He didn't sleep.

He searched, and finally found a landline number for the Ingram loft. He didn't need it now, of course. It was simply something to do. Just in case of – something.

He pulled up the tabloids and read about Will Ingram and the blonde woman. Julie Carson. Of the New York Carsons. The ridiculously wealthy, wildly influential Carsons. The defense and aerospace and electronics and aviation and every other money-making industry Carsons. The probably could hire every hacker in the world Carsons.

The New York Journal, he noted with some interest, had been first to break the story. Maxine Angelis had her byline on it and several updates. Donnelly frowned. She'd been a hard news reporter when he'd met her. Now she was doing fluff pieces on the rich and famous?

Well, her carelessness and ambition had gotten a good man killed. Demotion to the society pages seemed like a pretty minimal punishment.

Carson and Ingram together could pretty much buy the world. But they didn't seem particularly interested in doing so. Donnelly had covered Ingram's background when he was still with the FBI. The young doctor had inherited nearly all of his father's fortune, but the newly-minted billionaire hadn't gone off the deep end with the money. He'd barely touched it. He worked for Doctors Without Borders, favoring the more dangerous posts the world had to offer. He had a taste for illegal poker games, but they were low-key and relatively low-stakes. Ingram was not a big spender. He was invisible on the internet. He didn't seem to know he was stunningly rich.

Julie Carson, the woman he was now involved with, had a similar story. She was a child of one of the richest and most influential families in the country, but as far as Donnelly could tell she'd never flaunted her wealth. She'd graduated from a Seven Sisters college, then worked for the State Department. He couldn't access her records there, only a start date and her resignation the year before. Prior to the NY Journal story, there was nothing in the public record about her, and there were no other pictures on the internet.

Like Ingram, her history had been largely scrubbed. That was probably Smith's doing.

Carson, Ingram, Fitzgerald, Smith.

What the hell?

He rolled the possibilities around in his head until he was dizzy. He took the tablet and drew a new, neat diagram. There were a lot less dotted lines this time. A lot more confirmed relationships. But what were they after? What were they doing?

Who had contacted him on the computer?

And why?

No matter how many lines of logic Donnelly chased in his mind, no matter how many notes he made, it came to this: If he knew why the Man in the Suit hadn't killed him when he took Scott Powell out of his vehicle, he might understand everything. But he didn't.

He's a good man, Carter had said. He's trying to help people.

Donnelly hadn't believed the detective. He knew that she believed it, but he was also sure she was wrong. But if he looked at things from that angle …

Christine was helping them or hiding them, and though she had absolutely no hesitation about breaking any law that fell in her way, he also knew that she was deeply committed to helping people. So perhaps Smith and John were also, in some twisted way …

No.

There was no way the rogue ex-CIA op and his partner the reclusive billionaire were helping people.

Carter had been deceived. So had Christine. Ingram with all his unspent money, and his lover with her apparently unremarkable years at State.

He had a headache.

I LIFT MY LAMP BESIDE THE GOLDEN DOOR. The inscription on the base of the Statue of Liberty, on Ellis Island. Ellis was the middle name his grandfather had given him. The one he used socially, when he could. The one he didn't share with his abusive father.

That name had died with Nicholas Donnelly, months ago in New York. That name had been buried with the vagrant's body in his coffin. That quote, now, meant that whoever had helped him knew everything about him – including his real middle name.

It wasn't Smith. He was certain of that. Smith could just as easily have called Ingram himself. The same was true for the Man in the Suit. It wasn't one of Donnelly's many handlers and teachers. They hadn't known his real name.

IF YOU LIVE AMONG WOLVES YOU HAVE TO ACT LIKE A WOLF. Whoever his mysterious benefactor was, he or she knew he was headed for the Den. That was terrifying, As far as Donnelly knew, only he and Smith knew that. Research, which was headquartered there, was the most secret of secret organizations. It was so secret that it had no security rating at all. It simply did not exist in any record, anywhere. He had been briefed about it over a landline phone by a disguised voice, in a dozen carefully-timed conversations that took place half an hour apart.

Research, Donnelly had been told, knew everything. If that was true, if the government had already seen through his new identity, he should have been a dead man. He was still alive. That suggested, impossibly, that someone inside the Den was protecting him.

John's guardian angel. And Christine's. And probably Smith's. And now … his?

Why?

Someone at the very highest, most secret levels of the government knew what Smith and his people were doing, and was not only condoning it, but actively assisting them.

It's no wonder I couldn't catch him.

