The End Game

49

Park Row, New York City

The brown wig and goatee that Kurt and Gigi’s favorite costumier had selected in order to make me look like a fictional attorney from a genuine law practice were so itchy I had to keep reminding myself not to mess with them. Still, and despite the fact that I knew the MCC far better than was healthy right now, we survived the signing-in procedure, the ID checks, the scan and search and the roving eyes of several guards.

Gigi-who seemed to spend far more of her life in costume than she did as herself-looked alluringly sexy. Transformed in a long black wig set against blood-red lips, white blouse, coal-black pencil skirt, burgundy jacket, black stockings and high heels, she looked like a femme fatale from a 40s noir brought to life and selectively colored in.

Unlike the sirens from those films, though, I knew I could trust her.

Yet again, I had to hand it to Kurt. And to the universe in general. Maybe good things really could happen to good people.

Gigi had kindly admitted my fictional alter ego to the New York State Bar Association last night and first thing this morning Kurt had hacked into the law firm’s phone system and, posing as one of the practice’s senior law clerks, cleared my security permission with the MCC’s legal department, which meant I required only the fake driver’s license we’d procured late last night and not a Federal Bureau of Prisons Secure Pass Identification card, which would have been harder to get hold of.

I had filled out the Notification to Visitor form and we’d both walked through the metal detector. A young guard had been about to tell Gigi that he needed to search her-it was tough to argue with his obvious appreciation-when an older guard had waved him away. We’d had our hands stamped and signed the old-style bound logbook.

In the face of some pretty forceful objections from Kurt, we’d decided to leave our smartphones in Gigi’s car-we wouldn’t be allowed to use them, and that made them just one more thing to worry about. Kurt had prepared a stack of authentic-looking legal papers, half of which were the sole contents of a battered leather briefcase Gigi had found at a thrift store, while the other halfwas in a leather document wallet held by Gigi. Nothing more than props, but necessary ones. Both briefcase and wallet had been searched and passed through the fluoroscope.

I glanced at my watch. Forty minutes after two. We needed to start by three o’clock, which would give us half an hour before Daland had to return to his cell for the four o’clock count. We’d decided not to request that Daland be put on the “out count,” which, although it would mean we could all remain in the interview room during the count, would also mean that Gigi and I would be subjected to an additional layer of scrutiny in addition to having to stress our way through the count itself without the right to leave till it was done.

We were admitted to Eleven North, the self-contained unit where Daland was being held, and led along a corridor toward an interview room.

Twenty yards up ahead, I tensed up at the sight of a couple of guards who were walking a detainee back to his cell. I knew exactly who it was: Vince Northwood, a white supremacist and homegrown terrorist who’d posted several death threats against African-American politicians before trying to blow up a community health center in Queens simply because it received federal funding. He’d failed-luckily-and the only reason he wasn’t going to get a second chance was because we’d arrested him. He’d been here almost three years, the trial date having been put back so many times he probably now considered the MCC his home.

My blood turned to ice as the distance quickly closed between us. If he recognized me, we were screwed. Gigi must have noticed my body tense up because she immediately accentuated the swing of her hips and lasered a killer of a seductive curled lip on Northwood, giving him something he couldn’t afford not to look at.

When they were within touching distance, Northwood gave Gigi a leer acidic enough to dissolve Kevlar. We drew level, which meant I was in Northwood’s direct line of sight, even though Gigi was between us. His eyes flicked up from Gigi’s ass and landed on my face. There was a moment of almost-recognition, then the guards nudged him forward. The three of them turned a corner before Northwood could look back.

We really couldn’t afford another moment like that.

I gave Gigi a pointed, relieved glance as our guard unlocked the interview room and showed us inside. Gigi turned to the guard. “I’ll give you a shout when we’re done with our client.”

The guard eyed her with bored indifference, then nodded and stepped out of the room, shutting the door behind him. It gave a disturbingly clean click.

She turned to me. “You OK, G-boy?”

“Loving every second,” I said.

Barely a minute later, Daland-his silk kimono replaced by an orange jumpsuit-was led into the room by another guard, who walked the detainee to the far side of the table, then stepped back toward the wall. If Daland had noticed anything unusual about Gigi or me, he was keeping it to himself-for now.

I held out my hand. “Mr. Daland, Ben Burnham. And this is my paralegal, Polly Harris. I’ll be representing you going forward. As you know, Simon had to move to another case, but we’re fully briefed and up to speed on everything.”

He took my hand in a firm grip, his eyes boring into mine. I could tell he had recognized me-and that he was using the time to decide how to react. I could see his thought processes so clearly it was obvious that he wanted me to. If he ratted us out, then he’d never find out what was going on. If he played along, then he might discover what was happening, but by the time he’d come up with his own plan, it might well be too late to save the deep network beneath Maxiplenty.

After a nerve-melting few seconds, he let go of my hand. “Sure. Simon told me about it. He says you’re a cybercrime specialist.”

I kept my immense relief in check and indicated for him to sit. “I have some experience that should be relevant, yes.”

Gigi and I sat down opposite him.

I gestured to the guard. “Could you please make sure all the cameras and recording devices are switched off?”

He nodded. “I’ll be outside.”

The door snapped shut behind him.

Daland leant back in his chair, waiting for us to make the first move.

“Polly” opened her leather document wallet, took out a single sheet of paper and laid it on the table.

Daland pretended not to look at it, but I could see he was quickly scrutinizing every inch. After a moment, he looked at Gigi.

“You look familiar.”

This threw me. I’d expected him to tell me he knew exactly who I was.

Daland kept looking at Gigi. “Wonder Woman. New York Comic-Con.”

Gigi smiled. “Wow. I’m impressed. But still, keep your paws to yourself.”

He grinned and relaxed back in his seat. “How could I possibly forget that body?” He closed his eyes, enjoying the moment. “You made a damn fine Diana of Themyscira.”

After savoring the memory, he finally turned to me, and all delight drained off his face. “What is this? You posing as a rogue agent to trick me into telling you more than I should? Seriously, dude. You Feds need to get over this infatuation you have for stings. Even if it did help you nab Ulbricht-a total fucking amateur, by the way-doesn’t mean it’ll work with me.”

I knew all about Dread Pirate Roberts and Silk Road. Even if the FBI’s Cyber Division hadn’t found a backdoor into the Silk Road servers, Ulbricht-the man accused of creating it-had been so lax with his personal online security it was only a matter of time before the Bureau caught him.

Daland was a whole different order of pirate.

I tried a different tack. “Think about it. Would I really go to these lengths and risk you not hearing about me?”

“You could easily have paid someone in here to tell me you’re a wanted man. Or threatened them. Northwood, for example. He and I shared some fond memories of you.”

