"Are you gonna be okay here?" Josh asked. "By yourself?"

Kat looked at him, unamused. "Do you want me to beat you over the head with this guitar?" she asked. "Because I can."

"Not on crutches," Berto said, reasonably enough. For a moment she thought he was going to take Josh's (overprotective) side – he was their designated den mother – but instead he added, "I think you'll be safer than we will."

And therein lay the root of her current disgruntledness: Josh and Berto were discussing venturing out to sleuth, while she was stuck on the sofa with nothing to do but watch bad daytime TV and futz around with her guitar.

"She might not be safe until we're back in Del Oro," Josh said.

Kat caught on to his meaning before Berto did. "Oh, come on," she said, putting the guitar aside in disgust. "You can't really think that."

Josh crossed his arms over his chest and quoted from the secret-agent training manual. "No such things as coincidences."

"Not in a wilderness of mirrors," she retorted, seeing him his trite cliché and raising him professional jargon.

Berto finally got it. His eyes widened behind their glasses. "What're you saying? That both bombs were meant for Kat?"

Josh said, "She was at ground zero for two explosions. Don't you think that's weird?"

Considering that her old job had involved fighting guys with metal faces and laser guns for arms, she had to say that no, being blown up twice in three days wasn't terribly weird at all. "It's not me that's the target," she said, irritated. "The eco-terrorists are trying to shut down the park. I've just been in the wrong place at the wrong time."

"Twice," Josh pointed out, earning him a dirty look.

"Maybe Shine set off the bomb deliberately," Berto said.

Kat and Josh both looked at their friend. Kat asked, "We think he's the bomber now?"

Berto shrugged. "There's no evidence to the contrary. And he does have the most motive."

"Yeah, and he's probably not too happy with you," Josh said to Kat, "not since you ditched in the middle of dinner last night."

"Remind me to burn that dress and send him the ashes," she said.

Josh looked confused. "The dress? I thought it was the shoes that you hated."

"I'm willing to generalize."

"The dress wasn't that bad," he said, and the sheer ridiculousness of that statement made her look at him. He coughed and got very interested in the floor.

Luckily, Berto – who had been deep in thought and thus oblivious to the last minute or so of the conversation – picked that very second to start talking again.

"I guess that settles it," Berto said. "I have to get onto his computer. I should be able to bluff my way into the building, and then… uh… I'll think of something?"

"Mm. I've heard worse plans," Josh said.

"Yeah, from yourself," Kat said, because someone needed to.

Josh rolled his eyes. "I can't imagine why we wanna stop people from hurting you, Kat, but I'll head back to the motocross track. See if I can find anything to help us ID our bomber."

She chose to ignore most of what he'd just said, in favor of giving much-needed advice. "Snoop as Max. If somebody is after me, seeing my own teammate lurking around might tip 'em off that we know something."

"Good point."

"I know," she said cheerfully. "Brains and beauty."

He rolled his eyes again, but there was a smile hovering around his mouth now.

Not that she was staring at his mouth or anything.

She strummed the riff from "Bad Reputation" while Josh and Berto got squared away. If she had to be marooned during the middle of what was becoming an intensely personal investigation, at least her desert island had big soft cushions and kicking home-theater surround sound. And her chords echoed nicely off of all the swanky metal and glass.

"Okay, we're leaving," Berto announced. "Do you have your cell?"

It was digging into her hip at that precise moment. "Of course."

"And your tracking device?"

The tracking device was in her watch, which was on the nightstand – a thousand miles away by crutch standards. She could go get it the next time she had to use the bathroom. "Sure," she lied.

"Okay," Berto said. "Don't forget to eat."

"Or breathe," Josh said.

Kat flashed him a thumbs-up, or what would've been a thumbs-up if she'd remembered to use the correct finger. "Got it."

"We'll be back after lunch," Berto said. "Unless something happens."

She did a few bars of "I Love Rock N' Roll," despite the obvious handicap of not having an amp. "And in that case, I'll hero up and come save you guys."

"Remember not to put any weight on your ankle," Berto called while being forcibly pushed through the door by Josh, who was saying, "She knows, bro, she's gonna be fine."

Kat kept her head bent over the guitar strings so the boys couldn't see her smile.

Josh finally got Berto into the hallway, then paused with his hand on the door. "Seriously. You gonna be okay?" he asked.

She made an exasperated huffing sound. "Go break a leg, McGrath."

He grinned and winked, then left. She heard the door click shut and lock, and that was the last of that.

"Finally," she said to the empty hotel room, trying to pretend it didn't sting a little (okay, a lot) to be left behind. She resettled on the luxuriously comfy sofa and fiddled with the tuning a little bit, then started to play. Stevie Nicks this time, a little slower, a little more bittersweet. She didn't sound as good as Stevie – or Joan, for that matter – but she didn't care.

She ran through "Silver Girl" without botching it too badly, gave up halfway into "Stand Back," and went through the prolonged drama of getting up to raid the fridge.

The crutches were the worst part. If she ever had to use the things for longer than a few days, she'd go crazy. They pinched, they slid, they were bulky and awkward. Altogether she would have much preferred being waited on hand and foot.

She managed to get over to the fridge and extract a ridiculously expensive soda, but then struggled to carry it back to the sofa without dropping it. Okay, without dropping it more than once. Or twice.

Finally, she was able to lean the crutches against the arm of the sofa and carefully lower herself down again. No sooner had her butt hit the cushions than there was a prim knock on the door, followed by, "Guest Relations."

Kat groaned. "Just leave it there!" she yelled.

"I have a package for Kat Ryan."

"Great! Leave it there!"

Instead of doing as told, the idiot knocked again.

She heaved a truly exasperated sigh and grabbed for her crutches again. "That's right, I was only blown up yesterday. Make me walk. Sure! I'll limp to the door."

There was another knock. She balanced on the crutches and yanked the door open with a bloodthirsty, "What?"

Richard Shine's preternaturally white smile gleamed. "Kat," he said.

She glanced down the hallway and saw the elevator closing on the hotel employee Shine had obviously used to get her to the door. Also in the hallway was a very large, very burly man who was putting the stitching of his suit jacket at risk with every breath.

So Shine wasn't totally brain-damaged; he was traveling with a bodyguard now.

"Mr. Shine," she said, trying to feign enthusiasm and failing. Miserably. "Hey."

"It's Richard," he said. "I had business at the hotel today and, well, I still feel so awful about what happened to you. After all of the precautions I put in place, that someone would be so –" He paused, either searching for the word or just putting on a show.

"Insane?" she suggested.

"Inconsiderate," he said. "Of your future, of course."

"Uh-huh," she said, eyeing him warily. