bed and pulled it to him, retreating a few steps before sitting.

"Just stay over there." She hissed as she replaced the lamp on the table.

"What's your name?" Aaron asked.

The woman took a small breath and replied with some difficulty. "Jenny."

"All right, Jenny. Do you want me to get you a doctor?"

She drew a long, slow breath through clenched teeth. "No doctors or hospitals, please. I just need some water."

He had a glass ready on the nightstand and held the straw to her lips. She took a small drink, winced in pain, then swallowed.

"You just rest now."

Lying back down, she nodded and closed her eyes.

He walked to the door and as he stopped to turn out the light, she called to him. "Aaron, is it?"

He turned to her. "Yes?"

"Thank you,"

"You're welcome."

She didn't hear him. She was already asleep again.

Aaron called Carlotta to stay with Jenny, while he went to the store. As he walked the block to the market, he thought about the woman upstairs.

How could someone beat her up like that...and why isn't anybody looking for her?

He got a few things at the store, bandages and antiseptic for Jenny's cuts and a bottle of rum for himself.

After all I've been through in the last forty-eight hours I'm entitled to a drink...or two.

He returned to find his housekeeper sitting on the bed, trying to spoon-feed his guest a bowl of soup.

"Feeling better?" He asked.

In a voice still slightly slurred but stronger, she answered. "Yes. A little, I guess."

As Jenny continued to eat, Rambo jumped up on the bed and meowed, sniffing at the bowl of soup, her little pink nose working overtime.

"Hi there kitty." Jenny said.

Aaron laughed. "I think she wants your soup."

"She's beautiful. What's her name?"

"Her name's Rambo."

"How did she get a name like that?"

"It's a long story. But if you want, I'll tell you later, when you're rested."

"I'd like that."

"Okay." Aaron agreed, "But first, I need to make sure you're all right. Do you want to see a doctor? I asked you before, but you were still kinda out of it."

"No, I don't think I need a doctor. I'm feeling much better. Just got my bell rung, that's all."

"Bell rung is right." he said, not falling for the transparent lie for a second. "Are you sure you don't want a doctor? You have some cracked ribs and a sprained wrist...along with a bunch of bumps and bruises."

Carlotta interrupted, "Well, I'm going to leave you two alone now."

As he walked her to the door, he thanked Carlotta for staying with Jenny, and offered to pay her.

"No way, Aaron. I know all about being beaten up," she said, referring to her ex-husband. "I'm just glad I could help. If you need me again, just call."

Carlotta went home, leaving Aaron and Jenny to their individual thoughts. He felt like now would be as good a time as any to ask her some questions.

"Jenny, do you remember how this happened to you?"

She hesitated and he saw the fear splash across her face like paint. "No, I don't remember much. How did I get here?"

"I brought you here. You didn't want to go to the hospital."

"Where did you find me?"

"On an empty floor of my building. Do you remember how you got there?"

"The last thing that I remember is going back to my office to get my keys."

"What time was that?"

"It was a little after seven. I know because I was late for a date."

He nodded in understanding. "Well, I found you at a little after two a.m., so that leaves seven hours unaccounted for. Where is your office?"

"It's in that new building downtown, the Boston Tower."

"That's where I found you, in my building." he repeated.

"What do you mean your building?"

"I mean I built it. I introduced myself earlier, but you may not remember. I'm Aaron Casey, owner of Casey Construction."

She tried to reach up and shake his outstretched hand, but pulled back suddenly. "Owww, God, that hurts."

"Just take it easy. You're banged up pretty good." he said.

She slowly eased her arm back down. "I'm Jennifer Ryan. Thank you for what you did for me."

"You're welcome. I'm just glad I found you when I did. Do you have any idea how you were injured?"

"No. No, I have no idea. Somebody hit me from behind. It must have been a mugger or something."

He noticed her clipped response came just a little too quickly. "Well, it's late and you need your rest. Is there anyone you want me to call for you?"

"No. I live alone."

"Well, you are welcome to stay here tonight, if you want to. I can take you home in the morning."

"Thank you. That's very generous."

"Well, Okay. Do you need anything before I go to bed?"

"No, I'm fine, but I do need to use your bathroom."

"It's the first door on the right, do you need help walking?"

"No, I think I can make it."

As Jenny started to get out of the bed, she moved the blankets and suddenly realized she was nearly naked underneath, wearing only her panties.

She gave him a sheepish look, pulling the covers up to her chin. "Excuse me Aaron, I don't want to sound ungrateful or anything, but where are my clothes? And more importantly, who took them off me?"

Aaron's face reddened and he held back an embarrassed chuckle. "Your clothes are in the trash. They were ripped, and covered with blood. Mrs. Nunez, the lady with the soup, she took them off and covered you with the blankets. I wasn't even in the room."

She looked at him, one eyebrow raised in disbelief.

He held up his hand in a three-finger salute. "Scout's honor. I'll get you something to put on."

While he explained, he retrieved a robe from a hook on the back of the closet door and handed it to her. "You can wear this until tomorrow, then we'll get you some new clothes."

Jenny accepted the robe and noticed his face had progressed to a very bright red. He turned his back while she slipped it on.

He waited for her at the bathroom door, in case she needed any help getting back to bed. After he got her settled in again, he said good night and was about to leave when she spoke. "Are you going to tell me how Rambo got her name, like you promised?"

He was surprised she remembered. "Sure. If you're up to it?"

Rambo heard her name and came trotting into the room as if on cue. She jumped up on the bed and meowed softly.

He reached out and scratched the cat behind her ears. "This little hairball came into my life almost a year ago. I found her and two litter-mates abandoned on one of my construction sites...half frozen. She couldn't have been more than a few weeks old."

Jenny listened intently as he continued.

"The little monster caught a mouse and was trying to figure out how to eat it. Her eyes weren't even completely open, and already she hunted for food. That's why I call her Rambo, because she's a fighter. We've been together ever since."

Jenny tried to smile, and Aaron visualized for a moment what she would look like without all the bruises.

"I guess you have a habit of picking up strays on your job sites.

"No, just damsels in distress."

"Where are the other two?"

"The other two didn't make it."

"Oh. I'm sorry."

He stood and moved toward the door. "I'm going to take a shower and hit the rack. If you need anything, just ask. Goodnight."

"Goodnight Aaron, and thanks again... for everything."

The heat of the shower relaxed him and as the water rained down, he thought about what she'd said. He didn't believe for an instant this was a common mugging...and he wanted to know the truth.

He walked to the kitchen, still wrapped in a towel, and pulled the bottle of rum from the freezer. He stared at the bottle for a long moment before dropping some ice into a glass and pouring it full.

He thought about his guest in the next room and wondered how to get her to trust him. Everything she'd told him pointed to a simple mugging. Everything except where he found her, on the 31st floor. He assumed if she were the victim of a street crime, she would have been left on the street, not inside the building. The Boston Tower had a state-of-the-art security system and no common thug would dare try anything there. He thought the surveillance tapes might shed some light on what happened to her. He decided to have the guards pull the tapes and hold them until he got there. Finishing his drink, he crawled into bed and fell asleep almost instantly.

He arose at his normal six a.m. the next morning and started the coffee. He waited until seven before phoning Diane. "Hi, Di. I just wanted to tell you, I won't be in today. I'm not feeling too good."

"Are you all right, do you need anything?" his assistant asked.

"No, just going to stay in bed for today."

He could almost feel her protective instincts peak, but he fended off her well-meaning barrage of questions and hung up the phone.

While Jenny slept, he went to the corner diner and ordered breakfast for the two of them. When he returned half an hour later, he found her in the kitchen sitting on a stool at the breakfast bar gingerly sipping a cup of coffee.

"Good morning. How are you feeling?" he asked, surprised and pleased to see her up and around.

"Not too bad, for someone who's been pulled through a knot-hole." she said, wincing and touching a cold compress to her swollen lip between sips.

He had to smile at the bad joke. "That good? Really? I'll ask again if you want to see a doctor."

"No. I'm sore in places I didn't know I had, but other than that I'm all right. By the way, thanks for making the coffee this morning. I can't function without caffeine."

He poured a mug for himself and sat next to her. "Me either."

They sipped for several long moments in awkward silence, "I hate to bring this up," he said. "But don't you think we should call the police?"

She answered him in measured tones. "Please, no police. I don't want any trouble."

Frustration caused his voice to waver slightly. "What do you mean, you don't want any trouble? Jenny, you were the victim of an assault. Somebody nearly killed you. Don't you want the police to find the man who did this to you?"

He was really confused now, first she wouldn't go to a doctor and now she resisted calling the police. It didn't take a rocket scientist to know she was hiding something.

He continued in a more firm tone, "All right, tell me what's really going on here."

She paused for a second then sipped her coffee again before answering. "I'm sorry, but I can't."

Her tone and demeanor confirmed his suspicions.

This was no random act of violence.

He tried again. "Look, I can't help you unless you tell me what's going on."

She was still scared, the fear plainly etched on her face. However, she persisted in her evasions.

"Don't get me wrong," she said, rising from the stool. "I'm very grateful for what you did for me, but I think its time for me to leave now."

Now he was getting really frustrated and it came out in his voice. He wanted to help her, but she seemed to be fighting him and he wanted to know why. He decided to push her just a little harder.

"Involve me in what?" When she didn't answer, he went on. "You can trust me. I'm the one that saved your bacon, right?"

"Yes. That you did."

"All right, then tell me what's going on. If you don't tell me, I can't help you."

She hesitated, then walked to the sink and dumped the ice from the compress, the cubes landing with a clang.

"You can trust me. I can help."

She turned to face him, the deer in the headlights look appearing once again. "You're asking me to trust you and I don't know you."

Her silence persisted and he was beginning to lose his patience. He threw up his hands in frustration.

"For crying out loud! You just don't get it do you?" He finally raised his voice. "Let's stop fooling around here. You were attacked in a secure building. That means this was no run-of-the-mill mugging. Whoever did this to you knows who you are and where you work."

She froze and he could see her tremble slightly. She turned to face him and made eye contact for a long moment. "Okay. I'll tell you everything, but you have to promise me something in return."

He was still annoyed with her and didn't want any more evasions. "What?"

She looked into his eyes again and he could almost read the fear. "First, no police, and second, you can't tell anyone what I'm about to tell you. Not a word, not ever."

He nodded his agreement. "Look, I just want to get the bastard who did this to you, that's all."

"All right. Because if what you said is true, I'm putting more than just my life in your hands."

"I promise." He said. "No police...for now."

She leaned back against the counter, taking a deep breath that caused her to wince in pain. "It's got to be my project. Whoever attacked me must have been after my project. It's the only thing that makes sense."

"What project were you working on?"

She blew a heavy sigh and for the next twenty minutes laid the whole thing out for him. She started from the inception of the Ever-cell project to when she was attacked, what she remembered of it. He listened intently to every word and the more he heard, the more it made sense.

A project like this is a potential gold mine. Whoever had this new process would make an unbelievable fortune.

He began to understand her initial terror, and the reluctance to talk about what happened.

Any one of a dozen groups would kill for this kind of technology.

"So now what?" she asked, moving to the coffee pot and refilling her mug.

"Well, we have to operate under the assumption that the plans were taken by whoever attacked you. We need to figure out who that is and recover the data. You won't be safe until we do."

It sounded simple enough, on the surface, but he also knew these things are rarely as easy as they seem.

"But...I don't know who took them." She said, shoulders slumping in defeat.

His mind clicked into high gear. Taking a small yellow note pad and a pencil from a kitchen drawer, he began to write. "What do you remember about the person who beat you up?"

"I can't remember anything," she sighed, shaking her head. "It's just a blur."

"You don't remember anything about the person who attacked you?"

"No, I really can't remember much of anything. It all happened so fast."

He didn't see any reason for her to lie, and considering the size of the knots on her head, he could believe she didn't recall the attack.

"Okay. So let's concentrate on what we do know. You said the last thing you remember is being in your office. That means that the perpetrator gained access to a secure facility...how?"

"Only level five employees have access to the labs," she thought aloud and paced the kitchen. "Who let him in?"

Aaron scratched away at the pad as she passed in front of him and tried to think of possible ways to get into the building.

"What about cleaning crews?" He figured it was a long-shot, but he had to start somewhere.

"No way," she protested, "I have to believe they're thoroughly vetted before they're hired."

"I'll check. Delivery men or messengers?"

"Nope," she said flatly. "They have to wait down in the lobby or leave packages with the guard."

Still making notes, he asked a rhetorical question. "What about competitors?"

A puzzled expression crossed her face. "What do you mean?"

"Are their individuals or companies out there who would risk this kind of attack to get their hands on your work?"

She thought about it for a few seconds, rolling the questing around in her head. "Yes, I suppose there are...but how would they get into the lab?"

"One thing at a time. Who might be that ballsy...or that desperate?"

"I can't think of anyone who would have known about the battery. I just finished the tests.

The admission triggered alarm bells. He scratched away with the pencil. "What tests, and when?"

"The first trial runs, on Friday."

He raised one eyebrow. "The same day as the attack?"

"Yes. Is that important?"

"Well, I don't know if it's important yet, but it can't be a coincidence. Who did you talk to that day?"

She cocked her head in thought. "Let's see, I had a meeting with Jack in the morning, and then I went to the lab."

"Who's Jack?"

"Jack Verde, my boss."

"What's he do?" he asked.

"He's the head of R&D."

"Do you think he might have anything to do with it?"

She shook her head. "No," she said firmly. "I've known Jack for years. He wouldn't hurt me."

Aaron put up his hands in surrender. "Okay, Jack didn't do it. Did you talk to anyone else, even for a minute?"

"Not that I remem...," she stopped in mid-sentence, then turned to face him, her expression tight in concentration. "Wait a second, there was Sean."

"Sean, who is that?" he asked as he continued to scratch notes on the yellow pages.

"Sean Murphy, from the mail room, but what would he want with my battery?"

"I don't know. We'll come back to him later. Anyone else?"

"No, just Jack and Sean. I don't think I talked to anyone else that day."

"Not even on the phone?"

She shook her head, arms crossing over her chest. "Nope."

"Did you tell either of them that you had tested the battery?"

"No, I was too afraid. I didn't want my project taken away from me."

Again the warning bells rang in his head. "Why do you say that? Has someone tried to take it away?"

"No, not really."

"What do you mean, 'not really'?"

"Well, Jack did try to get me to let him manage it. He said he wanted to give me a promotion and he'd oversee the completion."

"When did he say this?"

She hesitated.

He sat back on the stool and met her eyes in a hard stare. "No, let me guess. Friday, right?"

She nodded in agreement.

"And you're sure Jack wouldn't hurt you?"

He watched as she struggled to maintain her composure. She wiped a stray tear from her eye, hissing in pain. "I can't believe he would be involved in something like this."

"Well, we don't know that he is. That's enough for now," he stood up and moved across the room to stand next to her. He rinsed his mug out and put it in the sink. "I had security pull the surveillance tapes and I'll pick them up. All we can do right now is wait."

"Do you think the tapes will help?"

"I hope so, because until we find out who beat you up, you're stuck here."

She shook her head. "You can't be serious. I have to go to my place and get some clothes and get to the office and..."

He held up his hand and abruptly cut off her ramblings. "Jenny, you still don't understand what's going on, do you? You aren't safe outside. Those people could still be after you. If they see you, they might kill you this time. I can't allow that to happen."

She turned a new, ghostly shade of white and raised her hand to her mouth in alarm. "Oh, my God! Do you really think someone would try to kill me? Why? Don't they have what they want?"

"Even if they got what they want, whoever did this to you wouldn't want you talking to anyone."

She shook her head in disbelief. "They would kill me just to keep me quiet?"

"Yes. You could cause all kinds of problems for whoever took those plans and that makes you a walking target. I can almost guarantee they will kill you on sight."

He watched her remaining color drain away as understanding crossed her taut features. He saw her tremble as the reality of her situation slowly began to take hold of her disconcerted mind. She heaved a deep sigh. Refilling her cup, she walked toward the living room with him right behind.

"What are we going to do?" She asked.

"You are going to stay put, where you are safe. I'm going to check out Sean Murphy and Jack Verde and see what I can find out."

"How are you going to do that?"

He gave her a grin loaded with boyish charm. "I've got friends in low places."

"Oh, very funny." She groaned. "Aaron, I can't let you to do this."

"Why not?"

"Because if it's as dangerous as you say, you could get hurt. I can't be responsible for that. I need to do this on my own."

Aaron saw the pain and fear line her face and didn't have the heart to argue with her right then. "You rest and we'll talk later...after we see the surveillance tapes. Okay?"

"No. Aaron I mean it, I can't get you involved any more than you already are."

"Look Jenny, I'm in this to the end now. So, just let me help you."

"What can we really do?" she moaned in growing despair, "A geeky scientist and a construction worker, against someone who is ready to kill for my project?"

He watched as the tears began to well up in her eyes. He moved a step closer, but still hesitated, afraid to touch her.

Jenny put her face in her hands and began to weep. "I can't let them have my research. It's too dangerous. I just can't."

Aaron put his arms around her and held her as close as her injuries would allow. "It's going to be all right. We won't let them have your project."

She looked up at him, tears running in tiny rivers down her bruised face "But you said they would kill to keep it. I can't let you get hurt because of me."

"Don't worry about me. I can look out for myself," He grinned. "I used to be a Boy Scout, you know."

He wiped her tears away and told her he had to attend a meeting with the city inspectors, but he would be back in a couple of hours.

"I don't want to leave. But if I don't show up at this meeting a few hundred people are going to be out of work, including me."

She wiped her eyes again and regained some of her composure. "It's all right, I understand. You go to your meeting and don't worry about me."

"Promise me that you won't go anywhere while I'm gone."

She forced a smile. "Where am I going to go, dressed in your bathrobe?"

"I'm serious. I have to know that you'll stay here, where you're safe."

The thought of her on the streets alone filled him with dread. This girl had gotten under his skin with record speed. All he could think about was helping her and getting this stolen technology back where it belonged.

If half of what she said was true, this project is a quantum leap in energy technology. It also makes her a prime target for every low-life in the world. She might as well have a bull's-eye on her back.

He knew that he had to see this through. She was a lamb in a lion's den and someone had to look out for her. He decided that someone would be him.

"Please listen to me. We'll go and pick up your things later, but for now you have to stay here. I think this was an inside job and that means they know a lot about you. Right now, they think you're dead...and we want them to go on thinking that."

Too tired and in too much pain to argue any more, she acquiesced, but not without one last jolt of sarcasm. "All right, I'll stay here. Like a good little girl."

Aaron smiled, immensely relieved. "Good. Do you want Carlotta to come and keep you company?"

"No, it's okay. I'll be all right."

Hearing the front door close, Jenny went to the desk and picked up the phone. As she dialed, the phone suddenly felt very heavy in her hand.

Chapter Fifteen

Hell hath no fury like an upstate New York blizzard. The phrase "lake-effect snow" takes on new meaning when it accumulates at more than a foot an hour.

Outside Ithaca, New York, the campus of Cornell University was already under more than two feet of new snow and the forecast called for another sixteen to twenty inches in the next twelve hours.

Brent Ryan looked outside and watched the white flakes blast against the frosted window pane, the howling wind rattling the glass in the frame.

Just under six feet tall and weighing 185 lbs., Ryan possessed the physical skill and talent to earn a full-ride scholarship, courtesy of the school's ice hockey team. He was well aware a degree represented a huge advantage in life and he worked very hard to parley his natural athleticism into a masters degree in economics.

Sitting on an end table in his dorm room, Brent's cell phone began vibrating in rhythmic pulsations, signaling an incoming call.

He put the phone to his ear. "Hello?"

"Brent, it's Jen."

"Hey, where have you been? I tried to call you yesterday. I was starting to get really worried."

"I was...umm...busy. Sorry."

Irritated by her indifferent attitude, he bit back a scorching retort, instead letting the slight wash over him.

"Yeah? Well, I was about to send out a search party.

"I'm fine...well sort of..." She hesitated and a wave of concern splashed over him like cold seawater. "What's up?"

"I need you to come to Boston."

His sister's halting tone caused his pulse to spike in alarm. "When? The weather's really crappy here. I don't know if I can get a flight."

"Can you come today? It's important."

He agreed without hesitation. "I'll catch the next flight...or I'll drive if I have to. What's going on?"

"I can't talk now. Just get here as fast as you can. Please, I need your help."

"Come on, I can hear it in your voice. Tell me what's got you so upset."

"I don't want to get into it on the phone. I'll tell you everything when you get here."

"Whatever it is, you can tell me. We'll sort it out."

"All I can tell you is that it's serious. You'll just have to trust me on the rest.

He hesitated before answering, not liking the foreboding chills her words sent creeping up his spine. "Okay. I'll get there as soon as I can."

"One more thing," She interjected.

"Yes?"

"When you get here, I need you to go to my office and pick up my laptop. Talk to my assistant. She'll get it for you. Speak to no one else."

"What?"

"I need you to get it for me," she said. "I'll meet you at the offices of Casey Construction. It's in the Tower building. I'll explain the rest later."

"Do you need anything else?"

"No, if you can get my computer that will be enough. And Brent, be careful...this is serious." she said, the fear in her voice giving him all he needed in the way of warning.

"Hang on sis, I'm on my way. I'll be there in about three or four hours and we will figure out whatever this is."

"Thanks. I'll see you this afternoon then."

He hung up the phone and called the airline. While he was on hold, he contemplated the cryptic conversation.

Whatever's bothering her must really be big if she's calling me in from New York.

Giving up the view outside the window, he opened the closet and began to throw some clothes into a small duffel bag.

Brent Ryan had spent his entire life in his sister's shadow. She was the brilliant one, truly gifted, and for a long time his resentment of her caused a burning friction between the siblings that singed them both.

All of Jenny's academic life she had been at the top of her class, while Brent worked almost manically to keep his 3.85 GPA. Cornell University was no picnic, and as Brent filled his days with classes, hockey practice and studying, he grudgingly developed a healthy respect for his sister's academic achievements. He also realized that while she was undeniably a scientific genius, she was also painfully shy, lacking the social grace and self-confidence he found easy to summon. That knowledge, and a little hard-won maturity, made it possible for the two of them to grow much closer in the last few years. The past evaporated as he zipped the bag, clearing his mind.

Concentrating on the present, he began punching the buttons on his cell phone's keypad.

Ryan knew his sister was obviously scared and he had to go and help in any way he could. He just wished she would have confided in him...given him a little more information.

If she's having trouble with some boyfriend...I'll just lay a beat-down on him.

His hockey team's "enforcer", Brent was well-versed in the proper application of fisticuffs and would simply pummel any low-life who dared to bother his sister.

But it didn't sound that simple. She's too scared for it to just be some jackass giving her a hard time.

The mere thought of his sister in some kind of trouble, whatever it was, twisted his insides into hard, painful knots.

If anybody's hurt you, they'll answer to me!

The dull, disinterested voice of the ticket agent came on the line. "What city, please?"

"A ticket for one to Boston, please." he said. "On the next available flight."

The 5 mile trip from the dorm to Ithaca's Tompkins County Regional Airport took almost half an hour. The heavy snow continued to fall and compacted ice on the roads played havoc with the traffic, sending cars skidding out of control, landing in roadside ditches or buried in deep medians.

Finally reaching his destination, Brent entered the terminal. Checking the monitor board, he learned that all outgoing flights were cancelled.

"There must be something...somewhere," he pleaded with the ticket agent behind the counter. "I have to get to Boston. Please check the other airports."

Well over fifty, the obese woman's unsympathetic face sagged further as she fluffed a tangled mass of garishly dyed red hair. "I'll see what I can do," she said. "This storm is moving east from Chicago and getting worse. I don't know if we'll find anything for today."

She tapped the keys on her computer and watched her screen intently. "They still have one leaving from Syracuse, it leaves a little later...but so far, it's still going."

"Can I make it?"

"If they don't close the highway, you can probably make it."

"It's a risk I'll have to take. Thanks." He said as he walked away.

Getting back on the road, Brent headed for Syracuse. Fighting the rising storm, he plodded down the frozen expanse of State Highway 13 before turning northeast, onto Interstate 81. The sixty-mile drive took just over two hours.

He elbowed his way to the front of the line at the ticket counter, garnering withering stares from the other waiting passengers. When he arrived at the gate, he heard the metallic twang of the boarding announcement. He sprinted down the jetway and buckled his seatbelt with only minutes to spare.

Chapter Sixteen

Clark Majors scanned the area around him, looking for any sign of untoward interest in his presence.

The brightly lit terminal at Boston's Logan Airport was a beehive of furious activity. Majors sipped his cappuccino and watched the people moving down the corridor past his table. The mass of humanity scurried here and there, trying to make connections or rebook canceled flights as they worked their way through the crowd, cell phones growing out of their ears like another appendage.

The annoying prattle of the public address system grated in his ears as he sat in the coffee bar. Cutting through the café's thick background noise, the tinny, mechanical voice informed him his former partner's flight would now arrive an additional half-hour late.

Dammed Airlines, He thought in irritation, keeping a schedule wouldn't kill you!

He had already warmed the chair for nearly an hour, waiting for his partner to arrive. Chafing at the further delay, he checked his watch again and glanced at the news program running on the bar's wall-mounted television. He found it repeating the same group of headline stories for the fourth time.

I've got to get moving before someone notices that I'm still sitting here.

He congratulated himself on having the foresight to bring a backpack, the nylon bag stuffed with newspapers. Wouldn't due to be the only traveler without luggage, would it?

The woman he called in to assist him with this operation was on the 9 a.m. flight and it was now 10:30. He ordered another coffee, paying cash.

Clark Majors and Trish Davenport had known each other for many years and their torrid affair had almost wrecked a perfectly good...meaning profitable... business relationship.

He remembered how it ended, their passion for each other cremated in a fire so hot it consumed everything around it. His mind drifted back to relive the day in vivid detail.

The pair had been about to acquire a "package" for a wealthy Japanese businessman when the operation fell apart. The buyer, Tahiro Makodoma, neglected to inform his "purchasing agents" that the item was not only extremely rare, but also part of a collection of artwork looted from a family of German Jews during the Holocaust. Posing as the seller, the French Gendarmerie Nationale agent who seduced Clark did so with such blinding speed and skill that he still found it unimaginable to this day.

Trish was devastated. Her professional anger infused with near-fatal doses of self-recrimination at having left her heart undefended against the man she loved.

Both victims of the French agent's cunning duplicity and feminine wiles, the inevitable downfall came in a hail of gunfire along a muddy roadside in Paris' 12th Arrondissement. Clark was badly wounded in the gunfight and Trish ended up spending several harrowing days in a French jail before bribing the guards and disappearing through an unlocked door into a back alley. The memory of his own weakness still left a bitter taste in his mouth.

Returning to the business at hand, he again unobtrusively scanned the busy cafe to see if anyone watched him, but the people paid no attention. He bristled, hating being in the open, but it couldn't be avoided. At least he could blend in with the moving throng of stranded travelers.

He had just finished his second drink when the arrival/departure board flashed a silent message that the long-awaited plane had finally landed. Clark decided to abandon his post in the coffee shop and wait outside baggage claim. He got off the stool and retrieved the backpack from under the table.

The walk through the airport was uneventful. The guards at the security gate looked right through him as he passed by. Some things never change.

Moving to a bookseller's kiosk, he bought a newspaper and went through the pretense of reading it as passengers began to emerge from the long corridor leading back to the gates.

He leaned against the wall, turning pages of the paper and occasionally scanning the crowd. After a few minutes, he saw her appear. He dropped the folded newspaper in the trash can on his way across the hall and made eye contact with her as she walked toward him. He approached the woman, took her bag, and spoke in a low tone. "Let's get out of here."

"And it's very nice to see you again too, Clark." The woman groused.

"Look Trish, let's get away from this crowd first. We can talk later. I don't like being here with all the security around."

The two quickly made their way from baggage claim to the parking lot and into Majors' car. As he negotiated the airport's outer loop, he vented his frustration at the plane's delay by berating the other drivers, hurling obscenities with the skill of a New Jersey cab driver.

Once they were on the road, Trish opened the conversation. "Okay Clark, now that we are away from the airport, tell me, why am I here?"

He regarded the woman in the seat next to him. Although it had been nearly two years since they last saw each other, with her delicate jaw and button nose, Trish Davenport was still as beautiful as ever.

The flaxen tresses that normally fell to the middle of her back were restrained by a large brown hair clip, the neat bun resting on the crown of her head. He also noticed she hadn't worn the flat dancing shoes she preferred, but a pair of colorful canvas sneakers.

"It's fairly simple Trish; you're here because I called."

She rolled her dazzling hazel eyes at his undisguised arrogance. "Don't flatter yourself. I came because you said you had a job for me, and if that's not the case you can take me back to the airport...right now."

He laughed at her false indignation. "All right, don't get pissed off. I have a job for us."

"What kind of job?"

"One that requires your special assistance. We can talk more about it after you get settled in."

"Settled in to where? I haven't agreed to anything yet."

"I took the liberty of booking you into the Regency Resort hotel, under the name of Jean Hazleton. You're a software designer, in town for a conference."

"Here," he reached between the seats, pulling out a large manila envelope. "There's a drivers license, credit cards, two grand in cash and the key to the room. I'll be staying in the adjoining room. I also rented you a car, blue Chevy convertible, it's at the hotel."

Trish smiled, impressed, but never surprised, by Clark's thoroughness.

"Good, I'll need to get some clothes. A big shot software designer wouldn't wear this." She pointed to what she referred to as her "comfy clothes", a well-faded pair of blue Levi's and an oversized red sweatshirt with Arizona Sundogs Hockey stenciled on it in bold white letters.

"I think you look fine." Clark said, eyes roving the length of her body, his pulse quickening. Even the baggy sweatshirt couldn't hide the fabulous curves underneath.

Trish saw the way he was looking at her. "Hold it right there," she warned. "This is business."

Their joint laughter broke the tension and then they continued the drive to the hotel in amiable silence.

The room at the Regency was large and well appointed. Designed for business travelers, it had everything from a computer station to a full bar. Trish dropped her bag on the bed. Sneakers silent on the marble floor, she moved to the desk situated on the far side of a raised platform that held the king-sized bed and immediately plugged in her laptop.

As she continued her unpacking, Clark entered through the dividing door between the rooms.

"I got the connecting rooms so we could move between them without being seen in the hall." He said.

She thought it was overkill and gave him a ribbing. "Good Idea. We wouldn't want the maids to think the software designer's a slut."

His pinched face told her he failed to see the humor in the jab. "Would you get serious!" He snorted.

She hid a chuckle behind a delicate hand, the fingers decorated with several glittering diamond rings. "Sorry."

He passed her a thick file folder. Sitting on the large leather couch, she flipped it open and looked at the picture clipped to page one. "Who's the nerd?"

He grunted in mild annoyance at her continued frivolity. "The nerd, as you called her, is Dr. Jennifer Ryan. She is a research scientist and the reason we're here. My client is willing to pay a large sum of money for a battery she developed."

She tuned to him, cocking one eyebrow. "All this for a battery?"

He headed for the bar located on the right side of the room, a few feet away. "Correction...all this for a five million dollar battery."

"Five million dollars," Her eyes expanded as she rolled the figure off her tongue like candy. "This must be some kind of battery."

"Apparently, it is. But that's not important. We just have to get it before someone else does."

"Who?" she asked, continuing to read, the folder now spread out on her lap.

Trish didn't like other people involved in her work. She knew that every person who was involved in a mission presented a potential security risk, and she didn't like unnecessary risks.

She heard the unmistakable tinkle of ice cubes and saw Clark filling a glass.

"I hate to drink alone. Want one?" he asked.

She hesitated for a moment. Her conflicting emotions bombarded her with indecision about even seeing him, never-mind working with him, again.

"Sure. A small one though, just a snack-tail."

Not quite sure she could trust herself with him so close, she quickly got back to business. "Who is this guy, the one who's after Ryan?"

He handed her a square glass half full of Gentleman Jack on the rocks.

"A guy named Phillip Temple. I checked him out. He's head of the Temple Corporation."

The aroma of the whiskey reached her nose. "Jack Daniels, my favorite," she took a generous sip, enjoying the taste and mild burn of the fine sour mash as it slid down. "I'm surprised you remembered."

"I remember everything about you, Trish. Haven't you realized that by now?"

She raised a finely-plucked eyebrow at the remark but let it go unanswered, half afraid of what she would say. "What do we know about this Temple?"

He sat down next to her on the sofa, close enough for her to smell the masculine sent of his spicy aftershave. The lingering cologne flooded her thoughts with fleeting memories of happier times.

She could already feel the beginnings of that familiar tingle, the tell-tale warmth of her body's uncontrollable reaction to his presence. She tried to concentrate as her rational mind battled that inner stirring she couldn't fight off or evade.

"Not much really," he said between sips. "He runs a big conglomerate, very rich. He keeps to himself and manages to stay one step ahead of the I.R.S. investigators. I don't anticipate any serious problems from him."

She put her drink down on the coffee table and turned to face him. "Really, and why is that?"

"From what I was able to find out, he's more into the finer things in life. You know, cocktail parties, fundraisers...rubbing shoulders with politicians...sleeping with their wives."

He took another sip of his drink, collecting his thoughts before going on. "My contacts tell me he's by no means a Boy Scout, but I don't think he has the stomach to get down in the mud with the big boys."

Why act like this Temple doesn't exist?

She was puzzled, and unnerved, by his attitude toward Temple. Since the painful lessons of Paris, she knew Clark never underestimated anyone when it came to operational details. This was a development she didn't like at all. She gave voice to her reservations. "So we should ignore him? That doesn't sound too smart."

"No. Quite the contrary," he said. "We'll keep a close eye on him and make sure he stays out of the way."

She thought it over, regaining her glass and taking another sip. Feeling the alcohol invade her system, a small shudder swept through her.

I can't believe I'm sitting here with him after...what happened in Paris. He still looks great, but I can't go through that kind of pain again.

"I take it you've tried to locate Ryan and can't." She said after a short pause, sweeping the introspection from her mind.

He looked in to his glass as he swirled the brown liquid in circles. "I went to her apartment...no luck. So I've been staking it out. She hasn't been home in three days."

"Does she have a boyfriend? She might be sleeping at his place." Trish offered.

"Not as far as I could tell. I tossed her house thoroughly and didn't find anything."

"No family?" she asked.

"None local. I think we might have to take her at work." He said. "We can't wait around forever."

Trish shifted slightly in her seat, instantly uneasy. "Are you sure that you want to do that?" she said, trepidation creeping into her soft voice.

"Why, don't you think we can pull it off?"

"Of course we can. But her file says she works for some kind of a research lab, there's bound to be heavy security."

Always a pillar of confidence, Clark placated her. "I think if we play our cards right we can catch her between the house and the lab."

Why be so nonchalant?

Her inner voice screamed in warning. The thought of grabbing Ryan off the street was tantamount to insanity.

It's too easy to be seen...or to have some goody-goody interfere. If that happens then somebody's going to get hurt...again.

A veteran of many assignments like this, she had no problem killing, but only when...and if...it became unavoidable.

"Don't you think that's a bit risky...after Paris?"

He frowned at the noncommittal look on her face. "I think if we keep to the plan and move fast, no one will notice until it's too late."

Trish closed the folder and placed it on the richly inlaid coffee table.

I know you think you're infallible, but I still don't like it. Too many ways to screw up.

"I don't know Clark; if she doesn't show up for work then her boss has got to notice, right?"

"We grab her today, or on the way to the office on Monday. We'll have at least a day before anyone starts looking for her."

She watched the smile grow on his handsome face, obviously congratulating himself on what he perceived to be a brilliant plan. Doubt still burned in her mind, and against her better judgment, she pushed it aside with a large swallow of whiskey.

"All right, that gets us Ryan, but how do we get the stuff out of the lab?"

He grinned, a charming grin she remembered all too well. Against her conscious control, her body again responded with that unwanted, yet inescapable, heat.

"This is the best part of the plan," he said, the disarming smile enough to corrupt an Anglican Bishop's wife. "She gets it out for us."

She hesitated a moment, staring in mild shock and disbelief. Taking another sip of the whiskey, she continued. "You're joking, right?"

He waved his glass in a sweeping gesture. "Once we have her, we escort her to her office and bring it out with us"

Trish shook her head at the sheer audacity of the plan.

"Then we deliver her to my client and collect the five million." He said, still smiling at her.

"I'm almost afraid to ask, then what?"

"Then you get paid...and your part is finished."

For the first time in their long and sorted history, the extent of his arrogance genuinely worried her.

"Let me get this straight. First you want to wait outside her house or office to kidnap her, then we use her to get into a secure government lab and retrieve the design data...and then just waltz out of the building with no one the wiser. Are you out of your mind?"

"No, I'm not. It'll be a cake walk...if we stay focused."

His confidence didn't bolster hers. She thought he looked a little too pleased with himself, a sure sign of a disaster in the making.

She tried again to fight down the gentle warmth spreading throughout her body. She attributed the wayward sensations to both the liquor and his proximity.

He placed a warm hand on her shoulder, sweeping all her fears to the back of her mind. His fingertip, tracing a line from her shoulder to her earlobe, sent her heartbeat into double time. She could feel her resolve slipping.

"It's the boldness that makes it so brilliant." He said, the words breaking her concentration on his caress. "No one would ever suspect a kidnapping. Everyone will see her leave and assume she did this on her own."

Shaking her head, she got off the couch and went to refill her glass. As she padded across the spacious suite, he tried to reassure her. "Trust me. The plan will work if we just stay focused."

She stopped and turned back, shooting him a long stare. "You mean it will work once we find her." She said, dropping ice into her glass with a clink. "That might be easier said than done."

"Don't worry, we'll find her. She can't stay gone forever."

Taking another sip of the fine bourbon, she returned to the couch. She kicked off her shoes and sank deep into the leather cushions, pulling her legs under her.

"So what's our next move?" she asked.

