Although Barbara never liked getting up in the middle of the night, she found the pre-dawn drive to The Music Box soothing. Passing through the empty streets of the dark cityscape, it was easy to imagine civilization wiped out from a plague. Only the coffee reservoirs showed signs of life. The shambling remnants of humanity huddled around the cafes, all night doughnut shops, and service stations in desperate need of a fix. The flagrant display of addiction was appalling so early in the morning.

Barbara didn't believe in caffeine. It was nothing but proof that a person's faculties were deficient.

The users left their corporate crack dens clutching disposable cups like badges of failure, while Barbara sped past them, more alert and with quicker reflexes than they would ever achieve with caffeine.

When Judgement Day finally came, it would be coffee which separated the strong from the weak.

Barbara also hated that it stained their teeth. The very thought, created the urge to check her own in the vanity mirror and make sure they were still as brilliantly white as when she brushed them.

She didn't. That would be irrational. Instead, she turned her mind toward work.

Ever since getting back from Vegas, the news of the DTAA's decision filled her with conflicting thoughts and self-doubt. She should never have allowed herself to get so close to Amy. Thinking of other people confused things.

It was the same problem she had with Carlos. Often, Barbara found herself asking: what would The Major do?

Why should his course of action matter? What difference did his imaginary judgement of her make? Simply trying to figure out the ambiguity of what Carlos might think slowed her down. And the impractical nature of his morality got in the way of what she needed to do.

Barbara did not have that problem when she thought about Walt. Jorgenson was entirely single minded. Interpreting him was like interpreting a disease. There was no question to how he'd proceed. Regardless of the situation, he would move relentlessly toward his objective, heedless of the devastation in his wake.

She couldn't help admiring that, even though, there were times when Barbara wondered if she should have killed him the first time they met.

That weasel, Palmer, had given her the security codes to get into Jorgenson's vacation home in Aspen. Barbara had gotten there hours before he was scheduled to arrive. It gave her time to camouflage her tracks on the snow covered path and secure herself in the pantry, where she waited for the man who had issued the order to attack Aira the year before.

Somewhere around nine, he entered the front door making enough noise to wake her, if she had been stupid enough to doze. There was high-pitched laughter. He wasn't alone, but that had been expected. Palmer had told her that catching him during one of his many trysts was Barbara's best shot at getting him without his bodyguards around.

Barbara had expected that they would make their way into the kitchen for a snack or a drink after the long flight, but they didn't. Their voices retreated from her to the other side of the chalet. She could have waited. They were bound to come in there eventually, but something about letting this son-of-a-bitch enjoy one more minute on Earth galled her.

Creeping out of the cupboard, she followed the sounds of girlish giggles to the den. It was a large, comfortable space designed for entertaining big groups. The drapes were drawn over the floor to ceiling windows and with only two lamps on, darkness flooded the corners and made the room seem cavernous.

Jorgenson was at the bar in the corner putting drinks together. His long back tilted down to his task but did not bend. Right in front of the hall door, a black haired woman faced away from Barbara on a sofa. Her bare arm stretched across the back cushions.

She said, "Don't make it too strong, darling. I think I had too much champagne on the jet."

"I am only making it the way it is supposed to be made. No stronger. No weaker."

"You're just trying to take advantage of me." It was a sad attempt to play coy. Who was she? A prostitute? An imbecilic gold-digger? Some would-be actress-clearly not a good one-who would turn to porn after being cast aside by this man, twice her age?

Barbara decided to step in before she spouted out another insipid attempt at flirtation. "Honey, no one can take what you're giving away."

There was a beat of cold silence. Jorgenson had been mixing the cocktails in a silver shaker, his hands froze in place at the first sound of her voice. His blue eye gleamed at her from the reflection in the shaker, as he assessed the situation.

The floozy, on the other hand, exercised no caution. She jumped up and glared at Barbara over the sofa. The pose she struck seemed practiced and taken from a guidebook on being a prima donna. Her gaze traveled over Barbara, but she was too stupid to see the things that were important. She seemed to take Barbara for some rival.

"Who the hell are you? Walt, who is this woman?"

To respond to the question, the CEO of SBI Pharmaceuticals put the cocktail shaker down and faced the two women. "My dear, this Dr. Barbara Gadaskinas. And unless I miss my guess, she is here to kill me."