Except he had, and extraordinary measures had been taken to free him.

He looked around the room wildly. He should grab his bag – no, leave it. Take Smith's ATM, get all the cash he could, and run.

But run where? There was nowhere that Smith couldn't find him eventually. And nowhere this nameless government entity couldn't find him, either. If Smith wanted him dead … he was as good as dead. If the government wanted him dead …

I LIFT MY LAMP BESIDE THE GOLDEN DOOR.

That wasn't a threat. It was a welcome. An invitation. His helper wanted him to come to the Den.

At least, he thought that was what it meant.

Perhaps it would be easier and neater to kill him there. There was no one who would look for him, or even miss him. If they wanted him to disappear it would be simple. Might as well have him walk into his execution chamber on his own two feet.

He'd gone months without finding any answers. Now he had so many that he couldn't keep them straight in his head. And the answers only opened more questions.

One thing was clear: there was no point in running. He thought about a bumper sticker he'd seen once. Marine Sniper: Don't bother to run, you'll only die tired. As if any actually sniper would display such a slogan. But that summed up his situation. He was directly in their crosshairs, with no way out. No point in running. They wanted him to walk into his own death? So be it.

He would not run. He would go to the Den, unless those doors closed on him. He would go on, and maybe he could get a few more answers before he died.

It was the best foreseeable outcome.

His funeral had been over months ago anyhow.


On his computer screen, the light outside the windows came up slowly as the sun rose. The bedroom was still dim, but colors became visible.

The blood on the bed turned gradually from red to scarlet as it dried.

Smith came into the room.

Donnelly watched him on the screen. The man looked tired, and his limp was more pronounced. He seemed to hesitate when he saw the blood. He paused again when he stepped on the cast-off meat thermometer. Then he walked slowly to the side of the bed and turned to look directly at the camera.

"You can't do that again." His voice was calm, clear, but he seemed troubled. "You job is to protect everyone now. Not just her."

Smith knew about the camera.

Donnelly shook his head. Of course Smith knew. Smith had probably planted it, or else he'd had Christine do it. But it was clear that Smith didn't know how Donnelly had accessed it. He liked having the upper hand, if only for a moment. He reached for the pad, found the phone number he'd researched: It was dumb luck, but he was undeservedly proud of himself anyhow. He picked up the hotel phone and dialed.

He watched Smith look at the phone, saw just the little flash of surprise. Then the man picked up. "Should I have let her die?" Donnelly asked.

"You shouldn't be watching her at all."

Despite his calm voice and demeanor, Donnelly could tell that the man was angry and unsettled. He remembered back to that day in the hospital, when Smith had held all the cards. Donnelly was probably going to die soon, but for this moment he had the advantage. He pressed it. "She lives or the deal's off."

"I protect her," Smith insisted. His anger came through now. "Your surveillance may very well put her in danger."

Smith wasn't Christine's lover, or her father, but there was something there, something deep, something that Smith didn't want to admit to. Something fierce. He would protect her, Donnelly realized, at any cost. Something deep in the agent's chest quieted. If he could not be there to look after the woman personally, a deeply committed Smith would have been his first choice.

Not that anybody had given him much choice about anything, but that was not the point.

And not that Christine needed or wanted anyone to protect her, but that wasn't the point, either.

"Then you'll have to protect her from that, too," he said, with indecent relish. "I'm sure you'll manage … Mr. Smith." He hung up.

Smith put the phone down, glanced up at the camera again. Then he pulled out his own cell phone and began to push buttons.

The video feed went dead.

Donnelly stared at the blank screen. It had probably been a mistake, challenging Smith. He didn't care. It felt stupidly good to have rattled the man. Pure ego, hubris, and it was dangerous, but Donnelly let himself enjoy it.

If he was going to die anyhow, and that was increasingly likely, at least he'd have this one moment of satisfaction.

And he's thrown down the gauntlet, too. Smith would be more fiercely protective of Christine than he had been. That was good. That was very good.

He wondered how long it would take for the team to arrive, or the assassin, or whoever they sent. He stood and checked the locks on the door, for all the good they would do. Then he took off his shoes and set them neatly beside the bed. He checked his gun. It had been purchased with cash from a street dealer, but Smith was probably perfectly aware that he had it. He put it on the bed, then lay down, fully clothed, and closed his eyes.

When he woke up it was evening. He was hungry. And no one had come to kill him.


In the morning, the front desk delivered a package to him. It contained, as usual, a plane ticket and a boarding pass, a printed hotel reservation confirmation, a stack of cash, and new identity documents.