"Well, I say we wait until about one or two and then go to her house see if she comes home. If she does, we grab her."

"And if she doesn't?"

"Then we wait until tomorrow and watch her office"

She downed the last of her drink and put the glass on the table. "What do we do until then?"

He leaned over and kissed her, taking her only partially by surprise. Her pulse vaulted up, driving the heat inside her body into pulsing, incendiary waves.

After a long moment, he broke the kiss. "I think we should get re-acquainted. It's been a very long time."

"Yes it has," she said between quickening breaths. "But still...I don't know about this."

He pulled her into a firm embrace and she felt the beating of both hearts against her ribs.

Pushing her hands against his muscular chest, she held him off. She hesitated for a moment, tasting the liquor on his lips. "If we're going to pull this off, do you think getting this involved again is such a good idea?"

He smiled a devil-may-care grin. "I think that's part of what makes us a great team...that connection."

"I remember it being a disaster. You slept with that agent, you bastard! How can I trust you? You hurt me!" She said. "You got shot and I wound up with a broken heart. I can't go through that again...I won't."

"Come, come, now. Paris was a lifetime ago," he chided in mock formality. "We're not children anymore, are we?"

He leaned forward against the pressure of her palms and kissed her again, harder this time.

With every shred of her common sense raging against it, she acquiesced. Unable to help herself, she returned the kiss and let the warmth of his embrace envelop her. As their passions began to rise, he slid his hands under her shirt, ardent caresses of her shoulders searing her breathless.

Again their lips parted as he gently slipped her sweatshirt off over her head, leaving her half naked, save the black lace bra barely containing her firm breasts.

She watched the garment hit the floor next to the couch. She whispered in his ear. "How much time do we have?"

"We have about two hours." He told her as his shirt and her pants joined the growing pile of discarded garments lying on the floor.

"Prefect." she kissed him again, melting into his arms.

Chapter Seventeen

Jenny finished her coffee and waited for Aaron to return. She desperately wanted to take a hot shower and put on her own clothes.

He said he'd be back around noon and then we could go get some of my stuff. Where is he?

She walked into the living room and flipped on the television to kill time. Channel surfing, she stopped on the twenty-four hour news network and listened to the broadcast. It was the same as always. The talking head went on relating the gruesome details of several violent crimes and other disasters, both natural and man-made. She shook her head in disgust and aimed the remote.

Just as she was about to turn off the set, she was stunned to see Jack's face appear on the screen. She quickly kicked up the volume, listening as her heart raced in astonishment.

On the screen the pretty blond anchorwoman with the plastic boobs smiled her plastic smile and began to deliver her report.

"Boston Police told ZNN affiliate WBBZ News that construction workers found the body of a local man early this morning behind a downtown high-rise. The man, identified as Jackson Verde, was discovered in a trash dumpster behind the Boston Tower building at around five this morning."

Jenny's blood froze in her veins and tears quickly formed in her eyes as the finality of the anchor's words wracked her brain. Oh my God! Jack's dead! How could this happen?

The disembodied voice of the anchor continued, but her insipid words were relegated to the background by Jenny's shock and horror.

"Public Information Officer Sgt. Mike Norman confirmed Verde worked for a company with offices in the building and said Verde's death is being investigated as a homicide. No arrests have been made. However, police are looking for this woman, Jennifer Ryan, in connection with Verde's death. Police won't say if Ryan is a suspect or a witness, just that she is a person of interest."

Jenny sagged back on the sofa, her driver's license picture filling the screen. Her initial shock and disbelief mixed as she trembled with a new, more intense fear than she had ever known in her life.

This madness has to stop... even if it means destroying the project.

She quickly rejected that idea and searched her mind for alternatives. She knew she had to tell Aaron what had happened. Wiping the tears from her wet cheeks, she rummaged through his closet and found a pair of old sweats, a flannel shirt and a coat several sizes too big.

It will have to do. She thought as she put on her white leather cross-training shoes, the only things of her own that survived the attack. She pulled on the coat and closed the door behind her, stepping into the hall.

Walking down the street, she reviewed the events of the past two or was it three? days. Her analytical mind struggled to put the seemingly disconnected fragments of information into some kind of logical order.

She knew that someone had tried to kill her, but she didn't know who. She knew that, from what Aaron said, the attackers were after the plans for the Ever-cell, and that it was probably someone connected to the lab.

Who are these people that they know so much about me and my project? That information is supposed to be classified.

The inescapable truth seared her mind in a hot flash of anger.

Aaron's right. The only way anyone would have access to that information is to have a connection...someone inside Diversified...someone who's a traitor!

The very thought of someone that she knew doing this sickened her. The more she thought about what happened, the more frightened she became, her pulse hammering in her ears as she walked. She needed to get to Aaron and see if he could help her sort this out.

But first, some of my own clothes.

Minutes later, she saw her townhouse finally come into view at the end of the street. A cute little one-bedroom affair with a pretty back-yard garden hidden under the snow, she'd lived there since going to work for Jack. As she approached the entryway, she noticed that the front door stood ajar and a new wave of fear-driven adrenalin swept over her. She always locked her doors and windows, a habit left over from college. She listened at the slightly open door. Hearing nothing, she went inside.

The sight that greeted her was almost too much to bear. Wide-eyed, she surveyed the scene as waves of fear played over her. The mementos of a lifetime lay tossed and broken on the floor, her favorite pictures and curios in ruins. The sofa lay overturned against the far wall, the cushions slashed open.

In her shock and anger, she fell to her knees in the middle of the cluttered living room, picking up her things, and burst into tears. "You bastards!" she cursed aloud in the empty room. "Why are you doing this to me?"

After a minute she composed herself enough to get up and more-critically assess the damage. The living room seemed to be a total loss. She noted the bookshelves and entertainment center emptied onto the floor, the chair cushions were cut open, the stuffing pulled out of them. She also saw the stereo system lay in a corner of the room, smashed into a small black pile of electronic rubble.

As she came to her bedroom door, Jenny's stomach turned swift cartwheels, afraid of what she would find. She quickly discovered her fears were well founded as she stepped inside and broken glass crunched beneath her feet.

The bed, formerly against the wall to her right, now rested upside-down in the middle of the room and suffered the same fate as her chairs, the mattress stuffing tossed in a jumbled pile. Her closet had been ransacked and all her clothes were in mounds on the floor. Even the bathroom was a mess, the medicine cabinet stood open, the contents dumped in the sink.

Jenny paused long enough to absorb the blow, new tears staining her face. Who would do such a thing?

She thought about the intentional destruction and it suddenly occurred to her nothing of value seemed to be missing. Her computer was on the desk in the corner of her kitchen, same as always. The TV was still there, smashed to pieces in the bedroom. She began to look more closely and was shocked to find nothing really missing.

Why would someone go through my house, trash the place, and not take anything?

As she thought about the shambles of her home, her mind returned to the only thing not moved or broken. Of all the things in the house, her new computer was by-far the most valuable to a thief. The top of the line machine was worth about four grand and should have been the first thing to disappear into the bowels of some seedy pawn shop.

Her hands began an uncontrollable trembling as she realized this was no ordinary home invasion.

But the person who did it wanted it to look like amateur hour.

She gasped as the answer fell to her like a stone.

They didn't find what they were looking for; the plans for the battery.

"This can't be good," she said sarcastically to the empty room, now more frightened than ever.

The "robbery" at her house meant that her attackers knew even more then she thought. Her panicked mind racing, she got to the front door before remembering what she came for. She turned and went back to her bedroom. As she hurriedly changed into her own clothes, she again heard Aaron's words flash in her mind like a bolt of lightning.

You can't go home. It isn't safe.

She grabbed her gym bag from one corner of the trashed closet and quickly dug through the mess on the floor. After stuffing a few things into the bag, she was on her way to Aaron's office again. She needed to tell him all that happened in the last few hours.

Despite the cold temperature of mid-afternoon, dozens of people lined the sidewalks on both sides of Revere Street. Jenny warily eyed the people moving up and down the marble steps as she approached the entrance to the Boston Tower building.

Treading the icy stairs carefully, she started up toward the long wall of glass doors. In her haste to find Aaron, she hadn't noticed the tall man in the long tan coat coming toward her, not until it was too late. Ascending the final few stairs, the man's quiet footsteps now caught her attention as they came closer.

She kept moving toward the big glass and steel doors, the rising fear now tasting sticky in her mouth. Even in the sub-zero cold, beads of sweat began to pop out on her forehead. She chastised herself for being so silly.

Certainly it's someone just going to work...or something.

Jenny reached for the elegant brass handle. Just as her fingertips made contact with the cold brass, a very thick, very strong arm reached around her neck, choking off her startled scream. Her assailant clamped a rough cloth over her nose and mouth, a thick medicinal vapor now filling her lungs. She kicked and twisted, trying to get free. Her mind recoiled in terror as she felt herself being dragged into the shadows behind an enormous granite sculpture of a Minuteman adorning the Tower's entry portico.

Lifted from her feet, her arms flailed in a desperate attempt to escape as black clouds gathered, obscuring her vision. Intensified by her weakened condition, the chloroform proved very effective and in only seconds Jenny sagged in Clark's embrace like a living rag doll.

With a quick glance to ensure they remained unnoticed, Majors grasped the now-unconscious doctor by the waist, holding her up as he half dragged, half carried, her down an access ramp to a narrow breezeway along the side of the building. Throwing the limp woman over his shoulder in a classic "Fireman's carry", he followed the concrete walkway for several hundred feet before crossing the snow-covered lawn to the edge of the property. He moved along a tall row of snow-covered cypress trees, looking for the small gap in the natural fence he'd spotted earlier in the day. Finding it, he pushed his way through the branches to a drainage culvert running beneath the property's perimeter fence.

Quickly descending the gentle slope into the man-made canal, he crossed the frozen stream and climbed the far bank, emerging next to the road on the opposite side. He glanced up and down the street, checking for any sign of pursuit and saw none. Just as he prepared to continue further down the sidewalk, the blue convertible appeared around the corner, darting toward him from the heavy traffic speeding along the busy avenue. He pulled open the door as the car jerked to a halt before him.

Clark leaned forward, roughly dumped his unconscious charge on the cold back seat then climbed into the front, pulling the door closed against the frigid air.

"Go!" He shouted.

Behind the wheel, Trish hammered her foot down on the accelerator and the sudden inertia pushed them back in their seats as the powerful car shot away from the curb with a throaty roar. Trish yanked the wheel hard, vaulting into a left turn. The unexpected move brought a blare of honking horns from the other drivers forced to avoid them as they disappeared down a narrow alley.

Clark turned around for a brief glance behind them. Seeing no one exhibiting any unusual interest, he turned back to his partner.

"Now, back to the hotel. It's time for you to earn your money, my dear."

Chapter Eighteen

Brent stood outside the terminal at Logan Airport, the freezing wind stinging his face, and waved desperately, finally flagging a cab.

"And where might I be taking you today?" The driver's thick East Indian accent instantly grated on Brent's nerves.

"The Boston Tower Building on Revere Street. Please."

The cabbie nodded and sped away, honking at the other drivers still marooned in the snake-like line at the cab-stand. Tires squealing, he threaded between the endless parade of limousines and buses, darting into the melee of speeding traffic.

Brent looked out the window as the cab rushed along the freeway on-ramp and noticed it had started snowing again. Sitting in the back seat, he thought about his sister's call. The obvious fear in her voice had chilled him to the bone and the more he replayed her cryptic message, the more it puzzled him, feeding his growing unease.

The snow was now beginning to build up on the road, the accumulation of ice making the trip downtown a challenge for the man at the wheel. The driver, in his late fifties, struggled for control, the car dancing on the slick pavement.

At last, the car stopped and Brent got out, trying to dodge the wet snow cascading down around him. Finally making it to the warm confines of the heated entryway, he brushed off some of the flakes he'd picked up outside, watching them melt into small spots on the tiled floor.

Apprehension and dread prickled at his thoughts. He was still worried about his sister. Something scared her, and he needed to find out what that was. He'd replayed her call in his mind all the way to Boston, arriving at the conclusion her trouble must be work related. It was the only answer he could think of.

He knew his sister worked on military contracts. She wouldn't tell him any specifics, but he figured it must be either weapons or intelligence. The possible addition of the military to the equation sent a new wave of gnawing apprehension surging along his spine. He knew that when it came to maintaining secrecy, the U.S. military could be as ruthless as any foreign enemy.

Approaching the elevator doors, Brent made the decision to just get in, retrieve her computer and get out. The trip up to the twenty-eighth floor took only seconds. As the elevator glided up, he recalled his sister's warning about staying alert.

If she's this scared, I better be on by toes.

Footsteps muffled by the thick pile carpeting, he approached the offices of Diversified Research Inc. and noticed a caution tape across the doorway. He stepped up and read the message on the yellow plastic ribbon. Police line - do not cross.

He promptly slipped under the tape and opened the door.

He looked into the room on a scene of controlled chaos. The spacious lobby hummed, full of people. The vast majority of them police, the crowd moved around with deliberate precision. Brent watched, his adrenalin flowing, and realized no one saw him enter.

Too busy talking to each other and trying to look important. He surmised, a sharp cynicism coloring his thoughts a dark hue.

Some of the people in the room stopped momentarily at the sound of the door closing, but quickly returned to their work, their full attention back on taking photos and collecting evidence.

Brent hid himself behind a mammoth potted plant decorating the entryway to the reception area and took a few calming breaths. Sprinting down the carpeted hall, he was able to get to Jenny's office undetected and found it odd that he encountered no one along the way.

I guess coming to the open house last year paid off.

The door to his sister's private office boasted no guard, much to his relief. He took a brief look around and went inside. He scanned the room, stunned at the devastation he found within.

Her desk drawers and file cabinets stood open. They appeared to be empty, a condition he attributed to the officers in the other room. He also noticed the top of her desk was bare. Things one would expect to find, the phone, computer accessories, etcetera, were missing. He spotted a photo of him and his sister, one that stood on her desk for years, now lying on the floor. He clenched his fists in anger, seeing the delicate frame crushed to splinters.

Acknowledging the fact that his sister was a bona-fide clean freak, the disarray chalked up another point for major trouble. He knew she required order in her lab and office. On the two occasions he'd visited her there, she was surrounded by some of the most efficient and neatly organized work areas he had ever seen. She once told him it was a reflection of her attempt to force order in the rest of her life. The mess reminded him of the aftermath of a frat party, with the chairs broken and tables overturned.

But this was no collage bash. The people who did this weren't here for fun.

He snapped himself out of his tangent thoughts and reminded himself of the task at hand.

Just get the laptop and get out...quick.

Shaking his head in disgust, he walked around the largest area of the debris field, making his way to her desk. He looked around and couldn't immediately find the computer. Continuing the search, he finally saw the laptop, partially hidden beneath a pile of papers spilled from a file cabinet now lying on its side against the wall. He picked it up and followed the cord back to the charger. He put them into his bag with the rest of the stuff he'd brought from New York.

Mission: accomplished. Time to get the hell out of here.

The trip back to the lobby was uneventful, just the way he'd hoped. As he took the last strides toward the exit he heard footsteps. Folding himself into the shadows behind the potted fern a second time, he watched as a man stopped right next to the giant plant.

The officer, youngish with a dark suit and a gold badge hanging from a chain around his neck, pulled a cell phone from his pocket and punched in a number. From his lair behind the foliage, Brent could clearly hear the beeps as the phone dialed. Panic griped him as he just knew the man could hear his ragged breathing. Getting an answer, the officer identified himself to whoever was on the other end as Special Agent Farnsworth of the FBI.

From his vantage point Brent could hear the agent explain that the clean up operation at the lab was almost finished, but so far no solid leads had yet emerged. He continued to listen, thinking the one-sided conversation might reveal something about what kind of trouble followed his sister.

The agent said he'd checked the security desk and the surveillance tapes were missing. Brent noticed that whoever was on the other end of the line didn't like that news at all.

Brent could hear Farnsworth back-peddling. "I'm sorry. I don't know where Dr. Ryan is... yet. But don't worry I'll find her and we will have the research back in our hands soon. She can't stay in hiding forever. As soon as she surfaces we'll bring her in."

The agent paused for a moment to listen then responded. "I know...yes, I understand how important this project is. I'm telling you, I have the situation in hand and you can rest assured Ryan and anyone who helped her will be taken care of."

Brent couldn't believe his ears. How could the FBI think that Jenny would steal secret research form her lab? It doesn't make any sense, none of it.

He couldn't think of a more trustworthy person than his sister. She's honest to the point of being annoying at times.

He knew he had to find her and warn her. If I'm not already too late.

Still crouched behind the fern, he silently watched the agent finish his phone call and walk back toward the offices. He knew he was pushing his luck hiding in the reception area and figured he better get moving. He couldn't do anything more for Jenny until he found her and got some answers.

His anger still burning hotly, he bristled at hearing that the feds thought Jenny had something to do with the theft at the lab.

She couldn't steal her research any more than she could sprout wings and fly!

Her instructions came back in cryptic waves, ordering him to meet her at the office of Casey Construction.

I better get up there and find out what the hell is going on.

He listened carefully for signs that anyone was coming his way and he prepared to make his escape. His pulse raced as he reached for the door, thinking he was almost home free. Brent pulled on the handle just as a strong voice split the air.

"Stop right there, sir! FBI," the man barked.

Brent looked at the reflection in the glass doors. A few feet behind him a tall, muscular man in a black suit stood tensed, his steely expression reinforcing the clam control in his voice.

Another agent, crap!

"Drop the bag, turn around and put your hands on the wall." The reflection ordered.

Brent immediately noticed the agent's arm held open the jacket of his suit, the thick fingers of his right hand wrapped around the butt of a black automatic resting in a skeleton holster at his hip.

Brent groaned, slowly raising his hands and placing them on the wall as the agent ordered. "Take it easy, I'm not armed."

The agent moved closer, using his tree-like forearm to pin Brent to the wall, searching for weapons before removing a wallet from his back pocket.

The agent examined Brent's driver's license and turned him around. "All right Mr. Ryan you want to tell me what you were doing entering a crime scene?"

For a split second Brent thought about what to say, until it suddenly dawned on him that the agent thought he was coming in to the office, not going out, so he played dumb.

Not a big stretch, since I have no freakin' clue what's going on!

"I'm sorry officer, but I didn't know this was a crime scene. I'll leave right now."

Brent suddenly felt overcome by a sinking feeling he wasn't going to get away as easily as he'd first hoped. The agent gave Brent a menacing look and pointed down the hall. "Not until we see the agent in charge."

The muscular man reached to pick up the abandoned duffle bag and directed Brent with a nod of his head. "Move."

As the agent led him into the main reception area, he saw a group of officers clustered around a tall dark-haired woman.

As they approached, Brent listened as she spoke, giving directions to an obviously junior agent.

"I don't care what kind of clearance they had!" she barked in impatience. "Find out who that guard gave those surveillance tapes to and get them back!"

This must be the 'agent in charge'. Brent correctly surmised.

The woman turned around as Brent and the burly agent who found him approached.

"Well Marco, what's this?" The lady agent asked, settling her eyes on Brent.

Agent Phillip Marco cleared his throat and nervously replied. "Carla, he was inside the perimeter. I checked him out and his name is Brent Ryan. I thought you might want to talk to him."

FBI special Agent Carla Raven was thirty-four, tall and attractive, her long dark hair sat pulled into a series of complicated braids atop her head. She stood at ease among the chaos of activity.

"I most certainly do. I see that your last name is Ryan, are you related to a Jennifer Jane Ryan?"

"What's going on?" Brent continued with the innocent act.

Agent Raven crossed her arms over an ample chest, her voice strong and direct. "I'll ask the questions, if you don't mind."

Brent hesitated a second too long for the federal agent's temperament. "Are you related to Jennifer Ryan?" She gave him a withering glare. "Yes or no, and don't even think about lying to me."

Brent thought he'd better answer and see what he could learn. He had no reason to be afraid of this woman, well almost not reason.

"Yes. She's my sister. Now, will you please tell me what's going on here?"

The lady agent continued, her manner firm, every pointed question sternly demanding a satisfactory answer. "Do you know where she is now?"

"She's not here?"

Raven rolled her eyes in impatience. "If she was here, would I be asking?"

"No. Sorry," he said, the words small and contrite. "I don't know where she is. Is something wrong? Is she all right?"

Taking a notebook from her jacket pocket, Carla ignored his questions. "Why are you here?"

"I'm in town for the day and I was going to take her to lunch, as a surprise." He lied.

"In town from where?" she asked, pen jotting notes.

"New York. I just arrived an hour ago."

She cocked an eyebrow at his admission. "Can you prove that?"

He reached into his jacket, the slow and deliberate move designed to be innocuous, and handed his itinerary to the agent.

Raven gave it a quick glance and then forwarded it to Agent Marco before turning back to Ryan.

"Did she know you were coming?"

"Not exactly." Brent replied.

"What do you mean, 'not exactly'?"

"Like I said, it was supposed to be a surprise."

"When was the last time you talked to her?" the lady agent continued.

He thought for a second about how to answer. He knew that if he told her he talked to his sister that very morning, he was busted. That wouldn't help him or Jenny, so he lied, again.

"I called her last week, telling her I'd be here, and maybe we could have lunch."

Quickly making more notes as he spoke, Carla threw out another question. "Where were you supposed to meet?"

"We hadn't decided," he said. "I was going to let her pick the restaurant."

"When you last spoke to her, did she mention her work?"

"No, she didn't. We never discuss her job."

"Really?" The agent locked her gaze on him, her intelligent blue eyes belying a customary skepticism. "That surprises me. Not to tell you of some success or set back?"

"No, Agent Raven, we did not talk about her work." He flared in anger, her attitude grating on his already-unsettled nerves.

This fed has Jenny tried and convicted already!

"Why not," Raven went on, entirely undaunted by his outburst. "Isn't it normal for two siblings to tell each other about their jobs?"

"Yes, of course it's normal...for most people...to talk about their jobs, but not my sister."

"Oh? And why is that? Was she keeping secrets from you?"

Brent's annoyance inched up another notch, causing a ringing in his ears. He didn't like Agent Raven's implication...not one little bit.

"No...I mean...yes. Of course she was keeping secrets from me." He paused for several seconds in an effort to control his anger. "She wouldn't talk about her work because, as I'm sure you already know, most of her work is classified. She took that very seriously."

Carla examined his driver's license briefly and paused for a few seconds. "So you're telling me you came here from New York for a visit, and you hadn't spoken to your sister in a week?"

"Yes, Agent Raven, that's the way it is," he replied, the increasing tension in his voice now unmistakable. "Now I've answered your questions. So can you please tell me what's going on here?"

Raven flipped the notebook closed and returned it to her jacket before answering. "Mr. Ryan, your sister disappeared two days ago and so did the project she was working on. What I want from you is where I can find her."

Brent was livid now. He could feel his heart pounding against his ribs.

How could this woman think Jenny would steal her own research?

He took a deep breath in an unsuccessful effort to quiet the roar of blood in his ears, then he spoke in a staccato burst. "Missing! How?...What are you doing to find her? She could be in danger!"

"We believe she removed some classified material from this lab and you're going to tell me where she is."

"No way Agent Raven. You're wrong! She would never do something even remotely like that. She loves her job and she's just too dammed honest."

"Well Mr. Ryan, here's your chance to prove it. Tell me where she is."

"I told you already. I don't know, but if she's been missing for two days, then it can't be her idea. Has it occurred to you that she may have been abducted?"

Raven raised an eyebrow, her face painted in skepticism. "What makes you think she was abducted?"

"Because, Agent Raven, I know my sister. She wouldn't go away for two days without talking to someone, me, her boss...or a co-worker or something. Agent Raven, she's in trouble. I can feel it."

"What you say makes sense, on the surface, but all the evidence points to your sister as the perpetrator, not the victim."

He stood rock still, silently fuming, trying to keep the tenuous control on his temper while the anger surged through his system in burning waves.

After several tense moments, Carla broke the stilted silence. "Okay, this is getting us nowhere. Marco, take Mr. Ryan to the office and get a full statement, hold him there until I get back."

Brent couldn't keep the anger bottled up any longer. "So you're not going to do anything about what I just told you, are you?" He railed.

She shot him a burning glare. "Look Mr. Ryan, I can understand how you feel. You don't want to believe your sister could do this, but the facts say otherwise. Until I get evidence to the contrary, I have to operate under the assumption that she stole the research and disappeared to avoid capture. I'm sorry if that upsets you."

"I can see that!" Brent said, his voice heavily laced with a caustic sarcasm.

Moving closer, Carla locked her gaze to Brent's. Her stare never left his as she spoke to her near-by subordinate.

"Marco, take Mr. Ryan downtown. Remember, he's not under arrest, so see to it that he is comfortable, but does not leave."

Brent knew that he had to try something, anything, to get out of this. "Agent Raven, if I'm not under arrest then I'm leaving." He said, hoping that forcing her to commit to an arrest might make her reconsider detaining him at all.

Hardening to ice, her penetrating blue eyes again bored into his. "You seem like a smart man Mr. Ryan. I really hope arresting you won't be necessary. Since you're so sure of your sister's innocence, I expect you to cooperate fully on your own. Otherwise, I'll have to take you into custody as a material witness. That means a holding cell, not a cup of coffee and comfortable chair in my office."

Brent knew he was beaten and further antagonizing the agent would serve no useful purpose.

"Fine, I'll go with him. But, since I'm going of my own volition, I ask you to please return my property."

She frowned, then nodded at Marco. He unzipped the bag and briefly rifled through it before handing it back. She then turned and left them.

Agent Marco pointed to the door. "You heard Agent Raven, let's go."

His tone and demeanor left no question about his intentions. As Marco led him toward the elevator, Brent pointed to a restroom sign hanging from the ceiling, then spoke to his brawny escort.

"Hey, mister, can we stop at the head? I gotta go."

Agent Marco stopped and turned to him. "It's Special Agent Marco...stop at the what?"

"The head, you know, the can."

Marco looked at him in disbelief, an incredulous frown crossing his features. "You're joking, right?"

"No, I'm not. I just spent three hours on a cramped airplane and my back teeth are floating. Please, I just need a second."

"Very funny," Marco said. "Now you just be a man and tie it in a knot until we get to the office."

Brent had half a plan and he figured he wouldn't get another chance, so he went for broke.

"Look Agent Marco, I foresee two possibilities here. One; I can hold on until we get to your office...maybe, or two; you can give me a second now and you won't have to listen to me whine all the way over there. Besides, it's not like I'm under arrest or anything, right?"

The agent's heavy brow knitted in concentration for several seconds. "Fine, just quit acting like a bitchy little girl."

Pushing open the door, Marco gave a quick inspection of the room before stepping out of the doorway.

"Okay smart guy, you have one minute. Better pee fast."

Brent stared up at the embossed panels of the drop-ceiling overhead as he relieved himself. He recalled the layout of the building, knowing he had one chance in a million of getting away with the completely hair-brained scheme taking shape in his mind.

Zipping up his fly, he pulled a pair of well-worn sneakers out of his gym bag, along with a spare pair of jeans, arranging them to appear as if he sat on the toilet.

Standing on the back of the toilet tank, he gently lifted out a ceiling panel and pulled himself into the steel gridwork. Gingerly placing each hand and knee, he balanced on the supports as he crawled along, managing not to fall through the lattice before reaching the room across the hall. He lowered himself down through the false panels, dropping silently to the bare concrete floor below.

The tiny custodian's closet was enveloped in pitch black, all the lights turned off. He could smell the solvents and bleach fumes burned his nose. Groping along the walls as he stumbled in the darkness, Brent felt a sharp pain shoot through his forehead as he slammed it into a low-hanging storage shelf, the loud crash sending adrenaline shooting into his bloodstream.

Emerging in the hall on the opposite side of his adversary, Brent made a run for it. He breathed a sigh of relief, figuring he had the better part of a minute before his guard came in after him.

Checking over his shoulder for any sign of pursuit, he made his way quietly to the bank of elevators nestled in a paneled alcove. He pushed the button for the 30th floor, smiling at his ingenuity as the doors silently slid closed.

I can't believe that old ruse worked. Federal agents are supposed to be smarter that.

Brent Ryan had in fact gained one and a half minutes on Agent Marco. The small lead was enough to get him to the elevator and away without a trace.

"Shit!" Marco cursed to the empty room. Angry and embarrassed, he slammed the restroom door, the loud bang echoed off the walls.

He ran down the hall, pulling out his cell phone as he moved. He had to tell Raven about Ryan's escape. Before he dialed his superior, he suddenly had second thoughts. Knowing Raven tolerated no mistakes...from herself or anyone else, he wasn't looking forward to either the scorching reprimand or the desk duty he was sure would follow the revelation. He snapped the phone shut, decision made.

I'll find that little rat-bastard myself...and kick his ass!

Chapter Nineteen

The world slowly began to come into sharp focus and so did the throbbing in Jenny's head. She looked up at the ceiling above and wondered where she was. Fighting back a heavy jolt of overwhelming panic the disorientation brought, she tried to sit up. The thunder in her head quickly ballooned to monumental proportions. The roar of blood in her ears and the concussions joined, turning the room into a twisting kaleidoscope of flashing lights and searing pain. She sagged back onto the pillows.

Okay, bad idea.

She took several deep breaths, lying still long enough for the swirling cloud of electric sparks to subside. She forced her swelling apprehension under control and tried to engage her rational mind, analyzing her surroundings.

The room she found herself in was very posh. On the far-away wall, an inlaid door beckoned from the end of a long marble platform, apparently thousands of miles away. Heavy drapes covered the windows, their velvet length shimmering in an elegant green and gold paisley design. Jenny lay in the king-sized bed for several minutes before daring a second attempt at sitting up. The results were the same. The dancing sparks returned, followed by a flash-fire of burning pain that threatened to pop her eyes from their sockets. She grimaced, riding out the internal torture and waiting for her head to clear.

While rubbing her temples, she began to remember some of what happened. She recalled climbing stairs at the Tower building, events now returning in disconnected waves. As she continued to piece together her jigsaw puzzle of memories, the door opened and a man entered the room. She eyed the stranger, a large forty-ish, man, warily as the reality of her situation began to coalesce.

My God! They found me. I've been kidnapped!

Still a little too woozy to be truly terrified, she stared at the new arrival as he approached her bed. The unidentified man placed the tray he carried on the gold-leafed night table. He looked at her for several seconds and then spoke.

"I see you're awake. How do you feel?" He asked, his clear, strong voice filling the room.

She ignored the question, instead asking one of her own. "Where am I?"

She watched him intently as he contemplated an answer. The man moved slowly back to the foot of the bed and stopped. He turned to look back at her, the icy gaze sending tendrils of dread crawling over her skin.

"Let's just say you're under my protection and, provided you give me the information I want, you'll stay that way."

"Who are you?" she asked, her voice shaking. "And what do you want from me?"

"My name is unimportant, and what I want is very simple. You developed a device called the 'Ever-cell', and I want it."

A hot spike of adrenaline blazed in her veins, her mouth dropping open in shock.

How did this man know about Ever-cell?

She stalled. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"My dear Doctor Ryan," he turned back to face her again, his artificial kindness disappearing. "I will have the Ever-cell project. We can do this the easy way, or the hard way. It's your choice. You eat, and when I come back you can tell me what you've decided."

He spun on his heel and headed for the door. Alone again in the unsettling quiet, Jenny listened to the ticking of the clock on the wall. She tried to steady her trembling hands and thought about what her captor had said, searching in vain for a way to control her mounting panic.

Thirty minutes later he returned, this time with a woman, one Jenny didn't immediately recognize. Her eyes widened as she followed the woman's movement toward her.

"Hello, Dr. Ryan." the new-comer said.

Walking to the table next to the bed, Trish Davenport picked up the untouched tray, examined it briefly, then set it down again.

"I see that you didn't eat anything, I'm sorry the cuisine couldn't be more to your liking."

"Why are you keeping me here?" Jenny demanded.

"You already know the answer to that, now don't you?" Trish answered, the condescending tone sending shivers of repugnance down her spine.

Using false bravado as a front, she struggled with the growing terror threatening to run away with her mind. Trying to appear confident, she went on the offensive. "You know, you won't get away with this! The police will be looking for me!"

Trish correctly saw through the captive's mask, her stoic expression not changing as she spoke.

"Actually, they already are. You see, they think you stole the plans for the Ever-cell project and fled. So I wouldn't count on getting help from them any time soon."

Jenny's face turned a pale ash and her eyes widened in disbelief, the false bravery deflating with an almost audible pop. A red veil tinged her vision as her anger rose. In a last-ditch effort to gain some control she lashed out. "You're lying," she yelled. "They wouldn't...couldn't...think I'd steal my own research!"

Trish just smiled slightly at her captive. "Well, Dr. Ryan, in a strange way the police are right. You see, you are going to give us the plans for the battery."

Jenny listened as the shock, anger and fear mixed in her head, becoming one giant porcupine of jagged emotion.

She drew a deep breath. "You're the one who's wrong. I couldn't give you the designs even if I wanted to. They're far too complicated. Even if I told you everything, there are volumes of data that make up the project. They're unfinished. They aren't any good to anyone but me."

Trish approached the head of the bed and stopped, looking down at her captive.

"We will be the judges of what's good to us or not." Her tone, cold and menacing, chilled Jenny to the bone as a new wave of fright raced over her.

In a sudden flash of movement, Trish produced a syringe from her pocket, grabbed Jenny's right arm, and injected the contents before she could offer even token resistance.

In a desperate, useless, act of defiance, Jenny slapped Trish with a stiff right cross, the crack resounding through the room. Clark, standing on the other side of the bed, grinned at the exchange.

Jenny pulled her arm away from the needle, only too late. "You bitch! What the hell was that?!"

Trish backed away from the bed, rubbing her stinging cheek. "Don't worry doctor. It's just a little something to help us communicate better."

She suddenly felt a fiery warmth moving in her body, horror spreading right along with it. She watched with a detached, morbid fascination as the room began to bend and twist. Distorted into heaving, undulating waves, the walls shifted and rolled before her eyes.

Part Three - Into The Lion's Den

Chapter Twenty

Aaron opened the door to his apartment and called out. "Hello, Jenny! I'm back. Sorry it took so long."

He dropped his keys into the basket on the hall table, continuing the one-sided conversation. "The meeting went well, so I get to start on the new floor tomorrow, as planned."

He went to the living room and didn't see anyone.

Where is she?

Moving quietly through the apartment, he walked down the hall into the guestroom and was surprised to find it empty as well. He then went to see if she was in the master bedroom.

Not here either. What gives?

His anxiety climbing up a notch, he knocked on the closed bathroom door. Even after recent events, he didn't want to assume the worst, yet.

"Jenny! Are you in the bathroom?" He called out.

No answer. This is not good.

He pushed the door open, finding the room vacant.

She was not in the apartment. As small clouds of alarm formed on the horizon of his mind, he searched for reasons she might leave of her own accord and they were dammed few. He considered what he thought of as the most likely scenario; that she tired of waiting for him to return and went to her place to get her things, alone.

I hope I'm wrong, but I doubt it.

He tried looking in the phone book, knowing it would be a long shot and he was right, she didn't have a listed number.

How the hell am I going to find her?

Aaron had wanted, tried, to keep her safe, and now she was gone. His stomach hardened into a tight, painful ball at the thought of her blindly walking back into danger. He knew that he would never forgive himself if anything bad happened to her.

He scoured the phone book a second time, looking for alternate listings as an even more frightening idea came to him.

What if she went to her office? If she went back to Diversified...Oh, Christ!

The human mind is a strange place and the dark side of his imagination took him to all the terrible things that could be happening to her at this very moment. He couldn't get the picture of Jenny, beaten and unconscious, out of his mind. He knew he had to go to her office. It was the only place he could think of to start looking for her.

He grabbed Rambo from her chair and left the apartment. He knew some people might think he was nuts for dragging a cat with him all the time, but Rambo, pretty much his best friend, calmed his nerves and he needed that right now.

After stopping and asking Jimmy Dentella to keep an eye peeled for his wayward guest, he headed to the Tower building. His pulse quickened as he strode through the cold afternoon air. He knew he had to find her...before her enemies did.

After dropping Rambo off at his office, Aaron headed downstairs, toward Diversified Research Incorporated. His shoes sinking into the rich carpet as he made his way to the elevator, he exited at the 28th floor and turned right. Steps quickening, he moved down the long passage, working his way to a set of double doors at the end of the corridor.

Pulling the door open, he jumped to one side while a tall man in a dark suit silently hurried past, a cell phone at his ear, a gold badge hanging from his jacket pocket.

Excuse me! Aaron thought, you rude S.O.B.!

He entered the reception area and discovered it crowded with police officers, a thin ribbon of yellow tape stretching from wall to wall.

He approached tape, motioning to the nearest officer. "Who's in charge here?"

The officer pointed to a tall, slender woman at the other end of the room. The officer moved to her side and leaned close, whispering something in her ear.

Aaron noted the brunette hair captured at the back of her head accented a beautiful oval face and flawless complexion.

She looked up from her notes, made eye contact with Aaron, and began moving toward him.

"Excuse me, I'm looking for the officer in charge," Aaron said.

"Well you found her, Mister..." She hesitated, allowing him to give his name.

"I'm Aaron Casey. What's all the commotion?"

"I'm Special Agent Carla Raven of the FBI, and this is a crime scene. What is your business here?"

"I'm trying to locate someone who works here, Jennifer Ryan."

Standing five-feet, nine inches tall, Carla Raven sported the athletic good looks and healthy glow of her Southern California upbringing, minus the blond hair and obligatory, though in her case unnecessary, silicone enhancements.

Eyebrow lifting in curiosity, she responded to Aaron's inquiry. "What is your interest in Miss Ryan?"

"She is an acquaintance. I'm just trying to find her."

"When was the last time you saw her?" Carla said, removing a pad from the jacket of her form-fitting suit, and preparing to take notes.

