Waiting for the door to close behind Emily, Barbara felt eyes turning toward her. The security guards at their stations were like busybody prairie dogs, poking their heads up wondering why she was standing there and checking out her ass. She had never bothered learning any of the names of this bland multitude. Delgado often spoke of them, but they weren't interesting enough to warrant a spot in her memory. To Barbara, they only represented a faceless multi-eyed obstacle, a creature that watched her and the Major and prevented them from acting openly as they passed one another each and every day.

When the redhead was gone, she went to Delgado's office. Her heels clacked across the floor and she put extra sway to her hips. Let them look, she thought. The purpose in her steps would be hidden from them as they leered. Men like that would look but would never see.

Barbara hadn't approached Delgado at work since they had started having sex. He had told her to be careful and she was. She didn't go around dropping clues to their relationship everywhere she went, like Emily. She was smarter than that. But the information she had couldn't wait until their planned meeting tomorrow night.

Early that morning before the alarm had rung, Barbara had gotten a call from Gil. The pathetic invertebrate of a man finally had something useful for her.

"I think I've found the guy you're looking for." He was speaking in a hush. He was probably locked in his office, terrified, torn between the fear of being found out at work and the fear of Barbara's displeasure.

If she had done a better job of training him, all those years ago, he would have known the only real thing he had to be afraid of was her.

"Is this anything like the last three guys you found?"

"I really think this is the one. He's gotten his Zolpidem prescription filled at a drug store in Mesa for the last three months. Before that, it was always from the same Manhattan pharmacist."

"So he got transferred to Arizona and he's having trouble sleeping. It's not much to go on."

"Not in itself. But I checked SBI's online directory. He's not listed as an employee at either the Phoenix sales office or at the distribution center. And there's no mention of him in New York either. All I could dig up was his enrollment form from four years ago. His title on it is Investigator, Special Projects."

"I'll look into it, but you better not be wasting my time. What's his name?"

Barbara wasn't convinced, but this was the best lead they'd gotten since they started looking for the person who suspicious terminated Whitney Cullen's clinical trial. There was also something tantalizing about the medication he was on. Didn't people with guilty consciousness have difficulty sleeping? That's what they said in the movies anyway. It was worth bringing it to the Major. Now that they had a name, he could use his resources to investigate this Darren Palmer.

Before Barbara tapped on the glass pane beside the door, she stood for a moment and watched him work. Even at the computer, his back was straight, at attention. His eyes stared into the screen with a fierce intensity, and his tender but deadly fingers slammed down the keys in fits and starts.

The knocking didn't startle him. Delgado was impressively hard to surprise. He just glanced over at her and said officiously, "Come in and close the door."

The office was not remarkably different from that first day she came in to get set up on the security system. The guest chairs stood in rank beside each other as though bolted to the floor. The desk was Spartan. Today, there was only one pen, a brushed steel ballpoint, resting on the sheaf of an open file. Two more files sat closed, squared to the corner of the desk. Without a doubt, when he was done for the day, they would all be locked up in the filing cabinet and the surface would be left barren.

The Major waited for her to speak, a faint wisp of a question brought tension to his brow.

Barbara closed the space between them and leaned over with her hands flat on the desk. Those fierce eyes darted for the briefest of glances at the V-neck of her shirt and the exposed cleavage.

His sternness melted but his composure never wavered. Barbara decided to see if she could change that.

"Nice desk. It would be a shame if something happened on it."

"Not here, Barb."

There it was: a slight flush on his cheeks.

Satisfied, she took a step back and crossed her arms. "Well, if you're not going to treat this like a cheap porno, I guess we should get down to business. I have a name."

Barbara didn't get to say anymore. A guard yanked the door open and almost fell into the room. Only his fingertips on the doorframe kept his momentum from pulling him to the ground.

"Sir?" he said, doing a bad job of restraining the panic in his voice.

"What is it?" the Major asked.

