Prologue

Carly prowled around inside the interrogation room, trying to avoid Brenda. It was a small space so stalking the anxious emotions coursing through her brought her repeatedly into Brenda's own pacing path. To the observer on the other side of the two-way mirror they looked like a mountain lion and tigress trying desperately to hate each other but not draw blood. To each the other looked like a threat to be handled before the law came to turn them against each other. Damage control.

Carly needed to figure out how to keep Brenda from making a tough situation worse for her and how to keep Sonny from freaking out over the fine mess they had gotten themselves into. Brenda groped for a way to keep Carly from selling her out without calling in Ned or Sonny or Jason. The less they knew about what she and Carly had done this time the better.

Eventually Brenda got tired of dodging Carly, who liked the idea of plowing her over a tad too much for Brenda's taste, and slouched in one of the noisy metal chairs provided to drum her nails on the equally noisy and metal table. Carly, annoyed at the drumming sound, began to hum to drown it out. Brenda, annoyed by the humming, started tapping her feet along with her fingers. Sooner rather than later, their preoccupation became increasingly about who could annoy whom more, first and less about how to save their own skin from the impending interrogation.

The observer was amused by the exchange and as the competition mounted he enjoyed the strange kind of music the women were making together. They had no idea how well they worked together and he was loath to tell them. They would likely kill him for such an inference. The door behind him opened and closed. His boss walked in. He didn't have many and never had his entire life. Even though the number was lower than most could boast, it was too many for his taste and he'd chaffed under the yoke for years. Since the first man had forcibly exerted his will on him.

"Agent."

"Sir," he said without turning from the strange matting-dance before him.

"It's time. We can't cover this." The voice was decisive if regretful. Their game had had a long and prosperous run. The start of end game was now at hand. He had unquestioning faith that he would have exactly what he wanted when the smoke cleared. How many times had he forced her to assure him of just that? And she's always risen to the occasion.

"I know." He sighed. "It's been time for a while." It had been since he was sixteen. He was now in his forties. Not that anyone would guess that most days. He'd aged well. Even if she jibbed at him for his age he could keep any pace she'd set for him. He could set one for her and have her panting in minutes.

"You had your orders. If the women can't see that then they were never worth the trouble."

"Yes, they were." He chewed on a hangnail and watched the two starting to snap at each other. They'd been alone long enough. He didn't feel like explaining to his superior how far off base he had been about the women on the other side of the sheet glass. "I'll go break it too them."

His boss' hand clasped his forearm as he brushed past. "What are you planning?"

"I'm gonna walk in there and tell Mrs. Corinthos and Ms. Barrette the truth. All of it. Something I've never told them before." It would be a load off. Brenda would be very angry with him. Carly would be hesitant but she'd take it in stride—she took everything in stride.

"I might try a different tack if I were you, agent. Those women are ready to snap. I think now might be the time to give them some thing to placate them or they might kill you." His boss was as aware of their volatile natures. His boss knew almost everything he knew about the two women slighting each other in the next room. He had a point.

He appraised the slightly taller man whose light brown hair was combed back in a much puffier style then his own. Their relaxed but structured relationship had blossomed out of the very formal and confining one he'd had with his former superior.

Hensley had retired, handing his mission over to Thompson, a week before his heart gave out. He had died with one of his signature American grown and rolled cigars lit and in his hand. Hensley had always had one in hand, despite his heart condition. He practically dared the old ticker to give out on him. In the end the buzzard had won. He'd made it to retirement. He'd paid all his social security. He'd been a good American to the last.

Thompson and he had bonded over laughing at the old man's staunch belief in the country, the system, the morals he saw in the job. It was also one of the things that had kept him and Thompson straight in a situation where it would have been easy for both of them to get lost in their jobs. To be corrupted. But a paunchy, cigar smoking, balding, patriotic man had been one of the best male role models he'd ever had. He couldn't help but wishing Luke had met him. Their ideals were at total opposites but their personalities were both so loyal and one-tracked that they would have entertained one another no end. Thompson had been like his brother and the only other person in the Bureau who knew about him and his job. They had been groomed for each other by that starchy old man. They had worked with each other at times knowing what the other was up to, planning, worried about, or in trouble without the other saying a word. The old miser had known what he was doing when he put the two youngsters together.

Thompson and he looked one another over. This would be the end of their tight-nit little family. They both had other families, other lives, other friends, and responsibilities. When the truth came out it would be over. Other agents would be brought in on the details. Their women would meet. Hell, they would finally be able to meet the people the other loved most. Each other's children and such. It would be strange and surreal. Neither was sure they were ready for it. Studying the laugh and worry lines that had grown since they had meet. Since this wild ride had started.

Both felt the finality, the end of an era and smiled bitter-sweetly at one another. "I got an idea." Thompson was good with ideas. He trusted Thompson's creativity in a way he trusted few.