"She was at my home this morning, and when I came home this afternoon she was gone."

He pointed to all the activity. "What is going on here?"

"I think I'll ask the questions if you don't mind," she replied sharply, "You said Ms. Ryan was at your home this morning?"

"Yes."

"Want to tell me why?" her tone left no question as to answering or not.

"As I said, we are acquainted."

"What makes you think she would come here?"

"I'd rather not say."

Carla took a deep breath, ample breasts drawing her jacket tight across her chest. Her stare hardened, the blue eyes boring into his. "And I'd rather not have to ask again."

He said nothing, his intense gaze never flinching from hers.

She went on, undaunted. "Mr. Casey, I'm only going to say this once. I'm investigating a crime and Ms. Ryan is a lead. I want everything you know about her whereabouts between the hours of six p.m. Friday night and the present. No exceptions, no omissions. Understand?

He considered his response for several seconds while his eyes met hers in a hard stare. He watched as she shifted stance from foot to foot in annoyance at the delay.

"Well, I can tell you she didn't kill anyone on Friday night." He said, the voice steady and confident.

"I didn't say anyone was killed," her condescending attitude was not lost on him.

"Well, you're a federal agent, so I figured it wasn't a parking violation."

"You say she couldn't have killed anyone, and how do you arrive at that conclusion?"

Sarcasm gave his answer a hard edge. "The reason that I can say that with some degree of certainty, Agent Raven, is that I found her on the thirty-first floor of this very building at two o'clock Saturday morning and she was in no condition to harm anyone."

"Really? What do you mean by 'no condition', was she drunk or something?"

Raven's pen moved quickly, the shorthand's complicated characters appearing on the pages as if by magic.

"Not hardly." he stopped to take a breath, once again seeing Jenny's bruised and contused face flash before his eyes. He cleared his throat and went on. "She was beaten half to death and then dumped behind the trash bunker upstairs."

"What did you do, call 911?"

He knew she was trying to bait him. He assumed she had already checked the 911 phone logs.

"No, she asked me to get her out of the building and I did."

"So you took her to the hospital. Which one?"

As she waited for him to answer, she pulled out her cell phone, and he knew she was ready to send a team to pick Ryan up.

"None. I took her to my place and brought in a private nurse to look after her."

"If she was so badly injured, why didn't you take her to a hospital?"

He raised his voice slightly, his irritation beginning to grow beyond his control. "Agent Raven is all this really necessary? The point is, she is missing and I'd like to find her...as quickly as possible."

Carla elevated her voice, matching his in volume and intensity. "Just answer the question, please."

"Well, if you must know, she was afraid to go to a hospital. She didn't think she would be safe there."

"And did she say why she wouldn't be safe in a hospital?"

"I don't know Agent Raven," he launched in angry retort, his frustration growing by the second. "Could it be because someone tried to kill her a few hours before?"

"Did she tell you why someone would want to hurt her?"

"No, she didn't"

"How did she explain the attack?"

"She was still pretty out of it and really didn't say much," he said. "I thought it was a mugging. Was I wrong?"

"You know I can't comment on an on-going investigation." She said, her pen continuing to blaze across the pages.

"Can you tell me who the victim was?" he asked.

She paused for a second before answering. "It's already been released to the press. So, I guess it won't hurt. His name was Jackson Verde. He was an employee here."

His heart skipped several beats, fear freezing the breath in his chest.

God, no! First Jenny gets attacked, now her boss is dead! What the hell is going on?

He quickly put a tight lid on his vaulting emotions. "When did this happen?"

"Friday night."

"How did he die?"

"You know I can't tell you that." She chastised. "Let's get back to Ryan. You said you found her on a different floor?"

"Yes, up on 31," he said, pointing toward the ceiling."

"Show me. Please."

Back in the elevator the ride took only seconds before the car stopped. Aaron pulled a small, brass key from his pocket and inserted into a lock on the wall-mounted control panel. He turned the key and a blast of arctic air hit the occupants as the doors slid aside.

"After you." He said.

Raven wrapped both arms around her body against the cold. "It's freezing in here. Why is it so cold?"

"This floor is not under construction yet. It's just storage for building materials, so I don't have the heat on. No one except my guys are supposed to be up here."

He led her through the labyrinth of pallets to his field office; essentially a plywood box the size of a walk-in closet, located in the center of the crowded floor. He unlocked the door. Moving to a grey cabinet bolted to the wall, he opened the circuit breaker panel and flipped the switches one at a time, turning on the florescent lights bank by bank. The artificial illumination grew, driving back the dark shadows to reveal a maze of building materials neatly stacked, awaiting the skilled craftsmen who would transform them into elegant office space.

"I found her over there." He pointed across the vast, cold expanse of the unfinished concrete.

She followed him to the spot where he found Jenny, the floor marked with tiny drops of frozen blood.

"Has anyone been up here since you found her?" she asked, her breath coming in small white puffs.

"No. I have the only elevator key."

"Well, look at this." She thought aloud, pointing to a black metal gate closed over a missing window. "Where does this lead?"

"That's a trash bunker," he said. "It goes down the side of the building to a dumpster in the back parking lot. You use it to move stuff up or down. Kind of like a dumbwaiter."

"Could a suspect have gotten Verde's body out of the building without anyone seeing him using this?"

"I suppose it's possible."

"Who has access to it?"

"Only six people have keys, including me."

"I'll need that list."

"Of course."

Continuing to write notes, she shifted her feet to and fro, trying to fend off the biting cold. "Let's get out of here. We won't learn anything more until forensics gets through."

Reaching into her jacket pocket, she pulled out a business card and handed it to him. "Mr. Casey, you realize that if I wanted to, I could detain you as a material witness."

He said nothing.

Her expression softened, but very little. "But, I have a feeling that you just walked into an ugly situation. Am I right?" she asked, more a statement than a question.

"Yes, that's exactly what happened. I was just trying to help."

Her eyes again met his. "Okay, I'm going to give you the benefit of the doubt...for now...but if Ryan contacts you, you call me, or else its obstruction. Understand?"

With no intention of ratting Jenny out, he lied through his teeth. "Don't worry Agent Raven. I just want her to be safe. If she calls or comes back, you'll be the first to know."

"And I will need that list of people who have keys as soon as possible. Now, you said you work here, on this floor?"

"Well, in a manner of speaking. I own Casey Construction."

He let the admission sink in before continuing with no small amount of pride. "I built this building."

"Really?"

Clearly unimpressed, he could almost hear her mind switch gears. "One last thing...was the security system for the offices we came from part of the original work, or was it installed later?"

"It was installed later, by some government types," he let the intentional insult hang in the air before going on. "I didn't think too much about it. I didn't need to know, and I don't get paid to stick my nose in someone else's business."

"So you don't know if there are any surveillance cameras down there."

"I know there are some in the halls, but I don't about the offices."

She closed her notebook. "That's all for now, but remember what I said. If Dr. Ryan contacts you, don't let me hear it from someone else."

"Okay. If I hear from her I'll call you," He scanned the room again and looked at his watch. "Agent Raven, I have a meeting to attend. I assume I'm free to go?"

Carla answered him with a polite dismissal, and a second, thinly veiled, warning. "Yes. You can go, but don't plan any trips out of town for awhile. I may need to talk to you again."

He reached into his back pocket and drew out his wallet. Removing a business card, he passed it to her.

"I won't. You can reach me faster through my office. It's on 30, suite 2. Here's the number."

A few minutes later he stood in front of that very door. He went inside.

Chapter Twenty-One

The remainder of the trip to the Casey Construction office was short and uneventful, much to Brent's liking. He approached the reception area and stopped dead in his tracks.

JUST PERFECT!

The glass and steel doors to the office were mostly transparent, except for the company logo sandblasted across the middle. He looked into the reception area, scanning the room and taking in the scene. The area was laid out in a semi-circle and on the other side of a big oak desk he could see two soldiers, one with a pistol hanging from his belt. Backing silently out of the doorway, he stepped back behind the corner of the wall. He didn't want to get put on ice again and several thoughts ran through his mind in quick succession.

Who are the guys with the guns? Why are they here?...and where the heck is Jenny?

More than a little scared and frustrated by recent events, he still couldn't believe his sister had gotten herself into so much trouble. He also instinctively knew that the people inside the office weren't there to help.

He slid the door open soundlessly. His pulse raced as he checked again to make sure he remained unobserved.

Crouching down, he crept along the floor, hiding behind a row of tall file cabinets that served as a divider between the reception area and the office cubes. He stopped, listening carefully. One man spoke and a deep, strong voice floated over the divider, causing him to freeze in place. Brent tried to make out the words over the sound of his own pulse now drumming a steady beat in his ears.

"Mr. Casey, you're trying my patience!" The voice barked.

He crawled on his hands and knees along the floor a few more feet, trying to get a better look at the situation. Coming to the end of a low divider separating the office cubicles, he slowly raised his head, bringing the rest of the room into view.

Past the file cabinets and desks, a man, whom he guessed was Casey, sat in a chair in the middle of an open area. Next to him in an identical chair was a pretty red-haired woman. He noticed the fear visible in her eyes.

A tall man in an Army uniform stood looking down at the two of them with an air of smug superiority.

"Listen Mr. Casey, this is a matter of national security. That gives me some pretty broad powers. So, you better tell me what you know about Dr. Ryan's disappearance and it better be now!"

"I'm telling you everything I know, Colonel," the man in the chair said. "I took her to my place but she left before I got up. I haven't seen her since."

Colonel Alex Freemont puffed up his chest angrily.

"Well you better hope I find her fast, because until I do, you two will be detained as accessories. Miss Ryan is guilty of several felonies, she violated national security protocols and she isn't going to get away with it."

Freemont pulled a cell phone from the pocket of his uniform jacket, dialed and began speaking. After a short pause he started yelling into the phone, his voice grating in direct proportion to his anger. Several seconds later, Brent noticed he seemed to regain some measure of control over his voice. He issued orders in deep, direct tones.

"Listen Private, I don't care who she is. You tell the judge I want the warrants issued now. Ryan's out there somewhere and under the authority of the Science and Technology Act of 1947, I hereby order the arrest of Dr. Jennifer Jane Ryan, the seizure of her files and records and pending questioning, the detention of any persons having contact with her in the last thirty days. Do you understand?"

He paused to listen briefly, then yelled into the receiver again. "Do it now! Private, do I make myself clear?"

He angrily snapped the phone shut and glared at his prisoners.

Brent watched helplessly as Casey stood up, pointing an accusatory finger at the Colonel, his anger evident in his chiseled features. "You can't do that!"

As he spoke, the pitch of the voice climbed in direct proportion to his outrage. "This is still America, not Nazi Germany! We're private citizens and private citizens are still protected from arrest by the military! You have to go before a federal judge to get a warrant!"

The colonel answered him in that calm, even tone people use on animals and very small children. "I can and I have. The SAT act and the contract Ryan herself signed give me the authority," His voice rose, sudden and sharp. "Now, sit down!"

Brent saw Casey's face darken another shade. He sat back down, appearing dejected and humbled.

"Look, Colonel, I'm sorry about losing my temper. I just think it's unfair to hold us. You're scaring my assistant. We didn't do anything and we don't know anything!"

"And how do I know that?" the soldier asked. "How do I know that you and your people weren't in this from the start?"

"I told you before. I don't know anything about Ryan or her work. I never saw her before Saturday morning. You have to believe me!"

Freemont's face darkened again as he turned to face his captives. "I see that you choose to lie to me, Mr. Casey. That's a bad way for us to start off our relationship."

Freemont paced the floor as he continued his tirade. "I think you knew she intended to steal the project and exactly how she planned to do it. I'm going to ask one more time and then I'm going to order that you be taken into custody for a more thorough interrogation."

Casey shook his head in disgust. "You're out of your mind Colonel."

Freemont wheeled on his heel, turning back toward his captives. "Now, for the last time, where is Jennifer Ryan?"

Casey grimaced in frustration, then answered him the same way he had the last several times he'd asked that same question. "I don't know. I told you, she left my house this morning and I haven't seen her since."

Still hiding, Brent listened incredulously. He knew his sister was no traitor and now he had someone who might know what happened to her. His first thought was to get some outside help.

Help would be good, but from where?

He searched his mind for a workable answer.

The local police? No. They would just turn me over to the Feds.

He had to assume that the feds where not only scouring the building, but had an alert out for him by now as well. Any local cop would run him through N.C.I.C. and presto! He would be in federal custody again.

For a fleeting second he visualized the well-constructed lady agent. She can cuff me anytime.

He knew he would have to do this on his own. He figured a distraction might allow him to free the two in the other room and see if they knew what happened to Jenny.

As his mind began to work on a plan, a faint noise startled him, sending tendrils of electricity racing along his nerves. After the split second rush that follows being surprised, he waited for the voice that would signal his capture. Two seconds passed, then five and still no one demanded his surrender. The staccato beating of his heart was now the only sound breaking the forced silence.

He turned around to face his adversary and what he saw almost made him laugh out loud. Behind him, in a little space between the desk and the file cabinet, the elegant, triangular face of a small white cat peered at him. Searching Brent with its large, inquisitive eyes, the cat acknowledged him with a wary meow. He put a hand to his mouth, stifling a laugh.

What the hell are you doing here? You about gave me a heart attack!

He also wondered if the man on the other side of the desk heard the noise. He didn't have to wait long to get his answer as the conversation between the others stopped in mid-sentence.

Freemont looked at the captives. "What was that?"

Aaron and Diane shook their heads in unison, feigning ignorance.

Freemont paused for the briefest of intervals, then barked out an order. "Private, go check it out. Bring anyone you find to me. You are authorized to use deadly force if necessary."

Striding across the room, the lackey replied with a crisp and precise, "Yes Sir!" then disappeared around the corner.

Brent risked another quick look, studying the Colonel carefully. Although it had only been a few seconds, Freemont nervously paced the floor. While Freemont traversed the room, Brent waited until the Colonel had his back turned and waved to catch Casey's attention. The man in the chair acknowledged him with a small nod of his head. Slowly moving around the end of the wall, Brent hid behind the desk and tried to come up with a distraction that wouldn't get the three of them arrested...or killed.

He stole another fleeting glance over the desk, watching Freemont and considering his options.

The other guard's gone, but for how long?

The younger Ryan continued to surreptitiously observe the Colonel and noticed he didn't appear to be armed, but he was still a good twenty feet away. Drawing a deep breath, he knew the time to act was now, before the Private returned.

He quickly looked around the room again, hoping to find some kind of distraction, and then it appeared, as if by divine intervention. Sitting on the far corner of the desk, a crystal paperweight sparkled in a shaft of sunlight streaming in through the window across the room. Suddenly an idea struck, so simple it was almost too good to be true. He quickly grabbed the elegant decoration and hid himself again before Freemont turned around.

Brent turned the small, round piece of glass over in his hand and read the inscription. Diane, Thanks for always being on the ball – Aaron.

He leaned back against the wall, taking a deep breath. The guard returned to the office and Brent smiled inwardly, knowing that he had at least half a plan. He figured whatever he did to free the captives had to be quick, quiet, and it has to be now.

His heart thudding against his ribs once again, he hoped that when the right moment came, the rest would fall into place.

The lackey returned and gave Freemont his report. "No one in the area, Sir."

Brent took a deep breath to steel himself.

"Are you sure, Private?" Freemont asked.

"Yes, Sir."

Popping up like a demented Jack-in-the-box, Brent took a bead on the guard's head. His natural athleticism paid off in spades as the three-inch glass sphere closed the distance in the blink of an eye, silently sailing across the room. The speeding glass ball tracked a perfect course, guided by a hasty prayer and sheer force of will. After what seemed like hours, the projectile found its target and with a faint "pop", the private collapsed to the floor in a heap.

Hearing the dull 'thunk' of his subordinate hitting the carpet, Freemont whirled around to see the young man laying face down, limbs akimbo. Aaron took advantage of the break in his captor's concentration and lunged at the Colonel. Diane let out a startled scream at the sudden melee.

Freemont caught Aaron off balance, hooking his arm and levering him over a chair, the steel back ramming into his chest. He sucked in a sharp breath as the pain raced through his ribs.

He rolled just in time to dodge Freemont's lunge and shot a quick right jab into the charging man's washboard abdomen. The two men continued to grapple, breaking furniture and knocking over a bookcase, each fighting for control.

Freemont missed a blind punch at Aaron's face and Brent stifled an involuntary gasp as Aaron's well-timed right connected with the soldier's jaw, the crack of bone on bone resounding across the room. The blow sent the Colonel staggering backward, hitting the wall with a dull thud. Only momentarily stunned, Freemont came back to the attack with blood in his eyes. He landed two more punishing body blows to Aaron's already screaming ribs, but the age difference made it difficult for the older man to gain any real advantage.

Aaron misread a signal and Freemont penetrated his defenses, finally connecting with a left to the chin. The stars exploded before Aaron's eyes and he staggered, trying to remain conscious.

Emerging from her fear-spawned paralysis, Diane shot out of her chair. She darted across the room, unnoticed by the brawling pair and picked up a large flower arrangement from an end table. She raised the vase to strike.

A pistol, black and menacing, suddenly appeared from under Freemont's jacket. "Freeze lady!"

Diane stared at the gun's menacing barrel, still holding the heavy vase motionless above her head.

Freemont spat, a small bit of blood landing on the carpet, and backed away from the two captives. Still pointing the automatic at the woman, he barked again. "Drop it!"

She looked at her boss, and seeing him nod, slowly lowered the vase to the floor.

Aaron stood immobile, afraid if he so much as flinched Freemont would pull the trigger.

Rubbing his swelling jaw, Freemont waved the gun back toward the chairs. "Get back over there!"

As he continued to hold the two at the barrel end of the 9 mm Beretta, he took a pair of handcuffs from the inert Private's belt. As Freemont locked the cuffs to the chair, a small white blur flew past Aaron's face and Freemont's piercing screams suddenly split the air. The Colonel writhed in a combination of pain and surprise, devastated by this new assault.

Rambo was less than thrilled about being tossed across the room and took out her frustrations on the nearest available target. She ripped and tore at her victim, digging her claws into his nose and opening up his face before the colonel could even begin to react.

The unfortunate man's instinct for self-preservation took over and he ignored the two prisoners. Cursing, the Colonel struggled with Rambo and tried to get away from the fur-covered razor blade.

Blood flowed like water from the cat's handiwork and Freemont's vision dimmed, turning crimson. In desperation, he grabbed a handful of fur and yanked her free. In a fit of rage and pain he threw the cat with all his strength. The lithe feline arched through the air, hitting the wall with an audible thump and fell to the floor, stunned into immobility.

Before the disoriented cat could recover, Freemont pointed the pistol and Aaron watched in horror, seeing the muzzle flash before the explosion rocked the room.

Freemont never saw Aaron close the gap between the two men, or pull back for the punch. Lifted off his feet by the sledgehammer blow, Freemont flew over a desk, collided with a support beam and collapsed in a landslide of uniform and medals.

Aaron shook his hand in pain and looked at Diane. "You all right?"

Her voice creaked. "I think so. You?"

He flexed his fingers and a hot jolt raced up his arm. "I think I broke my hand on that bastard's jaw."

Diane pointed to the motionless pile of olive drab. "Is he... is he dead?"

Aaron turned and looked at Rambo, her snow-white fur now stained blood red. "Not yet."

He bent down, picked the Colonel's gun off the floor and tucked it in his waistband, behind his back. He went over to where Rambo lay, knelt and looked at the cat's inert form, a small lump rose in his throat and a very large wave of burning rage washed over his heart.

You bastard!

Regaining partial control of his emotions, He shuddered as he gently lifted Rambo's motionless form, holding her in one over-sized hand.

How could he do that to a defenseless animal!

His face a chiseled mask of suppressed fury, he carried Rambo to where Diane and Brent stood silently staring in shock and disbelief.

"Aaron, I'm so sorry." Diane said, small tears now rolling down her face. "I can't believe he shot her."

Giving the tiny, bloodstained creature to Diane, he went back to where Freemont lay. Grabbing him by the hair, Aaron jerked his head up and slapped Freemont awake. He hissed at the semi-conscious man. "Give me one good reason why I shouldn't kill you right now."

Anticipating the man's silence, he pulled the gun out of this belt and placed the business end against Freemont's forehead.

Diane gasped. "Hold it Aaron. You don't want to do this."

The metallic click thundered in his head as he cocked the hammer. "I don't?"

Diane's pleading voice barely penetrated the red mist thickening before his eyes. "Aaron, listen to me. If you shoot him, it's murder."

His hand griped the pistol tighter as he fought for control.

I've killed enemies before. This is no different.

Blood roaring in his ears, he eased the trigger back. As he waited for the hammer to fall, a bright light appeared before his eyes, the incandescent glow gathering in intensity. In the center of the brilliant expanse, he saw Heather's face. She spoke to his mind and her words required no voice. "My love, you are better than this."

His finger eased off the trigger and she smiled, her radiance enveloping him in a warm softness he never wanted to leave. He blinked and she vanished as quickly as she appeared.

His mind now clear, he took a deep, calming breath, turning his attention back to Freemont. "You have two choices. You can tell me everything you know about where Jennifer Ryan is, or I can make you pay for what you did to my little friend over there. It's your call."

The man facing the firearm sat motionless, his chin set in smug defiance. "You wouldn't dare shoot an officer."

Diane screamed as the windows shook with the sound of the blast.

Chapter Twenty-Two

The Sodium Amytal hit Jenny's weakened body like a rolling shockwave. Her anxiety melted away and her fragile stomach relaxed as the edges of the room began to close in on her in pink and purple waves. She struggled against her mental bonds, forced to watch in morbid fascination as her world began to stretch and warp. Her surroundings turned into a grotesque canvass painted from a palette of Silly-Putty. Without warning or wanting, sleep washed over her like ocean waves.

Her interrogators watched over her like concerned parents, waiting for the window to open. It took only minutes.

Head lolling from side to side, random flashes of disconnected memory played on the big screen of her mind like movie trailers. Into the rapidly-collapsing black hole of this drug-induced haze, a sound penetrated her increasingly random thoughts. She chased the sound through the maze of her mind. The 'Will-o-the Wisp' voice darted to and fro across her consciousness, letting her mental fingers draw close but never quite grasping it.

"Doctor Ryan, can you hear me?" the voice asked.

She willed herself to answer, but she could muster no sound.

The voice grew little louder, more insistent. "Doctor Ryan, can you hear me?"

She heard herself speak, but almost didn't recognize her own voice, the words sounding so dreamy and distant.

"Yes, I can hear you. You don't have to shout."

She opened her eyes to small slits. The faces looking down at her seemed to melt and blend in quick succession, first one man and a woman, then several of each. She could see them, but couldn't concentrate long enough to keep the images from dancing before her eyes.

At Clark's insistence, Trish tied Jenny's hands and feet to the bed frame, and the two prepared to start the interrogation.

The drugs left her quite pliable and Trish took Jenny on a wild roller coaster ride through her emotions and fears.

She was back at the lab...and she was late.

Jack will be here soon. Maybe it would be better if I met him at his office, keep him out of the lab.

She remembered testing the battery and congratulating herself. Just as she basked in the afterglow of her success, the sequence of events jumped forward in her mind.

I forgot my keys in my coat. Better go get them.

Pushing the door open, she remembered the feeling of unease washing over her, that creeping sensation of being watched. The fear took hold, spreading through her as she entered the lab. Her stomach clenched into a tight knot. She heard a noise. Someone's here!

Her mind reeled at the images and produced a blood-curdling scream, but it never left her lips. Clark watched her cringe as her fear vaulted. Slowly responding to Trish's voice and direction, she shivered and shook.

"It's okay. We're here to help," Trish's comforting words reached her, making her fears diminish. "Just tell us what we want to know and it all will be over."

"The project will be safe?"

Trish nodded at Clark, winking.

"Yes. The project will be safe."

"It's so dangerous. I just wanted to help people."

"Just tell me what I want to know and I'll make sure your project is safe."

"And then I can go home?"

"Yes. Then you can go home."

The floodgate of her psyche opened and her captor rode the wave like the 'Big Kahuna'.

"Now she's ours." Trish said.

After Jenny stopped her violent trembling and could speak again, the two began questioning her in earnest.

Walking around the right side of the bed and up to the head, Trish looked down at her captive. "Dr. Ryan, I want you to listen carefully, this is very important,"

In her drugged state, it took the scientist several seconds to connect just enough brain cells to respond. "Okay."

Trish exercised a drug-induced control over the terrified woman and caused her to relate all the details of the Ever-cell project. Two hours later, they knew more about the good doctor than she knew about herself. Trish and Clark immediately came to the same conclusion.

"Murphy isn't smart enough to come up with this operation on his own," he said. "If he were, Ryan would already be dead...so he must work for Temple. It's the only explanation that fits."

"So, revered leader, what now?" Trish taunted him, as if she didn't already know the answer.

Chapter Twenty-Three

As gray traces of dawn pushed the darkness over the western horizon, Kelly Ingersol stepped from the warmth of her car. She paused next to the dented, rusting subcompact for a long moment before stretching like a waking cat, her sore muscles aching.

She crossed the frozen street, taking care not to slip on the ice beneath her garish platform shoes.

I won't miss this place. She thought grimly, looking at the window of her apartment three floors above.

The dilapidated red brick building, pollution staining its façade with liquid trails of black and grey, stood reaching into the overcast sky. Once an affluent section of Frankfurt, Germany, the shift of post-war economics and growing government apathy had left only a blight of urban poverty to replace the thriving residential area.

Taken over by the wraiths of the night, the neighborhood was now so dangerous only hookers, addicts and transients dared trod the streets after dark. Kelly saw their pitiful forms still filled the sidewalks and stalked the shadows on this cold, early morning.

She sidestepped the filthy man passed out in the entry alcove, empty bourbon bottle at his side, and made her way up to the landing. As she approached, the heavy wooden doors suddenly burst open and a tall, heavy-set man shouldered her out of his way as he rushed toward the parking lot. Face covered against the cold wind by a white Cashmere scarf, he looked up and down the empty street several times before crossing.

Alarm chirping, he folded himself into a bright red Mercedes hidden at the back of the lot. The expensive convertible, tucked out of casual sight among a long row of scrap yard refugees, roared to life. Putting the car in gear, the unidentified man sped away, darting down the street in an explosion of flying ice and snow.

Feeling a little guilty, are we?

She chided him as he fled past, shaking her head in evident disgust.

Better get home to the wife...wouldn't want her to know you've been out playing with the naughty girls...or boys.

Climbing the stairs, she unlocked the door to her tiny room in the rundown pension and dropped her purse on a three-legged table standing in the corner.

First order of business, one long hot shower.

The water's heat penetrated her naked body like a soothing balm, easing her restless thoughts as it unwound her tight muscles.

It's almost over. After all this time, it's over. I can finally relax...almost.

She turned off the shower and began to towel herself dry. Looking at her reflection in a cracked mirror on the back of the bathroom door, she eyed the bruises on her shapely body. The ugly purple spots covered her lithe form in a dappled trail from her firm breasts, down the soft curves of thighs, before ending in wide discolored rings around her ankles.

"That asshole!" She muttered incredulously to the otherwise empty room. "Just look at me!"

She was still sore from the beating she'd suffered at the hands of her 'client'. A former East German Army Major- turned arms dealer, he liked to treat his women rough and she had to play along, enduring his foul brutality on several revolting occasions. Despite the man's vulgar sexual appetites, she found him useful. She didn't feel the least bit guilty about duping him into arranging a shipment of weapons to a group of Columbian rebels, then absconding with the three million dollar payoff.

The rebels would use the weapons to fight the drug cartels, clearly a good thing, and I get rich in the process.

Seeing her reflection again, she emitted a small mordant chuckle, realizing the small contusions made it appear as if her entire body had been dusted for fingerprints.

Returning to the only other room of her cramped accommodations, she heaved a heavy sigh. God, I can't wait to get out of this dump and go home!

As she began to dress, she noticed how good it felt to wear panties again. Her realistic disguise as a high-priced call girl had been very effective in snaring her perverted target. She was glad to be rid of both it and him.

I can't believe it's been three months already.

She smiled inwardly as she remembered the way they parted company the previous day; her with a fortune in a numbered account, and him unconscious, tied to his bed.

The housekeeper will find him in a few hours, but by then I'll be long gone.

She dropped a small leather suitcase on the threadbare floral bedspread. She turned on an obsolete T.V. sitting on a makeshift stand and half-listened to the English-language news broadcast as she packed her few remaining possessions.

Her eyes settled on a cheap painting hanging next to the wall heater. Hardly fine art, the two-foot square canvass depicted a rolling field, the hills of green grass broken by small multi-colored flowers. She stared at it for several seconds, the scene so typical of the countryside of Central Germany as to be cliché.

Lifting the ugly painting off the wall, she reached into the ragged hole in the plaster it disguised and removed a small plastic box. She lifted the lid and dumped the contents on the bed.

Her American Passport and several hundred dollars in U.S. currency joined the cosmetics already in her clutch-style purse.

Thinking about how she was going to spend her new fortune, she erased every trace of her existence from the tiny hovel. The cable news reports flowed in one ear and out the other as she decided which items she would take home and which she would throw out along the way to the Frankfurt airport. Anything even remotely connected to her false identity, including her alter-ego's hooker-esque wardrobe, would disappear completely, right down to the spare sets of false eyelashes.

It's finally over. I'm going home. I get to be me again...instead of Bianca the French whore.

As Bianca, Kelly had met, then seduced, Major Franz Koblenzic and her performance had been Oscar-worthy. In her Bianca persona, she could do and be things without remorse...without conscience. She had enjoyed the fancy cocktail parties and restaurant dinners Koblenzic provided, but still cringed at the things she'd done, or been forced to do, after the lights went out.

She swept her eyes around the room one last time, searching the small space for any items she might have overlooked and found none.

She closed the street door behind her for the last time, breathing a deep sigh of relief. She stopped for a moment to drape a thick blanket over the homeless man sleeping on the steps. She tucked a few left-over euros into his hand and moved toward her car.

Sitting on the tarmac at Frankfurt International Airport, the comforting whine of the 747's idling engines lulled her into a sense of relative safety and she decided to celebrate.

In a few hours I'll be back home, very safe and very rich.

"Excuse me, miss!" she called toward a flight attendant standing sentinel near the cockpit door.

The perky blond answered the summons in a split-second. "Hello. What can I do for you?"

Kelly guessed her to be about 25, tall and slender. She scanned the attractive woman with just a twinge of feminine jealousy and read her nametag.

"Well for starters Tina, you can open a bottle of your best champagne."

The attendant cocked one sculpted eyebrow. "Right away."

Kelly watched her flared hips swing as she moved back toward the galley. She smiled. She always enjoyed the service in first class. Her muscles began to unknot as she relaxed in her comfortable leather seat and thought about all the money waiting for her in New York.

When the pretty flight attendant returned with the drink, she raised the glass in salute. "God bless America." she said and drained the glass in a single draw.

She handed the delicate flute back to the wide-eyed woman. "Don't stop now girl, you're on a roll!"

The glass was quickly refilled for a second time. She took the glass from the blond and thought aloud, "It's going to be a long flight, and after three months in that upholstered cesspool, I deserve a little me-time."

The attendant replied, confusion evident on her angelic face. "Yes, Miss. Is there anything else before we takeoff?"

She drained a second glass of champagne before answering Tina's inquiry.

"Some cheese and crackers...maybe some fruit." she said. "And the rest of the champagne."

Several minutes later the wide-bodied jet flashed down the runway with a deafening roar and lifted gracefully into the air.

Chapter Twenty-Four

Trish tuned to Clark, forcing her stomach down from her throat. The hotel room's papered walls crept closer and her hands trembled, her moral compass spinning out of control over what her "partner" had done to Dr. Ryan.

"Was that really necessary?" she asked.

She might be ruthless, but it made her skin crawl to see him casually walk her through emotional torture like it was beach-blanket bingo. At that moment, she learned the true depths of Clark's depravity and silently vowed to settle the score.

After this job is finished. Clark might be a pig, but he's also a very well funded pig.

"What now?" she asked, breaking the silence and fearing the answer to her rhetorical question.

After several tense seconds, he finally answered his cohort, "I can only guess that Murphy has delivered the thing to Temple by now, so we go after Temple."

"And what about Casey? He might come looking for her. Or he might go to the police."

"I don't like loose ends." He said flatly. "Casey has to be neutralized."

This latest revelation made goose bumps run over her body.

Stupid, very stupid, she thought.

"You can't be serious. We are supposed to be keeping a low profile," she reminded him. "Strings of dead bodies don't constitute a low profile."

"Look Trish, this is my operation. You just follow my instructions and we'll be fine."

She felt her cheeks flush with heat as a surge of anger raced through her. "No! You look!" she snapped. "I don't like being kept in the dark. So, if you want my continued help on this little sojourn of yours, you need to clue me in on what your plans are."

She paused for effect, placing her hands on her hips. "I assume you have a plan...one that doesn't include multiple murders."

The sarcasm was not lost on him and he smiled sweetly. "Of course I have a plan, luscious."

Her stomach clenched in disgust. The endearment only sickened her further.

Ugggh! You arrogant bastard! No matter what, we're through...for good this time. I can't believe I thought you'd changed!

Chapter Twenty-Five

Aaron called out in a strong, clear voice. "Whoever you are, you can come out now!"

The smell of cordite hung heavy in the air while the smoke from the shots moved in opaque wisps around the ceiling.

Brent slowly raised his head over the divider. "Are you sure? Is everyone all right?"

He looked at the inert form of the colonel lying in a heap, eyes wide in apprehension. "Holy shit! Mister," he said in an unsteady voice. "Tell me you didn't just kill that guy."

Aaron noticed the color start returning to Diane's face as she realized Freemont's head remained intact. "No. I didn't kill him, not yet."

Still shaking from head to toe, Diane turned to the new comer. "Who are you?"

"I'm Brent Ryan. I'm trying to find my sister."

Aaron looked at him more carefully and noticed he was very much Jenny's brother.

The former captives spoke simultaneously, "So are we."

Aaron slipped the Beretta back into his belt and closed the distance between him and the other man. "I'm Aaron, and this is Diane."

He moved back to where Freemont sat on the floor. Motioning for Brent to grab Freemont's other arm, they dragged him to the only chair that survived the earlier brawl. The pair unceremoniously dropped the stunned solider into the seat.

Aaron moved to the still unconscious Private and slipped his weapon from its holster. He called out to the younger Ryan. "Cuff this guy and put him in the storage closet and make sure he can't get out."

While Brent dragged the still-unconscious lackey to the far side of the room and dumped him in the closet, Aaron, rather un-gently, yanked Freemont's head up and slapped him back to the here and now.

Aaron handed the Private's gun to Diane and cocked his head toward Freemont. "If he so much as blinks, blow his balls off."

Aaron yanked the cord off a fax machine and tied Freemont's hands to the back of the chair- a little tighter then necessary. "Okay, colonel, the time for truth is here."

During the ten-minute interrogation that followed, Freemont confirmed that Sean Murphy had indeed attacked Jenny and then sold the plans to a rival of Ryan's named Phillip Temple.

"It looks like a falling out among thieves." Freemont opined.

"Why do you say that?" Aaron asked.

"Ryan had to be involved for this to work. Murphy's not smart enough to do this alone," he paused for a second. "Also, he doesn't have access to the data. She had to get it for him."

Freemont paused for several more seconds, collecting his thoughts.

"The FBI's tried to get Temple for a hell of a long time. He is too slick. Charges slide off him like he's made of Teflon."

His patience wearing thin, Aaron folded his arms across his chest. "Where do I find him?"

"I can't tell you that."

Aaron rubbed his sore chin and considered what would be the best method of getting through to Freemont. He tried the direct approach first. "Listen, Colonel, I had no idea who or what Dr. Ryan was up to when I found her," he paused "All I want is to get her back and make sure she's safe. We can sort out the rest after."

"Mr. Casey, if you have nothing to hide release me and I'll find the girl."

Aaron laughed aloud, "Get real! I heard your plans for her, remember? Not going to happen."

"She has very sensitive research material and we want it back. Release me...this instant!" The Colonel demanded.

Aaron raised one eyebrow. He was no fool and he decided the time had come for Freemont to learn that.

"Let me get this straight, she has sensitive research material or she created sensitive research material?"

Freemont hesitated. "We... see no difference."

Aaron's jaw clenched, his temper creeping back up another notch.

"Well I do," Anger forcing his voice into clipped tones, the antipathy underlined his next words. "It's a matter of whether or not she created what you say she took. If she took something that didn't belong to her, that's one thing. However, if she took her research to prevent you from exploiting it, that's altogether different."

"The Army, meaning me, doesn't see it that way."

"Well I do, and since I'm the one with the weapon, my opinion is the only one that counts at the moment."

Getting no response, he moved on to the next topic. "Okay, since you came after me, you don't have her. So, who does?"

The Colonel sat is silence for a long moment before answering. "I thought you would know where she's hiding."

"Well I don't know where she is, but I think you might."

"How do you come to that brilliant deduction?" Freemont said, the bass voice loaded with condescension and loathing.

Aaron now had a pretty fair idea of what happened to Jenny.

If Murphy sold the plans to Temple, then he couldn't leave her alive to refute any claim to her work.

Aaron continued. "Process of elimination. If you don't have her and I don't have her, then the only other person with an interest is Temple."

"What about Murphy?" Freemont asked.

Aaron sat on the corner of the desk for a few seconds, thinking. He shook his head, discounting the colonel's theory. "No. He has no idea she survived the original attack. If he's smart, he took his cash and is sunning his sorry ass on some tropical island with no extradition treaty. It has to be Temple."

He paused and looked at the Colonel. "I'm going to ask you again, where can I find Temple?"

"Why should I tell you?" the colonel demanded.

Aaron's voice suddenly became very cold. "You mean aside from preventing me from kicking your ass again? Simple, because we both want the same thing."

"We do?"