What was that I said about him being smart? He was so damn keyed-in it was scary.

Daland must have noticed my unease. He could have made me suffer for longer, but instead he gave another signature shrug.

“It wasn’t him.”

“But that’s really what it hinges on,” I said. “Who told you-outside or in here-and how much you trust them.”

His face was completely impassive. I had no clue whether I was getting through to him or not.

I could hear the desperation seep into my voice as I continued. “And Polly, here. You must know how talented she is. I’m sure you’re aware of her unequivocal respect for the law, and it’s not like she needs money either, right? So how did I get her here, unless it’s down to trust?” I paused, gauging his reaction, then leaned in. “Look, you have all the power here, no question. I’m suspected of killing a CIA analyst and there’s a missing FBI agent out there they probably think I’m good for too. But you already know all that. Probably even more. But I still walked into the MCC like a lamb to the slaughterhouse.”

I stopped for a moment and dialed down the anger. It was hot in there, and the back of my shirt was soaked. The edges of my moustache were also starting to peel back as the glue was assailed by a stream of sweat. I tried to regulate my breathing.

I could tell Daland was now reveling in my misery.

“Here’s the thing, Jake. We all know you could have given us up when you first saw us. But you didn’t, which means you’re intrigued enough to hear us out. So hear us out.”

He shrugged again. “Shoot.”

“I’ve got two head shots. Drawings, to be precise. Like by a police sketch artist. They’re black ops guys. Seriously nasty. I think they’re behind a whole bunch of deaths over the years. Assassinations. Reporters, you name it. I need to ID them. I only know them by their codenames-their Agency legends.”

I waited to judge his reaction. He pursed his lips in a small whistle. “‘Agency?’”

I nodded.

He shrugged. “Heavy. So what’s this got to do with me?”

“I want to post their mugs on Erebus and see if anyone knows who they are.”

I paused, studying his expression, looking for his reaction to the magic word.

He was good. More than good. He gave away nothing. I could see him cleaning up in Vegas with that poker face without resorting to the black sunglasses and baseball caps.

“Never heard of it,” he said.

“Look, I know what I’m asking you for here, OK? But you have my word, in front of a witness, that I’m not here as a cop and that this isn’t some elaborate sting. This is just between you and me and no one else. I wouldn’t be here if I had any other way of doing this. You consider yourself a crusader for openness and truth and justice, right? Well, something bad is going on here, something seriously nasty that’s been going on for years and these guys are behind it. And if you get me into Erebus and someone gives me their names, I’ll be able to do something about it.”

He still sat there, dead-eyed, staring at me.

“Jake,” Gigi added, “this in on the level. I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t.”

“I need the real names of these scumbags,” I pressed. “All we need is for one user to have as good a memory as yours.”

He remained Sphinx-like for a moment, then he smirked, his gaze panning across to Gigi. “When you want to get into someone’s pants, you always remember.” He let his subtle, seductive line linger for a moment before adding, “Hiring someone to pull a trigger? Or being paid to be the one who does it? I suppose you remember that too.”

“It doesn’t bother you?” Gigi asked him, her tone genuinely curious and not accusatory. “That people use your sites for stuff like that?”

I shot her a surprised look-I mean, I liked her blunt directness and all, but this was borderline Aspergeresque and it really wasn’t the time for her to be bringing it up-but the damage was already done. Fortunately, it didn’t seem to phase Daland.

“Do you blame Tim Berners-Lee for Internet porn? How’s that any different? Sure, he advocates regulation; I’ve read the manifestos. But it was always going to be too late once he opened Pandora’s browser. So should we blame him for an entire generation of teenagers who think a spit roast is perfectly normal sexual behavior? Or hold him accountable for cannibals grooming their next meal on Facebook or for ISIS recruitment videos? I just gave people a way to communicate without being spied on. By people like him.” He jabbed a forceful finger in my direction. “What people choose to do with it is up to them.”

I shook my head. I didn’t have the time or the headspace for a philosophical debate.

“OK, well, that’s exactly what I need… to communicate without anyone listening in, because the guys I’m after are part of the listeners.”

Gigi smiled and leaned in closer to him. “If you knew even ten percent of it, you’d help us.” She gestured toward me. “He’s about as far out on a limb as it’s possible to be without dropping into an abyss of serious suffering.”

Daland went quiet for a moment, his eyes tracking back and forth between Gigi to me.

“I get what you need, but what do I get? Are you going to stop the traffic on Pearl, drill down through thirty feet and spring me from the tunnel while I’m shuffling off to court shackled at the ankles, chained and cuffed at the wrists and sandwiched between four US Marshals, trapped between the remotely activated electronic doors at either end?”

I had to smile at that. The tunnel beneath Pearl Street that ran between the MCC and the Federal Courthouse was legendary, especially among the criminals and their associates on the outside who’d spent hours thinking up ways to breach it-all with zero success.

I looked straight at him. “When this is all over, when I’ve dealt with these bastards and cleared things up, I’ll use everything in my power to help. And I mean everything, short of destroying evidence. You have my word. And believe me-when this breaks, a lot of big shots are going to owe me a lot of favors.”

He studied me curiously. “Come on, Reilly. I know how fucked you are. The chances of you ever being able to do anything for me are so close to nothing as to be irrelevant.”

“I have a favor or two I can pull from high up,” I told him, wondering if the fact that I had saved president Yorke’s life only weeks ago would ever count for anything.

“So why haven’t you used them to help yourself?” He let me sweat it for a beat, then he grinned. “But don’t worry about it. I’m in if it helps score a big one against those fascists.”

Gigi shook her head and chortled. I don’t know if she muttered something unsavory under her breath, but her lips were creased in a smile. “So how do we get in?”

I understood nothing of the conversation that followed. In fact, a couple of sentences in, I had totally zoned out as if I were having an out-of-body experience, watching the three of us like a silent observer. I found myself questioning what I was doing there, wondering what the odds were of someone on Daland’s uber-Darknet recognizing one of the two faces that had my mind under siege. Corrigan and Fullerton had both been field agents. They had been good at what they did-which meant they would have been extremely careful about who knew their true identities. They would have traveled extensively and met with a significant number of assets over the decades, but many of those would have never known who they were really dealing with. On the other hand, I expect their profiles at the Agency were visible enough that anyone reasonably senior who’d worked there sometime in the last two or three decades would know their real identities. I only needed one of those former colleagues or assets to remember one of them. Maybe it wasn’t such a stretch after all.

Gigi put a hand on shoulder. “We’re done here, Ben. Time to go.”

I blinked, no idea whether they’d been talking for five, or twenty-five minutes. “You got everything you need?”

She nodded. “Like I said, it’s a thing of beauty.”

