"So, Mark, now you have a friend to play with." Kara Stanton tilted her head as she studied John Reese's unconscious body. Her former CIA partner lay at her feet on the floor of the basement where she'd imprisoned Mark Snow, their handler, for the past month.

Snow stood across from Stanton, still trying to catch his breath. Reese was no lightweight; even with the two of them working together, it had been a challenge to extricate him from the back seat of Donnelly's wrecked car. The sedative that Stanton injected had ensured his cooperation, but it had also made the big man about as easy to move as a two-hundred-pound sack of wet concrete.

Still, it beat the alternative of dealing with an angry, disoriented assassin. Even though Reese hadn't come out of the violent collision unscathed, both of them knew firsthand that he could do a surprising amount of damage even when wounded and half-conscious.

Snow stared down at his former subordinate's silent and bloodied face, mesmerized. After a month as Stanton's captive, he thought he had grown numb to her tendency to destroy everything she touched. But when he saw what she'd been willing to do get her hands on John, he realized that he'd been wrong. A gash just above Reese's hairline had bled heavily down his forehead and cheek, streaking his usually crisp white shirt with garish crimson alongside the black smears of automotive grease.

But that was only the tip of the iceberg. Snow had felt the stickiness on the back of Reese's head as they had carried him to Stanton's car, and there was a slight crackling sound as the tall man breathed, indicating small fractures in his chest. No wonder, since his body had been flung around like a piece of laundry as the car hurtled through the air. All the muscle in the world couldn't compete with a ton of flying metal.

Reese's powerful build, in fact, was probably partly responsible for wrenching his left wrist, which had been handcuffed to the car's interior. Even when Snow released it right after the accident, the skin was so torn and discolored that he suspected a fracture, and the swelling had only grown worse since then.

All in all, John Reese was going to be one miserable man when he woke up—even before he realized whose hands he was in. Snow turned to Stanton, risking a note of accusation in his voice. "You could have killed him."

Stanton tossed her hair and let out a humorless laugh. "Remember, Mark? I already did. You of all people should know that. After all, you're the one who told me to do it."

That had been nearly two years ago, although it felt like a different lifetime. Snow had taken Stanton and Reese aside separately, and had confided to each of them that their partner had been "compromised." On that pretense, he ordered them both to "retire" each other upon completing their mission to an abandoned Chinese industrial town.

Only Stanton had obeyed. With the gun still warm in her hand, she had watched Reese clutch his wounded side, both his physical pain and the pain of her betrayal evident on his face. "Sorry, John," she had said half-heartedly. "Nothing personal." As if that mattered. He was as good as dead, and they both knew it.

But even as John slumped against the wall, his blood seeping away between his fingers, he had started to laugh. That was the moment when everything had stopped making sense. It was as if he were privy to some cosmic joke that she wasn't in on. For the first time in a long while, Kara had felt truly frightened.

Then John had told her about his own orders from Snow—the same orders that she'd received. How they'd both been double-crossed and lied to. But before she could respond, the shriek of an incoming missile had shattered the world that she knew, throwing her into an afterlife even more shadowy than her first one.

So here they were again. Apparently the Fates had a sense of humor, bringing her and John together again like this. Two dead little spies, she thought cynically—before realizing that came uncomfortably close to the truth. Turning, she vented her annoyance on Snow. "You're one to talk. You tried to kill him too, didn't you? About a year ago."

Snow answered with a reluctant nod. "Tried—and failed. John's a hard man to kill."

Stanton smirked. "He is, isn't he? I've never been able to decide whether that makes him fortunate or not."

Once the CIA had learned of Reese's return, Snow had been ordered to bring John in or take him out—or else. But he'd had no more success than Stanton did, despite his sniper's skill. Evans had shot the target twice, once in the abdomen, then again in the leg when the first bullet failed to subdue him. Yet even critically wounded, Reese had managed—incredibly—to slip through their fingers again.

Later, after they'd given up the manhunt, Snow had found Reese's blood trail in the stairwell, marking the ex-agent's slow but determined progress down several flights of stairs. If he hadn't seen it with his own eyes, he wouldn't have believed that Reese could have made it that far in his condition. Whatever John Reese's other vices and virtues, he was a relentless survivor.

Snow shook his head as he watched Reese's chest rise and fall, his breathing rasping but steady. "I'm not sure it's really a matter of luck one way or the other," he said. "Seems more like instinct, combined with John's skill set. Besides that, he's just like any other animal—just trying to stay alive."

Stanton's expression was inscrutable as she brushed her fingertips over Reese's hair. "Aren't we all," she murmured. Then she threw Snow a sly look. "But now that we're all here I together, let's have a friendly little competition: which one of us came closer to taking him out?"

Stanton began unbuttoning Reese's shirt, and Snow looked on uneasily, shifting from foot to foot. "Kara, I don't . . ."

"You didn't used to be so squeamish, Mark," she jeered. "Anyway, we need to get John cleaned up; he can't go out looking like this." She began working Reese's ruined shirt off his arms, exposing an undershirt that looked several times worse than the previous layer. "Where's that first aid kit? I need some scissors."