"You need to take a look at this." The young soldier hung in the doorway expectantly until Delgado got up.

His hand caressed Barbara's arm above the elbow as he passed her. "We'll talk later."

The guard led them to a bank of four monitors showing the exterior of the complex. Three black vans were driving through the Aira parking lot toward the building's main entrance.

"We first picked them up at the ten-mile perimeter on 101." The older man sitting at the console pointed to the screen. "It seemed suspicious that they were traveling in convoy, so I started monitoring them. Are we expecting anything from HQ?"

Delgado chewed his lower lip, leaning in to get a better look. "No." He straightened up and began walking, scanning all the camera feeds. "Get Colonel McCready at Davis-Monthan on the horn."

"Yes, sir."

Barbara trailed after him. "Who's McCready?"

"Our military support." He peered into one of the video displays. It reminded Barbara of her father watching the last few seconds of a tied Packer's game.

"What are those van's doing?"

They swung in a wide turn in front of the main entrance. The lead vehicle shuddered to a stop. It rested in a spot just beyond the towering glass atrium, where the windows ended and the concrete wall began. The next one parked beside it, staggered so its side door was pulled ahead of the first van's grill. The third one followed suit. The maneuver looked more like dance choreography than parking.

Doors slid opened and boots hit the ground.

In answer to her question, Delgado yelled, "Attacking." He ran to the sidewall and slammed his palm against a large red button labeled: "Fire."

Barbara's senses were overwhelmed by the sudden flurry of action. The room pulsed with a frantic red light. The men always so sedate at their terminals and monitoring station moved in designed chaos like a distressed hornet's nest. The gun cabinets were unlocked. Tactical vests and helmets were hastily thrown on. Assault rifles were passed out to waiting hands. Greedy fists snatched up grenades and pistols.

"I have McCready," the guard on the phone screamed above the siren.

Delgado snatched the receiver. "We have a code Hotel Foxtrot situation. I repeat, Hotel Foxtrot." His eyes flitted across the room taking stock of his men as he listened to a response. "We'll try and hold them off until you get here."

Barbara was focused on his every movement. She admired him for his strength, but in that moment he seemed so fragile. He was teetering precariously over an abyss. The invaders were dressed like commandos and armed for war, black-clad nightmares moving like a cloud of death.

An explosion jarred her into an adrenaline heightened awareness. Then two more concussive bangs followed by an overlapping boom that was several blasts melded together. They weren't strong enough to shake the building. These were more like firecrackers than armaments.

Barbara moved from monitor to monitor trying to see what was going on. The intruders were stacked outside against the wall waiting. They looked like insects in their goggles and masks. The reception area was lost in a swirl of white mist. Smoke bombs, she guessed. Those goggles must be infrared or maybe night-vision.

When she looked up, the men were gathering around Delgado, an army rallying around their king.

"Remember your training," he barked. "This is not a drill. Although unidentified these forces are hostile. Fire at will. We're going to head out there in diamond formation. Adams, Rodrigez, you have point."

They swarmed the door to reception.

Delgado broke through the activity to face Barbara across the expanse of the room. "Get back to the bunker. You'll be safe there."

"I'm not leaving you."

His head turned to catch sight of the last few guards waiting to funnel through the door. "I don't have time to argue. Go!"

The attack was beginning. He was drawn backward into it, like a man trapped in a riptide.

She didn't budge. Her feet stayed glued to her spot, just as her eyes stayed glued to Delgado.

He was almost through the door. "Damn it! If you won't go, don't leave this room. Understood?"

She nodded. "I'll be waiting." Her words were lost under the sound of gunfire.

***

Three identical vans should have been of little or no concern. There had been much more bizarre sights around the Music Box. But the image of them barreling through the lot and skidding past the door was enough to stop Emily in space. In the distorted evening light coming through the wall of tinted windows, they were menacing beasts, like panthers moving in for the kill.