Daland smiled. “I’ll take that, seeing as how you don’t seem too keen for me to take you.”

Gigi couldn’t help but laugh. “You really are a total dickwad, Jake. But hey, never say never, right?”

Daland’s face reconfigured into a hopeful, curious leer.

I stood, walked over to the door and knocked.

No reply.

Knocked again.

Nothing.

I could feel the panic rising.

They know who I am. They’ve been listening to everything. The only place I’m going from here is Florence supermax.

“Guard? We’re done now.”

I looked at Gigi. She had her mouth right up against the door, but her poise was ice-cold. Like she was expecting a waitress to bring her a flute of champagne.

The door finally opened and the guard appeared. “Sorry about that, folks. Just stepped away for a few seconds.”

I forced the relief off my face and turned back to Daland and shook his hand. “Hang tight, Jake. We’ll let you know about the plea bargain very shortly.”

He held my hand firmly. “You do that.” He turned to Gigi and smiled. “Drop by any time.”

She smiled back and followed me out of the interview room.

As we made our way down the hall, she leaned in close and whispered in my ear, “Jesus, I need to get back to Kurt pronto. Role playing like that, plus all the adrenaline-I’m like unbelievably horny.”

I didn’t reply as we continued along the corridor, starting to feel the relief that I wouldn’t allow free reign till we were both back in her Beemer and had checked in with Kurt.

“I don’t think Mrs. Burnham would appreciate you talking to her husband like that, Miss Harris. Pull your mind back to the case. You have a lot to do.” She grinned over her shoulder. “Don’t worry, boss. I’ll just multitask.”

50

Chelsea, New York

I sat in the restaurant opposite Gigi’s building, letting the time drift by without scrutiny, eyes unfocussed, the steady snowfall outside creating a blur of white against the night’s dark backdrop. I figured I’d hang out here at least another hour before I went back upstairs. There wasn’t much for me to do there anyway. Corrigan and Fullerton’s portraits were roaming the darkest corners of the Internet and until someone decided to let us in on who they were, all we could do was wait. And hope.

I didn’t want to intrude on Gigi and Kurt’s downtime either-not that I’d cramped their style in any way so far. After she’d finished uploading the sketches to Daland’s online catacombs, Gigi had left me and Kurt in the large open plan area before returning not long after, fully decked out in a Wonder Woman costume-the classic outfit, she explained, not the new, post-modern black outfit she and the rest of fandom apparently hated. She’d been pretty vocal about how pumped up she’d felt after our incursion into the MCC and her digital stroll through Daland’s blackest creation, which was why I thought her costume change probably had something to do with her wanting to show Kurt he had nothing to worry about when it came to Jake Daland. The lovable bear seemed seriously rattled that his girlfriend was so in awe of Daland’s programming prowess and, even worse, that Daland had propositioned her-even if nothing had come of it-that he’d shrugged off at least two blatant attempts by Gigi at intimacy since our return from the MCC. The Wonder Woman outfit did the trick.

Kurt was also pissed off at me too, but once he’d seen Gigi in the outfit, any lingering resentment evaporated. With a huge grin on his face, he went looking for his Green Arrow costume, which was my cue to leave the apartment.

I was actually glad to have an excuse for a change of scene. I took a long walk, drifting aimlessly through the streets of Lower Manhattan as darkness swooped in overhead, gentle fluffy snowflakes peppering my face and my clothes, my mind still besieged by the idea that my dad could have been part of it all. I felt a cold hollowness inside me and I wondered if maybe I’d been wrong to pursue this so doggedly, maybe I should have left it alone and let sleeping dogs-especially rabid feral ones that sink their teeth into you and never let go, in this case-lie.

I ended up back at the trendy eatery across the street from their apartment, with more time to think, mull, grind, process-though all it did was put me in an even worse mood than when I first sat down an hour earlier.

Kurt had managed to hack into Rossetti’s home broadband connection and pull up his online search history. He’d put both documents on a small Vaio laptop that now sat on the table in front of me, goading me. I hadn’t yet taken a look. The coffee next to it-my third-was already stone cold, the life-altering cheesecake barely defaced. I’d been through everything in my mind, turning over each piece of information like it was part of some demonically unsolvable Rubik’s Cube, hoping that with each turn, something new would reveal itself.

Nothing came. I had reached a dead end.

Every stream of information had turned to ice. We had three guys who all seemed to be part of some CIA covert assassination unit, but they were now all dead. We had the deeply unsettling notion that my dad was part of that noble group. And we had Corrigan and Fullerton’s faces from thirty years ago, but no one who could ID them.

All I could do was wait and see if someone in Daland’s underworld recognized either of them and stepped forward. Obviously, there was a strong chance that wouldn’t happen at all. Then what?

Deflated, weary, and missing being home with my family-a lot-I powered up the laptop, clicked the browser open and pulled up Rossetti and his editor’s web histories that Kurt had put on it.

They were long, running to several pages each. I suppose their careers made them use Google far more than your average Internet surfer.

I was trawling through it when Theo, Gigi’s comedian-waiter friend, passed near me and noticed the untouched coffee. He pointed at it and said, “Call me psychic, but it seems to me like you’re ready for something with a bit more of a kick, right?”

“What do you recommend?” I asked.

He picked my cup up off the table. “My barman has this amazing Reposada tequila he brings in from Mexico. Guaranteed to push those demons away.”

I wasn’t sure I was keen on the idea of a Mexican potion messing with my mind, not after my recent experiences down there, but I still said, “OK.” Then I asked him, “Any news on that audition?”

His face beamed with pride, his crazy eyes taking on an even more manic look. “I got it. A bit part on Louie, can you believe it? I’ve got two small scenes with the man himself.”

I nodded, bittersweet. “That’s terrific news, man. Terrific.”

Things were clearly working out for Theo. Maybe I’d catch a break too.

I halfheartedly dragged my eyes back at the screen to scan a second page of Rossetti’s web search history when three words skewered my attention:

THE OCTOBER SURPRISE

My spine went ramrod straight as I clicked on the link and started reading.

Sandman eased himself soundlessly down the rope onto the small terrace at the back of the loft and quickly dropped to a crouch.

It was cold enough for the insubstantial but steady fall of snow to accumulate where it landed. Already there was at least an inch covering everything that didn’t have traffic moving across it.

He took a moment to let his eyes adjust to the low light emanating from inside the loft, scanning the interior for any signs of activity. He saw none. He crept up to the French doors and, with gloved hands, pulled against the handle gently. They weren’t locked, it being fair to assume that this high up there was little risk of any burglars gaining access that way. A stream of warm air hit him from inside the loft. Clearly, Miss Decker had no problem heating the huge space, given that both her checking and savings accounts had very healthy balances, and those were just the accounts in her name. Her sloth of a boyfriend seemed to have nabbed himself a pretty sweet catch.