For the first time, the IDs listed his name as Nicholas Evan Malone.

His destination was a hotel just outside of Washington, D.C.

After months of rehab and training, Donnelly was going to the Den.


From the outside, the Hunting Wolf Hollow Lodge and Resort looked well-aged. The painted portions were faded. The landscaping was mildly overgrown and neglected. The parking lot was huge, but only the quarter nearest the building was filled. The concrete was cracked, and the parking lines were worn nearly invisible. The building had two long wings, each three stories high. At the center, behind the main building, there was a massive structure that appeared to be made of sheet metal. It was three stories higher than the hotel wings. It looked as if the hotel had been built along the sides of a massive warehouse.

The whole structure was exceedingly ugly.

Donnelly saw the three tour buses parked in under the awning just outside the front door. But until he entered the lobby, he didn't really grasp the full horror of the situation.

There were three clerks at the front desk, all frantically dealing with adult representatives of the group. Donnelly rolled his suitcase to an out-of-the-way corner, perched on the overstuffed arm of a chair, and waited.

He was cataloging the faces in the room, mostly out of habit, when an older man in a blue sports coat and a gold name tag approached him. "Excuse me, sir. Are you waiting to check in?"

Donnelly took him in swiftly. Six foot even, about two hundred pounds, sixty to sixty-five. Gray hair, but good skin. Cheap jacket, probably from the company, but quality haircut and good shoes. The badge said he was the assistant general manager, and that his name was Maxwell.

He nodded. "But I'm in no hurry. I'll just stay out of the way until they get the students settled."

Maxwell looked back over the steadily-louder group. "That could take a while."

Donnelly shrugged. "It's no problem."

"We appreciate your patience. We'll be with you as soon as we can." He moved back to the counter and tried to help with the group.

Donnelly settled back and watched. He'd been isolated, not entirely alone but certainly away from large groups. It made him uneasy. I used to command groups bigger than this, he thought, with nothing but my voice.

But that was gone, and his new employers could never know that he'd possessed that particular skill. There was nothing in Nick Malone's background that suggested it.

He didn't know if everyone in Research knew his true identity, or only one person. Until they tipped their hand, he was going to keep his mouth shut.

It was half an hour before the teens finally got their keys and began to move out, crowding into the elevators ten at a time. Maxwell gestured, and Donnelly stood and walked to the counter. "We do appreciate your patience," he said wearily.

"I don't have to be anywhere today," Donnelly assured him. "It was kind of fun, just watching them." He realized that sounded a bit creepy. "I do not envy their chaperones."

"They volunteer," Maxwell answered evenly. He rolled his eyes.

"You get a lot of groups?"

The man nodded. "We're less than an hour from the D.C. tourist sites. Most weeks, from New Years until spring, we have tour groups." He gestured calmingly to the right. "We put them in the Timber Wolf wing. Business guests are in the Gray Wolf wing. So they won't keep you up all night. Usually." He shrugged. "If you do have any issues, please call the front desk."

"I will."

Maxwell took his credit card and ID and handed them to one of the counter women. "We have a running bet, you know," he said quietly, glancing toward the students and adults still crowded by the elevators. "Among the staff. On which ones are most likely to hook up tonight. The adults, I mean. You want in?"

Donnelly leaned one elbow on the counter and eyed the remaining group. "The petite blonde," he said, "and the bus driver."

"The tall one?"

"The woman with the green jacket."

"Ahh," Maxwell said. "Thinking outside the box."

"They're making a lot of eye contact."

The woman leaned to hand his cards back. "They're married."

Donnelly raised an eyebrow. "The blonde and the bus driver?"

"Yes."

"They're newlyweds, then."

"They didn't say."

"That, or they had a big argument."

Maxwell chuckled. "If I had a hundred and seventy kids, I'd fight with my spouse, too."

"Yes," Donnelly agreed solemnly.

"I'll show you to your room." He took a key card from the woman, glanced at the screen. "Looks like you'll be here a while; I'll give you the nickel tour."

"I appreciate it." He looked back to the woman. "Do you have a schedule for the group?"

She looked at him curious. "A what?"

He gestured to the group. "Their itinerary. Specifically when their buses leave each day?"

"Ohhh." She grinned. "So you know when not to be in the lobby."

Donnelly nodded. "Or the restaurant. Or the pool."

She glanced at Maxwell; he nodded slightly. She pulled out a sheet and gave it to him. "You know, this isn't a bad idea. For all our business guests."

The assistant managed nodded. "We'll talk about it."