"Kill..." His paramour looked back at Barbara and finally noticed the semi-automatic pistol she held by her side.

Her over made-up eyes widened in shock. "Do something, Walt. Call the police," she shrieked.

"Calm down." Jorgenson's accent added a richness to his baritone voice and accentuated his sangfroid attitude. "Everything is under control."

Instead of calming her, his lack of surprise only confused her, and his date's panic grew. She screamed, "What the hell is going on? Help me, Walt. Help me!"

The high-pitched whine cut into Barbara's brain. She raised the gun and put a bullet just below the woman's plunging neckline. The floozy dropped to the carpet lost to sight behind the sofa.

Jorgenson sighed. "Was that really necessary?"

"She annoyed me. Besides, I wasn't planning on leaving witnesses."

"Prudent. But since you will not kill me, unnecessary."

"Wrong. You're going to die tonight. But not quickly like the Bimbo. I'm going to make you suffer."

"You are very confident. I respect that. Would you care for a drink?" He raised the silver shaker. "Martini?"

Barbara shook her head.

"Would you mind if I had a drink? I assure you this is not a ploy. There is no gun hidden. No panic switch. There is just that bottle of Scotch there and those glasses there. Thank you." He took a balloon shaped tumbler from the shelf and uncorked the bottle. "It is a shame to waste a properly made martini, but I believe negotiating at gunpoint is more suited to Whisky. Are you certain you won't have one? It is a fifteen year-old Traquaire-quite rare, really. It has a lovely smokiness with just a hint of peat."

"Now you're beginning to annoy me." Barbara pulled the hammer back on the pistol and moved into the room to stand next to the cold fireplace.

Jorgenson raised his glass to her. Quite unaffected by Barbara or the gun, he walked toward her. She raised the barrel an inch in warning, but he just passed by her and made his way to the sofa. As he got comfortable nestling into the seat, he kicked the floozy's hand away from him.

"Yes, very confident." He stroked his beard while savoring a sip of the Scotch. "I'm sure there is nothing I could say that would ever dissuade you from doing what you came here to do. So what harm would there be in me stating my case?"

"The harm is that I don't want to hear anything that comes out of your filthy, lying mouth."

"Are you so sure of that? Do you not want to know why I sent men to your Music Box that day? Are you not curious why your Major Delgado was killed? Oh yes, I know all about him."

"You know nothing about him."

"I'm sure I don't know as much as you. There is no substitute for the personal touch, after all. But I do know that Major Carlos Juan Delgado was born in Orange County, California on January 27, 1975. I could go on about his unremarkable academic life but things only get interesting when he joins the U.S. Marines and does two tours in Iraq, coming home with three commendations and the Distinguished Service Cross."

"A bunch of facts from some report. Is that supposed to impress me?"

He gave a slight laugh, like she had just gotten the better of him at a game of cards. "No, it is not supposed to impress you. I only meant it as proof of how meticulous I am. You see, Barbara, we are very much alike, you and I."

"I sincerely doubt that."

Jorgenson looked down to the corpse on the floor. "Are you certain of that? You are ruthless, my dear. You don't let anything stand in your way. You will sever the arm to prevent the infection from reaching the body. We are the same in this."

"Is your favorite color blue? Mine is too. I guess I should let you live. Conversation's over. Get on your knees." Barbara's voice stayed at its usual flat, emotionless tone, only the tightening of her shoulders gave away when she stopped joking and became serious.

"No," Jorgenson said it like he was declining seconds of a meal from an undervalued servant. "You misunderstand me. I don't think you should let me live because we are alike. You will let me live because you believe in the greater good, as I do. Despite how society has seen it, you have always worked for the greater good. And whether you'd like it or not, I am that greater good. Without me, millions will suffer and die. The world that you know will come to a miserable end."

"You have a high opinion of yourself."

"Why, of course I do. But I also have the proper respect for that wretched she-wolf. That creature you call LARS or Amy Westgate. She will bring ruin unless I stop her."

"That little girl is locked away in a fortified bunker. She can't do anything."

"Bah. She is no more a little girl than I. Today, she is only thirteen, and a few days a month she turns into a beast. But with each passing day, her powers will grow stronger, until one day there will be no stopping her. And she will tear this world apart. This is why you will not pull the trigger, my dear Barbara. Because without me, you will be left behind to watch it all burn. You see, despite what you thought when you walked in here, I am what you Americans call the good guy."