Something else was drifting out into the freezing cold. The unmistakable sound of a woman reaching her climax. Sandman smiled inwardly. This was going to make things even easier. For a brief moment, he wondered about what he could hear. Was it at all possible that Reilly was scoring with his hostess behind her boyfriend’s back? Unlikely. It had to be the costumed freaks that were at it. Which meant Reilly was elsewhere in the loft, if he was in at all.

The visit to the nightclub had paid off, big time. He hadn’t needed CCTV footage to see them get into a taxi and have to trace the cab’s number to find out where he’d dropped them off. The floor manager he’d spoken to didn’t know who the guy in the blue cape was, but he knew Gigi Decker, who was a regular at the club and liked to splurge on good champagne. Sandman had left little doubt in the floor manager’s mind that any attempt to forewarn Miss Decker of his enquiries would incur the harshest of consequences.

He slipped inside.

The overhead lights were off. A couple of oversized standing lamps that were replicas of old Hollywood searchlights cast a dim, warm hue over the space. The painted floorboards creaked slightly as he moved carefully through the loft, but he knew it was highly unlikely the pair in the bedroom would hear anything.

He focused his attention and ran it around the loft. The large living room was empty. Unless Reilly was asleep, he didn’t think the FBI agent or anyone else was around. He advanced further and found a small stack of clothes and personal possessions beside a neatly-made futon in one corner. They had to be Reilly’s, so his target was-as he’d surmised-out.

Sandman systematically searched them for a sidearm and found the holdall with the Glocks in them. Which meant that Reilly had probably gone out unarmed. He hid them deep under the mattress and stepped back into the large space.

As he reached the closed bedroom door, there was a shriek of such intensity that he had to hover for a moment until it subsided. They were both laughing now, the woman giggling hysterically like a teenager. There was no way either of them was going to offer any kind of defense.

Sandman pulled out his handgun, suppressor already in place, turned the door handle and entered the bedroom.

Jaegers saw him first, eyes immediately filling with unfiltered terror as he recoiled upright and back against the headboard.

“Shit!”

Decker followed the boyfriend’s alarmed look to Sandman and flinched, pulling the sheet up to cover her. “Kurt!”

Sandman just stood there, knowing there was no benefit in stepping further into the room and offering one of them a target.

“Get dressed. Move.”

They both did, quickly. Jaegers pulled on a pair of dark green leather trousers and a matching hooded jerkin while the girl slipped on a pair of sweatpants and a T-shirt, which got caught on the gold diadem in her hair. She let out an annoyed groan and reached up, disentangled her hair and finished pulling on the tee.

Sandman waved his gun, herding them out of the room.

“Let’s go.”

He took a couple of steps back as Jaegers walked out of the bedroom first, obscuring the inside for the briefest of moments. The girl followed, holding out the diadem.

“Here, you have it. It’s not fucking working anyway.”

Just as Sandman instinctively stuck out his left hand to take the gold band, he knew she’d tricked him. The heavy lamp base she’d concealed behind her back under cover of Jaegers exiting the room was already arcing toward the side of his head. He moved fast, whipping his head away as the lamp slammed into his shoulder with surprising force, but before the pain hit him, he jabbed the butt of his gun into the girl’s head and sent her crashing to the floor.

Jaegers was moving toward him-he’d spun around the second he heard the approach from behind-but Sandman was too quick, swinging his left elbow up and back into the guy’s face. He heard Jaegers’ nose break and the accompanying wail of agony as he turned and aimed a vicious kick just below the guy’s knee-not enough to break more bone, but enough to open up an additional well of excruciating pain.

Jaegers bounced off the wall and crumpled to the floor.

“Enough of this bullshit,” Sandman barked, his gun leveled at the hacker’s head, his intention beyond doubt.

Jaegers removed the blood-covered hands from his nose and held them up, palms out. “OK, OK. Just-please, don’t hurt her again.”

His eyes, wide with fear and worry, bounced from Sandman to his girlfriend and back, then, hesitantly, his palms held open by his face, his lips quivering, his whole face pleading in silence for permission, he crawled over to Decker, slowly.

“Gigi? Gigi!”

She wasn’t moving.

Sandman watched him lean in to listen to her breath, then turn to look at him. “She’s breathing,” he said, then he repeated it before he started to sob.

Sandman looked down on him. “Can I take it you’re going to behave from here on?”

Jaegers just nodded as he wiped the blood and the snot that were streaming out of his nostrils.

51

The October Surprise.

I knew about it already, of course. Not just as a concept, but in terms of its most notorious occurrence-specifically, from the Reagan-Carter election year.

1980.

The expression referred to any major, unexpected news event that could-deliberately-affect the outcome of the presidential election, which takes place in early November. In the days before both the 1968 and 1972 elections, claims that the end of the war in Vietnam was in sight were used to boost popularity, but those were minor instances of it. The expression really referred to the conspiracy that was thought to have taken place in 1980 to secure Ronald Reagan’s defeat of the incumbent, Jimmy Carter.

The facts were that, almost a year to the day before the election, fifty-two Americans had been taken hostage in Iran. This had been a major trauma for the nation and was on every voter’s mind. Heavy negotiations were ongoing to win their release, with the Carter administration correctly hoping for their own “October Surprise”: bringing the hostages home just before the election, which would provide an immense boost to Carter’s re-election prospects. The hostages weren’t released and Reagan won the election. They were eventually released, on the day of his inauguration. Not just on the day, but-literally-five minutes after Reagan took his oath of office.

Suspicions soon arose of a secret arms-for-hostages deal brokered by Reagan’s men-a deal designed to delay the release of the hostages until after the election, to help ensure Carter’s defeat.

The suspicions were dismissed until the Iran-Contra affair exploded five years later, during Reagan’s second term. It transpired that senior administration officials had arranged for Iran to secretly receive American weapons-an illegal act, given that it was subject to an arms embargo. Iran would pay for the weapons in two ways: in cash, which would then be funneled to the Contras in Nicaragua-another illegal act, given that funding the Contras had been banned by Congress-and in influencing the release of seven American hostages who were being held hostage in Lebanon.

The Iran-Contra affair firmly established the links between the Reagan administration and the Iranians and underlined the former’s readiness to play dirty and break the law. This revived suspicions about what had happened during the 1980 campaign. After increased media scrutiny, both the Senate and Congress eventually held inquiries to look into the allegations. Both failed to produce an indictment. However, in the years since, several senior figures who were in positions of power at the time including Abulhassan Benisadr, the former President of Iran, Yitzhak Shamir, the former Israeli Prime Minister, and Barbara Honegger, a former Reagan campaign and White House staffer, have all confirmed the allegation.