It could just be a delivery, some sort of military drop-off. It wouldn't be the first one. But it didn't feel like anything routine. It looked like the Bizzaro World A-Team coming in to un-save the day.

Something is wrong.

Frozen halfway between the security center and the front door, the tropical plants surrounded her helped promote a humid, jungle terror. An itchy sweat coated her neck. Going forward to the door wasn't an option and the time to retreat back to the security center was draining away.

Her brain was screaming, move! But her body reacted like a fucking day-old corpse. She hadn't been this afraid since the night they took Aaron away.

The thick smell of the potted plants faded to the rich smell of decaying leaves and autumn humidity. Smeared brake lights lit the oily pavement in the distance and promised freedom. Between Emily and this illusory freedom was Drew Preston. His broad, shapeless body blocked the doorway. The aroma of beer wafted off of him like hastily slapped on perfume.

"Drew? What are you doing here?"

"I'm here to collect the rent."

"I told you, I don't have the money just now."

"I'm not here for money." The landlord shouldered her aside, pushing his way into the apartment. He walked into the center of the room, leaving Emily standing with the door to freedom in front of her but chained in place by the small boy asleep in bed. Water sprayed across her forearm like spit. The cold air didn't bother her. Her blood was already chilled.

"Well, are you going to close the door? Since you're not paying for any of this, that heating is costing me money."

With no better options, she shut the door and pressed her back against it. Her mind fought to find some ploy to buy for time. But it was like she was underwater fighting for oxygen that was miles away on the surface. "Now's not a good time, Drew."

"It never is for you, is it?" She had never seen this man so belligerent. Usually, he was meek and pliable. Nothing but a silly, lovesick puppy dog, but tonight he was off. The word that came to mind was rabid.

He crossed back to where she stood. "Louise is out tonight with her friends." His rough fingers traced an inept line down her shoulder as though he was shyly testing the fabric of her shirt rather than caressing her. Another time, another Drew, it would have seemed nervous and coy. Tonight, it hinted at the clumsy pawing to come. "This really couldn't be a better time for me. I could really use that rent right now if you know what I mean?"

His meaty hand wrapped itself around her bicep, taking easy control over her. He dragged her toward the sofa and her feet hurried to catch up.

"Aaron's sleeping."

"I don't give a goddamn fuck." Alcohol had dissolved his filters. There was nothing concealing his emotions. Lust and anger swirled to the surface without any warning or hesitation.

"He hasn't been feeling well and I don't want to wake him."

"Then don't moan too loudly." His hands began working his belt buckle.

Fear fueled nausea hit Emily. Drew was supposed to be her mark but it was clear that her control over him was gone. Her attempts to regain it were just as ham-fisted as his fumbling efforts at seduction. If only she had Lauren's cunning. Lauren was always in control of everything and everyone around her. That's what had made her the master, while Emily was only the student.

What would Lauren do? The question was met with a blank silence. Pressed between the door and Drew, there didn't seem to be enough air to think. A trembling was working its way up her hands.

Come on, Em, she prodded herself. What did she teach you?

Feed the weakness.

If a mark got greedy, you didn't run away from it. You played to the greed. Promise them more, draw them back in, then tie them up.

"Wait. It's not going to be as good for you if you're drunk. I want to make sure you enjoy this to the fullest. Come back tomorrow and I'll make sure you get everything you're owed. And I do mean everything." She licked her lips as enticingly as she could with a bone dry mouth and icy skin.

By tomorrow morning they could be in another state. She calculated that she had enough gas to get as far as Virginia. She could take Aaron south, where the winter would be easier on them.

"You think I'm really stupid, don't you?"

"No, Drew. I never..."

He leaned over her planting his hands against the door on either side of her head. "Always tomorrow. Always another time. But not anymore. No more waiting. No more excuses."

"It's just that I don't want to be quiet when I'm with you. I don't think I can be. And I'll be a lot more...open to things when Aaron is at the sitter's."