"Yes. I want Dr. Ryan back safe and you want her research back, right?"

"I don't hear very well when I'm tied to a chair."

And I can't find Jenny from a jail cell.

Aaron saw a chance, albeit a slim one, to stay out of federal prison. Aaron figured he had one option left. "And if I release you?"

"I'm listening." Freemont said.

"Give me a chance to bring her in. If I can do it, you drop all charges against her and us."

Freemont thought it over for a minute, "You must think I'm a moron. Why would I even consider it?"

He ignored Freemont's question. "Give me twenty-four hours and I'll bring her and her research back in one piece."

"What makes you think you can find her if I can't?"

"Simple. She's not afraid of me."

Freemont looked around the room in silence.

"So we have a deal?" Aaron asked.

"You bring her and her work to me, and all I have to do is drop the charges?"

Aaron snapped his fingers. "Just like that."

"And if I refuse?"

Aaron had one last-ditch option left, the one thing that strikes fear into the hearts of all military brass. Still looking at Freemont, he spoke in calm, sure tones. "Diane, call WBZ News and tell them there's going to be an arrest they'll want to cover. Tell them they'll need a camera crew."

Diane's face showed her confusion. "Whose arrest?" she asked.

He turned to her and quietly announced his intention to surrender. "Mine."

Her jaw dropped at the sound of "arrest" and "mine" in the same sentence. "Aaron, don't do it. Why let him arrest you? We have him, not the other way around."

He pointed at the man in the chair. "Don't kid yourself Diane, this guy's a colonel in the United States Army. We can't hold him indefinitely."

Freemont spoke up, his arrogance returning in all it's unmitigated glory. "Now you are beginning to think clearly."

Diane and Aaron turned on him simultaneously. "Shut up!"

Diane continued to plead with her friend and employer. "Don't let him arrest you. You heard his plans for Dr. Ryan. You might never see a courtroom. You might just disappear to Cuba or something."

He comforted his secretary. "Don't worry Di, I won't disappear. I didn't say I was going to let him arrest me."

He pulled a business card from his shirt pocket and handed it to her.

"After you call WBZ, call this FBI agent and tell her what's going on here. I think she'll be very interested."

Freemont interrupted him. "Nobody's getting arrested."

Diane turned to Freemont, brow wrinkled in confusion. "Why not?"

Aaron answered for him. "Because he knows I would have way too much to say and he doesn't want the Feds, or a congressional oversight committee, to hear it."

She turned back to the man in the chair. "Is that true Colonel Freemont?"

Freemont said nothing, staring out the window at the Boston skyline beyond.

After being quiet since the gunshot, Brent finally joined the conversation. "Look, Mr. Casey, all I care about is getting my sister back. I don't care about any research project she was working on."

Aaron turned his attention to the younger man. "Do you have any idea where your sister might be?"

"No, I don't," he paused. "But I do know this, wherever it is, she didn't go willingly."

"How do you know that?" Diane asked.

"Like I tried to tell the cops downstairs, she's called me at the same time, every Sunday, for the last 2 years. She's a creature of habit. She wouldn't just disappear without a word."

He thought about the young man's insight into Jenny's habits. It makes sense. After all, he must know his sister better than anyone else.

"Okay. How do we find her before someone else does?"

"I don't know," he said. "But if we put our heads together I'm sure we can figure it out."

Aaron was at a loss. He thought maybe Brent could give him a direction to look in. "Well, I checked my place and her office but I couldn't find her address to check her place."

"She told me to meet her here, but we can still go and check her townhouse, if you want."

Aaron stopped in mid-thought. "She told you to meet her here, at my office? When did she tell you that?"

"She called me in New York early this morning."

"What did she say?"

"She said she was in trouble and needed her computer."

Aaron absorbed the new information and found it decidedly odd. "Why would she bring you all the way from New York to bring her a computer?"

"I guess she thought I was the only one she could trust. She sounded scared."

"Did she tell you what she needed from it?"

"No, she didn't. She just said she needed it, and she would explain later."

Aaron knew dammed well what she wanted. "Well, we're never going to get near her computer now. The Feds are all over the place down there."

"Maybe we don't need to get to her office," Brent offered. "Her office computer wasn't the one she asked for, she wanted her laptop. So, I went into her office and lifted it for her."

Finally, a break. "Where is it now?" Aaron asked.

Brent went into the reception area and retrieved his travel bag. "Right here."

The two men watched as Diane booted up the computer and started looking for something that might give them a lead. Aaron didn't hold much hope of finding anything useful but they kept looking anyway.

After several minutes, Aaron slapped his fist on the desk in frustration. "Nothing." He said. "Checked her files, checked her e-mail, no clues."

He turned again to face Freemont. "I keep coming back to the same place; Temple. He's the only one with a reason to grab her."

The colonel's defiance had resurfaced, rearing its ugly head yet again. "I'm not giving you Temple," he said matter-of-factly.

Aaron, tired of dealing with Freemont, thought for a moment before speaking. "Diane, let's find Temple."

Returning to her own computer, Diane's fingers flew over the keys. The internet search took an entire minute.

"All right, found him." she said. "Temple Corporation, 15697 Commercial Street."

Aaron slid off the corner of the desk. "I think I'll pay Mr. Phillip Temple a little visit."

He grabbed his jacket and headed for the door. Hand on the knob, he turned back to Brent and Diane. "Keep our guest on ice for an hour or so, then spring him, and the one in the closet too. I'll be back as soon as I can."

Then he turned to face Freemont. "And I suggest you behave," His calm voice betrayed a barely controlled inner rage. "Or so help me, I'll find you and make you pay for what you did to Rambo."

The door closed soundlessly behind him.

Diane set the automatic down on the desk and gazed at Freemont with unconcealed disgust. She pointed toward the door. "You're damned lucky he didn't kill you." she said. "I still can't believe you shot her, you asshole!"

Freemont dismissed the insult. "What was I supposed to do? It was tearing me up."

Diane went to where Rambo's body lay in a small puddle of blood. She took Rambo in her hands and turned the limp form over, seeing a second crimson spot on her other side. A small tear escaped her eye as she carried Rambo over to her desk and laid her on top.

"Nice work. It went right through her."

Diane pulled a gray sweater off the coat tree and carefully wrapped it around Rambo's motionless form. As she went to cover the cat's face she noticed Rambo's ears twitch.

"Oh, my God," she gasped. "She's still alive!"

"Are you sure?' Brent said.

Diane studied her for a few seconds. "I think so, her ears are moving." She said excitedly.

She placed her hand on Rambo's side and felt for a pulse. "She has a heart beat!"

Brent walked over to the desk and felt the pulse for himself.

Diane looked at him, her eyes pleading. "We have to help her."

He nodded. "Of course we do."

She reached for the phone, hands shaking. "I'll call her Vet and tell him we're coming."

As she punched the numbers, Brent picked up Rambo and wrapped the sweater closer around the small, still unmoving, body.

With the one-sided conversation between Diane and the doctor's office ended, Brent headed toward the door. He turned back to her. "I came in a cab. Do you have a car here?"

She opened the door for him. "Downstairs, in the south lot."

Just as the two were about to leave the room, Freemont piped up. "What about me? You can't just leave me here."

Brent stopped at the door and turned, yelling back over his shoulder at Freemont. "Watch us!"

Pets of all shapes and sizes, along with their owners, were seated among the rows of chairs as Brent and Diane entered the busy waiting room of Dr. Elliot Colton DVM.

Navigating the crowd, Brent stepped over a large white carrier when the occupant startled him with a loud 'WOOF!'.

Approaching the reception window, a fresh-faced, twenty-something girl in a white lab coat greeted them. "Can I help you?"

Brent stepped forward and motioned for Diane to bring Rambo's still listless body up to the window.

"We called earlier. We need to see the doctor. This cat's been shot and she needs help."

The young girl gasped, looking over the counter past Brent and seeing the blood all over Rambo and all over Diane.

"Oh, my God! Bring her right in. The doctor is waiting for you."

She motioned to a door on their right. "I'll go tell him you're here."

They watched as she ran down the hall.

Elliot Colton had been Rambo's vet ever since Aaron found her and he recognized her at once. Taking the cat from Diane's bloodstained arms, he disappeared into the exam room. While Colton went to work, Brent and Diane returned to the reception area.

During the next hour, Diane paced the room and Brent made small talk, unsuccessfully trying to calm her. After her fourth lap of the waiting room in less than ten minutes, she spoke. "This is taking too long. She must be worse than we thought."

Brent moved to her side. "Don't assume the worst, she'll be all right."

"She better be, or I'll shoot that son of a bitch Freemont myself." She started another lap of the room.

Looking at her, he lifted one eyebrow, "You couldn't really do that, right?"

She stopped pacing and gave him a confused look, "Do what?"

"You couldn't really shoot him, could you?"

"Shoot...who?" she offered a momentary look of confusion. "Oh, Freemont? I guess not, but if I were him, I wouldn't want to run into Aaron anytime soon."

"Yeah, he's got some serious anger issues."

"You just have to get to know him. He's very protective."

Brent watched her continue pacing and thought about everything that happened since he met her a few short hours ago. She had shown several different sides of herself and he was amazed by her. He assessed her qualities, and being a guy, went through his mental list. Looks...check, Brains...check, Body...check, check.

Great looks aside, he found himself genuinely intrigued by a woman so cool under pressure she could hold an Army colonel at gunpoint and yet, on the verge of tears, paced the floor over an injured animal. He found her contrasts very interesting indeed.

He put his arm around her shoulder. "Don't worry. The doctor will fix Rambo up good as new. You'll see."

As the words came out of his mouth, he hoped he wasn't lying.

Chapter Twenty-Six

The engine's never-ending roar thumped in Kelly Ingersol's ears while the overhead speaker twanged, the pilot announcing the plane's descent into New York.

The exhausted woman called the flight attendant to take her tray. The long flight, and an entire bottle of champagne, had left her both dehydrated and mentally worn out. All she wanted now was to get on the ground and into a hot bath at a good hotel.

The in-flight news broadcast droned on in her earphones as she leaned against the window and the jet circled Manhattan. She snapped out of her quasi-slumber when the standard headline fare was interrupted by a special bulletin. The reporter's voice scratched her ears as he rehashed the story.

"Boston Police said they have identified a man found dead by two construction workers early yesterday as Jackson Verde, 43, of Braintree.

Police officials said two electricians found Verde's body in a trash dumpster behind the Boston Tower building at around five a.m. Saturday morning.

Police confirmed Verde was Director of Research at Tower tenant Diversified Research Incorporated.

Police listed the cause of death as a gunshot wound and said they are investigating the case as a homicide, but released no additional information."

Her pulse quickened, dusting the cobwebs from her mind as the words washed over her. She had no real interest in this Verde character, but she did have an interest in anything having to do with Diversified Research. It was widely known in her circle of "associates" that projects developed at Diversified were high-dollar, very high-dollar.

If they're going through chaotic times, this is the stuff golden opportunities are made of.

Her mind raced with the possibilities.

As the plane made its final approach to Kennedy Airport, she ignored the rest of the news and began to formulate a plan to do some digging in Boston and see what came up. Intuition tingling, she pulled the phone out of the seat in front of her and dialed the ticket counter. "I'd like to book a seat on your next flight to Boston, please."

The hop from JFK to Logan went by in an instant, compared to her tans-Atlantic crossing. As her second flight of the day touched down, she replayed the news broadcast in her head.

There is money to be made here. I just have to figure out how. If one of their senior people is gone...mistakes get made...things turn up missing.

Those thoughts occupied her feverishly working mind until the plane coasted to a gentle stop at the gate. Her skin prickled with tension and excitement as the timeless quote of Arthur Conan Doyle's great detective, Sherlock Holmes, flashed across her mind. The game's afoot, Watson!

Chapter Twenty-Seven

As the taxi wound its way through the crowded streets, Aaron struggled to temper his boiling rage with his concern for Jenny. He knew this situation was already dangerous enough and mishandling Temple would only make it worse. The streets were now dark and the cabbie almost missed the address sign as he slid the car to a stop in the new snow.

"Here it is, sir," the Pakistani driver said. "15697 Commercial Street. That'll be $13.45, please."

He paid the cabbie. Collecting his thoughts, he walked up the concrete stairs as the driver sped away, disappearing into the noise and traffic.

Stepping in from the cold air outside, Aaron strode across a rich red carpet, its delicate gold embroidery offsetting the dark wood gracing the lobby of the converted 18th century brewery. Aaron stopped briefly to read the directory standing in the entryway, then made his way toward the elevator and Temple's fourth floor office.

Exiting the lift, he noticed the surrounding décor changed from the colonial motif in the lobby to a more contemporary style as he approached the offices of Temple Corporation. Polished brass and dark laminates marked the way to a pair of frosted glass doors baring a logo and "Temple Corporation" in bold relief.

Parting the doors, he stepped up to the reception desk, catching the attention of a bleach-blond behind it.

"May I help you?" she asked as he drew near.

"I'd like to see Phillip Temple please."

"Do you have an appointment?"

"No, but if you just tell him Sean Murphy is here, I'm sure he'll see me."

"I'm sorry. Mr. Temple is not in at the moment."

"When might he return?"

"Well, if you would like to make an appointment..." He stopped her in mid-sentence.

"Look, Miss...," he leaned over the counter, reading the polished brass name plate on her desk. "Miss Miller. If he's here, you might want to consider letting me in. Mr. Temple and I have some time-sensitive business to take care of."

"I'm sorry sir, but I couldn't possibly do that." She frowned briefly, then padded her voice with artificial sincerity. "But, if you'd like to make an appointment I'll be glad to help you," she said. "Otherwise I'll have to ask you to leave."

Seeing this was going nowhere, he tired a different approach.

"Just pick up the phone," he said, his voice equal parts authority and impatience. "Call his office and tell him I'm here. He'll see me. In today's job market, can you really afford to screw up a deal your boss spent months putting together?"

He watched as the wheels turned in her tiny little mind. He could almost smell the smoke. She picked up the phone on the left end of her desk and punched a few numbers.

"There's a Sean Murphy here to see you," she stared silently at Aaron for several seconds, listening, then hung up. "Down the hall, third door on the left."

"Thank you," he said, stepping around the desk.

Aaron looked through the window and saw Temple sitting at his desk, typing on his computer.

His heart raced as he contemplated the gravity of the meeting now only seconds away. He took several deep breaths and locked his mind in battle mode, bracing himself for the confrontation. Adrenaline surging, he entered silently, moving inside.

"Temple!" he roared, channeling his first drill instructor. He slammed the door, ejecting two picture frames from the wall and sending them crashing to the floor in a shower of broken glass. He moved to the desk and leaned forward on it, eyeing the other man.

"Where is she?" he barked.

"Get out of my office!" Temple's eyes narrowed as he gave the order. "Before I call security!"

Aaron reached over the desk and bitch-slapped the seated man, snapping Temple's head back with a whip-crack blow. "Wrong answer. Try again."

The stunned man stuttered slightly, rubbing his stinging face. "I...I...I don't know what you are talking about! I'm calling the police."

"You know dammed well what I'm talking about. Now, where is Dr. Ryan?"

As Temple reached for the phone, Aaron covered the receiver with his hand, his voice turning cold and menacing. "That would be a serious error in judgment."

Temple, now turning pale, sagged lower in his chair and held his hands up in defense. "I don't know where she is, really!"

Aaron eyed the cringing man, mind running high with suspicion. "Why should I believe you?"

"Because I'm telling you the truth," Temple whined. "I don't know where she is!"

Stepping around to the other side of the desk, he spun Temple's chair, putting the two men nose to nose. He paused for several seconds, thinking.

"Who did you tell about her?" he asked, his voice suddenly calm and controlled.

"No one, I swear!"

Aaron noticed Temple's hands shaking perceptibly as he answered. A second blow landed on Temple's right ear, exploding with a loud snap.

"Stop, please!" the seated man begged, grabbing his injured ear. "I didn't tell anyone, anything!"

"Well, you better give me something!" Aaron's arm shot out, clearing the desktop, scattering papers and fine accessories in all directions.

Temple kept rubbing his howling ear, throwing Aaron an acid-filled glare. "Who the hell are you?"

"I'm a friend of hers. However, I don't have a lot of patience, so start talking."

Temple hesitated.

"Okay, I'll talk first." Aaron said, sitting on the corner of Temple's desk. "Here's what I think happened, and by all means, stop me if I'm wrong. I think you hired that little piss-ant Murphy to steal Jenny's project. He did it, and you either have it or sold it. Unfortunately for you he made one mistake. He didn't kill her. How am I doing so far?"

Temple said nothing, but Aaron noticed his face grow a little more ashen, small beads of sweat now adorning his forehead.

"Okay Phil, old buddy, on to plan B."

Aaron walked over to the wood casement window and lifted the lower sash. He turned back to the man in the chair. "Care to estimate your glide ratio?"

Aaron grinned an evil smile as Temple's eyes widened in disbelief. He rounded the desk and grabbed Temple by the collar before the smaller man could move, jerking him out of his seat.

"You can't do this!" Temple yelled. "Let me go!"

Temple struggled to get free, but Aaron cuffed him in the head, and hand still stinging, dragged him to the window. He felt the cold air on his face as he forced Temple's head out into the freezing night.

"This is your captain speaking," Aaron's voice had that distant ring, a perfect imitation of an airline pilot. "Prepare for takeoff."

Looking down four floors to the dark pavement below, Temple swallowed hard and braced his hands against the frame. "You're crazy! You can't do this!"

"Really? My shrink doesn't think so," He knocked Temple's right hand off the window's edge and out into space. "Now, where's Ryan?"

Panic edged into Temple's voice. "I told you, I don't know!"

He lifted Temple a little higher and further out into the cold. "Then you're of no damned use to me, are you?"

He knocked the other hand into the open window. Arms flailing in panic, Temple searched for something to grab onto. "Okay, I'll tell you! I'll tell you!"

Aaron pulled him back inside, but only a few inches. "I'm listening."

Temple's voice quivered in fear. "I made a deal to sell Ryan's work."

"No kidding? To who?"

"To someone who paid."

He pushed Temple's head back out the window and lifted him by the belt. "Have a pleasant flight."

Temple screamed and thrashed in Aaron's grip. "Nooo! Pull me in! I'll tell you! I swear!"

He jerked the frightened man back a second time, intentionally slamming Temple's head into the window frame. The sharp sash opened a jagged gash that instantly ran red with thin line of blood.

"Last chance." Aaron warned.

The hyperventilating man struggled to speak. "Yashidda...I sold...the plans to an Arab...named Yashidda...Abdule Yashidda."

He pulled the shaking man inside, keeping one hand on Temple's collar. "See, that wasn't so hard, now was it?"

He threw the man back into his chair. "You deliver the goods yet?"

Again Temple hesitated, biting his lip.

Aaron sighed, shaking his head in disbelief. "We were making such progress. Do we really have to start all over again?"

He briefly scanned the floor around him and picked up a sword-style letter opener, carefully examining the gleaming edge. "This should do nicely."

As Aaron stepped closer, Temple made a small gurgling sound. "No bitch is worth this. All I wanted was the money. You want her so bad...you can have her." Temple's eyes suddenly brightened. "Hey, maybe we can work a deal. I'll cut you in. A guy can buy a lot of pretty girls with a million bucks."

Aaron glared at him, blade swishing threateningly. "Hand over what you took, all of it, and I might forget you said that," he paused. "And don't even think about holding back."

Slinking out of his chair, Temple knelt in front of a small bookcase in the corner of the room. Removing some volumes, he revealed a small black safe hidden in the wall. Spinning the combination dial, Temple turned back to Aaron. "Are you sure we can't work something out? It's the girl you want, not the material."

Aaron rolled his eyes in disgust. "I don't think so."

Swinging the door back, Temple stuck his hand in the safe and Aaron placed the cold steel of the blade against his neck. "Nice and slow."

Moving at a deliberate crawl, Temple retrieved a small silver box from the safe and stood up, hesitating again.

"Open it." Aaron ordered.

The trembling man lifted the lid, revealing a small metallic object. Perhaps four inches wide and six inches high, the external hard drive rested in a two-inch deep depression cut into the case's padding. Two thin, silver disks also resided in the case, nestled in their own fitted sockets.

"This all of it?" He took the case from Temple's resisting grip, snapping it shut.

'Yes, that's all of it."

"Where can I find this guy, Yashidda?"

"I can't tell you that, he would kill me!"

"Well, if anything happens to Dr. Ryan I will definitely kill you. You have two chances to die and one chance to live. Tell me how to find Yashidda."

Temple stood rock still for several long seconds then scanned the mess on the floor. He walked behind the desk again, pulled open the center drawer and retrieved a scrap of paper. He scribbled a number on it and held it out.

Aaron reached for the note. "Good choice."

"This concludes our business, I assume." Temple said.

In the blink of an eye, Aaron slammed the point of the letter opener into the top of Temple's desk. He watched in disdain as the other man flinched in fear.

"Yes, it does. And just so we understand each other, in the future you leave Dr. Ryan alone. From here on, consider her under my protection," he pointed an accusing finger at Temple. "If you so much as blink in her direction, I'll snap your neck like a twig."

What color remained in Temple's face dissolved like smoke in a tornado.

Aaron crossed the room to the door. As he reached for the handle, he turned back to Temple. "Don't show up on my radar again. It just wouldn't be healthy."

He walked out, threat hanging heavy in the air. In the hall Aaron leaned back against the wall and expelled an audible sigh, allowing himself to breathe again as his heart hammered in his chest.

I think I enjoyed that just a little too much.

He patted his pocket and felt the case. Now that I have some leverage, maybe this can end.

Getting out of the cab in front of his building, Aaron felt the cold night air sting his cheeks. He exhaled heavily and watched the vapor cloud circle his head, then hang motionless before dissipating.

I need a drink.

He thought about the earlier encounter with Temple, wondering if he'd gone too far. He chastised himself for second guessing his actions.

I must be getting soft in my old age.

As his foot touched the ice-covered steps, the ground rushed up, slamming him hard in the face. Like dropped crystal, his vision exploded into long shards of neon light, each shaft an alternating bolt of brilliant red and high-voltage yellow. Dazed, he fought to shake off the escalating pain. Trying to get up, he felt a weight drop on his back, smashing his face into the ground a second time. The snow burned his cheeks and again he tried to rise, only then did he feel the insect-like bite at his shoulder.

Perception fading in and out, he wondered for an instant what happened. He rolled to his right, trying to see who or what lurked above him. Reality swiftly dissolving, he struggled against hands reaching from the darkness as the world melted in a sea of swirling black ink.

Trish pulled the hypodermic needle out of Aaron's back and replaced the cover, quickly putting it back in her pocket.

"Jesus, this guy's the size of a barn." Clark groused, dragging the unconscious man across the sidewalk by his armpits. "Don't just stand there. Help me!"

Trish grabbed Aaron's feet, grunting with effort as she lifted them into the back seat of her rented car and slammed the door. Climbing into the front, she shut the passenger door against the freezing night.

Just what we need! Her common sense railed in her mind. Two guests instead of one!

She looked at the man in the driver's seat as the engine roared to life. "I hope you know what you're doing."

"I always know what I'm doing. Trust me." Clark said.

As he pulled away from the curb, car sliding in the slush, she wondered if he actually believed his own bullshit.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

FBI headquarters bustled with controlled chaos. The crackling flow of nervous energy in the room never ceased to invigorate Special Agent Carla Raven. Ignoring the din, the statuesque brunette twisted left then dodged to one side of the constricted walkway between desks. Narrowly avoiding a collision with a fellow agent, she winced in pain as the hot coffee she carried sloshed over the rim of the Styrofoam cup. Running down the back of her hand, the fiery liquid left a burning trail before dripping to the floor.

Making a hasty apology for the near-miss, she shut the door to her tiny office, trying to block out the background noise of the world outside. She pushed two days worth of empty coffee cups and pizza boxes off her desk into a small trash can. Sitting in her chair, she yawned.

Sixteen hours yesterday, and I'm no closer to Ryan than I was two days ago.

Carefully sipping the fresh brew, she drove the cobwebs from her thoughts and stretched her intellect, grasping for a new focus on the case.

After spending hours running down possible leads, the frustrated FBI agent did an extensive check of Ryan's credit card activity and telephone records. Finding nothing suspicious, she began an hour by hour reconstruction of the scientist's last day.

She went to work...had a meeting with her boss, now deceased, and then...poof!...she falls off the face of the earth.

I've searched her house, her office, her bank statements, checking accounts...nothing! I even put out an APB on her brother.

She bristled with each new wave of frustration that churned in her acidic stomach.

No plane tickets or anything else that would lead us to believe she was planning on being away for any reason.

Maybe her brother was telling the truth. Maybe she was abducted...or...she wanted us to think she was abducted.

Opening the file on her one...her only...remaining lead, she stared for a long moment at the picture attached to the folder. Aaron Casey looked back at her from the image, dressed in the uniform of a naval officer. She let her eyes linger on the handsome features, the piercing blue eyes, then moved on to the broad shoulders covered in gold leaf.

She read through the summary. She knew dammed well he was hiding something from her, but what information he had and why he was keeping it to himself escaped her. Casey didn't strike her as the kind to lie to the FBI, but she trusted her gut and it said he had. She was sure of it.

How does a squeaky-clean guy like this get mixed up with someone who might be a traitor, or a terrorist, or both.

She considered the question for a long moment before arriving at an answer.

Simple. He lets his little head do all the thinking, that's how. He must be more involved with Ryan than he admitted. That's the only reason he would lie for her.

Carla considered what Casey said about the night he found Ryan. He told her Ryan was attacked and he thought it was a mugging. She scoffed aloud at the weak pretense.

Bullshit! Muggings happen outside, in parks and on subways. No one gets mugged inside an office building. He's smarter than that.

She thought back on their brief meeting at the crime scene. He hadn't told her much, and what he did tell her didn't fit the facts.

If Ryan stole the project and ran, why tell anyone about it? If she didn't do anything wrong, why run? And...how did she drag Casey into it?

She wondered if Ryan might be the victim of a fall-out between criminals. She also briefly revisited the possibility that Casey was in on the theft with her.

It doesn't make sense. None of it does.

Taking another glance at the photo, she willed the man looking back at her to break his silence.

If you met Ryan the way you said, why lie to me about it?

She let her eyes draw along the uniform's crisp angles. She thought he projected a certain image. What do they call it...'squared away'?

She continued to scan the photo and did a double-take when she reached the gold insignia pinned to his left lapel.

Those aren't aviator's wings. That looks like a...?

Her heart skipped a beat and she dropped the file as if it burned her hands. Rifling the center desk drawer, she found a magnifying glass. She stared in genuine awe as the small circle filled with the clear image of a gold eagle, in its talons the flintlock and the spear. Behind the majestic bird she saw the anchor and its fouled line. Her heart raced as the daunting realization set in.

Son-of-a... It is a Trident!

She thought about the insignia and her body tingled with electricity as the truth ran through her.

Jesus Christ! He's not just ex-Navy, he's a SEAL!

Reclaiming the folder, she skipped the rest of his FBI file and found his service record. The pages were dotted with black bars. She smirked as she absorbed the words. So much for the new age of information sharing.

While the file lacked any specific places or dates, what details remained unrolled Aaron's exploits like a fine carpet. Carla whistled softly as she formed mental pictures to go along with her expanding comprehension.

Wow! Recon and rescue missions into enemy territory, Navy Cross, received two commendations for actions 'above and beyond'. I knew there was something different about this guy.

Her mental picture of her target began to coalesce as she thought again about the way he handled her interrogation. The more she thought it out, the truth became embarrassingly evident.

I have to admit, I'm impressed. I didn't intimidate him in the least. He wasn't afraid of me. He wanted to get away from me, sure. But why?

Knowing guilty suspects typically react to questioning in one of two ways, silence or defiance, she realized Casey displayed neither.

He was more...impatient.

Replaying the meeting in her mind, she remembered his confidence, the projection of authority, and suddenly she knew exactly why he lied to her.

I don't buy Ryan as the innocent victim, but obviously Casey does. He's on another rescue mission...and he's dammed-well going to tell me all about it.

Aaron's apartment building enveloped Carla in an eerie, cold silence as she stepped off the elevator. Knowing Ryan trusted Casey once; Carla thought maybe she would again. After leaving three unreturned voice messages, she'd decided to make a personal visit.

Standing in the hall outside his apartment, she reached into her jacket and retrieved her Sig-Sauer 40 caliber automatic. With a small metallic click she dropped the magazine out of the handle and saw the hollow points resting in a neat row. She pushed the clip back into place, feeling it lock. She racked the slide, chambering a cartridge. She slid the weapon back into her shoulder holster. Better safe than sorry.

She raised her hand to knock and the door opened to her touch. Surprised, she checked the frame.

No sign of forced entry.

Instincts in overdrive, she pulled the weapon, leveled it, and stepped into the entryway, her back to the wall.

She called out, her confident order filling the air. "Federal agent! Anyone inside, show yourselves...Now!"

She called out a second time, repeating her demand. "Federal agent! Anyone inside, make yourselves known and put your hands where I can see them!"

Senses tingling, she took a few cautious steps forward then stopped, listening carefully. Hearing nothing, she worked her way around an overstuffed chair and moved to the center of the room, her steps cushioned by a throw rug of tan and brown.

She called out for a third time. "Mr. Casey, its Agent Raven. I need to speak with you. Are you here?"

Still getting no reply to her voice commands, she continued her search. Holding the weapon in front of her, she carefully opened the first door in the hall and swept the room with the barrel. She noticed it was a small room, the single bed neatly made. She noticed the sparse décor and bare hardwood floor.

This must be a guest room.

She moved to the next door in the hall and nudged it open with the Sig's barrel, finding the bathroom. She checked the shower then moved on to the last door.

Weapon first, she entered and confirmed the two rooms making up the master suite were also unoccupied. She holstered the gun and took a second look around. A large Colonial four-poster bed dominated the silent master bedroom, resting against the wall next to a window. The bed was neatly made, covered with a thick white comforter and a hand-full of decorative throw pillows. Her gaze continued around the room and found the nightstand, clock on top, next to the bed.

On the last wall she took in a matching hi-boy dresser standing in the corner. On top rested a TV/ DVD combo and a dozen disks. She smiled inwardly at the predictability of the selections. She recognized two Steven Segal movies, a Bruce Willis trilogy, and an open copy of the Bill Murray military spoof 'Stripes'.

She chuckled softly in the empty room.

Boys will be boys.

The last title in the stack caught her eye, jolting her preconceived notions of the man she tracked. Picking it up, she turned the case over, reading a back-cover synopsis of the John Wayne/Maureen O'Hara classic 'The Quiet Man'.

Okay, so he's brave, strong and sensitive, but where the hell is he?

She rolled her eyes. Don't tell me he's disappeared now too!

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Aaron's eyes fluttered open and the thundering roar built in his head. Long blades of red-hot pain stabbed his brain in rhythm to his pulse. He took a shallow breath and tried to lie very still. After a few agonizing seconds the concussions retreated, the thundering waves becoming muted voices.

"He's going to come around soon," a woman said. "What do we do then?"

"We question him and find out what, if anything, he knows. Then we dispose of him."

Through the slowly lifting fog, he identified the second voice as male.

He suppressed the instinct to move, to rise up on the bed. He listened intently, the voices beginning to fade as his captors moved away.

"We've already talked about this," the voice floated back to him as the woman continued. "I thought we were going to keep a low profile."

"Look, this is still my mission," the man answered her sharply. "So we play it my..."

The sound of a door closing cut off the rest of his words.

Aaron lay still for several more seconds, listening to the beat of his own heart. He tried again to open his eyes and the world slowly melted from dark, rolling waves into a solid form, beginning to take shape.

He lifted his head, ignoring the return of the pounding drums in his ears. The large bed still seemed miles off the floor but, much to his relief, the room had ceased its persistent spinning.

Sunlight streamed in through the partially drawn, paisley drapes. He blinked a few times, the brightness a startling contrast to the half-light surrounding him.

Daylight? Where the hell am I?

Laying his head back down, he tried bending one limb at a time. His left arm stopped short, and he took in the gleam of the sunlight reflecting off the chrome handcuffs locked to his wrist. Discovering his arms and legs still worked, and with minimal pain, he tried the next step.

Still surveying his surroundings, he swung his legs off the bed and tried to sit up. The room revolved in a few sickening orbits before his eyes and the pain wracked his head, but he remained vertical. After a few more deep, cleansing breaths, the room began to slow and the pain bracing his head faded to a dull hammering at the base of his skull.

Okay. So far, so good.

The well-appointed room seemed to mock him as he considered his situation. Realizing his captors hadn't removed the placard from the nightstand, he found the 'Regency Resort' logo embossed in bottom of the sign. Okay, so I'm downtown...and they don't care that I know that.

Feeling ready, he tried to stand. The manacles locked to the bed stopped him short. He tried breaking the rail out of the headboard, the misguided effort causing only minimal damage to the heavy oak's polished finish and a rapidly expanding bruise on his wrist. He stopped struggling against the iron-hard wood, knowing it was futile.

Scanning the room, he discovered his captors had left through a door in the suite's wall and he assumed it went to another room, not into the hall. Straining his ears, he picked up muffled voices on the other side of the door.

The metallic click of the lock warned him of his captors' imminent return and he quickly stretched back out on the bed. The door opened with a soft swish and the pair entered, quietly approaching, then stopping at the foot of the bed. Pretending to still be unconscious, Aaron listened.

"Clark, this guy should be awake by now." Trish said. "Someone this big should come around after an hour or two."

"Well, it's been almost three, so he's either a lot weaker then we thought," she paused, leaning forward to check Aaron's pulse. "Or he's faking."

Clark pulled a small brass key from his pocket and moved toward the bed. "Either way, we're going to the factory. He can cool his heels with Ryan. I don't want some bimbo maid finding him in here."

Aaron felt cuffs come off and his pulse jumped, sensing the cold steel of a gun barrel against his temple.

"Up!...Now!" Clark demanded.

Aaron lay motionless.

"I know you're awake, now move before I put a bullet in your head."

Aaron stiffened as the man standing over him pulled the hammer back, the telltale sound sharp in his already-ringing ears.

He opened his eyes. "All right, all right. I'm up. Just take it easy with the gun."

Swinging his legs off the bed once again, Aaron rubbed his sore wrist. Clark walked around the bed and met Aaron's eyes. "You're so hot to find Ryan. Well, I'm going to accommodate you."

The visibly impatient mercenary waved the gun toward the door. "Let's go! We don't want to keep the good doctor waiting, now do we?"

Pushing him out ahead of his captors, Clark jabbed the barrel of the nickel-plated .357 Magnum into Aaron's back, his kidney burning in protest.

"We're going to walk past the lobby and you are going to keep your mouth shut." Clark ordered.

Aaron nodded and made a mental. I.O.U. one Smith and Wesson suppository...but first, lead me to Jenny.

The ride through the city seemed endless as his imagination ran wild with terrible possibilities.

These two seem like pros. That means she might still have a chance. I just hope she's still alive.

Aaron sat in the passenger seat, looking out the window and continuing his dark thoughts as Trish guided the car through the heavy traffic. Clark sat behind him, pistol barrel digging into the back of his head.

Heading deeper into the North End, the car slowed for the off-ramp to the waterfront. Twisting through a maze of narrow side-streets, Trish finally brought the convertible to a stop before a high chain-link fence, its top wrapped with razor wire.

Stealing a glance out the window, Aaron saw a faded "no trespassing" sign fastened to the sagging gate. Riddled with bullet holes, the sign's passive warning message became abundantly clear.

"Get out." Clark barked, motioning with the revolver.

As the car sped away, Aaron stepped through a gap between the chained gates. His captor followed close behind, the menacing pistol tight in his hand.

The pair trudged through the snow-covered parking lot to an abandoned building, its clapboard façade discolored by age and marred by layers of graffiti. They stopped at the rear entrance of the one-time furniture factory, rusted bars on the door blocking their ingress.

Aaron surveyed his surroundings and heard the crunch- crunch of footsteps in the snow as the woman reappeared from around the corner.

"I stashed the car in the loading dock." She said, her hurried words generating small puffs of vapor in the cold.

The man with the gun turned to his co-conspirator. "Did you back it in...like I said?"

She rolled her eyes at the question. "What am I, stupid? Of course I backed it in."

He took a step forward, closing the distance between the two. A menacing look crossed his reddening face. "Don't give me any grief," he waved the gun in her direction. "Just do what I say...Period."

She glared at him. "Listen, Clark. I'm no amateur. So, piss off!...and point that thing somewhere else!"

He smiled at her caustic insult. "Now there's that fire I remember."

Aaron watched the heated exchange. For pros, these two are not getting along too well. That might come in handy later.

Majors turned again toward the wrought iron bars and Trish gave him the finger behind his back, shifting her stance nervously from foot to foot. He pulled a key from his pocket and opened the security gate.

Trish stepped through the doorway to join Aaron and Clark, seeking shelter from the freezing wind blowing in off Boston Harbor. She pulled the door closed with a creak of rusted hinges, plunging the three into almost total darkness.

Aaron blinked several times, his vision slowly adjusting to the poor illumination. Tiny shafts of light filtered through windows several floors above, breaking the black veil. He noted that some of the panes were cracked, holed, or missing altogether. He strained his eyes, trying to see the other end of the building, some three hundred yards away.

He heard a small snap and a white beam pierced the gloom, attached to the hand of the woman next to him. The light touched her face, her nose wrinkling at the damp, musty smell permeating the air.

Clark jammed the pistol's barrel into his back again, the sharp stab pushing him forward. "Move." He ordered.

Guided only by the flashlight's narrow beam, they walked for long minutes in silence while small clouds of dust rose from the floor as they passed. Aaron felt an involuntary shiver run the length of his body as he envisioned Jenny being confined in this cold and dismal place. The ancient floorboards creaked, echoing loudly as they made their way across the frigid expanse.