My mind raced back to my chat with Faye, my dad’s-I cringe at the word-mistress. What had she said? That she felt the whole country was under his watch, that he took it all to heart.

Was there more to it than that?

Was he aware of what was going on in the shadows? Was he fretting about getting the hostages out in time-and did he know about some dirty tricks that were going on behind the scenes?

My dad was a registered Republican. He was a fan of Reagan’s. Which could mean he might have been killed to silence him about exposing the truth, if he’d found out about it and wanted to blow the whistle-or simply to keep him quiet, if he knew about it by virtue of being part of the dirty plot.

I knew I was grasping at straws-but something felt right, like gears that had meshed into position and were now propelling my mind forward.

I didn’t have much time to dwell on it, though. I was slamming back a shot of that tequila Theo brought me when my phone buzzed in my pocket.

It was Kurt.

Kurt sat with his back slumped against the bedroom wall. Gigi lay on the floor in front of him, still out cold. The intruder had bound them both with plastic cuffs, wrists and ankles, and had just finished ensuring there was nothing within reach that they could use to free themselves. Apart from a soft glow from the bedroom and some faint ambient light from outside, the loft was dark.

His heart sank as he watched Gigi’s chest rise and fall slightly as she breathed. At least they were both still alive, he thought, which meant there was hope. Separate from the throbbing pain, which had spread across the center of his face, he felt a piercing ache in his chest so intense that he knew it had to be what people referred to as love. It had taken Gigi being cold-cocked into unconsciousness to trigger the feeling, but he knew exactly what it meant-he would do anything, anything at all, to keep her alive.

The intruder stepped back, visibly satisfied that Kurt and Gigi were secure. “Reilly. Call him.”

Even though he suspected it would be ultimately fruitless, he knew he had to try lying. “What? I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

The intruder let out a cold, dry chortle. “You really want to play it that way?”

Kurt felt his chest cave in as the bastard just stared at him. “No,” he said meekly.

“Good. Where’s your phone?”

“I think-I’m not sure. Maybe in the bedroom?”

The intruder walked off and disappeared out of view, leaving Kurt to try and focus his mind.

He needed to buy some time. There was no way Reilly could help them unless he knew they were in trouble. Added to that, from what Reilly had told him and Gigi, the agent had already out-thought and out-gunned the sadistic motherfucker who held them captive. They’d helped Reilly at every turn, ignoring the risk to themselves. It was time for him to help them. But what if Reilly did come back? Wouldn’t the guy just get what he needed and kill all three of them anyway?

The intruder was going to kill him and Gigi either way. And without them around to help Reilly, it was probably only a matter of time before he wound up dead himself. At least this way they had a chance, however small.

The intruder appeared again, holding two phones. “Which one’s yours?”

Kurt pointed it out.

“It’s one half of a secure pair, right?” the man asked.

“Yes. I hacked them. Reilly has the other.”

“OK.” He held out the phone, but before Kurt could take it, the intruder held it just out of reach. He aimed the gun that was in his other hand straight at Kurt’s eyes. “Tell me exactly what you’re going to say.”

“What am I going to say? ‘Reilly? It’s Kurt. We just got a hit. You need to get back here.’ That’s it.” Kurt said it without thinking, but as he said it, he knew it would work, even if it risked unraveling their plan to unmask Corrigan.

That wasn’t the priority any more.

“‘A hit?’ On what?”

“We’ve been helping Reilly with something.” He hesitated, then added, “We posted a couple of mug shots on some forums. Asked if anyone knew them. We haven’t got anything back yet. And probably won’t. But that’s what he’s waiting for.”

The bastard nodded to himself, then smiled. “You mean the sketches?”

Kurt’s mouth went dry. They’d known all along that it was just as likely that an ex-CIA agent or asset who recognized Corrigan or Fullerton would warn them as it was for someone with a grudge to give them up. There was little point in denying it.

“Yes. But we haven’t had a hit.”

“I know you haven’t,” the intruder said. “OK. Make the call”.

“Reilly? This is Kurt.” He paused for a moment, then said, “We just got a hit. You need to get back here.”

A rush of elation consumed me-then it was instantly flushed away by the feeling that a yawning chasm had blown open beneath me.

Something was wrong.

Very wrong.

Kurt had never, ever referred to himself as Kurt in any of our communications. It was part of his extreme paranoia about the heavily surveilled world we lived in. He’d used Mrs. Takahashi, Cid Raines, Green Arrow, Snake of course, Crown Prince Arthas Menethil and even once, when he was particularly excited, Lord Humungus, his hacker name from before he got himself onto the FBI’s cybercrime watch list in a commendable seventh spot.

But never Kurt.

I needed to buy some time. Fast.

“Fantastic, man. I’ll head on back, I’ve walked all the way up the park.”

“Central Park?” Kurt asked.

“Yeah. I lost track of time. I’ll hop in a cab. Should be back in twenty minutes or so.” I tried to sound as enthused as possible. “Great work, Curtis. Really great.”

I hung up, pretty sure that I’d managed to keep the doubt from my voice and hoping he’d got my little hidden counter-message, but as I ended the call, the rush of elation had been replaced by a crushing avalanche of dread.

Kurt’s brilliantly hidden-in-plain-sight message could only mean one thing. Baseball Cap was there-and he had Kurt and Gigi.

At least I’d bought some time.

Now I needed to make use of it.

52

I churned through a few desperate ideas before quickly settling on the one I thought had the least chance of turning into a disaster. I quickly put it through the wringer a few times, made sure I hadn’t missed anything, and decided I had to go for it.

I pulled out the burner phone and called Deutsch’s personal phone. She answered immediately.

“It’s me.”

Her voice jumped, even as it went lower. “Where are you?”

“I’m close. Listen, Annie. I’ve got a hostile holding two friends hostage here in the city. Not far from Twenty-Six Fed. It’s the same motherfucker who killed Kirby and I think he killed Nick too-”

“What?” she interrupted, in shock.

“I’m convinced they killed him, Annie. And a bunch of other people too. And this guy wants me, and you can imagine how badly I want him, but I can’t take him alone. Not with him holding them. The guy’s a pro. A black ops pro. And he’s sanctioned. I need your help, but we have to do it my way. My friends’ lives are at stake.”

“Jesus, Sean-”

I didn’t have time for any kind of debate. “Annie, are you in or out? I need to know right now.”

Even as I said it, I knew she would help. She’s already gone out on a major limb for me by getting me the drawings instead of handing in the Bureau. For reasons only Deutsch could explain, I guess-and in spite of my inflicting the worst kind of humiliation on her when I escaped from her custody-it was clear she believed my version of events.