Swallowing uncomfortably, Snow brought Kara the box of medical supplies—the only help she had provided after she'd shot him and thrown him in the basement. From that moment onward, his time in her custody had been nothing short of hell on earth. He had to admit, though, that this whole mess was his own fault, in a way. He had known he was hiring a sociopath when he'd signed Stanton on; after all, that was what made her such a good killer.

As for John, Snow had chosen him as Kara's partner both because of his own skill set, and in hopes that his hyperactive conscience would balance her wantonness. Admittedly, though, that hadn't been the only reason; Snow had also conceived of their partnership as a sort of joke, albeit a cruel one. Pairing those two had been like bringing together the metaphorical angel and demon on a cartoon character's shoulders, and making them work out their differences.

When the time came, Snow had seen their mutual destruction as a fittingly ironic conclusion—except that his plan hadn't worked. Now he was beginning to realize that his private joke might turn out to be his death sentence.

A low rumble, like the growl of a hungry lioness, snapped Snow back to the present. Stanton had finished cutting away the remains of Reese's soiled undershirt, and was running her fingers down his bare chest, her gaze greedy. Snow quickly averted his eyes, not liking the intimate turn the scene was taking.

Sensing his discomfort, Stanton remarked with feigned coyness, "What's the matter? You didn't know that John and I were lovers?"

"Of course I knew," Snow spat out, studying a spot on the ceiling. "I just don't like watching a snake swallow its dinner."

"Admit it, Mark—John is quite a dish," Stanton smirked as she traced the curve of Reese's muscles, oblivious to the smeared blood trailing behind her fingers. "He hasn't let himself go like you have—not that you were ever much to look at. John's not as young as he was, but look at that body!"

When Snow did look, he had quite a different reaction than Stanton. True, Reese's torso was as enviably trim and toned as ever, but it was also so bruised and battered that Snow winced at the sight. "What did you do to him, Kara?" he said, his voice hollow.

Stanton didn't respond, still caught up in her own train of thought, as Snow stared at the series of long cuts sliced into Reese's collarbone and chest. Some still glinted with bits of broken safety glass. They must have dragged Reese's body over the fragments of the shattered window as they pulled him from the wreckage.

But the collision alone couldn't account for the grim palette of purple and red that covered Reese's torso. His ribs and abdomen had become a patchwork of cringe-worthy bruises, punctuated by an array of cuts and abrasions. Among the latter, Snow could see the unmistakable imprint of knuckles—silent testimony to a brutal beating.

Stanton's history notwithstanding, Snow knew he should feel shocked that she would so violently assault a defenseless man, especially a former partner. Except that now, after a month in her power, he had ceased to feel much of anything. At least that was what he told himself, even as he persisted, "Kara, what did you do to John?"

This time, Stanton looked up from the body of her discarded lover, puzzled. "What are you talking about, Mark?" Then she followed his gaze to Reese's brutalized body, and waved a dismissive hand. "Oh, that. Do you really think I'd do that to John?"

Snow didn't have time to respond before Kara startled him by swinging out and slapping Reese hard across the face. Although Reese remained unconscious, he let out a grunt as his head was thrown to the side by the force of the blow. A thin line of blood trickled down from his lip, and Snow's palms began to sweat. He suspected that Stanton was playing with fire, though he didn't dare say so.

Stanton said bitterly, "Of course I'd beat him—and worse, if I had the time. He didn't listen to me. I told him that I needed the killer, not the Boy Scout. He should have shot me when he had the chance. The only reason he's alive now is to help me get my revenge."

Then giving Snow a cold smile, she admitted, "This isn't my work, though. Donnelly arranged a little run-in between John and some old friends of his at Riker's. Tried to make him show off his training." Disdainfully, she prodded at Reese's bruised ribs. "Look at him, Mark. It's pathetic. John let them beat the shit out of him. Cracked ribs on both sides. Still trying to be good boy, even if it kills him."

Reese's forehead had creased at the pressure on his injured chest, and he let out a soft moan, shifting his limbs uncomfortably. Snow took a step back, his heart rate accelerating; he had no desire to wake a sleeping lion.

"Mark, don't be an idiot," Stanton taunted. "He's sedated, remember? He shouldn't come to for another hour. Besides, we still have to find out who wins our little competition. Now let's see . . ." Her fingers moved toward two prominent bullet scars on Reese's right side, going first to a ragged-edged, white and red mark over his ribs, then down to a neater circle barely three inches below it and a little to the left.

"From the look of these scars," Stanton said, tracing the uneven border of the upper wound, "I'd say this one's mine . . ." Her fingers moved down to the lower wound, the skin still newly healed, ". . . and this one must be yours." After a moment's study, she concluded with a cocky smile, "Mine's bigger."

"Evans put a second bullet in his leg," Snow pointed out defensively.

Stanton shrugged this off. "Extra credit. The real question is who came closest with the first hit." She touched the upper scar. "Looks like I may have gotten a lung—and I'd like to know how John dealt with that in the middle of nowhere—but you could have hit a kidney, his liver, his stomach, maybe all three. Without a scan, there's no way to be sure." She put her hand on her hip and sighed, apparently disappointed. "So I suppose it's a draw.".