Trish broke the unnatural quiet, her breath visible in the small vapor clouds that sprang from her lips. "Jesus, how old is this place?"

The three continued threading their way through the darkness, the eerie skeletons of woodworking machines passing through the flashlight's bright circle as Clark answered her in a shallow, lecturing tone. "This factory was built in 1859, and abandoned in 1946. That's why I chose it. No one's had a reason to come here in more than sixty years."

After several more minutes of oppressive, silent walking, Clark raised his hand, bringing the trio to a halt before a staircase that appeared from the darkness. Turning back and forth, the aged wood treads zig-zaged up the wall, parting at landings to access a catwalk at each floor. Rubbing his hands together, Clark tried to fight off the cold.

Aaron spoke for the first time since leaving the car. "You said you were taking me to Dr. Ryan. Where is she?"

The man with the gun answered, sharp tones betraying his annoyance. "You'll see soon enough."

He pointed the pistol toward the top of the stairs. "You first, up!"

Aaron ascended to the third step and felt it bow under his weight, wondering if it would hold him after all these years. Stairs groaning in protest as they climbed, the three made their way to the second floor landing.

Aaron could feel the cold penetrating his bones. He turned to his captors. "This place has no heat. You'd better hope she's okay."

Trish joined him on the small platform. "She's fine. Maybe not very comfortable, but she's very much alive."

Aaron closed the gap between them. Backing the woman against the wall, he towered over her. "You better hope so, or I'll..."

Clark shouldered his way between the two, gun wedged in Aaron's ribs.

"Or you'll what? Remember, I'm the one calling the shots here. So, shut up and keep moving."

He glared back at him, teeth clenched. "I want her back alive. So, you're in charge...for now."

Clark laughed at the threat. "You've got balls Casey. I'll say that much for you."

Slamming a tight lid on his mounting anger, Aaron continued climbing until he reached the fourth floor landing. On his left, he saw a door, the frame set flush in the wall. He noticed the door had a brand new padlock, the polished chrome finish presenting a stark contrast to the peeling paint and cracked panels surrounding it.

Clark produced a key and opened the hasp. "In there." He motioned Aaron inside with a wave of the pistol.

Aaron griped the knob and felt a warm draft escaping around the door. Stepping in to the room, he scanned the dim interior. In a corner off to his left, the hot glow of a propane heater colored everything around it blood red light. The only other illumination came from a window high above his head and to his right, causing deep shadows that dimmed every corner.

Eyes searching the darkness, he fixed his gaze on a small figure almost completely hidden in the gloom and his heartbeat spiked in a flash of adrenalin. Across the room, chin down on her chest and eyes closed, Jenny sat tied to the carcass of an armchair. The blood surging through his veins stopped cold.

God, no! She can't be dead!

His heart resumed beating as he saw her chest move slowly in and out. His emotions twisted between despair and hope, a rolling, crashing Nor'easter. He grabbed Clark by the arm, spinning him around. The sudden move surprised his captor. The two men now stood face to face. Aaron swallowed hard and his voice wavered as he spoke. "You bastard! What did you do to her?"

Stabbing him again with the barrel of the gun, Clark pasted on a twisted smile, condescending and wicked. "I gave her a little something to ensure 'manageability'. She's fine, just go wake her up."

His mind began to run wild with terrible visions of what the pair had done. He fought down the urge to run to her side.

Don't lose your cool now! Remember, control the situation and work the problem. You lose control and you're both dead.

He continued to silently stare, vicariously feeling the pain as he took in the bruises on her arms. The ball of ice forming in his stomach exploded into painful shards when he saw the cluster of tiny red spots inside her right elbow. Needle tracks!

A tidal wave of burning anger swept over him, pushing his mental restraint to the limit. Fighting for control of his raging emotions, he exhaled a long, forced breath. Looking at his nemesis, he pushed the red veil from his vision.

Screw the pistol. When this is over, I'll kill you with my bare hands.

Clark motioned toward Jenny with a nod of his head. "She's fine. See for yourself."

Aaron crossed the room in two swift strides, standing next to her chair. Leaning forward, he gently took her chin in his hand, tilting her face upward.

"Jenny," he called softly.

No response.

He repeated the call, A little louder this time. "Jenny, it's me, Aaron."

She stirred, eyes slowly opening to small slits. He watched in horror as her eyes suddenly snapped wide open, her expression going from flashes of fear, to recognition, to disbelief.

She tried to speak, her voice a faint scratch of dry breath. "Aaron?"

Senses rolling in drug-induced confusion, she struggled against her bonds. "It's you...but it can't be you. They told me...you're dead! It's the drugs...It can't be you, you're dead!"

After several seconds, she looked around the room, and he could see the confusion beginning to lift at last. Finally bringing her gaze around to his face once again, she settled back in the chair. "Is it really you? Are you really here?"

His anger still a hot flood coursing through his veins, he gently smoothed the matted hair from her face. "Yes, it's really me. I'm here now. Everything's gonna be all right."

Wrapping her in his arms, he held her close, feeling her tremble.

Oh, thank God, you're alive!

His mind raced between captors and captive. Trying to anchor his thoughts, he bounced back and forth between rage and relief. Breaking the embrace, he touched her cheek, catching a solitary tear. "I'm sorry I'm late."

She fixed her eyes again on his, the pale blue orbs reaching deep into his soul. "I'm so sorry I got you into this. I..."

Clark cleared his throat, loud and grating. "I apologize for interrupting this touching reunion, but there is still a little matter of the business at hand."

Aaron turned back, facing the pistol and the man who held it, mentally calculating the fractures he would inflict. He took a step toward the source of his rage. "I have what you want and you have what I want... Now we deal."

Chapter Thirty

Kelly Ingersol's plane finally touched down in Boston after circling the airport for half an hour in the increasing storm. With her second flight of the day finally behind her, she stared blankly out the taxi's window as it made its way through mid-town. Arriving at her hotel, she checked into a suite, happy the rooms were large and immaculate.

The deep pile carpeting cushioned her steps as she took note of the stocked bar, the computer station and the elegant bathroom's huge claw-foot tub.

After placing her luggage on the stand at the foot of the bed, the bellhop showed her around the room and accepted a large tip as he withdrew.

Setting up her laptop on the small round table, she typed furiously, calling up her off-shore bank account. A necessity for every gray-area 'entrepreneur', accounts in countries of convenience eliminated those uncomfortable run-ins with government officials, including Interpol and the United States Internal Revenue Service. Transferring fifty-thousand dollars to a U.S. bank she could more readily access, she shut down the computer and stretched, pulling her arms over her head in fatigue.

After almost 10 hours in the air, she just wanted some dinner and a good night's sleep.

I'll get some rest and then start looking into this Diversified thing. She decided.

The phone next to the bed rang, loud and annoying. She spent a few minutes convincing the desk clerk that everything in the room was to her liking, then ordered a sumptuous meal from room service and hung up.

She made her way to the spacious bathroom and turned on the water in the elegant tub, adding a splash of scented oil provided by the hotel. She emerged from the steaming pool an hour later, the skin on her fingers beginning to prune. As she wrapped a towel around her damp hair, there came a knock at the door and the waiter delivered her dinner.

Fed and bathed, she opened her laptop and searched the internet for any news on the developments at Diversified. Page after page came up, all dealing with the life and death of Jackson Verde, but no real information on the crime itself.

"Damn!" she cursed aloud.

She found little in the official news channels, so she decided to check with her contacts in the Boston underworld. The series of abbreviated phone calls told her nothing she didn't already know. She considered what the silence might mean.

This shouldn't be that hard. Every R and D outfit has leaks. With everyone being this tight-lipped, this had to be an inside job.

In addition to Jackson Verde's shooting, her contacts revealed the police were looking to question both a scientist named Ryan as well as a low-level employee named Murphy in connection to the murder.

Jennifer Ryan...the name ricocheted off the walls of her thoughts like a racquet ball. I never thought I'd hear that name again. Bitch!

A small shudder ran through her and she pulled the robe closer to her body. The name evoked a tidal wave of memories, the mental pictures sending her emotions into a Chinese fire-drill. She pushed the unsettling cascade from her mind.

She stood and went to the bar, coming back sipping a large vodka/tonic.

No time for that now. I have to find this Murphy.

She considered what his next course of action might be.

Well, if it were me, I'd beat feet out of the country as fast as I could. She thought. To do that, I would need money...a passport.

The keys clicked as she sent the internet search spiders on their electronic mission to find Sean Murphy and Dr. Ryan.

Gotta love Google, she mused as she stared at the page. Sean Murphy,112 Hawthorn Street, Boston.

Chapter Thirty-One

Leaving Casey's apartment, Carla tried his cell phone for the fourth time, and still got no answer. Stopped at a traffic light, she railed at the tinny sound of the voicemail computer.

Enough of this crap!

She dialed another number, getting an answer on the second ring. "Criminal Investigations Unit, Frank James speaking."

"Frank, this is Carla Raven."

"Hi, Carla. What's up?"

"I need a favor. Can you please pull the cell phone records and GPS track an Aaron Casey? He's a material witness and I need to locate him. The number is 555-7616. Also, pull the call records on his home line too. The number is 555-3210."

The other end of the open line buzzed in her ear for a second or two and then James' voice returned. "Anything for you. Give me a few minutes, and I'll call you back."

She smiled, "Thanks Frank, I owe you one." She snapped the phone shut, slipping it back in her pocket.

Making the on-ramp to the John Fitzgerald Expressway, her stomach growled loudly, telling her this morning's coffee and doughnut had finally given up. She checked her watch.

Three-thirty, already. No wonder I'm starving. Well, I have a few minutes to kill anyway, so I might as well get some food.

She saw a sign for a restaurant a few miles later.

Sitting alone in the booth at Paddy O'Leary's Pub, her stomach growled again at the smell of burgers and fries. The restaurant seemed to be in a lull, no longer serving the lunch crowd, but not yet hit by the dinner rush. The bar, however, was crowded with blue-collar stiffs, the rowdy patrons laughing and getting an early start on tomorrow's hangover.

Waiting on her own bacon cheeseburger, Carla divided her attention between keeping tabs on a Charles Manson look-alike at the bar and the TV mounted on the wall a few feet away. The screen flitted back and forth, showing the sports news and teasers for a breaking story to come up after the commercials.

She stole a quick glance at Manson and he caught her eye. Holding her gaze for just a second, he flashed a leering smile missing several teeth. Her stomach tightened and she suddenly felt an intense need to bathe.

As the waitress brought her meal, the commercial ended and the announcer went on to follow up an earlier story of a prominent Boston scientist gone missing. She watched the T.V., quietly eating, when her cell phone chirped in her jacket. Digging it out, she flipped it open. "Raven here." she said between French fries.

"Carla, it's Frank. I got that info you wanted. I'm sending it to you."

"Thanks Frank, I really appreciate it."

"Anytime. And speaking of time, do you have any plans for dinner tonight?" he asked, the tone hopeful.

Carla paused before responding to the invitation and a notable sarcasm crept into her voice when she answered. "Well Frank, I can probably clear my schedule. Will your wife be joining us?"

"All right, I can take a hint. But you'll never know what you missed."

"You know the deal Frank; no divorce, no date. Bye."

Snapping the phone shut, she shook her head in disappointment.

Why is it that every man I meet lately is only interested in finding the quickest way to separate me from my panties?

Carla signaled the waitress for the check.

The snow fell in increasing density as she exited the restaurant. Moving across the parking lot in the premature darkness, she dropped her keys, her truncated step kicking them under the car next to her. Kneeling down on the cold, wet asphalt, she swore under her breath and reached beneath the car.

Finally reclaiming her errant keys, she prepared to get to her feet. Concentration focused on the keys, she missed the movement in the shadows.

The first sign of trouble came with the gleam of the streetlight off the knife's blade. Her heart skipped a beat as the cold steel touched her throat.

Leaning over her shoulder, the assailant hissed in her ear. "Gimme the money, bitch!"

His putrid breath reeked in a mix of burned tobacco and cheap whiskey.

She hesitated for a second, her heart pounding against her ribs, then spoke, the tone intentionally nervous and shaky. "O-okay, take it. Please don't hurt me."

"Just gimme the cash!...Now!"

She slowly rose to stand with her back to the man holding the knife. Looking over her shoulder, she saw the Manson look alike. She slipped her wallet out of her jacket and held it out, further away from his searching grasp. "Here, take it."

"The rings and watch too!" he barked.

Carla's glanced at the third finger of her right hand, seeing the two-karat diamond solitaire her Grandmother left her reflecting the lights.

Grandma's ring...no way!

Dropping the blade slightly away from her throat, he took a half-step around her, still reaching for the wallet in short, stabbing surges.

Heart beating madly, she threw her right foot up and back, catching her assailant unaware. She heard him yell as she connected with his groin. Spinning around, she drew her pistol and pointed it down at the face of the man now lying on the ground. "Federal Agent! Don't move!"

Holding his bruised crotch, the man whimpered. "Jesus Christ, lady," he hissed in pain. "You're a cop?"

"No. I'm a Federal Agent, and you're under arrest."

The thief's face went white and he moaned in despair. "I wasn't gonna hurt you," he said between clenched teeth. "I just wanted some money."

Carla's face reddened in resentment and disgust. "You must be a special kind of stupid to jack up a federal agent."

She fumed in a noxious mix of anger and frustration, most of if totally unrelated to her assailant. "I should just shoot you right now. It'd be less paperwork."

The man said nothing, but groaned a little louder, curling into the fetal position on the frozen asphalt. She flipped him onto his stomach, her knee between his shoulder blades and handcuffed him. Standing once again, she jerked him up by his arms, turning him back to face her. "You have the right to remain silent. I strongly suggest you use it."

Unceremoniously yanking him by his wrists, Carla led the would-be thief back toward the pub, finishing the Miranda warning as they walked. Nearing the door, she spoke, her words clipped, the fury now tightly restrained. "We're going back inside and you're going to behave...so I won't have to shoot you. Understand?"

He nodded, stumbling through the parking lot as the light snowfall became a flurry. Reaching the entrance, Carla's blood pressure began to slowly drop back to normal as she guided the manacled man through the foyer, immediately drawing the attention of the man behind the bar.

Cuffing her prisoner to the brass handrail, Carla pushed a stray strand of hair from her face and smoothed the lapels of her jacket. The short, stocky bartender closed the distance quickly, his flame-red hair surrounded by a cloud of blue smoke emanating from the thick cigar wedged between his teeth.

"Excuse me," he said, his thick Irish brogue overlaid with a classic New England accent. "But what is it ya think ya're doing to me bar?"

She turned to the man, immediately struck by his powerful build. She noted a map of small scars laced his forehead and eyebrows.

This guy's a brick with legs. Ex-boxer, maybe?

"And who might you be, Sir?" she asked.

Removing the cigar from his lips, he flicked an ash into a tray on the bar. "I'm John Conway, Jr.," he said, spreading his arms slightly. "I own this fine establishment. And just who might you be, Lassie?"

She flashed him her badge. "Special Agent Carla Raven, FBI"

He folded his arms over a massive barrel chest, eyeing her cautiously. "And how might a poor Irishman be of help ta' the likes of the famous FBI?"

"I don't need any help, thank you," she said. "I'm just getting in out of the cold."

He looked past her, sneering at the man now cuffed to the bar. "And is this fine gentleman givin' ya trouble?"

Still stinging from the earlier encounter, Carla eyed her prisoner with evident distaste. "Oh, I had a little problem in your parking lot," she said. "Einstein here pulled a knife on me and tried to steal my wallet."

Conway's eyes narrowed and he glared at the cowering man. "Oh, I see! A common thief are ya?"

Moving with the speed and authority of the Lacrosse player he once was, Conway cuffed the man in the back of the head with a beefy hand. "Did ya mother na teach you better than to harass a lady?" he cuffed him again, the sharp blow snapping the felon's head forward. "Ya rotten bum!"

He cuffed him a last time for good measure.

Smiling inwardly as Conway berated the cringing man, Carla dialed her phone and waited for the call to connect.

The bar owner looked back to the agent, his clear blue eyes flashing with mirth. "If you've a mind Lass, I could take this one out back and teach him some manners," he said. "I can promise he wouldn't be bothering ya again."

Carla held the phone to her ear, closing out the sounds of the bar. "Thank you, but that won't be necessary."

He looked at her for a long moment, then at the handcuffed thief, then back to the agent. "Suit yourself Lassie. I'll be tendin' to me patrons over there...if you need me."

He turned away with a shrug of his broad shoulders, walking back behind the bar to disappear among the curling wisps of smoke. It took another hour for the local police to come and collect the prisoner, Carla's mood progressing from bad to worse by the time they led him away.

Finally getting back to her BlackBerry, she looked through the telephone numbers included in the report Frank James sent via email.

Well, well. Somebody at Casey's apartment called Ithaca, New York yesterday. If it was Dr. Ryan, why did her brother tell me he hadn't heard from her?

Haunted by a nagging sense of inaction boiling on the back burner of her mind, she silently cursed Marco for letting the younger Ryan escape.

He better find him pretty dammed soon, too! Or he'll spend the rest of his career busting teenagers for illegal music down-loading.

She continued working her way through the list and stopped at the only other call from outside the greater Boston area.

Where the hell is Cumberland, Rhode Island? And, why would Casey be getting calls from there?

She checked the number. A commercial line, registered to a 'Big Ed's Auto Salvage' in Cumberland, owner's name, Ed O'Brian.

She pulled up the address with a few more taps at the screen. "1540 N. Mendon Road." she said aloud.

Leaving the pub, she put the phone back in her pocket and stepped out into the night. The frigid air enveloped her like a wet blanket. She shivered against the biting cold.

God, sometimes I miss San Diego. It might be the land of fruits and nuts, but at least it's warm.

Returning to her office, Carla pulled up the file on Ed O'Brian and consulting her computer mapping program, discovered Cumberland, Rhode Island is only 55 miles from Boston.

Might mean something, might mean nothing.

She continued scanning the file and was surprised to see it read much like Casey's. Cross-checking the two, she found he and O'Brian grew up in the same town and served in the same unit.

This can't be a coincidence. I guess I'm going to Rhode Island.

She checked her watch.

9:25, guess it will have to wait until morning. I've got to get some rest.

Carla awoke early the next day and got her coffee to go, trying to miss the rush hour traffic. She had an appointment with the medical examiner to see Verde's autopsy results before heading to Rhode Island to track down O'Brian. It was nearly noon before she finally got on the highway.

After getting her first good night's sleep since the case began, her mind raced in anticipation as she made her way south on Interstate 93, leaving the crowded city behind. She buzzed with an inexplicable sense of confidence in the lead on Casey, and taking her first trip outside the city since arriving months ago was just a bonus.

With the traffic and noise behind her, she looked out the side window, taking in the winter scenery as the countryside rolled by. Intermittent shafts of sunlight broke through the scattered clouds overhead, glistening off the new snow. The frozen drifts spread out before her, a white blanket covering the ground and dappling the branches of the evergreens along the road.

"My God, it's like a postcard." She said to the otherwise empty car.

Chapter Thirty-Two

Clark paced the room, his footsteps echoing loudly in the pervasive stillness of the abandoned factory's one-time office. "Look Casey, why don't you just give me what I want and we can make this a lot easier on all of us."

He fell into another dilapidated chair next to the door, his pistol unconsciously sweeping back and forth across the cold room.

Jenny spoke before Aaron had a chance to answer. "What makes you think he can help you? He doesn't know anything about my project."

Aaron turned, holding up his hand to silence her. "Jenny, just let me handle this. I promise, it'll be all right."

His eyes sought hers, forcefully conveying the message of danger intentionally missing from his voice. He turned back to Clark. "First thing, we get out of this freezing dump," he pointed toward Jenny. "And she goes to a hospital."

Clark's laughter split the air. "Ha! Nice try."

He pointed the revolver at Jenny, pulling back the hammer. "She's not going anywhere until I get what I came for."

Aaron stepped between the gun's polished barrel and the helpless woman sitting in the chair. "Look, we both know she can't tell you anything she hasn't already. Just let her go and I'll give you what you want."

Jenny's eyes widened in surprise and her face paled to a dull ash gray. "Aaron, don't do it! You can't help them!"

He never took his eyes off the man in front of him as he answered. "Jenny, whatever this project is, no matter how important you think it is, it's not worth your life."

She glared at him. "How can you do this?" The rage bubbled in her strained voice. "I trusted you!"

Finally turning to face her, he pointed back at the other man. "This man will kill you and then take what he wants. I'm just trying to get you out of this alive."

She lifted her chin in defiance, still holding his gaze. "I'd rather die than give my work to someone like him!"

"That can be arranged." Clark's icy voice echoed off the dirty plaster walls. "Actually, I'd prefer it that way."

Clark walked over to the sitting woman and turned her upraised chin with the gun barrel, forcing her to look him in the face. "He's right Dr. Ryan. I will do whatever is necessary to get what I came for. Your life is...immaterial."

Quiet until now, Trish stepped into the middle of the room. "All right, enough! Casey, where are the plans? Give them to us and you walk."

Eyes boring into his partner, Clark's face suddenly became a rigid mask of steel. "Trish, I won't tell you again, I'm in charge here and I make the decisions, not you."

She ignored the threat and her partner's menacing stare.

Aaron rubbed his hands together to warm them, the room suddenly much colder. "I'll tell you when you release us."

Trish pointed a long slender finger at him for emphasis, her cold stare belying a calm demeanor. "I'm not screwing around. If you want to live, you better give us what we want."

He folded his arms over his chest. "I'm not screwing around either lady. I know dammed well the minute you get your hands on those plans, we become expendable."

Clark butted in, dropping the hammer back down and waving the gun at Aaron. "You're expendable now."

Aaron sat on the corner of a small desk, looking back at Trish. "I have a counter-proposal. I arrange to have the plans delivered to you, and you let us go."

"Aaron, don't do this!" Jenny screamed in frustration, struggling at her bonds. "You don't know what it would mean!"

He turned on her, raising his voice for the first time. "I know exactly what it would mean! It means you get to live!"

Jenny shouted again "AARON!..."

She never finished the sentence. Aaron watched as Clark pushed the heavy pistol against her temple, her eyes turning to saucers at the feel of cold steel.

Trish studied Aaron's face for a long moment. "Okay."

Aaron again met Trish's eyes. "How do I know you'll keep your end of the deal?"

Clark answered for his partner, his smile a wicked Jack-O-Lantern grin, "You don't. You just have to trust us."

The irony was not lost on Aaron. "That doesn't instill me with a lot of confidence."

"But, it's really your only choice," Trish said. "I think you know that."

Clark turned the gun away from his captive's head and joined the other two standing next to the heater. Eyes burning with inner rage, he backhanded Trish with a sharp slap across the face. "I said I wasn't going to warn you again. For the last time, I make the decisions here."

Trish gingerly rubbed her burning cheek as her eyes flickered in shock and hatred. She dabbed at her lip, tasting the blood. "You son of a bitch! Where do you get off hitting me!"

Clark ignored her scathing censure, turning to Aaron instead. "So tell me, if I agree, how's this 'exchange' going to work?"

He dared to breathe again and thought for a few tense seconds before answering. "I call my secretary and tell her I need some disks from my safe. She messengers them, thinking they're routine stuff. That way you leave her out of it, right?"

Clark shrugged his shoulders, "As long as she follows your orders. Go on."

He paused for a few brief seconds, formulating the plan as he went. "She sends them to a hotel, with a note for you to pick them up at the front desk. I've sent things to business associates this way dozens of times."

Clark laughed again. "And I'm supposed to believe they'll be there?"

He nodded in reassurance. "They'll be there. We'll both have a little insurance to guarantee it."

Still glaring daggers at Clark, Trish shot Aaron a puzzled look. "Insurance? What kind of insurance?"

"When you let Dr. Ryan go, I tell you which hotel they'll be at, and in whose name," he paused again, seeing the pair contemplating his plan. "And when you have them, you let me go."

Clark scratched his unshaven chin in thought. "And what if we decide not to let you go after we get the disks?"

Aaron stood up and gave a non-committal shrug of his shoulders. "Well, it's a risk I'll have to take. I still think you're more interested in money than murder."

Clark took several seconds to consider Casey's plan and his options. "How do I confirm authenticity? Dr. Ryan would have to stay with us until we did."

Jenny interrupted the conversation, giving Trish an imploring look. "The plans are encrypted. You'll never get them open. They won't be any good to you."

Aaron had correctly assumed any data that important would be encrypted, and the last piece of his plan to save their lives fell into place. "She could give you the decryption code from the hospital, by phone." he said, looking toward Jenny and receiving the death-stare in response. "Right?"

Jenny turned her attention back to Clark. "I won't do it. You can kill me if you must."

Clark raised the pistol, aiming it at Jenny's chest. "I won't kill you if you don't give me the code," he said, swinging the barrel toward Aaron. "I'll kill him."

Color draining from her face, the tears again fell from her cheeks. "What choice do I have?" she groaned while she shook her head in despair and resignation. "My God, You're a monster!"

Reaching into her pocket, Trish pulled out a disposable cell phone and handed it to Aaron. "Make the call... and I assume you are smart enough not to try anything that will get you and the doctor killed, like dialing 9-1-1."

He punched the numbers as he watched the tears run down Jenny's cheeks. She silently glared at him, her pale face a combination of shock, fear and loathing.

With Clark listening over his shoulder, Aaron spoke quietly into the phone for just a few seconds before he snapped it shut.

"It's all set. Now, we wait."

Chapter Thirty-Three

Seeing the street sign appear, Carla turned off the pavement, tires crunching on the new snow as she slowly moved up the driveway of Big Ed's Auto Salvage.

The caustic odors of burned gear oil and rotting upholstery assaulted her nose as she stepped from the car into the freezing air. Slipping on the ice, she put one hand down to prevent a fall, the snow burning her palm. "Damn!" she cursed.

Getting back to her feet, she resolved to buy a more practical pair of winter shoes as soon as she got back to the city. She cautiously made her way to the door marked office and stepped into the warm interior.

Weaving between the engine blocks and transmissions lying on carts in the large expanse, Carla stepped up to the counter, tapping a small sliver bell labeled "ring for service".

She studied the rest of the room as she waited, noting the assorted antique automotive memorabilia and parts hanging from the walls and rafters. She also noted the new parts sitting on shelves in neat rows. She rang the bell again, louder this time. The clear tone echoed off the walls, returning to her as multiple, fading, ghosts of the original.

Less than a minute later, a tall, thin man dressed in coveralls appeared in a doorway behind the counter. She took in the grease spots dotting his lanky frame from the dirty Red Sox cap cocked sideways on his head to the oil-saturated boots on his feet.

As he moved closer, Carla estimated him to be about 50, tufts of gray hair poking out from under the ball cap. She suddenly wrinkled her nose, almost overcome by the pungent smell of gasoline that followed him into the room. He smiled and met her at the counter. "Can I help you?" he asked, as he put the wrench he carried under the counter.

"Yes you can. Is Mr. O'Brian here?" she asked, trying to get past the cloud of unleaded fumes now surrounding both of them.

"Are you selling something?" he paused. "Because if you are, you might as well leave right now. We don't need whatever it is you got."

Carla pulled out her badge, "I'm Special Agent Carla Raven, FBI, is Mr. O'Brian here, or not? I need to talk to him."

The man went slightly pale and pointed toward a door marked Private. "Big Ed's in there. I'll get him."

"I think I'll tag along, if you don't mind." She rounded the end of the counter and followed the man to the door.

He tapped a knuckle on the partially open door and quietly spoke. "Ed, there's someone here to see you."

A deep voice resonated from the other side. "Send him in."

Carla's eyes widened as she entered the room, seeing her own reflection in the highly-polished oak floor. She moved forward, admiring the room's off-white walls and the massive crown molding outlining the ceiling. As she continued on, an ornate throw rug of brilliant red, silver and blue cushioned her steps.

The office was immaculate and bright, the complete opposite of the utilitarian space she'd just vacated. Her eyes fell on a ship's engine telegraph standing in a corner, the instrument's brass body polished to mirror perfection. She noticed the selector handle indicated Ahead-Full.

She continued her visual tour of the room as she crossed, discovering the vast collection of nautical antiques dotting the walls. She stopped before a large glass case standing sentinel in the middle of the floor. Circling it twice, she stared in awe at the nineteenth-century diving suit residing inside, complete with brass helmet and lead boots.

"Now, those guys had balls of steel." The voice called from across the room.

Carla turned toward the sound. About a dozen feet away, a man sat behind a large oak desk working at his computer. She noted the desk's intricate carving and smoked glass top gave a final touch of elegance to the room. "I suspect they did, indeed."

She made her way to stand before the man seated at the computer. "Ed O'Brian?"

The man looked up, his eyes meeting her is an iron-clad gaze. "Yes. What can I do for you?"

She reached for her badge and held it out. "I'm Special Agent Carla Raven, FBI."

He stood and held out his hand. "Please, have a seat."

She shook his hand with a firm grip and then sat in one of two high-backed chairs facing the desk. Sinking into the leather cushion, she noted the backs were carved to match the desk.

"I need to ask you a few questions," she paused for the briefest instant. "About Aaron Casey."

His deep green eyes met hers, holding her firm in his gaze. "What is it you want to know?"

"You and Mr. Casey are friends. Correct?"

"Yes. We've known each other for many years." He answered, never taking his eyes from hers.

Ed leaned back, the strong features now bent in a deep frown beneath his close-cropped brown hair. He interlocked his fingers behind his head. "What's this all about?"

She saw the muscles ripple beneath the ivory fabric of a traditional cable-knit sweater as his chest expanded.

Like Casey, Carla noticed O'Brian exuded the animal magnetism and displayed the same fearless bearing as his friend. She moved on. "When was the last time you talked to him?"

Ed stiffened in his chair and repeated himself. "Let's try that again. What's this all about?"

She put the badge back in her jacket pocket. "I need to know when you saw Aaron Casey last. Now, please answer the question."

"Agent Raven, this is going to take a long time if we keep going around in circles," he said, once again sitting upright. "You tell me what this is about, and then we'll see where we go from there."

Carla stood up, annoyance flaring hot. Hands on the desktop, she leaned forward, her eyes again locking with his. "Or, I could arrest you and we continue this in lock-up."

After a second's pause, Ed slowly stood and put his hands out, inverted fists side by side. "If you feel it's necessary. But that gets you nothing, except one very uncooperative detainee."

Carla paused for a few seconds, staring at him, and then straightened up. "All right Mr. O'Brian, let's not make this more difficult than it has to be. This information is important."

Continuing to stand, Ed went on. "Agent Raven, if something happened to my friend, just tell me. He's obviously in wicked-bad trouble, or you wouldn't be here."

Finally sitting down again, O'Brian continued. "Just tell me what's going on and I'll try to help you, if I can."

She watched his face, noting the graying hair at the temples reinforced the air of dignity and authority he unconsciously projected.

"It seems your friend is part of a plot to steal classified material," she said, trying to shake up the man sitting before her. "He could be facing some very serious charges."

Ed sat very still for a long moment before the laughter exploded from his lips. After a few seconds he noticed she didn't share his jocularity and fell silent. His face transformed from a nervous grin into an expression of disbelief. "You've got to be kidding, right? Aaron could no more steal classified material then he could walk on water."

"Well, our facts tell a different story," she said, her delicate hands smoothing the lapels of her jacket.

"Then your facts are wrong. You don't know Aaron," he waved his hand in a dismissing gesture. "He's a decorated veteran for Christ's sake. He just isn't capable of that type of crime. You have the wrong man."

She adjusted herself in the chair, now sitting on the leading edge of the seat. "Look, I've been patient with you up to this point. So you either answer my questions right now...or I arrest you for obstruction."

He put up his hands in surrender. "All right, I'll tell you anything I know, just to set you straight about Aaron."

She relaxed, again sitting back. "Thank you. I'm glad you're seeing reason."

Removing a pen and notebook from her jacket pocket, she flipped it open. Crossing her legs, she sat back and propped it on her knee. "Do you know were he is?"

"Isn't he at home, in Boston?" His eyes told her he already knew the answer.

She broke his gaze, suddenly a bit uncomfortable. "No, he isn't."

"Then I have no idea where he is."

"When was the last time you talked to him?" She made notes as he spoke, her pen dancing in shorthand over the notebook's small white pages.

"I called him just a few days ago to invite him and Beth to the ice festival."

"Who's Beth?" she asked, feigning ignorance.

"Beth is his sister," he sneered slightly, "But you know that already, don't you Agent Raven?"

She sat silent for a moment. "Tell me what you know about Casey's relationship with a woman named Jennifer Ryan."

"That name is not familiar to me." he said, shifting in his chair.

Pen poised, she continued. "Casey said they're acquainted. He's never mentioned her? Are you sure?"

"I'm sure. Next question."

"You're his friend, right? Wouldn't he tell you if he had a new girlfriend?"

"Yes, he would." he sat back again, chair squeaking in protest.

She continued to make notes as she spoke. "Then why didn't he tell you about Ryan?"

"I don't know. Maybe you're wrong. Maybe she's not his girlfriend."

She picked her head up, again locking his gaze. "So, he really never mentioned her?"

"Never."

She sat back, tapping her pen on the notebook still balanced on her knee.

"Okay. Let's move on," she said. "You know him. If he wanted to lay low, where would he go?"

"Are you telling me Aaron's missing?" he asked.

Silent again, she stalled, staring straight ahead.

He rounded the desk, sitting in the chair next to her. "Look, respect goes both ways," he said. "If you're straight with me, I might be able to help you."

She contemplated him for a long moment before speaking. "He and Miss Ryan are both missing, and we need to ask them a few questions. That's all."

Ed scratched his chin in thought for several seconds. She watched as his expression changed to one of anger and incredulity.

"I get it," he said. "You think Aaron and this Ryan broad took some classified material and then took off, don't you? That's insane!"

O'Brian stood and began pacing the floor. "First off, where would he get classified material? Second, why would he do something so stupid?"

"Maybe he's not as smart as you think. In my business you see men do some pretty stupid things for women."

"Aaron's a lot of things, but you can be sure Agent Raven that stupid isn't one of them." Still pacing, O'Brian railed. "And to do something this crazy for a woman! That's the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard. Aaron hasn't even looked at another woman since..." his voice dropped off. "Umm..., let's just say your scenario doesn't hold water."

"Why not?" she asked, cocking an eyebrow.

"Agent Raven, you obviously didn't do all your homework. If you did, you would know that Aaron hasn't even had a date since he lost his Fianceé."

"What do you mean, he lost his Fianceé? Why did they split up?"

As he approached, Carla suddenly felt the room close in, his closer presence sending unwanted tingles down her spine.

"Sorry to blow your profile, but they didn't split-up. They were very much in love." he said.

"So, what happened?" She asked, going back to her notebook.

"She was killed in an automobile accident a few weeks before the wedding," Ed said. "He was devastated."

"I'm sorry to hear that." She said.

After a long, uncomfortable silence, she continued, going back to the notebook. "All right, let's not get side-tracked. Just humor me. Where would he go if he wanted to disappear?"

"Why should I tell you anything? You seem to have made up your mind." He said, reclaiming his chair behind the desk.

"Easy. To avoid a criminal charge."

"Look, Agent Raven, lets knock off this pissing contest. Okay?" he said, leaning back again. "You're not going to arrest me."

"Oh, really, and why is that?"

"Easy. You need me."

He grinned and she paused for a second to take it in, heat again flaring in her body, then it was her turn to laugh. "And how do you figure that?"

"Since you're here, you already pulled our service jackets. You know I'm the only one around here capable of finding him. I'm trained like him, I think like him," he paused for a second before finishing. "Besides, I've been his best friend for twenty-plus years. He trusts me."

"All true. But why would you help me track your 'friend' down?" She re-crossed her legs and noticed he followed the fluid motion, staring for just a second too long as the electricity crackled between them.

Ed broke the silence, answering the agent's question. "Because I'm not stupid either. I know he can't hide from the FBI. So does he. You'll find him eventually, but the longer he's missing, the guiltier he looks. If what you're telling me is true, he needs to clear his name before he can come in. I'm sure he's out there trying to get to the truth."

"How do you know that?"

"Because I know him...and like I said, he's innocent." He leaned forward and she looked up from her notes.

"And when he does come in," O'Brian continued. "I want to be there. Just to make sure no one gets hurt."

"My agents won't harm him, if he comes in peacefully."

"No offense to the FBI," Ed said. "But I wasn't worried about your agents hurting him. I just don't want to see any of your men go down because of a mistake."

"You SEALS think you're so dammed tough, don't you?" she snapped, a little put off by his thinly veiled insinuation of incompetence.

"Lady, you don't understand the kind of person you're dealing with," he looked deep into her eyes. "Do you even know what the Trident is?"

"Yes. It's an eagle with a spear," she said. "It's the insignia of the Navy SEALS."

"No. I mean what it really is, what it stands for?"

She rolled her eyes and folded her arms across her chest, leaning back in the chair. "Okay, explain it to me."

He sat up very straight, eyes locking on hers. "It marks the best of the best in the United States Military. It's a symbol of total dedication to duty, honor and discipline."

He paused as she listened intently. "We're trained to do the stuff you don't even want to know about. The Navy SEALS are the sharp end of the sword. The Trident is the last thing an enemy sees...ever."

"And this should affect my investigation why?"

"Why? If your agents try to take Aaron into custody against his will, somebody is going to get killed," he said. "I don't want to see that happen."

"I'm sorry if I came off as insulting before. Don't get me wrong, I have a lot of respect for anyone who serves," she said. "However, I also have a duty...to protect this country by finding out what happened to Dr. Ryan, the classified material...and your friend."

"Then let's work together!" he said, the frustration creeping into his voice. "I can tell you Aaron didn't do this, so I think the first job is to figure out who did."

"You keep saying he's innocent. How can you be so sure?"

"For two very good reasons. One, he's a SEAL, and that takes a dedication to country most people can't even imagine. I thought you, as a federal agent, would understand something like that."