I heard her take a steadying breath. “I’m in.”

“OK. I need to get a SWAT team to West Twenty-third, between Seventh and Eighth.’

“A SWAT team?”

“Yes. And I need them there in the next fifteen minutes. The guy’s good, I can’t take him alone, not when he’s got my people in there with him.”

“How am I going to get them to push the button, Sean? It can’t be a tip-off from you.”

“I know. Here’s how we’ll play it. A call will come in from one of the informants me and Nick had with the Joint Terrorism Task Force. A Lebanese guy, Ramsey Salman. He’s in the database, works at a deli in Brooklyn. He was keeping tabs on a couple of preachers for us. He’s been dark for a while, but he’ll say there are a couple of guys in that apartment about to launch a hit on the city. It’ll justify a red alert about a credible incoming threat.”

“Hang on, hang on.” She thought about it fast. “OK, but I can’t just say I got the call. I need an actual call to come into the Bureau switchboard, a call for you or Nick. And it can’t come from you, obviously.”

Obviously-since it would be taped, and Deutsch needed it to stand up to scrutiny after the fact. I’d thought about this. If I made the call, there was the very real possibility that my voice print would be recognized, which would put her in a serious jam. My eyes wandered aimlessly across the joint as I looked at my solution. He was wiping down a table in the far corner.

I waved Theo over to my table. “I know. I’ve got it covered.”

“You’ve got someone who can make the call?”

I watched as Theo walked over, hoping he’d be up for it-and that he’d be as good as he’d been in that audition. “Yes.”

“OK, let’s get going. But better he ask for Nick. They’re routing all his calls to my BlackBerry.”

Gigi’s head felt like it had after her one and only time at Coachella. She’d fulfilled a bucket list ambition by seeing Portishead live-their first two albums had been the soundtrack to her teens-but it had taken her a full week to recover from the experience. By the time Roger Waters had finished his trip back to The Dark Side Of The Moon, she’d felt like someone had drilled a hole in her cranium, filled it with silly putty and razor wire and left her on the cold lump of rock. The putty felt comfortably numb, but the second she moved-even a micron-the blades would score the inside of her skull and she’d want to die.

As she blinked her eyes open and tried to pull focus, the situation that had put her on the floor of her own apartment came cascading back.

Fuck.

That pretty much summed it up.

“Gigi,” she heard Kurt whisper. “You OK?”

She pushed herself up on her elbows, ignoring the screaming anguish that was quickly filling the left side of her head. Kurt was turning toward her from a slump against the bedroom wall, eyes locked on hers. They were full of a chaotic storm of relief, terror, confusion and-she’d seen it only once before but knew she’d recognize it again-genuine care.

“What’s happening?” she asked with a groan.

“It’s going to be OK,” Kurt told her.

“OK how?”

“Reilly’s on his way.”

This didn’t sit well. “What do you mean? How?”

“I called him.” Kurt paused, seemingly embarrassed, then said, “He made me call him. Tell him we had a hit.”

Gigi thought it through quickly and groaned. “You fucking pinhead!” she hissed. “Jesus Christ, Jaegers. Don’t you realize the bastard is going to kill us anyway?”

She heard the intruder say, “Shut up. Both of you.”

She turned and spotted him sitting in the living room, defiling her sleek Italian sofa, the one that had taken four months from order to delivery, and watching over them. Her expression soured with disdain. “Whatever, dickhead.” She twisted her face back at Kurt, shaking her head slowly, trying to block out the despair.

She looked at Kurt. He just looked like he wanted to weep. Right then, she thought of how she loved the pinhead and how it would be nice to hear and say the words-she never had, not once-but first they needed to survive the night.

The bastard checked his watch. “You two should kiss and make up. You don’t want to go out like this, do you?”

“Up yours,” she spat back as she slithered backward toward the wall, closer to Kurt. She reached out and squeezed his forearm in what she hoped was a gesture of support, finishing up slumped right next to him.

She inclined her head toward him and whispered, “Reilly’ll get him.”

The movement was so painful she felt like she was going to puke. And she wasn’t sure she even believed what she’d just said.

53

From my vantage point in a sheltered doorway on Twenty-third street up the block from Gigi’s building I watched as the some NYPD uniforms quietly cordoned off the street and set up their perimeter.

I could barely make out a couple of cops going in to the eatery, where they would herd everyone to the back of the place and tell them to stay clear of the windows until further notice. Another team would be doing the same on the opposite sidewalk.

I’d spoken to Theo before I slipped out, needing to make sure he understood how important it was for him to keep our little secret. He was a bit nervous, rightfully worried about the call I’d asked him to make, which he’d pulled off with a very convincing foreign accent-not necessarily Lebanese, but it did the trick. I’d already assured him as strongly as I could that it was all under control and that he had nothing to worry about. I genuinely didn’t think he did. We’d made the call from my burner phone, which was untraceable. They didn’t have his voice on record, and I sure as hell wasn’t going to tell them who’d made that call if it ever came down to it.

Through the light snowfall that was drifting down from the darkness, I watched and waited, knowing I needed to move quickly once my window of opportunity opened up. I wouldn’t have much time if I was going to capitalize on the confusion and make my move undetected while the situation was still fluid.

I was also wondering if my target would spot the forces moving in on him, and-mostly-I was hoping I hadn’t miscalculated and sealed Kurt and Gigi’s fate.

Sandman walked over to one of the large windows and carefully peered outside. The snow was still falling-light, but steady. There was nothing going on out there. Except… the street was quiet. Too quiet. No cars driving down. No pedestrians on the sidewalks. Nothing.

He noticed the slightest of movements on the roof opposite. He pulled back and retrieved his night-vision scope, then he moved tight against one of the thick vertical columns of exposed brick that provided the loft’s skeleton and looked out through the scope. A sniper and a spotter were taking up position. He recognized the gear and the edges of the big letters on their ballistic vests.

He swung the scope down toward the street, though the angle obscured the sidewalk immediately outside. He adjusted his position and looked down along the front of the building in time to catch two cops disappear from view inside the restaurant across from him.

They’d tricked him. The sloth and his slut girlfriend had found a way to alert Reilly and he’d called in the troops.

Sandman pulled out his gun, took quick strides over to his hostages and pushed the suppressor hard into the side of Kurt’s head.

“What did you tell him?” he barked.

“What? Why? Nothing. You heard me. I didn’t-”

“What did you tell him?” he repeated, seething with controlled anger.

Sandman leant his foot against Kurt and shoved him to one side before swinging the suppressor around to Gigi’s forehead. He kept his eyes locked on Kurt.

“I want you to watch her die,” he hissed at Kurt. “I want you to watch it, knowing it’s your fault. In fact, I want you so close to her you’ll actually feel her die.”