Snow was beginning to feel sick. "This isn't a game, Kara." But even as he said the words, he knew they weren't true. For Kara, this was all a game—a ruthless, cutthroat game of survival, as it had always been.

"Isn't it?" she asked, flashing him that soulless smile of hers. Even after he'd seen it o often in recent days, it still managed to made Snow's skin crawl.

Then abruptly, Stanton asked, "Why didn't your sniper shoot to kill?"

The question took Snow off guard, but he countered with one of his own, barely missing a beat. "Why didn't you? You had your orders."

"Touche." Kara's expression shifted to one of insolent amusement. She leaned closer to Snow across Reese's body and spoke softly. "I think we both know the answer to that, Mark. Neither of us really wanted to kill John, did we? At least not quickly. We wanted to know what he could tell us. A bullet in the gut was only the beginning."

There was an awkward silence, then Snow nodded in reluctant agreement. It was true; the CIA had given him permission to retire Reese if necessary, but preferred that he disable the rogue agent and bring him in for interrogation.

"Naturally, I wanted to know how he'd been compromised," Stanton volunteered. "And our friends at the CIA . . .?" She raised an eyebrow inquiringly.

". . . wanted to know what happened at Ordos," Snow said, his voice dull, "once we found out Reese was alive,"

"Funny how neither of those questions seems very important now," Stanton said, "now that I'm in charge." Suddenly, she grabbed the collar of Snow's shirt and pulled his face close to hers, her voice filled with barely controlled fury. "At Ordos, John and I were just pawns in somebody else's game. The CIA's game. Your game, Mark. And you're going to pay for that when the time comes. But I'm not some helpless little pawn on the CIA's chessboard anymore. This time I'm calling the shots."

And to hell with the rest of us, Snow thought as she shoved him away, observing wryly, at least some things haven't changed.

When he looked up from smoothing his rumpled shirt, he saw Stanton trailing a hand over Reese's bruised shoulder. She touched him almost tenderly—no, possessively, Snow decided, feeling a sudden chill run down his spine.

Kara smiled down at her ex-partner and patted his cheek, still faintly red where she had struck it. "Won't John be surprised when he wakes up and sees that we're all back together again! Now clean up my Boy Scout here, Mark. I have a few things to get ready before we head out."

She stood to leave, but froze when Snow ventured, "So . . . you still care about John." He was looking for any angle he could play in this deadly game—even a risky one.

"Care about him?" Stanton gave a dismissive laugh. "Don't be ridiculous. What I care about is John bleeding all over his clothes, and some idiot calling 9-1-1 and ruining our little party."

"Our little party." As he began to clean the blood off Reese's face, the innocuous phrase echoed in Snow's stomach like a penny dropped into an empty well. Stanton talked about causing mayhem like a middle school girl planning a sleepover.

The clatter of a handful of serrated plastic strips on the floor beside him jarred him out of his thoughts. "Oh, and here are some zip-ties for when you're done. Just to be safe, until we've made sure John will do as he's told."

Snow didn't like the sound of that. "What are you planning to do to him?" Not that he felt any concern for John as a friend, of course—that would be absurdly sentimental in their line of work. But he had a growing sense of foreboding as Kara's scheme moved forward, and as the man best equipped to stop her lay bleeding and senseless on the floor in front of him.

Stanton paused with her hand on the door frame, tossing Snow a dangerously nonchalant glance. "It's none of your business, actually. But since you've behaved yourself so nicely, I'm going to tell you."

That smile again. It made Snow's blood run cold.

"I'm going to get John a nice, clean shirt," she explained calmly, "and then we're going to make him a bomb vest of his own, so you boys can match. After that, you two are going to run some errands for me."

Snow looked down at the pack of explosives that he'd been wearing day and night for the past month, and felt a pang of despair. Any hope he'd had of benefiting from Reese's company was fading, especially given the ex-agent's condition. As he reached over to bandage Reese's injured wrist, he felt a sudden pang of sympathy for his fellow prisoner. After all, John was his only companion among the damned, equally at Kara's mercy. He called after Stanton, "Should I give him anything for the pain?"

Belatedly, he realized that for her, this would be a rhetorical question. "No, John's a big boy," she scoffed. "He can handle it. He's used to it by now."

With a partner like you, I imagine he is, Snow thought. Better him than me.

Because really, he decided, Reese didn't deserve his pity any more than Stanton did. Whatever their different motives, those two were more alike than they would care to admit—both professional killers, sharing in a deadly expertise. Although Snow had treated them as colleagues when he had been their handler, he had privately regarded them as little more than lethal weapons, valuable only insofar as they were useful to the agency.

There was no reason for that relationship to change now, especially considering the life-or-death game Stanton had dragged them all into. Snow's compliance with her orders had secured his survival thus far, and he wagered that his best chance of coming out alive would be to play her game through to the end. That didn't leave any room for Reese, since Kara's game had only one rule: survival of the most ruthless.

Snow dutifully continued his task of making Reese presentable, cleaning off blood and concealing wounds, but he did so with the detachment of a mortician preparing a corpse for burial. As far as Snow was concerned, John Reese was a dead man already.