She shifted uncomfortably in her chair. "And the second?"

"Because I've known Aaron Casey all my life. It's impossible for him to have done what you say. He just isn't built like that. You need to shift the focus of this investigation. Someone did this and they're out there, walking around doing who knows what, while we sit here arguing."

"You have a lot of faith in your friend, don't you?" she said. "An admirable quality... if it's not misplaced."

"It's not. I've put my life, and more importantly the lives of my men, in his hands more times than I care to count and he's never let me down," he said. "Aaron Casey is one of the good guys."

"I hope you're right, because this time there's a lot more than just your life at stake. There's Ryan's life and the security of this country on the line as well."

"Then you agree, we should pool our resources to find Aaron and this Ryan woman." he said.

"I'm sorry. It doesn't work that way. You're a civilian and I can't have you messing around in my investigation."

Ed threw up his hands in frustration. "You're making a big mistake. I can help you find Aaron and this Dr. Ryan. We do that, and together we can figure out what really happened to the classified material," getting no response, he continued. "If we work together, you get this Ryan woman and her information back, whatever it is, and I get my friend back...and no one dies. It's win-win."

Carla closed her notebook and stood. "I'll take it under advisement. I think we are finished here. I'll see myself out."

Ed moved between the agent and the door, using his arm to bar the way. "Why won't you listen to me? I'm telling you, as long as you think Aaron did this, the real perpetrator is getting away."

Carla looked down at the muscular forearm blocking the door and then back at O'Brian. "Excuse me."

He paused for several seconds before backing off to allow her to pass. "Fine, you do what you want. But I can tell you this, you screw this up and innocent people are going to die. You better ask yourself if you can live with that."

Their eyes locked for a long moment before she spoke. "I think I'm capable of handling my case. Thank you very much for your time."

Carla stepped out of the salvage yard office into several inches of new snow. She brushed the white powder from a small patch of the windshield in front of the driver's seat.

How could it snow this much in only an hour? Where am I, the freakin' Arctic?

She saw him watching from the window as she got behind the wheel. Heading down the driveway, Carla almost felt bad about leaving O'Brian behind. Even though he had no real information, she had to grudgingly admit one thing, she may have been a little myopic about this case.

Turning the heater up to full power, she pointed the black G.I. sedan back to the main road. The dashboard clock read 4:45 p.m. and she wanted to head back to Boston before it got any later.

Or the weather gets worse, she thought dryly.

She listened to the steady rhythm of the wipers waging their losing battle to keep the windshield clear. The thump-thump filled the sedan's cabin as she turned onto Highway 122 and headed north, replaying the interview with O'Brian in her mind.

The still-falling snow filled the headlight beams as she endeavored to keep her car in the correct lane, the task immeasurably complicated by the building wind and premature darkness.

Rounding a gentle curve in the road, Carla never saw the patch of thin black ice beneath the unplowed snow as the tires lost their grip. Heart racing, she unsuccessfully tried to correct the drift as the sedan floated across the opposing lane. The roar of her own heartbeat drowned out the chatter of the anti-lock brakes as the car went into a cyclonic spin and collided with the guardrail, taking out a ten-foot section before careening down the steep embankment beyond.

Time seemed compressed as the car rolled twice side-over-side and a shrill scream burst from her lips. She threw her arms in front of her face as tree branches cracked against the windshield, the staccato blows sending a hailstorm of glass fragments into the turbulent air.

Carla's horrifying carnival ride finally ended when the car jerked violently to the right, forcing her head through the left window in a cloud of shattered glass. The folds of a velvet curtain lowered across her vision, smothering her consciousness in a thick wave of inescapable blackness.

In its death gasp, the car flipped once end-over end and twirled for the last time before coming to a halt in a cloud of flying debris and a screech of tortured metal.

Carla blinked several times as the pounding in her head grew louder and more painful with each passing second. She could hear snakes...she hated snakes. Their vile hiss moved closer and closer as the blackness slowly receded.

The only discernible sounds in the freezing confines of the inverted hulk were her forced breaths and the hiss of steam escaping from the car's shattered engine block and equally mangled radiator.

Well, at least that explains the snakes.

Struggling to bring her vision into focus, she discovered she couldn't move. A sharp jolt of hot panic sizzled through her mind while beads of sweat suddenly dotted her forehead despite the freezing temperature.

I've got to get free...Now! The car could be on fire!

She twisted against the seatbelt cutting into her shoulder and waist. Even the smallest movement ignited a painful, burning trail from her left hand, climbing her back, up to her shoulder. Blinking a few more times, she held very still and the world finally began to clear, forming into a sea of white cloth.

Using her uninjured right arm, she managed to push the deflated airbag out of her face while the bolts of pain raced up her spine. Seconds went by before she waved away the dust swirling before her eyes.

She looked through the windshield, now a kaleidoscope of broken glass, at the inverted world outside. Her left arm hung uselessly over her head as her right arm worked in vain at the buckle holding her suspended.

How the hell am I going to get out of here?

Hanging upside-down from her seatbelts, she realized her imprisonment was more than a matter of simple inconvenience.

"Help!" She screamed, hoping the loud, commanding voice would carry beyond the wreck's confines. She briefly waited for a response and got none. "Somebody please...help me!"

I wonder if anyone is out there?...if anyone can hear me.

Looking around the wrecked cabin, she saw her phone lying on the roof, spilled out of her jacket during the car's aerial maneuvers.

The phone...get it!

She reached for it and the pain brought a thick flood of nausea, her stomach climbing to her throat.

She embraced the small ray of hope and strained to stay conscious, her fingers desperately grasping at the small device sitting just out of reach.

Just a little further...

She stretched again, the pain exploded in her head, and the world went black.

Chapter Thirty-Four

Aaron glanced at this watch for the fourth time in under an hour.

Still tied to the chair, Jenny continued to stare daggers at him as he fought to keep his focus on the deadly game he was playing for both their lives. His mind raged and it took every ounce of courage not to tell her the truth. He couldn't stand Jenny believing he'd betrayed her, not even for a few hours.

It's gotta look real. He reminded himself. It's the only way to make this work.

Clark paced the room trying to keep warm. The heater ticked loudly as it cooled, the fuel in the small tank now exhausted. Trish also tried to fend off the cold, rubbing her hands together and holding them closer to the nearly-useless device.

"I thought you brought more propane." she said, leaving the dying heater and stalking around the room.

"I didn't think we'd need it," Clark snapped. "I thought we would be gone by now. We should have left hours ago."

She tossed him a sideways glance. "So much for your planning skills."

Being a native of New England, Aaron was not the least bit surprised at how fast the room became an ice box, once the heater quit. He also noticed each verbal exchange between the two criminals becoming shorter and sharper than the last. He watched their breath come out in small puffs, each vapor cloud getting longer and more opaque as time went by.

Only a couple of hours in the cold, and they're already at each other's throats. Good.

Clark turned back to his cohort, his voice loaded with venom. "My plan is fine, if you would just do as you're told."

"My plan is just fine," she mocked him, her voice tinny and whining. "Then why are we sitting in this freezer? I didn't sign on for frostbite."

"Oh, just shut the hell up," he turned and closed the distance between the two, bringing them face to face. "Before I have to adjust your attitude again."

Aaron heard a faint metallic 'click', instantly recognizing the sound. The switchblade knife in her hand had appeared out of nowhere, the gleaming blade resting along the inside of Clark's right thigh.

"You ever touch me again," Trish said, her eyes blazing with controlled anger. "And I'll castrate you faster than you can say 'Eunuch'."

Clark's gaze shifted, first falling on his partner's burning eyes, then on the eight inches of cold steel she held uncomfortably close to his genitals.

Aaron watched as Clark stared at Trish for a long moment, his drawn face a mask of white-hot anger. Then, just as suddenly as it appeared, Clark's rage seemed to vanish, his face visibly relaxing.

"Don't get excited," he laughed. "I think I made my point last time."

As the distance between the two expanded, Trish retracted the blade with an audible snap.

"Yes. You reminded me why I left you the first time."

Aaron's inner smile grew as he germinated the seed of an idea to pull the bacon from the fire. He cleared his throat loudly, breaking the tension.

"I hate to interrupt, but can you let her out of the chair? She's freezing too," he said, "At least let her move around to stay warm until we leave."

Clark paused in thought for a second before patting the revolver in his pocket, "Just don't do anything stupid."

"We won't." he said.

Clark turned back to Trish. "You're the one swinging around the big blade. So, go cut her loose."

Her face painted in stark disbelief at his sheer audacity, Trish moved to the other side of the room, kneeling on the cold floor by Jenny's side. "Prick," she muttered under her breath while cutting through the duct tape holding Jenny immobilized.

Finally free of confinement, Jenny glared at Aaron maliciously. Rubbing her wrists, she worked to restore the circulation to her hands. "Thank you." Jenny said as she walked unsteadily, moving toward the heater.

As she approached, he saw a strange light in her eyes. Before he could utter a word, she let loose with a right cross, slapping him sharply in the face. Strength-depleted and still foggy from the drugs, she nearly fell over from the recoil. He caught her in his arms just inches above the floor's cold wood planks.

"You bastard!" she seethed. "How could you sell me out? I trusted you!"

She struggled in his grasp, trying to free herself. "Let me go! Dammit!"

"I didn't sell anyone out," he said, a red handprint beginning to appear on his cheek. "I'm just trying to save our lives. Don't you get that?"

Her face inches from his, she hissed in anger. "I get that you're giving them my project to save your skin."

He gave her a sheepish look. "Whatever it takes to get us out of here alive."

Effortlessly lifting her and standing her back on her feet, Aaron watched as she stalked off. Shaking her now-stinging hand, she threw a backward glance over her shoulder. "You coward!"

The cruelly-rendered words seared his senses, piercing his heart like a well-aimed laser beam. He clenched his jaw in frustration. He didn't dare answer her condemnation aloud, so he moved to her side. "You have to believe me. I'm doing what's best...for both of us."

He lifted his hand to her shoulder. Eyes blazing in fury, she whirled around, knocking it away. "Don't you dare touch me!"

"Jenny, just try to understand..." he started.

She cut him off, her eyes drilling into his with a poorly controlled mix of heated emotions. "Understand what? That you are giving them my life's work, something you swore to protect. Or was that little speech about keeping me and my project safe just a pretty lie?"

He turned to avoid her searing, condemning stare.

After a tense moment, she turned away from him, shaking her head. "I believed you. How stupid does that make me?"

"You're not stupid. I just..." he stumbled over his words.

Clark interrupted. "How much longer do we have to wait? I'm not the most patient man."

Aaron paused briefly, still looking for some sign of understanding from Jenny, now sulking in the corner of the room. Seeing none, he turned back to face his captor. "Look, you don't want to follow the delivery man up to the desk do you? It might look a little suspicious, considering the fact that you're not a guest at the hotel."

Clark paced, walking from one end of the room to the other and back. "I see. We check into the hotel and then pick up the package?"

Aaron shrugged his shoulders. "Easy as getting drunk."

Clark stopped in the middle of the room, still for a moment as he contemplated the scenario. "But, most business travelers don't come back to their hotels until the end of the day, right?"

Aaron looked at his watch again. "About two hours away."

Clark also scanned his watch. "Makes sense. Okay, we wait."

Aaron joined Clark in the center of the room. "Look, I just want this to go smoothly, so we can all get out of here," he pointed at Jenny, "She's in no shape to take much more of this cold. She should be in a hospital. I'm counting on you to honor your word and let her go."

Aaron knew time was running out. He could feel it in his bones. Every instinct he possessed told him Majors would kill them both the instant he had what he wanted...and his instincts were never wrong. The time would have to be soon.

Chapter Thirty-Five

Locating Sean Murphy wasn't a big chore for Kelly Ingersol. Murphy's careless decision to shop the stolen technology around, coupled with his choice of recreational additives, left a trail her Boston contacts and their criminal connections couldn't miss.

She'd sat waiting outside his condominium for two hours yesterday and three so far today. The routine quickly got old...and cold. Scanning up and down the frozen street, she began to wonder if he would ever return home. Ironically, her persistence paid off only minutes later when she saw a solitary figure approach the door.

About damned time!

Hood pulled up against the sub-zero temperature, the unidentified stranger huddled in the doorway. Kelly watched as a cigarette lighter flared and the stranger's face became visible through the small but powerful binoculars she held to her eyes. The woman inhaled deeply at the cigarette, causing the ember to glow brighter, making her face an eerie blend of blood red and coal black. Kelly watched as the woman continued to puff, stealing a series of guarded glances up and down the street.

"That's it." Kelly said, her voice a low whisper in the otherwise silent car. "You're safe. Now go inside and get what you came for then lead me to Murphy."

As if she heard the words, the woman on the steps flipped the cigarette into a snow bank and extracted a key from the pocket of her ripped and faded jeans. Taking one last look over her shoulder, she opened the street door.

Kelly waited for a light to come on in the building before she exited her car and quickly strode across the frozen pavement.

Once a four-story clapboard home for a single family, the white Colonial-style building was now divided into four up-scale condo units, one on each floor.

Reaching the entrance, she, too, checked the quiet neighborhood for any signs of unwanted attention before closing the street door behind her. She moved quietly up the narrow flight of stairs to the second floor. She glanced at the brass plate on the door facing the street. She tried the knob and found it unlocked, swinging the door silently out of the way.

Peering around the edge of the door into the living room, she saw no sign of her target. She silently entered the apartment and moved through, toward a hallway on her right.

Standing motionless, she heard muffled sounds beyond, in the shadows at the end of the hall. Stopping at a partially closed door near the end, she waited, listening intently. Kelly pushed it open a fraction of an inch and saw the woman from the street, back toward her, busily pulling clothes from an open dresser against the wall to her left. On the bed, a small duffel bag sat half filled.

Kelly listened silently as the woman groused, throwing another shirt into a pile on the bed.

"For Chrisssake! I'm not your fuckin' errand girl," the woman cursed. "You want your stuff, next time, get it yourself...lazy bastard!"

Reaching into her purse, Kelly felt the cold yet comforting steel of the small automatic. Drawing the weapon, she checked the safety and stepped silently into the room.

"Going somewhere?" she said, her firm voice breaking the silence in a booming echo.

The woman packing the suitcase emitted a small scream and turned around.

"Who the hell are you?"

With the hood down on her shoulders, Kelly could now see the woman's face. Pock-marked and gaunt, the woman showed the tell-tale signs of the meth addict.

The woman swallowed hard, gathering a shred of courage before speaking again. "You can't come in here without a warrant!"

Kelly quickly swept the room with her eyes and leveled the pistol at the woman's chest.

"Who said I was a cop?"

"You're not a cop? Then get the hell out of here before I call them."

"I'm looking for Murphy. Where is he?"

"I don't know." She answered, body stiffening in fear.

The dim light coming from the table lamp washed out the addict's heavily blemished face, throwing harsh shadows on her emaciated features.

Kelly closed the distance between the two and pointed the weapon at the woman's forehead. "I think you do. Tell me where Murphy is."

She repeated her demand, cocking the hammer. The terrified woman put her hands up in defense, face now ashen. She pleaded. "Really, I don't know."

Watching the waif's eyes expand in naked terror, Kelly frowned a deep, sinister sneer. "I'm going to give you three seconds to tell me where he is. If you don't, I'm going to shoot you. When the police eventually find your body, they'll conduct a perfunctory investigation...before they shelve it. Do you want to become another unidentified body in an unmarked grave?"

The woman's face went completely white and she began to shake, her entire body wracked by small tremors. "All right, I'm telling you the truth. I really don't know where he is. He sent me to get his passport and some of his stuff."

Kelly eased the gun away from her face and continued the questioning. "He's planning a little trip I see. Where and when are you supposed to meet him?"

Standing a little taller, the woman reached toward her coat pocket.

"Easy!" Kelly warned as the pistol again rested between the other woman's eyes.

Moving very slowly, the waif produced a cell phone. "He's gonna call me in about 15 minutes."

Kelly lowered the pistol and considered her options for a few seconds. "Okay. I think we can do this the easy way. For the next hour or so, you and I are partners. I think you're a smart girl. You do as I say and you can walk away from this with a little cash. You screw up and it's a toe tag. Understood?

The woman silently nodded.

"Good."

Kelly took five one-hundred dollar bills from her wallet and showed them to the frightened woman. "Consider this a little finder's fee for Murphy."

Kelly placed two in the woman's trembling hand.

"You get the rest when you deliver Murphy to me."

Again, the shaking girl nodded passively.

The minutes passed in silence for the two women as the waif chain-smoked and finished packing the clothes she'd selected from various piles in the small bedroom. Nerves on edge, both women flinched as the cell phone broke into an electronic version of a well-known rap song.

The junkie answered the call. "Hello?"

Kelly held her ear against the back of the speaker, taking it all in.

"Susie, did you get the stuff I asked for?" the caller's voice scratched.

"Yes."

"Good. Meet me at the Charlestown Bridge, on the Navy Yard end, in twenty minutes...and don't even think about being late."

With a loud click, the line went dead. The waif snapped the phone shut. "You heard, twenty minutes." She said, looking at the floor.

Kelly motioned toward the door "I'll drive. Let's go."

The cars moved slowly as the rush-hour traffic clogged the six lanes of Interstate 93 as it wound through Boston's North End. Taking to the surface streets, the pair turned onto Washington St. and approached the Charlestown Bridge entrance. They traversed the bridge in strained silence before Kelly found a space in a public lot at the Boston National Historical Park and shut off the engine.

She turned to her new-found partner. "Okay, Susie. Here's where you earn your money. You get Murphy and bring him to this end of the walkway along the bridge. I'll do the rest."

"How do I get him to follow me?"

"I don't care how. Tell him you left the passport in the car or something. Use your imagination."

"Then what happens to me?" Susie asked, the resurging fear plainly visible on her drug-ravaged face.

"As soon as I cuff and stuff Murphy, you go your merry way... five-hundred dollars richer."

"That's it?" her eyes opened in frightened disbelief. "How do I know you won't shoot me after I bring him to you?"

Kelly looked deep into the sunken eyes of the frightened woman. "I'm a businesswoman and dead bodies are bad for business. I'll only shoot you if you force me to. Follow the plan and you get the cash. But, you better not screw up. Now go."

Watching the waif step from the car, Kelly peered into the thickening darkness, then backed into a space hidden among the shadows, keeping an eye locked on her new "partner". Reaching in her coat pocket, she wrapped her gloved fingers around the pistol's Mother of Pearl handle. The firm feel of the weapon comforted her.

She stared down the empty street as the gaunt woman traversed the bridge ramp before disappearing into a pedestrian tunnel, the passage wallpapered with billboards for local political candidates. She braced against the biting cold in the car. Listening to the wind whipping in off Boston harbor, she waited...but not too patiently.

Chapter Thirty-Six

Power-sliding his 1968 Ford Bronco to avoid the on-coming traffic, Ed climbed the on-ramp to I-295 and accelerated into the storm. He'd debated with himself for several long minutes before deciding to follow Carla. He knew any confrontation between Aaron and federal agents would end badly. He had to try again to convince her of Aaron's innocence. He banged his hand against the steering wheel in frustration.

Typical transplant! No respect for the New England winter. Don't these people know how dangerous these storms are?

He replayed the encounter with the lady agent in his mind while the wipers struggled with the ever-increasing snowfall. While on one hand he found her to be frustrating in the extreme, there was still something about her that intrigued him. He readily admitted that she was not only a stone fox, but obviously uber-intelligent and driven as well. He briefly imagined the two of them sipping Cognac in front of a crackling fireplace and smiled.

Why did she have to be so dammed stubborn? Ed groused internally as he struggled to see through the still-falling snow. I can help her find Aaron...and we wouldn't be out driving in a blizzard right now. Women!

Snapping back to the present, he yanked the wheel hard, correcting the Bronco's drift as he felt the truck's oversized tires and four-wheel drive struggle to maintain their tenuous grip on pavement.

Down-shifting the hand-built five-speed transmission, Ed concentrated on keeping the vehicle from sliding off the ice-covered road as the cockpit reverberated with the intimidating bark of the 429cid Super Cobra Jet engine rescued from a wrecked police interceptor.

While the partially restored classic was the product of hundreds of hours of work and sported in the neighborhood of 600 horsepower, Ed rubbed his gloved hands together and mentally kicked himself.

Why didn't I fix the heater last week, when I had the dashboard out?

Following the fresh tracks in the compacted snow, he rounded a curve, still searching ahead for any sign of the agent's G.I. sedan. Minutes later his heart skipped a beat when he spotted the blinking emergency lights through the white waves ceaselessly pounding the windshield in front of him.

Slowing as he approached, he counted three cars stopped on the road and several people walking toward a hole in the guardrail.

Oh, Shit! This is not good!

Hoping against hope that it was someone else and not Agent Raven, he slid to a stop and jumped down from the truck, retrieving a flashlight and a first-aid kit from under the seat as he went.

Striding purposefully through the deep snow piled on the road's shoulder, he closed on the group of onlookers before seeing one set of tracks leading off the road and down the embankment.

"Anybody see what happened?" He asked.

The man next to him answered while pacing nervously along the road's shoulder. "Somebody slid off the road and hit a tree," he said. "Some guys went down to check it out."

Ed peered over the edge and his heart sank at the sight of the agent's sedan resting upside-down as expanding clouds of steam billowed up from the crushed engine compartment.

He also noted a man carefully making his way down the steep slope to where the car lay wedged against the base of an enormous maple tree.

"Did you call 9-1-1?" Ed asked the man standing next to him peering down at the wreck.

"Done," the by-stander said. "They're on the way."

Crouching down and sliding on his heels, Ed shot past the man carefully picking his way down the slope. He reached the agent's car to find another man already there, trying to pull open the driver's side rear door.

Taking in the chilling scene of still-smoking destruction, Ed's trained eye followed the line of the inverted sedan's roof, now bent at a sharp angle where the windshield frame had folded. The driver's door was completely crushed, the window space reduced to only a few inches.

"Is anyone alive in there?" he called as he skidded to a halt near the rear bumper.

The man struggling with the crushed door answered. "There's a woman in here. She's alive, but she's trapped and I can't get the door open."

"Did you try the other side?" he asked.

"Yep. It's twisted up good."

Ed scrambled to the front of the car doing a quick check for any sign of fire or leaking fuel along the way.

Seeing none, he turned his concentration back to the woman trapped behind the wheel.

"Agent Raven can you hear me? It's Ed O'Brian." He said while he enlisted the help of the men, yanking unsuccessfully on the jammed door.

A strained voice, tinny and weak, came from inside the mangled vehicle. "Yes. I can hear you."

"Are you injured?

"I'm a little banged up but not too bad." She said.

He peered in through the driver's window, now reduced to a three inch gap between the door and the collapsed roof. Grimacing in pain, the trapped agent looked back, her face marred by dirt, a fine line of blood trailing from a small cut on her forehead.

"No head wounds, arms and legs moving all right?" Ed asked, still assessing her condition and trying to concoct a plan to extricate her from the shattered hulk. He stood, quickly surveying the area for something to help pry the door open.

She struggled against her bonds and answered. "I think my left arm is broken. I can't move it. Everything else hurts like hell, but it all works."

Ed returned to the window, and the trapped agent's expectant stare.

This car could blow any second. I've got to get her out...fast.

His calm voice concealed a vaulting sense of urgency. "We can't force the door, so I'm going to break the window on the other side and get you out that way. Are you pinned by anything?"

"No. I'm just hanging by the dammed belts." She said, pasting a grim smile on her pain-racked face.

Noticing the dash lights still glowed a bright green, a half-baked idea suddenly flashed through Ed's mind. "The power is still on. Can you reach the window buttons?"

"I think so."

"If you can, try to put the window down."

She used her uninjured arm, reaching across her body to the control panel and found the switch. He heard her wince in pain as she moved.

Ed moved to the passenger side of the car and watched the transparent wall began to move upward with agonizing slowness, emitting a low groan of protest. Just when he thought it would work, the frozen air was suddenly split by a short, high-pitched squeal as the window came to a halt.

"Damn!" he threw the profanity out in frustration.

He pulled off his gloves, rubbing his hands against the cold. He stuck his fingers through the narrow slot just created under the glass.

"Try it again!" he said, leaning against the mangled door.

Muscles straining, Ed pulled up on the glass while the window motor whined in a losing battle.

A loud crack! rent the air as something inside the door let go and the window began to slide upward again, the glass pinched tight but still moving. Grunting with the effort, Ed levered the window the rest of the way up, creating an opening large enough for the injured woman to crawl through. He pulled off his jacket and laid it inside, using it as a cushion against the broken glass scattered on the roof, now floor, of the overturned vehicle.

Returning to the driver's door, he stuck his arm in through the narrow opening next to her head. "Okay. Now I'm going to cut you out of this belt and you are going to drop to the roof of the car. Use your good arm to protect your head."

The metallic snap of Ed's K-Bar Tactical Ops knife followed the brief warning.

"Brace yourself. Ready?"

Inside the car Carla gave a weak nod of her head. "Ready."

With a strong backward pull, he slid the razor sharp blade through the belt's webbing. Free of the belt's restraint, Carla became a Newtonian experiment in gravity.

"UUUmmmfffff!" She hit the roof of the car with an audible thud, the air forced from her lungs.

"Aahhh!" she yelped in pain as she rolled to her stomach, clutching her injured arm to her side. She crawled slowly, moving toward the open window and stuck her head out. Ed grabbed the collar of her jacket and unceremoniously dragged Carla from the sedan's twisted wreckage, bringing a sharp hiss from the injured woman's lips.

He dragged the still-woozy agent clear and leaned her against a tree, immediately spotting the unnatural angle of her dislocated shoulder as he reclaimed his jacket and put it on.

"Agent Raven, are you with me?" he waved his hand in front of her face.

She brushed his arm away in irritation. "Yes. I can hear you. I'm okay."

"Do you think you can walk?

Standing unsteadily to her feet, Carla brushed a stray lock of hair from her pain-lined face. "Yes, I think so."

Ed turned to the by-standers. "Okay. Let's get the lady topside."

Struggling to keep the thumps and bumps to a minimum, Ed and the pair of good Samaritans guided, lifted and sometimes carried the injured federal agent up the steep slope toward the road above. The distant wail of sirens reached their ears as they crested the embankment.

Ed dropped the Bronco's tailgate and brought the injured woman to a sitting position on the cold steel platform as the siren's shriek grew louder with each passing second. He laid the first aid kit on the tailgate next to Carla and began cleaning the still-bleeding cut on her forehead. "Are you sure you're not hurt any place besides your arm? That knot looks pretty bad." he said.

She instinctively raised her good arm and gingerly dabbed at the small wound on her forehead. "Oh, it's okay," she said, examining a drop of blood left on her fingertips. "I just banged it against the window when the car went over."

"Well it's bleeding. We'll let the doctors check that out when they look at your arm."

An interminable two hours later, the pair sat in an emergency room cubicle, the constant noise of the intercom fraying Carla's last remaining nerve. Her head felt like it would explode any second and she was in no mood for an overly-cautious doctor.

She winced, gritting her teeth as the physician tightened the wrap around her now-reset shoulder.

"Besides the dislocated shoulder, you have a pretty nasty bump on the head. I'd like to keep you overnight for observation." he said.

"I told you, I'm fine," her words left no room for argument, the rebuttal unyielding. "I just want to get out of here. I have work to do."

Ed spoke as he paced the tiny room. "Well that may be, but the Doctor said you might have a concussion. You shouldn't take that lightly."

She shot him a withering glare. "I'm not taking anything lightly. I dislocated my shoulder and got a little knot on my head, no permanent damage. I need to get back to my office, back to looking for Casey and Ryan...now."

The doctor stepped between the two, facing his not-so-patient, patient. "Miss Raven, I really must insist that you stay here. For you own safety."

Ignoring the taller man, she looked around the room. "Where's my jacket?"

Ed pointed to the cabinet to Carla's left. "I put it over there."

He crossed the room in two long strides, retrieving the garment and handing it to her.

An obstinate mask of determination forming on her face, Carla dug in the pocket, pulling out the small black wallet Ed had seen earlier in the day.

"I'm an adult," she said, showing the physician her badge. "I am also a Federal Agent. I'm checking myself out. Please prepare the paper work."

Shrugging his shoulders, the doctor turned to face his patient, "I can't stop you," The doctor said as he made notations in her chart. "But I advise against it."

"Understood," she said as she stood. "Thank you for all your help doctor."

The doctor slid Carla's chart back into a holder on the wall, shaking his head as he left the room.

"Okay. Now what do we do?" Ed asked, holding out her jacket so she could slip it on.

"I have to get another car...and another phone. Then I go back to work. You go back to doing whatever it is that you do. If I have any more questions, I'll contact you."

Ed saw one last opportunity to convince the agent to let him join the search for Aaron and Dr. Ryan. "I can drive you back to your office."

"How? You came in the Ambulance with me."

"My Bronco is downstairs. I had one of my guys drop it off while you were with the doctor," he said with a boyish grin. "I couldn't leave a classic like that sitting on the side of the road."

Carla rolled her eyes at the comment, recalling the less-than-pristine appearance of the ancient sport wagon.

"And I grabbed your phone...thought you'd want it." He said.

A hint of genuine surprise crossed her face as he handed her the wireless device.

Still a little unsteady, the agent got to her feet and moved toward the door. "Thanks, but that won't be necessary. I'll call for a ride."

He placed a hand on her good shoulder, his overriding concern for her health now blending with annoyance at her resurfaced resistance. "You realize, you could have been killed out there."

"But I wasn't."

"My God, woman!" he said, throwing his hands over his head. "How can you be so damned stubborn?"

He took several deep breaths, reigning in his frustration. "I can help you. I said it before and I'll say it again. I know Aaron better than anyone, and now that you're injured you are going to need some help. We could start by figuring out who really took that material from Ryan's lab."

She moved her injured arm with a small wince, "This is nothing. You want to help? Tell me where Casey would go if he wanted to disappear. That would help."

Ed folded his powerful arms across his chest in defiance. "I told you before. If you go after him without me, someone is going to get killed."

She leaned forward, her face now scant inches away from his. "And like I told you before, this is a federal investigation of a murder and possible espionage. Civilians don't get to be involved in those kind of things...period."

Frustration boiling to the surface once again, Ed snapped at the woman in angry retort. "Agent Raven, quite frankly you don't have a prayer of finding Aaron, or this Ryan woman, without me. Not any time soon that is. I can be an asset and up to now I figured you to be smart enough to realize that."

"Not a prayer, is that so?" She replied smugly. "As I recall, the FBI is not without its resources."

His gaze met the agent's with each pair of eyes burning into the other. "Neither is Aaron Casey."

"I'll find them myself!" Ed huffed as he broke the contact, and crossed the room.

He shook his head in disgust, muttering as he pulled open the door. "I thought you people were supposed to be smarter than this."

The beautiful FBI agent watched as the man stormed out of the room. "Shit! There goes my ride... and my best lead."

Scribbling her signature on the release forms, she searched her mind for any clue as to how...and where...to pick up the trail.

Chapter Thirty-Seven

The darkness folded in around Kelly Ingersol, thickening as she watched the minutes tick by on a Rolex watch.

Sitting in the nearly deserted parking lot of the Charlestown Navy Yard visitor's center, she stared into the expanding night. She checked her watch again as the waif stood in the tunnel's entrance, fidgeting nervously, waiting for their target to arrive. Cold beginning to settle in to her bones once more, Kelly turned on the heater and checked her watch a third time. Murphy was late.

She dared not move any closer to the tunnel for fear that Murphy might see her or sense the trap.

Where is he?

Tense and expectant, she felt no small measure of relief at the sight of the single figure approaching from within the tunnel. A small red glow bobbed and weaved as the waif's cigarette arched into the snow before she entered the tunnel to meet Murphy.

"Finally..." Kelly muttered, the echo's energy magnified by her seclusion.

Suddenly feeling a rare flash of uncertainty, Kelly stood on pins and needles, tension gnawing at her senses while she waited for the pair to emerge from the darkness.

This is taking too long!

Seeing the tunnel entrance was still clear, she left the relative warmth of her car and moved closer to the edge of the lot. The cold forcing her breath into quick gasps, she stepped further into the shadows behind a small concrete barrier separating the old naval base from the rest of the public park.

She quickly scanned the area for any signs of observance and finding none, sprinted to cover the last few yards from the barrier to the tunnel entrance. She stopped and listened, now standing only feet away from where her accomplice had been smoking a minute before. She waited, listening to her heartbeat in her ears for several tense seconds before the sound of footsteps surrounded her. Kelly palmed the gleaming automatic, silently racked the slide and crossed her arms to hide the weapon in the folds of her Norwegian blue fox coat.

She stole a look down the tunnel and could just catch a glimpse of the pair as they closed the distance to where she stood. Walking briskly against the falling temperature, they moved closer and stepped into a circle of dull yellow light, the dingy ring cast by a bare bulb hanging from the tunnel's plywood ceiling. Between the footsteps, muted words drifted to her on the frozen air.

"All right Susie, where's my bag?" Murphy asked. "I have a plane to catch."

"It's close," she said.

"Why didn't you bring it with you?"

"Because I want my money first," she said. "You promised me two hundred bucks and I want it now."

"You'll get your money." he waved his hand in dismissal.

"That's right, I'll get it. Then you get your bag."

His voice suddenly became menacing. "Don't push me. It's not a good idea."

The waif steeled herself, putting her hands on her hips in defiance. "I'm not pushing. I just want what's mine."

His motions a blur, Sean's right hand shot out, fingers tangling in her hair. Pulling hard enough to make her squeal, he yanked her matted tresses and drew her near. He leaned in still closer, his face twisted in anger. Stopping only inches from her nose, he hissed through clenched teeth. "Give me my bag. I'm not going to ask again."

Keeping to the impenetrable shadows along the walls of the tunnel, Kelly crept up on the arguing pair undetected. Stepping into the dim light, she placed the automatic next to Murphy's ear. Hearing the unique metallic click of the weapon's hammer, he froze in mid-sentence.

"Let her go," Kelly ordered, her controlled voice projecting a dispassionate calm she didn't feel. "Both of you face the wall...now!"

He released the woman's hair and the pair turned away from the pistol's cold barrel.

"On your knees!"

When he hesitated, she kicked Murphy behind his right knee, dropping him to the cold ground with a painful grunt. She moved closer, placing the barrel of the automatic against the back of his head.

"Hands behind your back."

Murphy turned to his captor. "Who are you and what do you want?"

"No talking!" Kelly barked. "Just sit there and shut up!"

"You're making a mistake. I demand you release me immediately!" he said, the words echoing off the tunnel's makeshift walls. "You have no idea who I am."

"I know exactly who you are...Mr. Murphy," Kelly replied, an artificial sweetness dripping from her voice. "Why do you think I'm here?"

"You," She barked a command at the woman facing the wall, handing her a zip-tie and a blindfold. "Put this on him."

The gaunt woman moved in behind Murphy and slipped the tie around his wrists, effectively binding the man.

Trembling, the younger woman then tied the blindfold tightly around Murphy's eyes before stepped back, turning to the woman, and the gun, now facing her."

"Your turn. On your knees and face the wall." Kelly ordered.

The kneeling woman began to shake violently. "Please, don't...don't do this!"

"You know too much. I'm sorry."

Kelly carefully aimed the pistol and squeezed the trigger. The shot rang out with the clarity of a church bell. The ominous concussion split the silence of the tunnel, careening off the walls and rolling away in concentric waves. As the echo of the blast faded, Murphy finally spoke in an unsteady voice, "Y-y-you killed her didn't you?"

"She saw me."

"I've seen you. Are you going to kill me next?"

"You still have value... for the moment. Now get up!"

She pulled him to his feet, poking him in the back with the automatic's sharp barrel.

"Move." she ordered, pushing him forward as she guided him back toward the tunnel's entrance and the tenuous safety of her waiting car.

Loading Murphy into the back seat of her rental, she slammed the door and seconds later the engine sputtered to life. Kelly watched with a carefully controlled relief as the form of the small thin woman crept from the tunnel entrance. Kelly followed her progress as she sprinted across the parking lot under the dim lights to make her way into the bushes along the riverbank. With a quick look over her shoulder, the waif disappeared between the branches and into the night.

Reaching over the seat, she laid the barrel of the automatic against Murphy's chin, feeling his body tense as he flinched in fear.

"If you want to live, sit still and don't make a sound," she ordered. "We're going someplace we can talk."

Kelly turned on the heater and a small breeze of warm air began to fill the cabin. She put the car in gear and pulled out of the empty parking lot into the heavy evening traffic.

The light from the floor lamp washed out all detail in the room, the sudden brightness overwhelming him when his captor removed the blindfold.

Blinking several times to clear his vision, he looked around at the drab décor and recognized the signs of a "No-Tell-Motel" room. Translation: rent-by-the-hour dump. Decorated in early dumpster, the peeling taupe paint on the walls and cracked plaster of the ceiling offset the thread-bare carpet and thrift store furniture.

He pulled against the duct tape holding him to the arms of a wooden chair as a flash of fear threatened to take over his mind. A few feet away, he noticed a woman sitting on a couch a few feet away. Her legs demurely crossed, a pistol rested in her lap. She studied him silently. He studied her right back for several long seconds before speaking.

"Who are you?" his voice wavered, trying to inject some mettle into the weak tone of his words.

No answer...not even a change of expression. He thought nervously.

"What do you want?" He repeated his question, the voice once again steady.

He asked three additional times, withering under his captor's harsh stare before she broke the silence.

"You know very well what I want. Don't you?"

"How would I know that?" he said.

"I'll make it simple. I want what you stole from Diversified Research."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"You're not a very convincing liar Mr. Murphy. Try again."

She knows my name. His eyes flashed at the revelation. "I told you. I don't know what you're talking about."

She stood and moved closer, the gleaming pistol between them a weighty, menacing presence. "I didn't come looking for you out of the blue. I know who you are and that you took a very valuable piece of research from your employer. I want it."