Sandman could see both defiance and fear in the girl’s eyes and knew that both were genuine. She wasn’t trying to hide her feelings, or mask one emotion with another. There were no prayers, pleading or promises. Like Sandman himself, she was completely in the moment and, at some level, he admired her for that. He’d need to kill them both eventually, once they’d outlived their usefulness. Based on what he had seen and heard, he’d already decided that a staged sex game with tragic unintended consequences would be an appropriate way to dispatch them both. It would simply be two more “deaths-by-misadventure” to add to all the others, but he had to deal with the nuisance of Reilly’s little counterpunch first.

For now, he still needed them alive, so he pulled the gun away from the girl’s head. He stepped back a few paces, took out his encrypted cellphone and dialed.

Roos answered quickly, evidently waiting for the update.

“I’ve got a SWAT team getting ready to move in on me,” he told Roos. “It’s got to be Reilly.”

“Can you get out clean?”

“I could, but it would probably mean inflicting multiple casualties on friendlies, and our agreed mission protocol is for minimal collateral harm. Unless you want to sanction an override.”

There was moment of silence as Roos considered this. “No. Current parameters remain in force.”

Sandman had assumed that would be the case. You don’t expend seemingly bottomless resources to keep your work off the radar, only to blow it all when things get more difficult than you’d ideally like. “Then get them off my back. It’ll force Reilly’s hand.”

“We’re already plugged in. They’re saying an informant called in a suspected terrorist cell with plans for an imminent attack.”

“The guy’s no slouch.”

“We’re telling them the Agency has someone on the inside and that we need to let it play out.”

“Will that fly? The FBI won’t want to be left with major egg on its face if there’s any chance of it happening.”

“Let us worry about that. You take care of your end.”

“Copy that.”

As Sandman ended the call, he realized he’d never taken quite that tone with his current employer. Of course they’d let it slide, but it told Sandman the extent to which Reilly had got under his skin. It certainly wasn’t personal-even the most relentlessly intractable and obdurate target would always fail to push a top operative toward emotion of any kind-but it had certainly become a matter of professional pride. On top of the sheer necessity of his current task, it would be immensely satisfying to take the guy down.

No meticulous plan. No elaborate “accident.”

Just a bullet in the brain and the body incinerated.

It would be as if Agent Reilly had simply disappeared from the world, never to return.

54

I watched as the sedan reversed into the parking spot on Twenty-third and even before its sole occupant got out and walked to the back of the car I’d already decided he’d be the one.

Ops like the one that I’d instigated around Gigi’s apartment would be JTTF efforts-Joint Terrorist Task Force, a combined effort of both the Bureau and the NYPD. The SWAT team that was converging on us wasn’t being dispatched from some bat cave. It consisted of all kinds of highly trained cops and agents with day jobs at CT or CI or any other division who, when they got the call, would make their own way to the staging location, somewhere safe outside the perimeter that was set up around Gigi’s building. Deutsch had called to tell me where that was, and I knew that if I waited within close reach of it, I’d get my chance.

The big boys-the command post and the special weapons truck-hadn’t yet arrived, but they’d soon be here. I had to move quickly.

With light snow dropping around me, I approached him as he popped the trunk, glancing inside it to make sure he had what I needed and somewhat relieved that he wasn’t anyone I knew. I mean, I’d been on many ops with these guys, guys I’d entrusted my life to while they’d done the same with me, and the fact that I didn’t know him made what I needed to do somewhat easier-not by much, though.

“Hey,” I said in as friendly and harmless a tone as I could manage, “what’s going on down there?”

He glanced around, but before he could answer, I swooped in and hit him with a big punch to the chest. He staggered back, winded, and I moved in quick with him and pulled his gun out of his holster and pressed it against him while my other hand grabbed his cuffs and handed them to him.

“Turn around. Quickly.”

He grudgingly did as I asked. I cuffed his hands behind his back.

“Flat on the ground. Right now.”

He went down.

I tucked the gun away and turned to pillage his trunk. I slipped on his navy blue field jacket, cap, and level three ballistic vest. He was FBI, not NYPD ESU-Emergency Services Unit-and the letters on the vest reflected it. I took out the Remington pump-action shotgun, checked that it was loaded and chambered, then I saw something else. A battering ram. This, I hadn’t expected-but it opened up a safer option, so I slung the shotgun over my shoulder and grabbed the ram.

“In the trunk,” I told him. “Let’s go.”

He was climbing in when my phone rang.

I slammed the trunk shut and started trotting back towards Gigi’s building as I answered the call. It was Deutsch.

The radio broke into several pieces as Deutsch hurled it against the inside of the Bureau SUV.

Gallo hadn’t even had a chance to sign off after telling her that he’d been ordered to shut down the operation due to express orders from Homeland Security. Up until that moment her head had been lagging behind her heart-the former already totally sold on Reilly’s innocence, the latter still harboring reservations. Now the two were in perfect synchrony. The bastards clearly had some staggering reach.

She pulled out her personal cell phone and dialed Reilly’s burner phone, already anticipating that what the SWAT team was supposed to take care would come down to her and Reilly on their own.

“I’m really sorry, Sean, I can’t do anything about this.”

It was clear that Deutsch was pissed off. I asked, “About what? What’s going on?”

“We just got the order to pull back.”

I had guessed right. “Langley?”

“Yep. They’re saying they’ve got someone on the inside and that it’s under control, that there’s no imminent attack and we’re jeopardizing an op they’ve been working on for months.”

I had to chortle at their brazenness, given that there was no “inside” for them to have anyone in.

“It’s out of my hands. Out of Gallo’s, out of the Director’s and everyone else who matters, bar the president himself by the looks of it.”

I told her, “Don’t worry about it.” Which she clearly wasn’t expecting.

“What?”

“You’ve got your orders, Annie. Stand down and pull out.”

“Sean-”

“Annie. It’s not your fight. Just get out of here and make sure you still have a job tomorrow. I might need you again.”

And with that, I ended the call, not giving Deutsch a chance to object further.

I had work to do.

55

I hugged the shadows as I quick-walked down the sidewalk towards the entrance to Gigi’s building, trying to look like I was moving with clear purpose on a set task.

I made it to the entrance without encountering anyone, and I guessed I could thank my shooter and his handlers for that. The chaos they’d triggered by getting the op called off was giving me an opening.

I looked around, made sure no one was watching, then I gave the frame of the building’s front door a little jab with the battering ram and the glass door popped open.

I slipped inside, found the stairs, and climbed up.

Sandman watched the spotter team on the roof across from him fall back and disappear into the night.

Somewhat relieved that he wasn’t going to have to shoot his way through a SWAT deployment, he stepped back into the apartment, away from the windows, and hovered over his captives, thinking things through.

