After a short recon of the area, Tommy returned to where Sam sat watching the activity of a large cluster of buildings on the desert plain below—The Farm.

It had been almost two hours since they'd arrived.

His first impulse had been to go, guns blazing, into the facility, for fear the discovery of Meeker's absence might prompt an undesired increase in security, or some other unpleasant outcome. But he and Sam had discussed the issue. Meeker's description of The Farm had been patchy—the man simply hadn't been very familiar with the place—and Tommy's interrogation of him had revealed that there was a small barracks and training area somewhere on the plain below that housed some, or all, of Morse's Gifted mercenaries.

Both Tommy and Sam knew there would be resistance, and possibly quite a lot of it in the form of the augmented weapons that nearly had killed Sam in Montana, but fighters with Gifts were another matter. There was no way of divining their numbers or of reckoning in advance their abilities. It was that fact that had tipped them toward prudence and toward making a short surveillance of the facility before moving down to search for Amy and the others.

"How, exactly, did you get him to talk?" Sam enquired shortly after Tommy's return.

"Who? Meeker? ... I had him by the ankle and flew him up the coast at around 3,000 feet. Every once in a while, I'd toss him ahead a few hundred feet and fly up and catch him. You'd be amazed how quickly someone talks after such a trip."

Sam laughed with the faintest hint of anxiety. For an old paratrooper, he had an unusual discomfort with heights, and it was obvious he'd hated every minute of their flight to Utah, with Tommy's thick arms his only seatbelt. "No. I getcha."

They sat a little longer. The two hours they'd decided to devote to surveillance nearly had passed, and there seemed to be nothing unusual or out of sorts at The Farm. There were simple comings and goings, people arriving at the office, doing physical training, smoking, eating, taking out the garbage, and the thousand other things people stationed at such a large facility might undertake.

"What do you intend to do with the Widow Meeker?" Sam asked around a yawn. "If you put her in that spare room across the hall from where you and Rhonda sleep, let me know. I'll bring popcorn."

"She's not a widow, yet." Tommy knew he would never hear the end of this. "At least not that I know of. And you've met Rhonda. She'd take that woman into her home in a New York minute. Of course, I'd have to find a new place to live."

The two continued to chuckle as they watched. The vantagepoint from which they observed events was well within perimeter security of Gunway Proving Ground, an enormous site of many tens-of-thousands of acres. No one Tommy so far had seen had been required to produce any sort of security pass. He mentioned this to Sam.

"Maybe there's a secret handshake?"

"Nah. I don't think so." Tommy played straight man. "I do see people with various types of badges on lanyards around their necks, but not everyone has one of those. If there's security here, it's lax. I haven't even heard a public-address system."

"That doesn't sound right," Sam offered. "After that wee dustup at The Range, you'd think they'd be on high alert. It's barely been a week."

"The downside of strategic division of labor. Maybe they don't know?" It was a plausible explanation. "Besides, like you said, they aren't exactly the smartest bunch in the world."

After another few minutes, he bounded to his feet. "Let's go find out."

On the 20-minute walk down to The Farm, Tommy observed his friend carefully. Sam had recovered fully from what should have been a near fatal gunshot wound just five days before. Still, Tommy had considered asking Sam to go with Camille and Philly. In fact, he nearly had come straight to Gunway after interrogating Meeker. Alone, Tommy would be able to work his way past security more easily.

But he could never do that. Sam was as invested in finding Amy and righting this colossal wrong as Tommy, even more so. In that same way, Sam had carried Tommy through the last weeks, as certainly as the Chicagoan had picked up and carried those two girls through the wilderness.

Everybody needs a hero, whispered a voice within.

Sam accosted him from the blue. "If I'm not mistaken, that's the smell of burgers grilling." He looked up and sniffed the air. "By Jove."

Tommy followed his friend through a small exercise area at the edge of The Farm and, after passing between what looked like several storage buildings, saw a small snack-shop a few dozen yards ahead.

"We can't mete out justice on an empty stomach," said the old Chicagoan.

This was no mere pitstop. Both men were hungry, nay, famished from the flight. And they needed to get their bearings, to establish which of the buildings in the large facility was the one they sought. They walked under the awning and up to a counter where a friendly young girl of about 16 waited to take their order. Only one of the eight tables outside was occupied.

"I see we've beat the lunch rush," Sam said to the young woman cordially. "Could me and my friend each get the number two ... and, uh, a couple each for the road." He handed the kid two twenties and pointed to a five-story building located some distance down the road. "Miss, my friend and I are a little lost. Is that the hospital?"

"You looking for the medical center?" One of three men sitting at the only occupied table was speaking.

Sam turned with a winning smile. "I am. My friend and I are here to do maintenance on the oxygen tanks. They were supposed to have some passes and directions for us at the main gate, but the guards didn't know anything about it."

The man to whom Sam spoke got a disgusted look on his face. "Those Protectorat morons. That's what happens when you give a facility security contract to the lowest bidder." The man turned to one of his companions. "Didn't I tell you that's what you get for 29.5 a year?"