"I didn't steal anything." He protested weakly as the color drained from his face.

"I think you did. The FBI is crawling all over your offices and that means something big is missing...besides the scientist."

"What scientist?" he asked innocently, averting his eyes, shifting his concentration to a large stain on the carpet.

The woman holding the gun frowned, the lines creasing her forehead. "All right, I'll make this simple. I'm talking about Jennifer Ryan," the armed woman said. "She's dead, isn't she?"

"How would I know that?" The voice squeaked again, the constricted voice cracking in fear.

The answer came, cold and matter-of-fact. "Because you killed her."

Silence permeated the room for several long minutes before Kelly reopened the conversation/interrogation. "Okay. We'll come back to Ryan later. Where are the materials you took from Diversified?"

"I don't have any materials...I didn't steal anything."

"All right, who did you give them to?"

"I really don't know what you are talking about," he said. "Taking anything from my company would be a felony. I'd go to prison!"

"I'm not interested in your crimes. You tell me what you did with the materials you took and I let you walk out that door alive," she said. "And I warn you, this is a limited-time offer."

"You're insane!"

"Am I?" she said, raising an eyebrow in condescension.

He didn't see the Taser gun emerge from the pocket of her finely tailored suit jacket. The steel barbs crossed the small room like dragonflies, pulling a pair of gossamer-thin wire leads behind them. The sharp points embedded themselves into Murphy's chest, the painful bite caused him to flinch in annoyance.

"Last chance." She said, her voice ringing with grim finality.

His chin set in insolence. "Fuck off!"

"Have it your way." She said, shaking her head at his defiance.

He quivered and twitched as the voltage ran along his nervous system like thousands of ants, ripping and chewing. His muscles contracted uncontrollably, drawing tight as deep spasms wracked his body. After the decades of agony, the sizzling energy stopped. Three seconds had elapsed.

"Where are the documents you took from Diversified?"

His chin jutted forward in insubordination as his body still twitched, excess electricity causing his nerves to fire in small spasms.

"Where are the documents you took from Diversified?" She repeated, louder this time. He again held his tongue.

Murphy's strangled screamed split the air as the Taser pulsed again.

Chapter Thirty-Eight

"It's time to go." Trish said as she and Clark gathered a few items seeming out of place in the abandoned factory's derelict office.

The four moved out into the now-freezing air on the landing and began making their way down the ancient stairs. Stepping carefully on each groaning tread, they descended toward ground level with Clark leading Aaron, followed by Jenny, then Trish.

Sensing he wouldn't get a better opportunity, Aaron knew he had to do something to free himself and Jenny before it was too late. Heart hammering with a flash of hot adrenaline, he shouldered Majors with all the force he could muster, slamming him into the wall, while simultaneously wrapping his hand around the revolver's cylinder and twisting his captor's wrist. The sudden move had both desired and undesired effects.

Banking on the miniscule element of surprise he achieved, Aaron used leverage and physics to break Majors grip on the handgun. Unfortunately, it also had the effect of unbalancing both men on the ancient stairs and sending them tumbling head-over-heels two flights to the ground.

Rolling to one knee, Aaron assumed a defensive crouch. He immediately snapped to the attack after the cold floor broke his descent, raising the pistol in one swift, fluid motion. He drew a bead between Major's eyes.

The fall did no real damage to Majors. Rising back to his feet, he dusted himself off and looked back up toward his accomplice. He smiled slightly before staring back at the man now holding the gun on him. "That was not all that smart."

Aaron heard the tell-tale snap of the switchblade and a thread of panic raised its ugly head as he considered the possibility that Trish might just kill Jenny in retribution for the attack. Pushing that wholly unpleasant thought aside, he watched Majors sweep the room with a languid pass of his arm. The rogue Army Ranger's voice boomed across the cold space, calm and controlled.

"Where are you going to go?" he said. "My partner still has the doctor.'

"And I have the gun," Aaron said, answering the man's challenge. "Release her."

"Give me back my weapon," Majors said, the arrogant confidence in his words stoking Aaron's increasing anger even further. "You won't leave without her and I'll have Trish slit her throat if that pistol is not back in my hand by the count of three."

Aaron looked up the staircase, seeing the two women stopped on the stairs just below the second-floor landing.

"Don't do it!" Jenny shouted.

Trish yanked violently on Jenny's long hair, exposing her delicate neck. Aaron saw her eyes go wide with fear as the cold steel of the knife touched her throat.

Turning back to Majors, he pulled back the hammer on the .357, watching the cylinder rotate into firing position. "And if I blow your head off?"

"The doctor still dies." Majors said flatly as the corners of his mouth pulled up into a small, menacing grin.

Aaron quickly shifted his focus, and his aim. The barrel of the revolver tracked the pair's trip down the stairs.

"He's absolutely right," Aaron said, raising his voice toward Trish. "But, are you as willing to die as he is to kill?"

"You won't shoot me," she said, tilting her head toward the hostage in her grasp. "You might hit her."

"Wrong."

The warehouse exploded with the concussion of the Magnum's blast. He looked past Jenny to see Trish, her face frozen in surprise, as she slid down the wall, dragging a wide red smear behind her. An instant later, a searing heat ignited in his right side, burning through to his back.

"Get down!" He screamed at Jenny, rolling to his left before Majors could get off another shot.

The magnum roared again, sending his sinister adversary scrambling for cover.

"Jump!" He yelled. "Now!"

Springing off the steps with the dexterity of a cat, Jenny landed next to him in a low crouch.

Seeing Majors dive and roll behind some debris, he took the opportunity to grab his charge by the arm and the pair sprinted back through the darkness toward the exit.

Running and firing at the same time, Aaron's two successive shots missed Majors by fractions of an inch, shattering the bricks of a nearby pillar. The flying shrapnel chased Majors behind a massive milling machine, out of the line of sight.

Finally reaching the exit, the fleeing pair burst into the sunlight, slamming the door behind them. They crossed an open lot adjoining the factory, hiding behind the rusted wheel of an abandoned railroad car. Both gasping from the exertion of their escape, they paused while he got his bearings. Flipping the Magnum's still-warm cylinder out, he grimly confirmed only two live rounds remained, each one clearly discernible by the absence of an indentation on the primer cap.

He took Jenny's arm in a firm grip, checking the door for signs of pursuit. "We've got to move...now."

Running from cover to makeshift cover, he led her away from the vacant lot toward the suddenly-present hum of street traffic. Looking down the road, he saw an intersection about one hundred yards to his left. The pair moved quickly toward the crosswalk and the traffic waiting for the light to change.

Aaron risked another glance over his shoulder, seeing Majors' convertible emerge from behind the loading dock. He broke into a run, quickly studying the cars waiting at the light, searching for the oldest one possible. He turned again to see Jenny lagging a few steps behind. "Step it up," he said, pointing at the car rapidly coming up behind the fleeing pair. "We've got company."

Walking past several newer vehicles, he grabbed the door handle of an ancient pick-up truck. Finding it unlocked, he pulled it open, ignoring the startled shouts from the driver as he yanked him from the truck then slid behind the wheel himself.

"Get in!" he yelled at Jenny, watching the assassin's car burst through a chain-link fence, heading straight for them.

Jenny climbed into the passenger side and slammed the door with a loud bang. Seeing the convertible in the rear-view mirror, Aaron floored the accelerator and ran the red light, shooting across the intersection. Horns honked angrily as a speeding car careened off the road, narrowly missing them, the tires screeching in protest.

Jenny watched Aaron steal hurried glances in the rear-view mirror as they burst into the thick traffic of Boston's narrow surface streets. She felt a sharp jolt shoot through her as he jumped the truck over the curb, barreling down the sidewalk and scattering frightened pedestrians in all directions.

Heart pounding, she checked the mirror outside her window as Aaron worked the truck between two lanes of cars slowing for the yellow light at the next block. Sliding around a corner with tires spinning, she watched in horror as Majors' convertible bounced off a parked car in a cloud of broken glass. Metal shrieking, the assassin's car tore its way free, dropping the front bumper on the street before resuming the chase.

He closed the distance and Jenny gasped in fear as she saw the barrel of a gun appear, a sleek black form protruding from the driver's window. With a startled scream, she ducked below the seatback as the bullet shattered the glass above her head before passing through the truck's roof.

"Stay down!" Aaron yelled as he yanked the wheel back and forth, continuing to dodge the other cars while trying to keep out of Majors' line of fire.

Peeking over the seat, she watched the convertible angle closer for another shot, pushing a green sedan off the road, its unsuspecting driver unable to avoid smashing through the plate glass doors of a store-front café.

She screamed again as another round holed the rear window to pass between their heads, the near-miss sending spider cracks through the windshield while glass fragments filled the air.

She bounced back and forth across the seat as Aaron swerved between lanes, drawing angry shouts and obscene gestures from the other drivers as he cut them off, sending them spinning out of control.

Seeming to come from nowhere, Majors suddenly appeared next to her door. She drew a breath to scream as the assassin's gun rose up to take aim. Before she could utter a sound, the window in front of her exploded. She felt a flash of hot pain as a piece of glass struck her face, slicing her chin in a thin red line. The bullet passed through the door post, narrowly missing Aaron's head as he fought to control the speeding pickup.

Getting closer to the broken window, Majors lined up for another shot. Aaron yelled a warning, pulling the magnum from his belt. "Get down!"

She threw herself flat on the seat, giving him a clear shot through the now-disintegrated window. She flinched as the gun in Aaron's hand roared, causing Majors to swerve away, smashing into a group of mailboxes stationed at the corner. She saw a plume of smoke billow out behind the convertible as it pushed the shattered hulks out of the way.

Pop-Pop, she heard two more rounds bury themselves in the steel behind her head.

"That bastard just won't give up!" Aaron yelled as he scanned the road ahead, franticly searching for a way to evade the persistent killer before he could close the distance again. Majors' car roared onto the passing lane, this time coming up to Aaron's door already firing. Bullets pinged off the cab and passed through the already-shattered windshield.

Aaron slammed on the brakes, throwing Jenny to the passenger-side floor in an undignified heap. She couldn't see the assassin's car from her prone position, but as she struggled to regain her seat, she saw Aaron push the barrel of the magnum out his window and the pistol roared again.

The bullet smashed into the convertible's windshield directly in front of Majors face, blasting a hole in the glass the size of a grapefruit and obliterating a chunk of the assassin's ear. The distraction was all Aaron needed.

He yanked the steering wheel hard to the left. Rocking the speeding convertible with a horrific jolt and a screech of tearing metal, he pushed Majors off the road into the deep snow of the median.

The truck spun violently as Aaron's arms flashed back and forth, trying to regain control the sliding pick-up before it rolled over.

Jenny felt the truck lurch forward again as Aaron stomped on the accelerator, pinning her to the seat and leaving their attacker behind, the front of the convertible buried to the windshield in frozen white powder. After a few seconds, Jenny peeked over the back of the seat, checking the road behind them again and finding no sign of their attacker.

Adrenaline still running wild, she sat trembling as the heater whined, struggling against the icy air coming in through the missing windows. "I think we lost him." She said.

A heavy silence suddenly permeated the interior of the truck's cab, nearly suffocating both occupants, as they sped away.

"Are you all right?" Aaron asked, his deep voice breaking the unnatural quiet.

She turned toward him; her face tinged a pale green. "I think I'm going to be sick!"

She groaned, twisting in her seat as the bile climbed in her throat. She pushed open the door of the moving truck while the knots in her stomach burst into spasmodic convulsions. Hanging her head out into a blast of freezing air, she gagged as her stomach turned itself inside-out, releasing what little it contained onto the street flashing beneath her feet. She felt his strong arm grab her coat by the collar, preventing her from tumbling out the open door as she wretched miserably.

Reduced now to dry heaves, the spasms finally relaxed. Pulling her back to sit upright, she felt the cable-like tension of her coat around her chest ease as he released her collar.

"Feel better?"

"Pull over!" she yelled.

He continued to stare at the traffic ahead in silence.

"Let me out!"

"This is not a good time to go sight-seeing. Haven't you noticed that someone's trying to kill us?" he said incredulously. "We have to keep moving."

"What I noticed was that you were prepared to give those monsters my project!" she snapped angrily. "Are you insane?"

"I don't think you understand the gravity of what was about to happen back there. I was just trying to get us out in one piece."

"You said you would give them my project if they let us go," her face began to regain some color and she continued. "How could you even consider doing that?"

"I couldn't watch you die."

The admission stung like a sharp slap to the face, the resignation in his voice cutting her to the bone. She folded her arms across her chest in blunt defiance. "I'd rather die than see my project in their hands."

He locked his gaze to hers. "You say that. Have you ever seen death before today?"

"My father died in a car accident when I was twelve."

"I'm sorry to hear that, but what I meant was sudden, violent death...up-close and personal."

She glared at him in silence.

He went on unimpeded. "The kind of death where you're engulfed in cordite fumes and you realize that metallic smell in the air is your buddy's blood."

The color once again drained from her face and her hand flew to cover her mouth.

"I didn't think so."

Aaron turned back to stare at the road through the cracked windshield, wincing as the truck lurched into the air, bouncing through potholes that shook him in his seat. He reached his hand into his jacket and she heard him suck in a sharp breath.

"You're hurt!" she exclaimed.

"It's nothing."

She pulled his hand from under his jacket and caught a fleeting glimpse of the red stain on his fingers before he could hide it.

"Let me see it." She demanded.

She reached forward, pulling his coat away from his body. Searching under the layers of leather and lining, her hands encountered his shirt, the sticky cloth wet with blood.

She gasped. "Oh, my God! You've been shot!"

"I'll live."

"You'll bleed to death!"

"Relax. I won't bleed to death. It's not that bad."

"How do you know that?"

"I've been shot before."

The revelation stunned her into silence. She felt her stomach lurch again and swallowed repeatedly, fighting the uncontrollable impulse to puke a second time.

The conversation stopped and a strained, tentative calm settled over them as the truck darted in and out of the traffic on Commercial Street.

Turning onto Atlantic Avenue, the pair blended into the growing throng fleeing the urban sights and sounds of the city. Spotting the on-ramp for I-93 south, Aaron gunned the old pick-up's motor, heading toward the I-95 interchange and the open road. The long minutes of strained quiet turned into almost an hour as each percolated their individual thoughts, keeping them to themselves and listening to the ever-present whine of the studded snow tires on the wet asphalt.

After what seemed to her like days, Aaron broke the pall that had grown with each passing mile.

"We're almost there."

"Where is that?" she asked.

"A friend of mine has a safe place we can stay for the night."

"You need a hospital."

"I'm not going to a hospital."

"You need medical attention for that wound."

"I'll get it...later," he said. "Right now, we need to get you off the street and out of sight."

Part four - The Better Part of Valor

Chapter Thirty-Nine

The adrenaline charging through his sore muscles, Clark Majors threw the reading lamp with all his rage-enhanced strength. Hitting a gilded mirror hanging on the wall, the horrific impact exploded both lamp and mirror in a shower of flying glass.

Standing alone in Trish's hotel room, his rage flowed through him in pounding waves, spilling out in a hailstorm of uncontrollable violence.

"Casey! You son of a bitch!" He screamed at the ceiling in frustration.

Releasing a strangled roar, he overturned the small table and chair set previously nestled under the window. Swinging one chair over his head, he crushed the other, reducing it to matchsticks. Blinding fury, still unchecked, ran hot in his veins as he continued to vent his anger like some drug-addled rock star. He slammed his fist into the wall below a small oil painting. The concussion dislodged the canvass and holed the wall in an explosion of plaster chunks, filling the air with fine white dust.

A fiery shock raced the length of his arm to burst in his shoulder. The pain, now a welcome distraction, popped the expanding cloud of boiling rage like an over-filled balloon.

Breathing heavily, he noticed Trish's purse resting on an end table. He stared at the small handbag for several seconds, reliving a nebulous vision of her placing it there before they'd made love. An unexpected sense of loss crawled across his senses, nearly overwhelming him before he battled it back, imprisoning it in the dark recesses of his frenzied mind.

"She's gone. Nothing I can do about that now...but he will be sorry." He quietly vowed to the empty room.

He shook his bleeding hand, the fiery sting of the wound further focusing his sadistic thoughts on the task before him, the one he must now complete alone.

I've gotta finish the job. I owe Trish that much. But...I'm going to settle the score with that bastard before it's over.

His eyes darted around the room, seeing the destruction he'd left in his wake.

Someone must have heard that. I've got to sanitize this room and clear out...Now!

He dropped Trish's empty suitcase on the bed, flipping open the lid. Ignoring the throbbing ache of his damaged fingers, he moved to the closet and began to gather her few possessions. He again thought of Casey and his stomach clenched in acidic rage while he carefully laid his fallen partner's clothes into the open bag.

As he worked, he visualized his hands closing around his nemesis' throat, fingers digging into the soft flesh. In his mind's eye he let the malevolent energy flow, the vise-like grip squeezing harder and harder, until he felt the rewarding snap of breaking vertebra.

He shook the vision from his head, folding the suitcase shut and lifting it from the bed.

Casey, you will pay for what you took from me.

Once again in his own room, he snatched the bottle of Jack Daniels off the desk, pouring several inches into a glass. He swallowed deeply, welcoming the liquor's fiery sting, and moved to the bathroom to tend his injuries. After cleaning and taping his damaged ear, he wound a makeshift bandage around his battered fingers. Returning to the living room, he scrubbed his unshaven face in his palms. He took several deep breaths, the inferno of rage now a low smoldering, the emotional wildfire of the previous half-hour consumed by its own intensity.

Where could they be now? Casey's not stupid. He won't go home or anywhere near his offices...same for Ryan. How do I get them to surface?

His devious mind shuffled a slate of possible ways to reacquire his targets into coalescence, bringing his anger in check and his determination to a razor's edge. An insidious idea percolated to the top of his Machiavellian thoughts.

Simple, grab someone he cares about. He must have a family...friends. He took someone I cared about...time to return the favor.

He sat down, opening Trish's laptop. The memory of her resting on the very same couch just hours before came flooding back, immersing him in a blazing pyre of feral emotion.

Aaron Casey...He touched the enter key and waited for the WebCrawler to do its work. Google's dispassionate response contained thousands of results.

Okay. Let's narrow it down.

He tapped the keys again. Aaron Casey...Boston...

A few thudding heartbeats later the computer responded with a much smaller list. He skimmed the entries, passing those heralding awards and ribbon cuttings, before a single headline leapt from the screen, standing out from the rest.

Jury Verdict: DUI caused fatal crash.

The teaser was subtitled as well and he continued reading.

Construction Co. heiress the lone survivor.

Clicking on the link, a full color picture of a horrific car crash appeared on the screen. Seconds later, the image resolved, flanked by the inset headshots of a man and two women. Clark read the accompanying text, greedily consuming the details of the tragedy's only survivor.

So Casey, you have a sister. I'll bet you'd do anything for her, wouldn't you?

He lined up his thoughts like dominos until a path came into view. The road lined with piercing hatred, his mind created a clear avenue to a righteous, incendiary wrath on the man who'd ripped Trish away from him.

He closed the lid, shutting down the computer. An insidious grin crossed his features.

Casey, I'm going to make you hurt in ways you can't even imagine.

He packed his things and walked out of the hotel a few minutes later. No one seemed to notice him as he stepped off the elevator. He by-passed the busy lobby, instead moving down a back hallway and out into the parking lot beyond.

A tedious drive along Boston's crowded streets into the village of Chelsea, and he now stood outside the home of Elizabeth Casey, Aaron Casey's sister and the sole survivor of the tragic accident that had claimed two lives.

The small white cottage, trimmed in pale blue, was a study in Victorian elegance. The gingerbread decorations lavished on the tiny dwelling reminded him of pictures he'd seen in glossy magazines. He raised his hand to the polished brass knocker, rapping loudly on the base plate.

In seconds a soft, female voice replied, the words muffled by the door separating them.

"Just a minute!" She said.

He could hear a faint tap-tap, the noise repeating and getting louder as the woman made her way toward the door. The knob turned and a face came into view as the door moved aside, restrained by a gold safety chain.

The young woman who answered was radiant, a long fall of auburn hair offsetting her peaches and cream complexion. Behind the amber lenses of her glasses, he saw the sightless blue eyes darting to and fro, unable to lock on his face.

She peered out through the small crack between door and frame. "Yes?"

"Are you Elizabeth Casey?" he asked, mimicking the slick tones and demeanor of a door-to-door salesman. He knew the answer before the question left his lips.

She donned a small, polite smile, displaying twin rows of perfect, white teeth. "I am. What can I do for you?"

He studied the petite and attractive 27 year-old in earnest for several seconds, weighing the chances she would be home alone. His split-second assumption that she was proved to be correct.

She called out tentatively. "Hello? Are you there?"

Getting no answer, she opened the door a few more inches, the safety chain reaching its stop. It was enough.

Clark threw his shoulder into the door with elephantine force, breaking the safety chain and knocking the small woman sprawling into the foyer. Stepping through the entrance, he moved toward his victim, now lying stunned on the slate floor.

She moaned in pain, trying to crawl away. He grabbed her roughly by the arm and jerked her to her feet.

Her scream ripped the air.

The foyer echoed as he silenced her with a sharp open-handed slap, her shattered glasses skidding across the floor.

"Shut up!" He barked.

Twisting behind her, he slipped a thick forearm around her throat. A painful squeeze choked off any further outbursts. Frozen in fear, she stood motionless in his grip, small tremors of terror shaking her petite limbs.

"Take what you want," she gasped, forcing the words out between clenched teeth. "Just don't hurt me."

He loosened his grip on her throat, allowing her a truncated breath.

"Relax. I'm not here to rob you. If you do as I say, you won't be harmed."

"What do you want?" she croaked in terror. Her voice constricted by the controlling grasp, the horrifying possibilities of what he might do ran wild in her fertile imagination.

"I want to talk to your brother. Where is he?"

"What brother? I live alone."

"Don't insult my intelligence." He tightened his grip around her throat, bringing a strangled squeal from his defenseless captive. "Where is he?"

He held her motionless for several agonizing seconds while a black cloud of panic and oxygen deprivation bloomed in her head, scrambling her terrified thoughts. She felt herself begin to lose consciousness, her body going limp in his arms.

He released his lock on her neck and she pulled in several deep, coughing breaths. Tangling his fingers in her hair, he dragged the frightened woman out of the entryway, into the small kitchen beyond. He forced her down into a straight-backed chair in the breakfast nook.

"Don't move." He ordered, then took a zip-tie from his pocket and secured her hands to the chair.

"I'll ask one more time. Where is your brother?"

"I told you. I don't know." She sucked in a gulp of air, forcing the clouds from her vision. "He doesn't live here."

"Well then, you're going to help me find him."

"Why would I do that?" Tapping into a well of surging adrenaline, her hastily mustered confidence pierced the veil of fear, causing him to unconsciously smile at her grit.

"Because I'm going to hurt you if you don't."

Her trembling momentary stopped as his cruelly rendered words registered on her senses. A tear ran down her cheek. She sniffed loudly. "You think that hasn't occurred to me already?"

She wiped the tear off on her shoulder and continued. "I know how this works. I give you whatever you want, and you kill me anyway. Right?"

Clark cleared his throat, the loud sound reverberating off the kitchen's pale blue walls. "It doesn't have to be that way. I just want to talk to your brother. We have some unfinished business."

Still staring straight ahead, she raised an eyebrow in skepticism. "I don't believe you. My brother would never do business with someone like you."

"We just have a misunderstanding, that's all. I just want to meet with him and work it out."

She struggled in the chair, pulling against her bonds. "I won't help you!"

"Then it will get very bad for you."

The click of the automatic's hammer reached her hyper-sensitive ears. She stiffened at the metallic sound. "I may be blind, but my hearing is excellent," she said. "Shooting me won't get you whatever it is you want."

"We'll let your brother decide that. I think he might have a different opinion."

He pulled a cell phone from the pocket of his pants. "Let's call him."

"You're making a big mistake." She said, a grim smile crossing her lips. "You have no idea who you're dealing with."

"I think I have a pretty good idea. I'm dealing with a doting brother who, I'm confident, will do anything to save his sister's life. We'll see if he's as devoted to you as I think he is. You better hope he is."

"I still won't help you." Sitting upright, chin held high, she moved her head toward the sound of his voice, trying to line up her face with her captor. "Go ahead. Shoot me!"

He placed the pistol's barrel against her forehead. She stiffened at the feel of the cold steel on her skin.

Agonizing seconds ticked off the clock as she silently waited for death to claim her.

"Do it already!" She hissed.

"Un-freaking-believable." Clark said, now pointing the gun at the floor.

She slowly began to breathe again.

"I'll never give in," she continued. "So you see, your threat has no teeth. It only works if I'm afraid. I'm not." She paused for a second, before her soft voice again filled the small room, her words clipped. "You're the one who should be afraid."

He leaned on the counter's edge, folding his arms across his chest in defiance. "Really, and why is that?"

"If you knew anything about my brother, you'd run for your life. Because when he finds you, he will kill you."

"That's a lot of confidence in a man who's not here to back it up."

She gave him a small, cryptic smile, the expression joining her unseeing gaze. "You broke into his sister's house and took her hostage...threatened to kill her. He'll hunt you down like the animal you are."

He snorted in disbelief as he paced in front of her.

She continued her diatribe, the tone now crisp and matter-of-fact as a stoic, resigned confidence flowed into her words. "If I were you, I'd leave now, while you might still have a chance to get away."

He considered her words for a minute before small peals of quiet laughter fell from his lips. "You didn't think that was really going to work, did you? I think you seriously underestimate my resolve."

"I think you underestimate my brother's. There's nowhere you'll be safe. In fact, it's already too late," she said, shaking her head in resignation. "No matter what you do now, you're a dead man."

"Me...run away...not a chance," He stood before her once again, leaning forward, inches from her face. "I look forward to meeting up with your brother again. That's why you're going to arrange it for me."

He reclaimed the phone from its resting place on the counter, flipping it open.

"Let's give him a ring." He said, the gentle voice full of manufactured benevolence. "We'll see just how strong his resolve is when there's a gun to your head."

"I told you, I won't help you."

As she mentally prepared for his response, the sound of a key rattling in the back door interrupted the arguing pair.

Mom! Oh God, not now!"

A voice called out from the other room, startling both the occupants.

A female voice, soft and lilting, floated in from the hallway. "Beth, I'm back!"

Hearing the greeting, Beth's blood froze in her veins. The captive woman went white when she realized the voice belonged to her care-giver, Melissa Stanton.

In an instant, the gun was back at her temple. "Say a word and she dies." His order rang in Beth's ears as her heart raced, banging against her ribs like a drum.

Clark pulled the gun away from her head and she tracked the sound of his footsteps as he moved toward the new arrival.

She heard a small scuffle in the laundry room, followed by the sickening thud of a body collapsing to the floor. The bile rose in her throat as she considered the horrific possibilities.

She heard his heavy footsteps as he reentered the kitchen, the accompanying dragging sound causing her panic to return in flooding waves.

"What did you do to her?" she gasped. "Did you kill her?"

Clark returned to Beth's side and she felt his hot breath on her ear.

"I didn't kill her. I knocked her out. She'll live...If you do what you're told."

"I told you, I don't know where my brother is."

He pulled the trigger and she heard the faint Puufftt of a silenced shot,

"You shot her!" Beth shrieked, then broke into horrified sobs that racked her body. "How could you do that?"

"I didn't kill her."

She sniffed loudly. "But I heard the shot."

"I shot her in the shoulder." He said. "But she'll bleed to death very quickly if you don't make that call."

She nodded as a new wave of tears appeared, acknowledging the futility of her situation. "All right. You win. I'll do what you want...you bastard! Just don't hurt her anymore."

"What happens to her...that depends entirely on you...and your brother." He said.

"He's going to make you pay for what you're doing."

Chapter Forty

Aaron drove the bullet-ridden pick-up truck right through the open gates and into the yard at Big Ed's Auto Salvage. He made his way back through an intricate steel maze created by stacks of smashed and cannibalized vehicles of every description. Finding a secluded place in the vast expanse of the mechanical morgue, he parked the truck between a towering barbed-wire fence and the scorched hulk of a burned-out motorhome.

As he led Jenny back toward the front of the yard, the alarm bells began to ring in his head, his danger sense tingling hotly. He slowed his pace, listening for any sounds that would betray an unfriendly presence. Hearing none, the pair continued on while the hair on the back of his neck still bristled, remaining upright in silent warning.

"I thought you might show up here," Ed said, suddenly appearing in the middle of the road, startling his two visitors.

"You don't sound too happy to see us." Aaron replied.

"On the contrary, I'm very glad to see you. It's just that if you're here, the situation must be worse than I thought."

"That's putting it mildly," he said, bringing Jenny to stand next to him. "Ed, this is Dr. Jennifer Ryan. Jenny this is Ed O'Brian. You can trust him. He can help us."

Ed extended his hand to Jenny. "Nice to meet you."

With the pleasantries now over, the three moved toward the office. Ed pointed to the building, "There's food and stuff inside. Help yourself."

Jenny pointed at the rapidly expanding bloodstain on Aaron's coat. "He needs a hospital. He's been wounded."

Once inside the warm and comfortable confines of his personal apartments, Ed looked at the puckered skin and torn flesh of the two wounds along Aaron's ribcage and scowled.

"Nice work," he said, retrieving a quart bottle of Glenlivet scotch from a side-board cabinet. He handed the 15-year old whiskey to his guest. "A little liquid anesthetic?"

"Don't mind if I do," Aaron said as he pulled a long draw straight from the bottle. He stopped to breathe, then took a second, smaller swallow. "Thanks."

Unrolling a white towel on the counter, Ed laid out the pieces of his first aid kit in neat rows. "A through-and-through, and not a small caliber either, looks like a 9 mill. Overall you were pretty lucky." he said as he worked to staunch the bleeding.

Aaron winced as Ed pulled the black thread through his skin, then cut the last suture.

"I can't believe I missed that back-up piece in his pocket," Aaron groused, gritting his teeth in pain. "I must be getting senile."

"Well, nobody's perfect." Ed observed as he exchanged the open bottle of scotch in Aaron's hand for a crystal rocks glass. He filled it, and then sat on a small leather-covered bench near the center of the room.

Warming themselves by the fire, Aaron and Jenny took turns telling Ed everything that happened to them in the past 72 hours.

"Thanks." Aaron said as he accepted a refill, grimacing in pain as he gingerly touched his bandaged wound.

Ed saw him wince and tossed a lopsided grin. "Suck it up, It's only 10 stitches," he said, passing off the injury with a dismissing wave of his hand. "We did worst than that at BUD/s...to each other."

"What's Buds?" Jenny asked, sitting on the small leather covered couch across the room, her hands wrapped around a steaming mug of tea. "Some kind of drinking game?"

"It's a club we belong to, kind of like a fraternity." Ed answered.

Aaron smiled to himself at the memories Ed's left-handed comment evoked.

With a drop-out rate of close to 90 percent, BUD/s or Basic Underwater Demolition/SEALs training, is the human crucible where the Navy forged the soft coal of raw recruits. Those that survived the twenty-four week course became diamond-hard, the inhuman trials driving self-doubt and fear from their minds and bodies.

Men who endured BUD/s together, men like Aaron Casey and Ed O'Brian, were more than fellow naval officers, they were brothers, bonded to each other for life...or death.

Downing the contents of his own glass, Ed cleared his throat and fixed his gaze on his friend. "Well, you really stepped in it this time, pal."

The two long-time friends discussed detailed options about what to do next, while Jenny sat by the fireplace sipping tea, listening intently, occasionally asking a question or offering a suggestion.

After an hour, Ed stretched his legs toward the fire. "You also need to know that the Fed, Raven, she's convinced your friend here plotted to steal the battery project and sell it."

Aaron rolled his eyes at Ed's revelation and downed the rest of his drink, the amber liquid stinging his throat and invigorating him at the same time. "I got that impression when I spoke to her before. Just great!"

Ed turned to him and shrugged his shoulders. "I tried to get her to consider other options but she wouldn't budge," he took a swig from his glass and thought aloud. "Nice ass...and great tits...but stubborn as a rock."

Aaron raised a disapproving eyebrow at Ed's lascivious comment before he glanced across the room and noticed Jenny was now fast asleep on the couch. "Sshhh," he said, finger to his lips. "Quiet. She needs to rest."

Lowering his voice, Aaron continued. "I know all about Raven. I met her before those two put the bag on me. She seemed to be a professional," he grinned at his friend. "Even if she is a rock."

The pair made their way across the room and sat in two leather recliners, their faces glowing red with the reflected flames of the fireplace. Aaron sipped his drink, then spoke. "I don't understand why Raven won't listen to reason. She must have seen the surveillance footage by now," he said. "She must know Jenny's a victim, not a suspect."

Ed poured another large measure of Scotch into his glass and held out the bottle toward his friend. "Jesus Christ! Aaron," he said, shooting back a sizable belt from his drink and trying to keep his voice down. "First the FBI and that Army prick, now some kind of hired mercenary, you two walked into a real shit-storm. There are a lot of people who would kill for this kind of technology."

"You and I know that," Aaron said, cocking his thumb toward the couch and its sleeping occupant. "But, she has no clue what these kind of people are really capable of. She thinks we can 'all just get along'."

The two glanced at Jenny's blanket-covered form and Aaron unconsciously grinned at the sound of her gentle snoring as it floated across the room.

Ed took another belt of whiskey then held the glass up, carefully studying the firelight refracted through the eighty-proof liquid's amber body. "All right Aaron, I have to ask you something but I don't want to get my nose broken for doing it."

Aaron raised an eyebrow at Ed's lead-in. "What?"

"How far into this girl are you?"

Aaron cast an unreadable look at his friend. "What do you mean?"

"Just what I said. How far into this girl are you? What does she mean to you?"

He shrugged his shoulders. "I'm just trying to help her."

"Really. That's all?"

"That's all."

"That's not what I see. I see you going to a lot of trouble for someone who's supposedly a random stranger."

Aaron gave a small chuckle. "You're vision never was any good."

"Bullshit! I've known you most of your life and I can see your feelings for this girl are more than you're telling me."

"So, now you're clairvoyant?"

"No, and here's where the broken nose comes in; When you look at her, I recognize that look. I've seen it before."

"Really. When?"

Aaron thought about the comment for a split-second before turning back to his friend, understanding showing in his blazing eyes. "Don't even go there."

"I have to. It was when you looked at Heather."

"Fuck you!" he glared at his friend. "I can't believe you would say that. I can't believe you would even think it. You of all people!"

"I'm sorry. But you have to admit you haven't exactly been the picture of mental health lately."

"I'm fine."

Ed cocked an eyebrow. "Still having the nightmares?"

Aaron didn't answer. The silence providing all the response the other man needed, he pressed on. "Still drinking more than three nights a week?

"So, what if I am?"

Ed looked his friend in the eye. "I rest my case."

Aaron took another deep swig of his drink. "Bite me."

"Screw the broken nose. You need to hear this...You're hiding."

Aaron's eyes locked on Ed's, the gaze punishing in its intensity. "Are you nuts?"

"No. You were the smartest, strongest, most emotionally together man I'd ever met. You had your shit in one sock. Now you spend your days buried in work and your nights drinking alone so you don't have to face reality."

Aaron's face flushed a bright red. "You think I don't face reality?"

He jumped to his feet then began pacing back and forth in front of the fireplace. "How much more reality am I supposed to face?" he said, the words now coming in a staccato burst. "Dad's gone and Mom's a basket-case. Beth's trying to cope with life in the dark...and Heather's... Heather's..."

Ed spoke softly. "You can say it. Heather's...dead."

Aaron's hand tightened around his glass, fingers turning white with tension. Ed feared the tumbler might explode from the pressure.

Aaron drew a long breath and held it for several seconds before releasing it in stages, his anger visibly deflating before his friend's eyes.

"Yes. Heather's dead. Is that what you wanted to hear? She's dead and it's my fault."

"No. It wasn't. It was a stupid kid's fault."

Silence filled the dark room for a moment before Ed continued. "What could have you done to prevent it?"

Aaron glared at him in forced silence.

"You have to stop blaming yourself. It's killing you."

"What are you now, my shrink?" Aaron barked, then slammed another shot of whiskey.

"No. I'm just a guy who knows you, probably better than anyone else."

"You don't know shit." He said acidly.

"I think you're attracted to this doctor, or at least you want to be, and that makes you feel like you're betraying Heather."

"Enough!" Aaron snapped, turning his back on his friend.

"Admit it. You like her," Ed challenged. "Hell, I've known her for all of five minutes and I like her. She's pretty, she's smart. She's a PhD. for cryin' out loud, what's not to like?"

"You're determined to get that broken nose, aren't you?"

"You know I'm right."

"I said that's enough, please."

"You know what I think?"

"No, but I'm sure you'll tell me...whether I want to hear it or not." he said.

"Heather loved you. I think she'd be pretty pissed if she saw how you've been acting. Do you think she'd be happy to know that you'd buried yourself along with her?"

A thick silence permeated the room for almost a full minute before either man spoke.

"Look Aaron, I was there...standing right next to you...at the funeral. When they lowered her into the ground I saw you climb in with her. I feel like I lost two people that day."

"Just stop!" Aaron said, his ragged voice filling the room. "Everybody tells you to 'get on with your life'. Well, it's just not that simple."

"I never said it was simple, but it is necessary."

"Can we just stay focused on the immediate problem, please?" Aaron said, indicating the sleeping doctor with a nod of his head. "We have to get her someplace safe."

Having said his piece and mercifully spared his proboscis, Ed upended his glass and poured his fourth. "She needs us. That much is clear. Problem with this mission bro, is that you two aren't any safer here than you are out there. That Fed is smart. She didn't come here by accident and if she can find you, those goons can too. You can bet on it."

Absently swirling his fifth drink in small revolutions, Aaron watched the liquor circle the glass, contemplating their situation for long moments.