“You two are lucky that at least someone can do what the fuck they’re told,” he said to Kurt and Gigi.

Neither of them moved or responded.

Something had changed about the pair, though he couldn’t quite identify it. It was like they were now offering him a single reaction instead of two-as though they were somehow inside each other’s thoughts.

He could feel Reilly’s presence now, not only in his mind but also in his gut. Maybe they felt it too.

The agent would be coming. And Sandman would be ready.

Deutsch was in turmoil as she watched the cops pull back from their positions, but it wasn’t so much the sight of them that was causing it as it was Reilly’s words.

She knew he was going to make a move on his own and felt wracked by frustration about it. She had to do something, couldn’t let him deal with the situation on his own. She thought of calling it in, saying something, anything, to get the SWAT op reinstated, and pulled out her radio-and hesitated.

Reilly was probably already making his way into the target apartment. Calling in the troops might jeopardize whatever crazy plan he’d concocted. If he didn’t know SWAT was moving in again, her call might put him-and his friends-at risk. Furthermore, he was still a wanted man. She didn’t want him to end up in custody because of her, even if the move could save his life.

She struggled with the decision, torn by savage tugs from both directions-then she muttered a sharp curse and hurried up the sidewalk towards the target building.

She found its door busted open and pulled out her handgun as she stepped inside. She gave the lobby a quick scan. She saw the elevator and a couple of doors to one side of it. The elevator was on the sixth floor. She hit the call button, then thought better of it and opened one of the doors to find the stairs.

She headed up.

The noise speared Sandman’s attention.

It was barely audible; the faintest of disturbances skirting the edge of his consciousness, but it was definitely there.

He froze.

He concentrated his listening and identified the source: the low rumble of the elevator, announcing it was in motion.

He moved stealthily across to the apartment’s front door, giving the suppressor on his handgun a quick tug to make sure it was firmly in place.

He crept closer to the door, listened for a moment, then leaned across it to look through the peephole. He barely caught a glimpse of what looked like a SWAT guy swinging a battering ram before the door blew in and slammed against him.

56

I flung the battering ram aside as the door burst inward and following it right in with the Remington in both hands.

It was dark inside, but in the light coming in from the outside hallway, I caught sight of my shooter regaining his footing from being hit by the door. I spun around and swung the shotgun towards him, but he was already charging at me and grabbed its barrel before I fired, using my turning momentum to fling me around and slam me into the wall just as I pulled the trigger.

The explosion was deafening, but the shot was wasted. My shooter was clear of it and all it did was blast a framed art print and the wall around it into confetti. I held onto the shotgun as I hit the wall sideways, hard, barely having time to recover before he flicked it up ferociously, its stock connecting with my jaw like an expertly placed uppercut. I yelped as he then drove a boot into my shin, an instant before his right hand reigned several quick blows into my ribcage, sending me recoiling back, though not far enough to feel the full brunt of his left landing a hammer blow to the side of my head. I somehow managed to keep hold of the shotgun throughout this onslaught, but it was impossible to take aim. I tried twisting my entire body and stepping back, swinging the shotgun around toward his head, but he grabbed my wrist with his left hand and sent my aim down at the floor before slamming my hand against the wall and sending the shotgun to the ground.

He shoved me off to one side and dived for it, but I launched myself back and stomped on his hand just as it reached it, kicking the shotgun away and sending it skittering off to some far corner of the room at the same time as I heard some snapping tendons and his sharp grunt. He span around and sent a hammer of a punch with his left hand at my kidneys, winding me and causing me to go light-headed for an instant-enough for him to move in with his injured hand, aiming it right at my throat.

I saw it in time and ducked it, grabbing his arm and flinging him past me and spinning him around so I had him from behind, my arms now tight against him, one around his chest, the other around his neck-and I tightened my grip. He couldn’t move. I had my legs planted firmly and out of range and I could feel the momentum had shifted-I was choking the life out of him and he was waning. He was strong, though, and it was still taking everything I had to keep him locked in. He tried kicks, elbows, and punches, but nothing connected, and each one was getting less potent than the last.

I had him-at least, I thought so-his right arm stopped trying to pull me off his neck or pound me off him, and weirdly, his hand went down and he seemed to be doing a frenzied rummage through his pocket, and before I realized what was happening, I felt it: a stab, deep and sharp, like a bite-the bite of an injection, some kind of pressurized delivery, deep into my thigh.

My senses went haywire-I instantly knew what he’d done to me.

I was already dead.

Every neuron in my body went into hyperdrive, acutely aware to the poison that I knew was coursing through my veins, winding and weaving its way from my thigh across my torso and all the way up to my heart, where it would soon wreak havoc and cause some catastrophic failure that would kill me right there and then, in Gigi’s loft, in mid-fight, with my own killer in my hands.

I could feel odd sensations happening all over me-my arms going a bit numb, a tightening in my chest, a heaviness in my head, though I couldn’t tell if they were real or if I was imagining them. Either way, I knew I didn’t have much time left.

I had to end it here, right now.

I couldn’t let him walk away. Not after he’d killed me.

I wouldn’t be able to save myself, but at least Kurt and Gigi would walk away from this. Maybe.

I summoned every ounce of strength I could muster and went for the kill-I tightened my grip around his neck, then I quickly brought up my other arm, took his head in a vice-like hold and twisted it as brutally as I could. One move, the most unflinchingly savage and rage-filled act of my life. I just wanted him dead. I knew how hard it was to pull off, but I also knew enough about the body to know which vertebrae I needed to break in order to sever the spinal cord so as to kill him almost instantly and not just cause him slow respiratory failure or some kind of survivable paralysis. I haven’t killed that many people-my career is about locking people up, not playing judge and jury-and those I did kill, usually in self-defense, I’d dispatched with the help of some kind of weapon. I’d never killed anyone with my bare hands, though right now I could think of nothing I wanted more.

I saw Deutsch appear in the doorway, saw her aiming her gun at us in a two-handed stance as her mouth formed the words “Stop! Hands in the air,” but I was oblivious to her presence and her voice; all I could feel were the muscles, bones and tendons between my hands as I heard the telltale crack and felt his body twitch before it went limp in my arms.

I let go of him and he dropped to the ground like a rag doll, lifeless-just as I soon would be.

I spun around for a three-sixty, my eyes not really registering anything, unsure about whether Kurt or Gigi were still alive, unable to see much in the darkness and through the haze shrouding my senses, then my eyes settled again on Deutsch, and I staggered towards her.

Her face was locked in shock as I told her, “He hit me with a… Alami. Get me to Alami, fast.”

Then I hit the ground and all sight and sound faded to nothingness.