He led Donnelly past the dwindling group and down the Gray Wolf corridor. "The main restaurant is there," he said, pointing to the back of the lobby. "Complimentary breakfast, seven to nine-thirty every morning. Usually the buses try to pull out by eight-fifteen, so if you don't have a morning meeting, you're better off waiting until then." Donnelly nodded. "Any special requests you have, let us know, we'll try to have it on hand."

"I'm not very particular."

Maxwell eyed him. "Military man?"

"Been out a long time," Donnelly said. "But I still pretty much eat whatever's put in front of me."

"I know the feeling. We do a little better than MREs, I promise."

"That's good to hear."

"Business center, fitness room, pool," Maxwell said as they walked. "Meeting rooms. There's a big ballroom on the other wing. You government?"

"Contractor."

The man nodded. "Most of our long-term guests are one or the other. Like I said, we keep the business clients in this wing, as much as we can."

Donnelly gestured to the center of the building. "What is that structure in the center?"

"It used to be an indoor water park. One of the first in the country. It's closed off now." The man stopped at a heavily draped window and pulled the drape aside. The window gave a good view of the dry, silent park. "It was bought out by Great Wolf Lodge. They did the renovations." Maxwell nodded toward the lobby. "Then they constructed a new facility out by Williamsburg and sold this off again."

Donnelly nodded, eying the silent slides and empty wading pools. "How do you keep the kids out of it?"

"Heavy steel doors, padlocks, and a security system on steroids."

"Wise."

"We still have to drag them out of there about once a month." They took the back elevators to the third floor. "Vending, ice. Coffee in the rooms. Housekeeping refills daily, but if you need more just call down to the front desk." He shrugged apologetically. "There's much better coffee in the lobby 24/7."

"I'll remember that."

Maxwell stopped in front of a room and opened the door, then handed Donnelly the key card. "Anything you need, just let us know."

"Thank you." Donnelly slipped his hand toward his jacket pocket, but the man waved him off. "Pleasure to have you with us, Mr. Malone." He turned and walked down the corridor.

Donnelly went into the room. It was far more attractive than the lobby had led him to expect. The décor was neutral; there were some traditional mass-produced woodland paintings in frames on the walls, but no wildlife photos and blessedly no sign of stuffed heads or antlers. Also surprisingly, the room was actually a suite. The sitting room portion had a large couch that probably folded out to an uncomfortable bed, an armchair, a small desk and a large TV. There was a small kitchenette – coffee pot, mini fridge, small microwave, two small cupboards – and a four-chair dining area. He moved back and peered into the bedroom. Standard queen bed with a nicely neutral bedspread. Two large closets, two functional dressers. Another big TV. The bathroom was stark white, but very clean.

It was more spacious than most hotel rooms Donnelly had stayed in, before and since his death, and somewhat better maintained.

It was also bigger than his first apartment had been.

It would do very nicely.

Donnelly unpacked his bag. He browsed the in-room materials, got a grasp of the building's exits and also of the restaurants in the immediate area. There was a small grocery store just down the block; he could stock the mini-fridge easily.

Then there was nothing to do but wait.


He half-expected to be killed in the night, but in the morning he was still alive.


He spent the next day learning the neighborhood and the routines of the hotel. He waited in the lobby until the tour buses pulled out, fifteen minutes late. The petite blonde and the bus driver were apparently still fighting. When they were gone, Donnelly went to the restaurant and tried the breakfast. It was very conventional, pastries and oatmeal and make-it-yourself waffles, dry cereal in little boxes, fresh fruit, milk and juice and coffee, mass-produced scrambled eggs and link sausage. It was nothing special, but it was surprisingly good.

Maxwell came through just as he was finishing up, paused a minute to talk, then moved on to other guests.

Donnelly went back to his room and changed. He hit the fitness room for some light weight-lifting and a bit of cardio. There were a couple other men in the pool, so he skipped it. He had to take his prosthetic foot off to swim, and the stump frankly freaked some people out. Donnelly couldn't blame them. It still freaked him out. He was adjusting to it, but it was a slow process. With the prosthetic, on, fully clothed, he could pretend his foot was just stiff, asleep, something other than gone.

He went back to his room, showered, changed and went for a walk around the immediate neighborhood. No one tried to kill him. He bought some staples at the little grocery store. He went back and stocked his tiny refrigerator. He watched an old movie on television. He took a nap.

Despite the distance between his room and the lobby, he heard the teens return to the hotel.