The man looked back to Sam and pointed east. "Just follow that road until you reach Building 1147. Tell them why you're here, and they'll get you orange badges. Those should give you access to anywhere in the medical center."

Sam thanked the fellow—he had been very helpful—and, after getting their orders, he and Tommy strolled in the direction they were instructed, eating along the way.

"You got some good moves for a young guy," said Tommy between mouthfuls.

"Yep," Sam said. "Living and working in Cook County, Illinois, and the City of Chicago, you gotta talk some fearsome bullshit to get things done. I ain't got no lawyers on retainer."

"But oxygen tanks?"

"One type of gas every single medical facility has to have," Sam said confidently. "It pays to pick up a book every once in a while, son."

Thirty minutes later, Tommy and Sam entered the front door of the medical center wearing bright orange badges on lanyards around their necks. It was a large building that looked to be new and modern. The walls were of a light wooden laminate with brass edges, and the lobby was large and amply lit by the sun. About a dozen people were present. Most looked to be coming or going to lunch.

The two men showed their badges, and Sam asked where the surgical wards were located. Their appearance and the absence of any tools raised no suspicion. The guard gave him a small strip map and told him to, "Follow the red line."

They were free to move about the place once past security, and Tommy started casting about with all his Gifts and senses.

"It doesn't look like it from the facility map, but there's at least one floor below us." He moved toward a window and pointed east and north. "The rooms underground seem to radiate off in those directions. There are at least 40 people I can sense. They're evenly spaced, for the most part. Only a few are moving about."

"Hospital wards?"

"Or prison cells, well out of sight. This is a classified facility, and I'm sure everyone here has clearance. But people don't always like being reminded of what they're doing. And I doubt everyone here knows the full extent of what this place does."

"Strategic division of labor." Sam spit the words under his breath. They already had seen many doors with cypher-locks and with keypads that required both a code and magnetic key.

"There're probably only a few people here who know everything that's going on," said Tommy, "even what's going on in the lab down the hall."

Sam's strong hand grabbed the back of his arm. "I just saw someone I know," the Chicagoan whispered, as if he'd seen a ghost.

As the old vet began to walk, Tommy turned and followed. They soon entered a hallway on the first floor that went down the middle of the building. Ahead, over Sam's broad shoulder, Tommy could see three women walking in scrubs. Two were talking in an animated fashion about nothing in particular. The third, slightly off to the right, had her head down and arms crossed in front of her.

"Christy Sue," Sam called out.

The young woman to the right came to a sudden stop and turned. After an additional few steps, her two companions pulled up as well. Sam and Tommy soon were within feet of the women, and the nearest looked at Sam in shock.

"Sam ... did they get you, too?" she said in a choked voice. Tears formed in her eyes, and when her hand flew to her mouth, the clipboard she'd been carrying in her folded arms clattered to the floor.

"No, honey, they didn't get me."

"Are you here to rescue me?" Her trembling voice was barely a whisper, and she turned to the wall, as if trying to hide. "I'm so sorry."

Sam took her in his great arms and turned her into his embrace.

"Christy," said the nearest woman, "you need to go back to your room."

Christy tensed at the woman's words, but Sam hadn't seemed to notice her presence.

But Tommy knew the sound of a chain being yanked. Reaching out, he took the speaker gently by the throat and applied the least bit of pressure. The gesture produced an almost imperceptible choking sound from the woman.

"Both of you sit down there on the floor. I'll let you know when I want you to speak." His voice was quiet but stern.

Tommy allowed Sam a moment with his friend, who was now inconsolable in his arms. Her only words were those of deep apology. Several groups and individuals passed them in the hallway, but none commented or sought to interfere, beyond averting their gaze at the odd spectacle of two of their coworkers sitting on the hallway floor.

"Where's the nearest lounge?" Tommy asked the women on the floor.

The nearer of the two pointed down the hall and indicated it was a room on the next intersecting hallway on the left. Tommy herded Sam, Christy Sue, and their two prisoners in that direction. When they reached the lounge, there already were three people inside. Tommy ignored them. The alarm would be sounded soon enough. There was no way he could stop that now. As they'd agreed before, Tommy would deal with security when it came.

As Sam continued to comfort the near hysterical Christy Sue at the far end of the lounge, Tommy turned his attention to her companions. He swiftly ascertained both were medical technicians at the facility. The one who'd first spoken was also a junior administrator.

"Who runs this facility?" he asked her.

"Dr. Aaronov," she replied in a timid voice. After a hard glance from Tommy, she amended. "Dr. Alexander Aaronov."

"Where is he from?" he asked quietly. The answer was all too clear.

"He's Russian."

Of course, he is, Tommy thought. Something coiled inside him.

"You people kidnapped my friend Amy Lascar. You're going to take me to her right now."

The woman blanched. "I don't know where she is," she whispered, before blurting, "We're part of the genome team. It's all double blind ... w ... w... we don't have any access to the groups."

He believed only part of her story. "Where are these groups being held?"

"Uhh...." The woman's jowls began to shiver. "In one of the underground levels. I ... I don't have access to those."

"As soon as my friend is ready, you're going to take me to someone who does have access ... no. You're going to take us to see Aaronov."