Drew smiled and for a second she thought she had gotten through to him. He leaned in even closer until their noses almost touched. "I have an idea. Why don't I give child services a call? I'm sure they'd be interested in the well being of a boy being raised by a penniless whore. Then once he's gone, we can see what you're open to."

"No!"

He was off, marching towards the kitchen and the phone. A trail of sweat skunked its way down the back of his blue shirt.

Emily chased him down, launching herself at him and grabbing hold of his arm with both hands. "No, please don't."

Without any effort, Drew Preston shoved her down on the floor and took one more step before she stopped him and gave in. "Okay. Anything you want. Just leave my boy out of it." She pressed her forehead against the musty carpet trying not to sob.

"Finally. See, we can both get what we want." He stood over her. "Get up on your knees."

Drew finished unbuckling his belt and started pulling his heavy cotton work pants down, exposing grayed boxers. Either he didn't notice the tears in Emily's eyes or the sight of a scared and trembling woman only aroused him.

The next few seconds were an adrenaline blurred haze. So much happened, so quickly, there was a blank spot in Emily's memory. One minute she was staring at Drew in terror and the next her ears were ringing, a body was hitting the floor, and there were guns in her face.

What must have happened was Benicio's goons picked that moment to burst through the door. Their boots dragged rain and mulched leaves onto the carpet, which defined their footsteps long after they left. They were both dressed in jeans and black leather jackets. Their dark complexions identified them as foreign and not local to New Hampshire.

At the sight of the intruders, Drew must have turned and yelled something like, "What the fuck is this?" His cock pressed against the fabric of his boxers, pointing accusingly at the two thugs.

One of them raised his gun, a silver automatic. It was a big high caliber piece of hardware, as solid and as heavy as a monkey wrench. A single shot tore loose from it, driving into Drew's chest.

He twirled—in Emily's imagination, it was always a graceful twirl—before dropping like a sandbag to the floor.

The body slapping onto the ground in front of her was the thing that snapped her back to reality.

"Sorry to interrupt your fun," a voice said with a course Spanish accent. "Benicio sent us to collect the boy."

Her awareness was back but she still wasn't fully there. She wanted to tell them to fuck off, but she couldn't. She couldn't move. She couldn't speak. She couldn't think.

The shooter signaled to his partner to go on. The other man trudged through the apartment past Emily as though she wasn't even there.

Slowly the terror of what was happening hit her. She fought past the paralysis and sprang to her feet. For the second time that night, Emily found herself charging a man to protect her son—another man that outmatched her in size and strength. He slammed the butt of his gun across her head and suddenly the carpet was under her fingers. Her vision clouded with flares of light. The next blow laid her flat.

She woke slowly to a cold and empty apartment. The men were gone and so was Aaron.

Before they left, they had sat Emily on the couch. The fabric of her blouse hung loose against her arms, torn open along with her bra. In her hand was the silver pistol. Over on the floor, Drew was now naked from the waist down.

As her awareness grew, the sound of sirens got louder, coming in unfiltered through the open door. Even in her concussed state, it wasn't hard to figure out how the cops would see this. If she had any mistaken belief that the authorities would help her get Aaron back, it was wiped away in that instant.

She knew the score. Her prints were on record and her rap sheet painted an unflattering portrait. There were only two choices: wear an orange jumpsuit for the next ten plus years or run.

Run, she screamed to herself. Urging her legs to move as dozens of unseen stomping feet slammed on the pavement outside.

She had barely started to dash for safety when one of the planters by the sofa exploded. Smoke billowed up, filling the air. All around the atrium plants and pots were detonating. Soon all Emily could hear was a dull buzzing. There was so much smoke she was completely blind. Sheer terror propelled her. She began to run, only to hit a large marble coffee table. Her shins cracked with pain and she went sprawling against the terracotta tiles just as the air erupted with bullets.