Tommy walked the 30 feet to the conference area. He had no control over how people perceived him, but the blue jeans, running shoes, and green and blue tie-dye t-shirt he wore over broad shoulders might lead a person to believe he was a pizza deliveryman or some kid who had just wandered in from the street.

An attractive, fit-looking woman of about 35, sitting at the far end of the table, was the first to notice the advancing Tommy and greeted him with a forceful, "I'm sorry, you're not supposed to be here, young man." She glanced to a small young woman to her left. "Magda, go make sure the door is shut."

"That really won't be necessary, Cynthia. I'm just here to get Ms. Mettouchi and to find out where you've taken the other people you've abducted. I'll be gone in two shakes of a duck's tail after that."

The woman jumped to her feet and drew her sidearm in a single smooth move. "Get your hands on your head and get on your knees," she shouted.

There was something about Cynthia's tone and posture that made Tommy think she might otherwise have been a good police officer. Covering the distance between them and seizing her weapon would've been easy, but there was no sense in hurting her as he had Zach. Besides, he needed her help, otherwise, things might end badly.

Tommy didn't break stride but walked wide of the conference table to ensure he was the only one in the line of fire.

"Stop or I will fire."

He continued walking as the bullets impacted him harmlessly. Five rounds struck him before he reached Cynthia and gently relieved her of the weapon. She'd retreated several feet by then and had her back against the wall. A look of horror and shock marred her handsome features.

He touched her left elbow in a comforting fashion. "Are you okay?" he enquired. "I know something like that can be quite a shock." Behind him, he heard running feet and glanced back to see Jason come to a halt at the conference room doors. There was no sign of Philly. "Why don't you catch your breath," he told Cynthia.

Tommy turned and walked to where Jason stood at the door. He disabled Cynthia's pistol along the way.

"Jason, brother, I only had one task for you," he said with disappointment. But the agent had a worried look on his face to which Tommy knew he needed to respond. "Your boss got a little emotional. Everyone's fine."

It was then that Jason seemed to notice the bullet holes in Tommy's shirt. The agent's eyes locked onto the holes as if he were in some sort of trance.

Oh, fucking great, Tommy thought.

From the conference room, emanated the slow, loud clapping of a single pair of hands.

"Brilliant, Bravo." The speaker, a cadaverous man of about 50, was clad in a starched white shirt, conservative tie, and a set of dark suspenders. There was an expensive suit coat on the chair next to him. The man's voice was remarkably deep and rich for one so scrawny. The horn-rimmed glasses perched on the man's nose were the thickest bifocals Tommy had ever seen.

The man clapped several more times and moved around the table from where he'd been sitting to Cynthia's immediate right. He now brushed past the supervising agent without comment. The man's tone was outwardly buoyant and confident, but Tommy sensed the contempt in his voice.

A former military officer if ever there was one, he thought.

"Kyle Wigand, I presume." The man's tone suggested that tidbit of information should surprise Tommy. "I've heard a great deal about you, young man ... or not quite so young man."

Jason still stood near Tommy, but by that point couldn't be depended on for even the simplest task. The others were arrayed around the room, standing and sitting, in various degrees of shock and fear. Glancing over to Cynthia, it was clear she'd recovered her composure somewhat.

"Cynthia, please send someone down to bring up my friend."

"That won't be necessary," the older man said, as if Tommy's words had been addressed to him. "I don't know the exact chemical concoction they use, but your friend will be asleep for some time."

The man interposed himself between Tommy and Cynthia, at which Tommy reached over and took the old fool by the tie and moved him aside, taking the opportunity to relieve him of his sidearm. The man's body tensed, his indignation at being touched obvious, but he retained his outward composure.

"Cynthia, I'm not leaving without my friend," was all Tommy said.

The supervising agent began to speak.

"That'll be fine," the gaunt man again interrupted, this time in an indulgent tone. He looked to two of the staffers, whose names he obviously didn't know, and instructed them to do as Tommy had asked. The two, who Tommy presumed from Jason's descriptions to be Phillip, the office IT specialist, and Lana, a research analyst, departed the room after first looking to Cynthia, who briefly nodded.

They respect her, Tommy realized.

"You're very lucky," the cadaverous blabbermouth continued. "Ordinarily your friend would've been moved by private contractors straight to the airport for extraction. But our time schedule was extremely compressed thanks to you and your friends' activities." He gave a theatric sigh. "But that'll give you and I a chance to chat."

The man then had the nerve to smile.

Tommy usually was a good read of people and concluded there was nothing about this character he liked. The man was a loud, pompous, self-important government timeserver who likely had moved up to his successive levels of incompetence more through his personal connections and artistry at bullshit than through any discernable skills or talents. But he let the man talk.

"Mr. Wigand, what are we to do with you?" The man almost chuckled. "Here you are, the hero of New York City, but we cannot allow you to interfere with a project that is so crucial to national and international security." The entire time the man spoke, his eyes carefully surveyed Tommy, no doubt attempting to gage his reactions.

There were none. Tommy regarded the annoying twit as he might a potted plant. Instead, he listened for sounds of anyone approaching. If Phillip and Lana didn't return soon with Philly, he was going to go look for her himself.

Not seeing any change in Tommy's demeanor, the man went on as if he had. "No one should know better than you how truly dangerous a community of people with your exceptional skills and abilities can be. A society has a right to protect itself, you know." That last line was given in what the gaunt man probably felt was his best fatherly tone.

"Where are Amy Lascar and Sam Babington?" asked Tommy evenly.

"Sir, I wouldn't tell you if I knew. There is far, far too much at stake here, namely the security of our nation."

Those were the first words the man had spoken that smacked of the truth, though his attempt to strike what he must've believed was a high-minded tone had further angered Tommy, who, by then, was somewhat perplexed.

Why isn't this jackass more afraid?

Perhaps he's just a fool? No. There was something in the man's tone that suggested he knew something or had some advantage Tommy hadn't yet divined. Perhaps they had more dangerous tricks than the poisoned glove from earlier, some weapon to which Tommy might be vulnerable?

Footsteps sounded on the far side of the building, and Lana soon returned. She went straight to Cynthia. The words she whispered into her boss's ear were clear to Tommy. The medics who were with Philly had given her something to revive her. She was still groggy but would come up when she was able. Phillip had gone to the men's washroom and refused to emerge.

Oddly, Tommy felt a twinge of sympathy for the young man.

Cynthia began to speak, but Tommy looked at her and raised his hand as if the words spewing forth from the gaunt man's mouth were manna not to be interrupted. She remained silent. Truth be told, Tommy had lost track of what the man was saying. It was obvious nothing coming from those thin, pallid lips was of any use or interest to him at all.

Bullshit artist, he thought after another minute. He'd had enough.

"You're going to close down all of your operations," Tommy said abruptly. "From this moment forward, Special Services Administration is out of business. You can reassign all your people to other tasks, but you'll stop looking for us and you'll stop hunting us."

"Now, that is a complete non-starter," the man said, suddenly attempting to sound menacing. "This is a democratic society, and SSA was formed by an act of Congress. I don't know who you think you are, but nothing of the kind is going to happen." The man took half a step closer and met Tommy's eyes. His tone turned ugly.

"Let's get one thing perfectly straight, Mr. Wigand. Or should I say Mr. Tommy Haas of New York City ...."