"Christ Aaron, why does this shit always happen to you?" Ed asked rhetorically.

"Just lucky I guess," he flipped his head back and emptied his drink again. He reached out his glass toward Ed. "Hit me."

Ed gave him a questioning stare.

He repeated his demand. "Hit me."

"Okay. I ain't your Papa." Ed filled the glass.

Aaron watched the sun climb over the horizon as he stared out the window into the wrecking yard beyond. For more than an hour he'd admired the sharply contrasting beauty of the sun's reflection off the snow-covered, rusting hulks on the other side of the glass.

After prowling the floor at Ed's for the remainder of his sleepless night, Aaron scratched his unshaven face and poured his third cup of coffee. He crossed the room and rousted his friend, kicking the chair Ed slept in. The ex-sailor snapped awake and instantly alert, a menacing black automatic appeared, as if by magic, in his hand. "What's up? We got company?"

With his head throbbing from blood loss and the over-indulgence in Glasgow's finest, Aaron answered the other man. "No. We're secure. But it's time Jenny and I left. It's too dangerous for us to be here."

Ed rubbed his eyes. "Okay. I won't ask where you're headed, because we both know that Fed will probably be back and I can't spill what I don't know."

"Thanks. We're going to need a car." Aaron said. "We can't take that truck I 'borrowed'. It's full of bullet holes."

Thinking for a moment, Ed smiled. "I think I can manage that."

"And I need to raid your private armory."

"Cool with me." Ed said as he stood and stretched. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a set of keys, tossing then to Aaron. "You know where it is. Take what you need."

After waking Jenny, Aaron waited for her to get into the shower before he went to finish packing a few last necessities.

Aaron gently tapped his fingertips along the tongue and groove paneling in Ed's workshop, running his palms along the smooth, richly-oiled planks. He located the loose knot in the wall and removed it, revealing a keyhole underneath. He unlocked the hidden door and looked down a short flight of stone steps leading into the darkness.

Aaron descended the stairs and came to the armory's steel security door. With the turn of the key, it opened silently on heavy, well-oiled hinges as he pushed it out of the way. He reached into the dark room and felt along the left side wall for the light switch. Finding it, he threw the room into bright illumination.

The stark concrete walls reflected the harsh fluorescent light. He took in the rows of firearms and various other weapons stored in racks and on shelves along all four walls. Stepping into the center of a gun freak's wet dream, he pulled a G.I. rucksack of olive-drab canvas from the shelf to his right and began to make his selections.

He started with a pair of K-bar double-edged knives, one going into a sheath he strapped to his left forearm, the other on his right calf. Then he pulled a matched pair of Colt model 1911 45 cal. automatic pistols out of a wooden crate. Hefting one of the guns, he tested the action, feeling the reassuring weight in his hand before placing it inside the bag with its partner. Next on the list was a black Smith and Wesson 25 cal. automatic. For the good doctor, he mused. Extra ammunition and magazines for each completed the small arms acquisitions, then it was on to the heavy artillery.

He moved past the shelves to a row of free-standing gun racks and an 8mm Mauser bolt-action rifle with a long-range scope joined the handguns, making the ensemble complete.

That ought to do. He thought, flipping off the lights and ascending the stairs back to the workshop.

Half an hour later Aaron and Jenny were packed up and ready to leave. She hadn't spoken to him since waking. However, he did notice she was no longer glaring daggers at him.

Aaron felt a small vibration come through the soles of his shoes, climbing his body as it gained in strength and intensity. Just when he thought he'd imagined the sensation, Jenny looked at him with concern on her face. "What's that?" she asked, as the feeling became a sound, the small rumble growing in volume.

He returned Jenny's quizzical look when mechanical thunder began coming from outside the shop's roll-up door. The automatic opener groaned in protest and the building shook with the increasing roar of an engine as the massive door to the bay retraced slowly, letting in a blast of frozen air.

With the din becoming deafening, Aaron's eyes opened wide in surprise as Ed backed a giant SUV into the empty space. He let out a small chuckle when the massive tires and never-ending fenders came into view. When the cab windows appeared, Aaron cupped hands to his mouth and yelled up to driver's seat. "Hey Ed, Mad Max called! He said he wants his truck back!"

Ed looked down at Aaron, smiled broadly and flipped him off.

Ed turned the key and the engine died instantly, the sudden silence almost a physical blow. He stuck his head out the window. "I think you'll like this one."

Opening the huge door, he jumped down and continued talking. "I nicknamed it The Warthog. It's a 1966 International Travel-All," he said. "She may not be pretty, but she has it where it counts. 550 horsepower big-block, 36-inch tires, two 40 gallon tanks, SatNav, the works."

Following Ed to the front of the truck, Aaron took in the extra rows of headlights resting on stalks protruding from the front bumper. He also saw the bright yellow plow blade, 10 feet of solid steel, hanging from its hydraulic controls. He gave a low whistle of appreciation.

Ed continued his dissertation with the adoration of a proud parent, thumping his hand on the vehicle's massive fender. "It's the closest thing I have to an armored car right now. I built it to plow lanes for emergency vehicles. You'll need it if you're going where I think you're going."

"I can neither confirm nor deny that," Aaron said with a sly grin.

"I thought so."

Ed reached inside the cab and pulled a lever, lowering the plow to the floor with a loud, metallic clang. "Let's get this off. It'll just get in the way."

As the two men pulled clevis pins from the plow's mounting brackets, Ed spoke. "About last night, what I said about you hiding..."

Aaron interrupted him in mid-sentence, giving his friend a dismissive wave. "Forget it."

"That's just it. I don't want you to forget it. I want you to think about it. I know it's hard to swallow, but Heather's gone and you're still here. You have to figure out a way to live with that...for your own sanity."

Chapter Forty-One

The pungent, salty aroma of cooking seafood hung thick and heavy, permeating the humid air in the dining room of The White Whale restaurant.

A noisy, animated crowd filled the tables, murmurs of conversations surrounding her as Clarissa Geovoni waited for the man sitting across from her to explain himself.

Impatience getting the better of her, she slapped her hand on the table, rattling the silverware.

"What the hell do you mean, she's gone!" Her eyes burned in annoyance. "How the hell did she just disappear?"

Colonel Alex Freemont didn't respond to her angry outburst, instead sipping his drink in deep thought.

Her face stiffened in the lingering silence, the classically-sculpted features now hard and foreboding. "This is a disaster!" She took a hurried swallow of her drink, lowering her voice before continuing. "So, not only is Verde dead, but now Ryan is missing as well. We need to find her."

"No shit." The tall solider said, finishing his cocktail. He grimaced, the fine liquor now irretrievably watered down by melted ice. "I'm working on it."

She leaned back in her chair, crossing her shapely legs. "Doing what...and how did they get away in the first place?"

He related the general gist of the incident at Casey's office, drawing her attention to the butterfly bandage that closed a small wound on his forehead.

She sneered in disbelief. "How could you let yourself get out-smarted by three amateurs?" she jibed, her anger a hot flash. "You're supposed to be an Army officer. What the hell happened?"

He shot her a hard glare, his dark eyes smoldering with antipathy. "They got lucky."

"Then arrest Temple," Clarissa said, the tone harsh and demanding. "If he's got what we want, make him give it to you."

"I can't do that. An arrest means a lawyer...and media coverage. It would attract too much attention...attention we don't want."

She leaned forward, the allure of her magnificent green eyes diminished by their cold stare. "I hope I don't have to remind you, we have four days before the Senate hearing."

"I've got people looking for Ryan." He said. "She can't hide for long. We'll find her."

"That's not good enough." Clarissa said, her calm tone belying her ill-concealed anger. "We've got to have that material before that hearing or this deal falls apart...and we can't let that happen."

"I know," he said, signaling a waiter with a raise of his glass. "I'll have it back before the hearing."

A grim frown crossed her beautiful face. "You better. There's a lot riding on this." She paused for a dainty sip of her drink. "And I'm not talking about just the hearing and the money. You know there are some very powerful people who are heavily invested in this. I can tell you, they will be very unhappy if we don't lock down ownership of this project before that hearing. For them, unhappy equals dead bodies...our dead bodies."

He didn't respond to her morbid assessment of their situation.

The waiter arrived and they each ordered another round and dinner entrées.

She continued her interrogation, watching the waiter's retreating back move off across the dining room. "What about this Casey guy, where did he come from...and how much does he know?" She asked.

"He found Ryan after that idiot Murphy beat her up," he shook his head in dismissal. "He doesn't know anything. He's a do-gooder that got caught in the middle. Ignore him."

The waiter returned and she accepted the refilled glass. She paused long enough for him to quietly withdraw before shooting Freemont a withering stare. "At this point Alex, I'm not ignoring anyone." She paused a moment in concentration. "What kind of 'people' are you using to find Ryan...are they any good, or is this something else for me to worry about?"

He sipped the refreshed whiskey then answered. "I've got an FBI team on it, headed up by a first-rate agent...and all those resources." he said. "She seems to think Casey can lead her to Ryan and our missing material. Right now, I'm inclined to let her do the heavy lifting."

"The FBI? Christ, this just keeps getting better and better," she hissed, her eyes lighting bright in annoyance "Don't you think it's a little dangerous, getting an FBI agent involved?"

As he framed his answer, the shrill squawk of a cell phone interrupted the conversation. Freemont pulled the offending instrument from his pocket.

"Please excuse me for a moment." He turned his back to her.

Clarissa politely turned her head, looking away as the electronic tone repeated.

Touching a button on the phone's screen, he answered. "Colonel Freemont here." He listened intently for a few seconds and she noticed his tone change. "You have an update for me?" he asked, expectantly.

The tinny sounding words of the caller's reply were not well received.

"How the hell did he get away," he stopped in mid-rant, then looked at his partner, obviously censoring himself. "Understood. Keep me posted."

He closed the phone, remaining silent for several tense seconds.

She sipped her drink again, meeting his gaze. "Care to share?"

"That was my contact inside the FBI team, they said they have a lead. Ryan's brother was snooping around her offices, so they took him into custody, but he escaped before they could get anything useful. They're looking for him now."

She rolled her eyes in disgust. "Escaped...from the FBI...How is that even possible?"

"I'll handle it." he said in a placating tone.

She wasn't reassured.

"You'd better. Our lives are riding on it." she answered.

He took another sip of his drink before chiding her. "Oh, don't be so melodramatic!"

"You're kidding, right?" she said, fear coloring her features for the first time. "These people are powerful, and have zero tolerance for mistakes."

"We haven't made any critical errors." He corrected her. "We just have to use our resources and make this happen. We have four days."

She took another sip of her drink before answering him. "I think I'd call letting our number one resource get killed and the most important piece of the deal disappear off the face of the earth a critical error. Don't you?"

He took her hand in his and felt her tremble. "Don't worry. We'll get the designs back and this deal will go through, just like we planned."

He kissed her hand, his caress sending chills up her spine. "Then we can figure out how to spend all the money we're going to make."

She upended her glass. "You better hope so, for both our sakes."

Chapter Forty-Two

Aaron moved carefully through the moderate traffic as he drove along Diamond Hill Road, making the connection with Route 126 and crossing the border from Woonsocket, Rhode Island into Bellingham, Massachusetts. He watched the windshield wipers fight a losing battle to push the snow aside, thinking the deteriorating weather might actually be a blessing in disguise. He turned to see Jenny staring out the window.

"Are you going to give me the silent treatment forever?' he asked.

He got no response from the woman seated next to him.

"Look, I'm sorry this is happening to you, but I did what I had to, to save your life."

She turned to face him. "I have to say something and I want to get it out before you respond. Okay?"

"Okay."

"I want to apologize for the things I said yesterday. I've had some time to think and I want to say that I'm very grateful for what you did back there. You risked your life to save mine," she said, beginning to tear up. "I just can't believe you had to kill someone to do it. It's all so surreal."

He glanced away from the road to meet her eyes. "Cut yourself some slack. You've been traumatized. I'm not surprised you reacted the way you did," he said. "Anyone else would be a babbling idiot."

She clenched her jaw in tension before responding. "I'm an idiot all right. I'm an idiot for thinking I could control this. How could I have been so stupid? Two people are dead because of my research," she said. "I can't stand the thought of anyone else getting hurt."

"You can't blame yourself for any of this," he said. "Greed is a very powerful motivator."

"This is a nightmare!" The long-building tears finally started gently rolling down her cheeks.

They traveled for a few miles in silence before she spoke again. "Where are we going?"

He could still feel the tension radiating from her in thick waves.

"I'm taking us somewhere safe so we can figure out what to do next."

"Why didn't we just stay at Ed's?"

"We can't," he said. "After you fell asleep last night he told me an FBI agent came looking for us right after you were abducted. She's convinced that you and I absconded with the plans for your project."

"That's ridiculous!" she said, wiping the tears from her cheeks and shaking her head in disbelief. "Why would I steal something I created in the first place? It makes no sense."

"You steal it to sell it. To the FBI it makes perfect sense," he said. "As with everything else, it's all about money."

"But that would make me as twisted as the monsters that kidnapped me," she said. "Why would she think I'd betray my country?"

"Country has nothing to do with it," he said. "From what you said, your project is worth millions, maybe billions. That much money could turn anyone into a criminal."

"I hadn't really thought too much about the money part of it." she admitted soberly.

His eyes expanded in shock. "You're kidding, right?"

"No. I really didn't think about the technology's monetary value," she said. "As it was, the military applications alone scared the crap out of me."

"Wow, you really are naïve," he said, the words slipping out before he could filter his thoughts.

Realizing his faux pas, he gave her a sheepish look. "Sorry."

"It's okay," she said, her face now creased by a small, grim smile of resignation. "When you're right, you're right."

The two-lane stretch of paved country road came to a fork, with the main branch continuing to the left. He followed the unpaved branch to the right for several hundred yards before reaching an ancient stone fence. He stopped, looking at the three-foot embankment of snow and the unplowed stretch ahead. He engaged the four-wheel drive and continued through the massive masonry arch. Leaving traffic behind, he kept following the winding trail as it passed between dozens off huge trees. Jenny looked out the window, admiring the stark beauty of the winter landscape as they crossed over a narrow, ice-covered bridge.

The oversized tires continued churning up the snow as the Warthog clawed its way forward for half a mile, making a last sharp bend before approaching a three-story house. The red brick affair sat between several mammoth oak trees, their bare branches encased in a thick coating of ice.

"Well, here it is," he said. "Welcome to Avalon."

She climbed down from the cab and took in the massive edifice.

"Wow! This is some place." Jenny commented as she pulled two bags of provisions from the truck.

Trudging through the thickening blanket of new snow, the pair gingerly navigated the treacherous, frozen walkway. The path led through another, waist-high stone wall to an immense enclosed courtyard, then on to the front steps. Aaron pulled a key from his pocket and opened the weathered door, the intricately carved wood barrier only one side of a massive pair reaching eight feet tall and stretching just as wide.

Once inside, he led her down a long corridor, passing an elegant oak staircase leading up to the second floor. Moving past the stairs and into the kitchen, she put the bags down on the counter.

Aaron tried the faucet in the sink and was surprised when the flow emerged unimpeded.

"Okay, the pipes aren't frozen, so we have water if we need it, but the fire is it for heat," he said. "It's not the Ritz, but it'll do. I'll get the fire going and it'll be warm enough...and safe."

She followed him across the parquet floor, through an archway into the great room. She stared up fifteen feet to the ceiling and noted the endless field of embossed tin panels. To the right, huge floor-to-ceiling windows framed a magnificent view of the snow-covered woods surrounding the house. The white beauty presented a stark contrast to her dark feelings.

To the left, the great room's vast expanse ended in a triple-set of French doors. The solid glass wall opened to a redwood deck that wrapped around the entire rear of the sprawling mansion.

Aaron busied himself building a fire while Jenny admired the Grandfather clock next to the fireplace.

Jenny handed Aaron a non-descript brown paper bag. "I think Ed sent this for you."

Aaron looked inside and smiled, pulling out a large bottle of scotch, one of a pair. He raised the bottle in salute to his absent friend. "Ed, you are truly prince among men."

He cracked the seal on the bottle and took a long pull, a slight shudder running through him.

He turned to her, his measured words weighted with anxiety. "You still pissed at me?"

"I'm just embarrassed...by the way I acted."

"I think you're still in shock," he said. "You've been abducted, threatened and almost killed. That's enough to bend anybody's brain."

"Thank you for saying that. I really am sorry for what I said. I feel like such an ass," she said, shaking her head in disgust. "There's no excuse."

He tossed back another swallow. "Apology accepted."

Her eyes met his in an intense gaze. "If I ask you a question, will you tell me the truth?"

"The truth about what? I haven't lied to you."

"Who are you?"

"What do you mean?"

"What you did at that warehouse, those were not the actions of an ordinary man," she said. "Are you some kind of cop or something?"

"No. I'm not a cop. I'm just a simple guy who runs a construction company."

"I don't believe that for a second," she said, then frowned, folding her arms across her chest. "I may have spent most of my life in the lab, but I'm not stupid. If you're not a cop, then you're some kind of special forces guy or something."

"What makes you say that?"

"Are you kidding?" she said, eyes flashing, "You killed that woman without blinking an eye. You're good at it. Just watching it made me sick."

"You can think I'm some kind of savage if you want, but I won't apologize for shooting her. She would have killed you in a heartbeat. Decisive action was necessary," he took another swallow, the expensive liquor warming him. "But, I will say that I'm sorry you had to see it."

"I believe that. That's what makes you different from them. You didn't want me to see someone die."

Awkward silence filled the room for minutes before he spoke. "Care for a shot?" He held out the bottle.

She shook her head in the negative.

"Suit yourself."

"Besides," he took another stiff belt. "She violated Casey's second rule of combat."

"What's the second rule of combat?" Jenny asked, raising an eyebrow in his direction.

Aaron gave her a cock-eyed smile. "Never bring a knife to a gunfight. It shows poor planning...and it never ends well."

Her eyes expanded again and the color drained from her face. It took several seconds before she realized he was pulling her chain.

"Very funny. If that's the second rule, what's the first rule of combat?"

"Seriously, you really want to know?"

"Yes."

Pausing for a second, his face took on a deadly, serious expression. "The first rule of combat is that you never leave a man behind...ever."

"Well, I can say I'm a big fan of rule number one," she said. "It saved my life."

"Well, I hope that doesn't become necessary again," he said, smiling at her. "You're kind of growing on me."

She flushed, the heat turning her cheeks a bright red. "Well, thanks."

"You're welcome."

Jenny stewed over the pair's predicament while he showed her around the first floor.

"This place is big enough to be a hotel." She said. "It looks old." Her nose detected a faint musty smell carried on the stale air.

"It used to be a farm," he informed her. "It belonged to a friend of mine."

"Your friend doesn't mind if we stay here?"

"No. He was killed in Afghanistan last year."

"I'm seeing a pattern of that with you." She grimly opined, her attempt at gallows humor falling flat.

She continued, trying to break the stagnant tension. "Why call it Avalon if it was a farm?" she asked. "Wasn't Avalon an idyllic castle in some legend?"

He cleared his throat, speaking in strong firm tones. "Well, according to my friend Matt, from 1781 until 1912, it was a 1500-acre working farm, but then from 1912 until after WW II it was the summer residence of New York financier J.C. Westcott and his family. Westcott had the place renovated in 1916 and named it Avalon. Unfortunately, Westcott's only son died in the war and he had no other heirs. After WWII Avalon sat vacant until Matt's Grandfather purchased it for the back taxes in 1975. When Grandpa died in 2004, Matt inherited it, but never lived here."

"My God!" she gasped aloud, the sound echoing off the walls. "That makes this place over two-hundred years old."

"Two-hundred and twenty-nine, to be exact."

"That's amazing."

"That's New England; one big historic landmark."

"I saw the barn out back, mind if I go out and look around?"

"You really should stay inside. It's freezing out there."

"I need to take a walk, to clear my head. Please?"

He scratched his chin for a moment before answering. "I think we're safe enough for now," he said. "Just don't go too far from the house."

Hands now on her hips, she jutted her chin in the stubborn petulance of an annoyed teenager. "Yes, Papa." She said, chuckling.

He went to haul more firewood in as the sun began to peak, and she saw him checking on her.

The cold air refreshed her and after nearly an hour, she tromped back to the house, stamping the snow off her shoes on a mat at the back door.

He was tending the fire and she could visibly see his energy level dwindling. The blood loss from his wounds and the alcohol were taking their toll.

Retrieving an arm-load of logs from the log basket next to the hearth, he stumbled, knocking a floor lamp onto a red velvet settee.

She reached out, grabbing his arm and preventing him from toppling over. "You need to lie down for a minute."

"I'm fine," he said, waving her off with a shrug of his broad shoulders.

"Just for a few minutes?" She implored. "You're exhausted."

"Okay, maybe just for a minute." Stretching out on the worn leather couch, he acquiesced. "You might want to get some rest too, while we can. You're still recovering from your stay at Casa De Criminal."

He emitted a long painful groan as he reclined on the couch. He closed his eyes, trying to shut off the images flitting across his uneasy mind. He fell into a deep sleep despite the cold in the room.

Wandering through the thick white mist, he follows the beckoning sound of the siren's call. Pushing aside the diaphanous curtain, he sets his eyes upon her.

"Look at me," she says, the blood covering half her face, the jagged ends of broken ribs protruding from her chest, "Look at what you did."

"Oh, God! Heather, I'm so sorry." He wails, tears streaming down his face.

"Why did you let this happen? I trusted you. I loved you."

"I didn't know you went with Beth," he protests, reaching for the blood-soaked woman before him. "You were supposed to be at work."

She slaps his hand away. "You said you loved me." She points an accusing finger at him. "Liar!"

"I love you more than life! You've got to believe me!"

Her eyes burning in reproach, she answers, the wail an unsympathetic condemnation. "Then why didn't you save me?"

He falls to his knees before the apparition's withering stare. "I couldn't. I wasn't there."

Her once-beautiful countenance melts before his eyes, reforming into a hideous mask of forbidding malice.

Extending a hand now nothing but bleached bones, she touches his shoulder, sending waves of incendiary pain charging through every nerve in his tortured body.

"Then suffer!" The apparition wails, the demonic screech searing his ears.

Dropping to the damp ground of the cemetery, he writhes in agony at the foot of her grave as the very atoms of his flesh are ripped apart one by one.

Jenny gently touched the violently shaking man at his shoulder, trying to rouse him.

She moved closer to the couch, pulling on the thick blanket, trying to untangle it from his flailing limbs. He continued to twist and thrash, mumbling incoherently.

"Aaron...Aaron wake up," she said, shaking him again, this time more firmly.

In his agitation, he unconsciously swung out his left arm in a sharp arch. Her breath exploded from her lips when his elbow collided with her chest, knocking the wind out of her. Momentarily stunned, she stumbled backward, falling into a chair next to the couch.

Wow! This man is really strong, she thought as she sucked in a strained breath. She gasped for several seconds, finally getting some oxygen into her burning lungs. Standing on shaky legs, she once again moved to his side, this time keeping a safe distance from his still-undulating arms.

"Aaron!" she said, her firm voice breaking the quiet of the spacious hall.

This time she got the response she was looking for as his eyes fluttered open, quickly searching the room. He instantly pulled the automatic from under the couch cushion beneath his head.

He spoke, his voice just above a whisper. "What's wrong? Is someone here?"

"Everything is fine. You were having some kind of nightmare," she said, fixing her eyes on him.

Swinging his legs off the couch, he sat up and scrubbed his face in his hands, finally raising his gaze to meet hers. "Are you okay?"

"Yes, but you pack a mean elbow." She said, rubbing her sore ribs.

"Oh, my God!" he gasped, his face suddenly ashen. "Did I hurt you?"

"It's okay. You didn't hurt me," she said. "Next time I'll know enough not to get so close."

"I'm sorry," he said. "I have these nightmares from time to time."

She picked up the blanket, neatly folding it and placing it on the cushion next to him. "Who's Heather?"

"Why do you ask?"

"You called out to her in your sleep." she said.

"Oh, shit!" he said, his face aghast, the gray pallor now replaced by a bright red flush of embarrassment.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to be nosey," she said, face coloring a pale pink. "You didn't sound too happy."

"It's a long story," he said.

"We appear to have plenty of time."

He picked up the half-empty bottle of scotch from the floor and threw back a sizable belt, the burning liquor cutting the tar in his throat.

He offered the bottle to her. She declined with a wave of her hand.

"She was my Fianceé."

"Was? Where is she now?"

"She was killed by a drunk driver a year and a half ago."

The blood drained from Jenny's face. "Oh, my God, Aaron, I don't know what to say. I'm so sorry."

"Oh, it gets better. My sister was with her when it happened. She survived the accident, but now she's blind."

She faced him, unblinking, as his devastating revelation, and the depth of his grief, reached her psyche. "I think I will have that drink after all."

She reached for the bottle and took a belt worthy of a sailor on leave, the backdraft's hot fumes sending a shiver from nose to toes.

His eyes went wide as she wiped her mouth on her sleeve. She raised her eyebrow at his expression of surprise. "What? You think I can't do shots? I did go to college you know."

He smiled, and she basked in the warmth of his gaze. "Somehow you don't strike me as the party-girl type." He said.

She answered with a side-ways grin. "I didn't say I was a party girl, but I wasn't a nun either."

"I see." He rose and retrieved a plastic glass from the bags on the counter. He poured three inches of the amber liquid into the glass, handing it to her as she settled on the couch. "A refined lady never drinks from the bottle."

"You always drink like this?" she asked.

"Like what?"

"Knocking back an extraordinary single-malt scotch like its store-brand swill," she said. "That's the sign of a man out to get ripped...out to make thinking optional."

He shrugged his shoulders. "Ed said the same thing. He said I was hiding...from life."

"Is he right?"

"Can we please change the subject?"

"Is he right?" she repeated, more firmly.

"You want the truth, I don't know."

They sipped for a moment in silence.

"What are we going to do?" she asked. "We obviously can't stay here forever."

He stared into the glass for several seconds before answering. "We have to finish this. They'll never leave you alone if we don't.

"We can't give them what they want. You know what that would mean."

"True."

When she didn't respond for several seconds, he continued. "We have to destroy your research. It's the only way to keep you safe."

She swallowed hard before speaking, the fear evident in her pinched and pale face. "That project is my life. I can't destroy it. It could literally change the world."

"Yes," he agreed. "You could change the world...if you lived long enough...and right now, I'd put our chances at less than even money."

"How do you know that?"

"I've dealt with these kind of people before, they're trained killers," he said. "They're mission-oriented and ruthless. If they catch us off-guard, we're dead."

"We have to get some help, go to the police," she said. "Or, maybe that FBI agent Ed told you about."

"They can't protect you, this goes too high," he said. "We're talking about the Military, the FBI, hired thugs... There are too many players...with too much clout. We don't even know who all's involved yet."

"Then I'll disappear. Go someplace where they'll never find me."

He shook his head. "That won't work either. If they can't find you, they'll threaten your family or your friends to get to you."

Her hand flew to cover her mouth, stifling her gasp. "I never thought of that."

"Either way, eventually you give in to protect the people you care about. The bastards count on it."

"My God, there's no way to fight them then...is there?"

"I didn't say that. There may be one alternative," he shook his head in apprehension. "It wouldn't be my first choice. It's dangerous as hell, but we're running out of options."

"What do you propose?"

"It's a big gamble. How much do you trust me?"

She eyed him intently. "Answer one question for me first."

"Always with the questions," he smiled at her mischievously. "Okay, go ahead."

"Who are you...really?" she asked. "And don't give me that 'I'm just a simple construction worker' bull. I don't buy it."

He searched her eyes for long seconds and took another swig of scotch. He exhaled in a long, forced breath. "In another life, I used to be in the Navy."

"That's where you met Ed, right?" she asked, her gentle words urging him to continue.

"No. Ed and I grew up together. We've been friends since the first grade. The Navy came later. Ed convinced me to join up with him after high school."

Her brow knitted in concentration for several seconds before her eyes flashed in understanding. "Oh, my God, I didn't put it together when Ed first said it. I thought he was talking about the beer. He was talking about BUDS...Basic Underwater Demolition School. Wasn't he?" she gasped, eyes expanding in both shock and unconcealed admiration. "You're a Navy SEAL."

A small crooked grin appeared on his face and he tipped his glass in salute. "Guilty as charged."

"What happened? Why did you leave the Navy?" she took a quick nip of her drink before continuing. "I thought SEALs were in for life."

"My dad died and I came home to take care of my family. They needed me."

"I'm so sorry."

"Me too. I miss him."

She fixed a searching gaze on him, letting it linger for a tantalizing moment on his handsome, troubled face.

"You were never really going to give them my project back at the warehouse, were you?" she asked.

His face became a hard mask of stoic determination. She would have been frightened, if not for the warmth of his eyes, now locked on the fireplace, watching the flames dance in reckless abandon. "Not a chance in hell."

"Not even to save our lives?"

His eyes met hers, the hard stare a hint of the formidable man beneath. "We both know this technology is more important than any two lives. You were right back there...at the warehouse. It must be protected," He took another sip, using the interval to gather his thoughts, then continued. "It's already cost two lives and it's bound to cost more."

The fire had died down and Aaron noticed the chill returning. She watched him poke at the remains, deep in thought, before he once again stood upright.

"We need some more wood, be right back."

She jumped up. "I'll get it. I need a second to process all this."

Walking out the back door, she saw the woodpile. The long wall of tightly-stacked logs lay against an outbuilding, covered with tarps to protect it from the weather.

Walking through the snow, she replayed his words in her head as the events of the past few days rushed in on her, pressing her down, crushing her with their weight.

My God, Jack's dead...Aaron's been shot...and he had to kill that woman! This is a nightmare that won't end!

She shook her head, driving the demons of fear from her mind as she collected several large logs for the fire, grunting with the effort. The morose thoughts stayed with her, despite her best efforts to overcome them.

It has to end...no matter what. I've got to do whatever it takes to make this stop.

She turned back toward the house, and though the distance was short, the cold trek through the deep snow seemed to take much longer than she remembered.

Returning to the relative warmth of the Great room, she placed the logs in a holder and faced Aaron, her cheeks flushed pink with cold.

She held his iron-hard gaze for a long moment, seeing the truth of his earlier words reflected in his ice-blue eyes.

"You asked if I trusted you. The answer is yes, I trust you. What did you have in mind?"

After a long, deliberate, sigh he reached around the arm of the couch and picked up the rucksack containing the weapons cache. "I have something to show you, but first a little history lesson." he said. "You said Avalon was an idyllic kingdom. Well, you were half right. It was an island of incredible beauty and powerful magic. King Arthur was taken there to recover from wounds he suffered fighting his arch-enemy, Mordred."

She gave him a small smile. "Well, we're recovering here too."

"Yes, the irony was not lost on me either."

He fished inside the bag, digging among the boxes of ammunition, pulling out several items before he came to a small silver case. "Avalon was also the place where Excalibur was forged. The sword was more than just a piece of steel. It was the King's weapon, a symbol of justice and protection. Arthur wielded that sword in service to others."

She moved next to him and he opened the lid, showing her the contents. Her mouth hung open in disbelief as she ran her fingertips along the polished surface of the data drive. "Is that what I think it is?"

"It is."

"Holy shit!" she swore aloud, the profane words out of her mouth before she could control them.

He took another swig of the scotch. "You can say that again. I probably should have told you sooner, but I wanted to have an 'ace in the hole' as it were. I'm sorry I kept it from you."

"But how..." She lost her words in an avalanche of shock and relief of seeing her project safely in his hands.

He returned the case to the traveling armory and zipped the bag. "The 'how' isn't important. What we do next is."

"And what's that?" she asked.

"I don't know about you, but I don't like being drugged and taken places against my will."

"Amen to that." She said, the anger evident in the biting sarcasm filling her voice.

Thumbing the catch, Aaron dropped the pistol slide with an audible snap. "It's time to go on the offensive, and you're right, we're going to need some help."

Her eyebrows jumped up in surprise. "But you said...you said this goes too high."

"I have an idea." He raised the antenna on the satellite telephone he'd borrowed from Ed. Unlike a common cellular telephone, the high-tech device communicated by beaming a signal directly to a satellite network in space. The geosynchronous orbit assured a lock virtually anywhere on the planet. He punched in a number on the keypad and waited for an answer.

Sitting next to him, she leaned in closer, now able to hear the ringing.

"Hello?" the woman's voice came through, the tone surprisingly clear and strong, considering the remote location.

"Bravo-One to Echo-One. Do you copy?" he said, the clipped, military timbre sending spikes of fear racing across her mind.

The disembodied voice responded instantly. "Echo-One copies. Go ahead, Bravo-One."

"Echo-One, We have condition Charlie-Foxtrot...repeat, condition Charlie-Foxtrot."

She heard a small gasp on the other end of the line before the voice continued. "Echo-One acknowledges condition Charlie-Foxtrot. Echo-One standing by."

Aaron took a deep breath, expelling it slowly, then continued. "Bravo-One requests activation of Kilroy squad."

"Rodger, activation of Kilroy squad...understood." The voice went on. "Bravo-One, stand by this frequency for confirmation at 23:00 hours."

"Echo-One, confirmation at 23:00 hours, Rodger and out."

She stood as he ended the call. "What's that all about? What's Kilroy Squad?"

"Calling out the cavalry." He said. "These are what military people call 'assets of last resort'."

"Oh." She thought for a moment. "I thought you said we couldn't trust anyone. This goes too high, you said."

"Things have changed." He stood, refilling his glass before continuing. "There's something else I haven't told you."

"Do I even want to know?" she asked grimly.

"While you were outside, I got a call."

Her eyebrows arched in concern. "And..."

"And...remember when I said they would go after your friends if they couldn't get to you?"

She cocked an eyebrow as her face paled. "Yes."

"Well, it happened. The guy that grabbed us, it seems he's a little upset that I shot his partner. He has my sister. He said he'll kill her if we don't give him your project."

Her hand flew to her mouth in horror. "Oh, my God! Aaron, I'm so sorry."

"Don't be sorry. You didn't do this."

"But your sister, why her?"

"Because he thinks that by threatening her, he can control me."

She swallowed hard, the pink in her cheeks now a gray pallor. "He can't...can he?"

She followed him with eyes wide as he rose to stand next to her, all six-feet, four-inches and 235 pounds of him. "Do I strike you as the type that can be controlled by fear?"

She swallowed hard before answering. "No."

He locked his eyes to hers. "Do I strike you as the type that would let this go unpunished?"

She shook her head, grimly recalling his detachment at killing the other woman. "Not hardly."

"There you have it."

He threw two logs on the fire, stoking it to a blaze while she fretted silently.

He sat next to her. "This guy's really starting to piss me off."

Reclaiming the scotch, he offered her a refill, one she gratefully accepted. "Here's what we're going to do."

****
About the author

 Andrew Draper is a freelance journalist and photographer for several local publications in the Prescott, Arizona area.

In his five years as a staff reporter and managing editor for Prescott Newspapers Inc. (2000-2005) he wrote for The Prescott Valley Tribune, The Prescott Dailey Courier, The Big Bug and Canyon Country News and The Chino Valley Review.

These efforts earned him multiple Arizona Newspapers Association and in-company excellence awards including an unprecedented three consecutive ANA 'Best Series or Continuing Coverage' awards in his circulation class.

He became a freelance writer and photographer in 2005 and is currently the president of Lighthouse Communications, a sole proprietorship media relations and marketing firm. He lives with his wife Gwen in northern Arizona.

Photo by Amee Houser © 2010

## Turn the page for an excerpt

## from the thrilling conclusion of

Power Failure

Book II

Critical Mass

A

aron shook her shoulder this time, rousing her almost instantly.

"I'm leaving now," he said. "It's time for me to go to work."

"You're going after him, aren't you?" she asked, the fear coming out in the forced words.

"I'm going to get Beth...and put an end to this, once and for all."

She began to rise. "Then I'm going with you."

He put a hand on her shoulder, his blue eyes filled with determination. "No, you're not."

"You can't go alone." She implored. "Please, I could watch your back...or...."

He shook his head, cutting her off. "You don't understand. He took Beth to get to you, not me. He thinks I'll hand you over to save her. I have to make him think I'll give him what he wants so he won't hurt her. If I take you with me and he gets his hands on you again, then her life...and yours...mean nothing."

Jenny nodded her head in understanding, sensing she wasn't going to change his mind...or wanting to.

He took the Smith and Wesson .25 cal. automatic from his coat pocket. He held it up before her wide eyes. "But I won't leave you unprotected."

"I've never even held a gun before." she said. "I'm a lab rat, remember?"

"Okay. I'll show you. It's easy."

He pointed to a small red button on the weapon's left side. "This is the safety. Push the red button to fire."

She nodded in understanding.

He slid the magazine from the handle, showing her the bullet at the top of the stack, ready to do its deadly job. "It's got a full clip," he continued, driving the magazine home and racking the slide. He put the sleek black pistol in her upturned palm.

"

You aim like this," he took her trembling hands in his. "One hand on the grip, one hand underneath for support. Just point and gently squeeze the trigger. You aim for the center of the chest, none of that head-shot crap you see in the movies."

Holding her frightened gaze, he intoned his final instruction. "If anyone besides me or Ed comes through that door, don't hesitate, don't think, just shoot."

She again nodded in understanding.

He stood and checked the clip of his own weapon. "I'll be back as soon as I can."

He shut the door and seconds later she heard the Warthog's engine start with a roar, before the distinctive growl quickly faded into silence.

Staring at the orange and red of the fire's dancing flames, she trembled in fear at danger he willingly sped toward.

### A

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Battle-weary police Detective John Smith is investigating a murder. Relentlessly tracking his suspect, he learns what people are capable of when pushed past the limits of human endurance.

From the concrete jungle of Tucson to the sleepy hamlet of Prescott, Smith traverses the harsh deserts and lush mountains of Arizona, racing against the clock, wondering if he can catch a killer before the body count rises.

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