He did some more exercise, push-ups and sit ups on the soft carpet in front of the couch. He heated up a frozen dinner in the microwave and ate. He washed up his few dishes in the tiny sink. He drank a bottle of juice. He surfed all of the hotels TV channels again.

He paced.

Finally, he took his laptop out of the desk drawer and turned it on.

He read the digital versions of a dozen national newspapers. He read the crime reports for the cities he was following. He read the New York tabloids. The Ingram/Carson relationship continued to linger on the back pages – they were now officially engaged – but Maxine Angelis was no longer writing their stories.

There was not a single word about Christine Fitzgerald anywhere. Donnelly hadn't expected there to be. No news was very much good news on that front.

He looked thoughtfully toward his hotel room door. He was rather surprised that no armed men had kicked it open yet. More surprised that the Man in the Suit hadn't kicked it open.

He stood up, walked over, and opened the door. The corridor was empty.

Donnelly shook his head. Then, too bored to do anything else, he went to bed.


He was mildly surprised again to find that he was alive in the morning.

He put on his suit, left his tie, and went down to the restaurant. The tour buses were already gone. There were two couples and one small family still lingering over breakfast, as well as half a dozen men who were either in business or government. He picked a table in the corner, got a tray and an abandoned Wall Street Journal, and sat down.

Just as he finished both the paper and his last bite of toast, Maxwell, the assistant manager, sat down across from him. "Mr. Malone. Enjoying your stay?"

"It's very nice," Donnelly assured him.

"Once you get past the lobby, of course."

He didn't bother to deny it. "Of course."

The man looked around the restaurant. "Are you ready to go to work?"

Donnelly folded the paper and set it down. "To work."

"You could hang around the fitness center another day or two, if you'd rather."

He let out a slow breath. "No, I'm good." He stood up, took his suit coat off the back of his chair and put it on. "Do I need … "

"Not a thing," Maxwell assured him. He stood up, glanced at his watch, then led Donnelly out of the restaurant and down the corridor, past the elevators, to a sign that said WATER PARK ENTRANCE. There was a big double door there, steel, chained and secured with a heavy padlock. To the side there was a keypad. The man glanced over his shoulder. The corridor was empty.

He keyed seven numbers into the keypad. There was a soft click, and then the right-hand door slipped an inch to the right, not at the lock but from the hinge side, frame and all moving into the wall itself. Maxwell slipped his fingertips into the space and pushed; the door slid open soundlessly. He gestured, and Donnelly went through in front of him.

He truly expected that the blow would come then, a shot or a stab or at least a stun gun, a dart, a black bag over his head. Something. Instead, Maxwell followed him into the deserted water park and let the door slide closed behind them. The concrete and plastic echoed the soft sounds of their footsteps. He gestured to another service door to their right. This one just had a standard lock, and seven numbers on the keypad opened it.

Beyond were concrete stairs, dimly lit, that led down to a landing.

Maxwell led this time. The stairs doubled back at the landing, then again, and twice more. Donnelly guessed they were perhaps thirty feet below street level. The air was heavy, cool and dank. Great place for a body dump. No one would ever find him. Well, he reminded himself, he'd already had his funeral.

He'd had so much time to get used to the idea of his imminent death that it no longer caused any panic in him. Or much of any emotion at all, for that matter.

There were cameras, operational and undisguised, on each landing.

"You okay?" Maxwell asked over his shoulder.

"Hmm?"

"Your leg, on these steps?"

Of course they knew about his amputated foot. "It's fine."

Maxwell nodded and continued to lead their descent. "There are a couple other ways down. We'll show you."

"The code?" Donnelly asked.

"Individualized. You can pick, program it in. Not your birthdate or your cell phone number."

He snorted, didn't bother to reply. He still expected to be killed. "What is this place?"

"Used to be a nuclear bunker. We remodeled a bit."

"The Den is … under the hotel?"

"Under the parking lot, mostly. And the lobby." Maxwell smirked. "Would you look for it there?"

"Under that lobby? No."

"It grows on you," Maxwell promised.

"Really?"

"No. But the horror fades."

At the bottom of the steps there was a third locked door. Beyond was a brighter hallway, with finished walls and worn carpeting on the floor. The air was warmer and dryer. It was thirty yards to the fourth door. The assistant manager – who clearly wasn't – paused. "Ready to jump down the rabbit hole?"

Donnelly glanced back down the corridor. "I'm pretty sure I already did."

"You haven't even begun." He keyed the code and opened the door.

Nicholas Donnelly – Nick Malone – stepped into the Den.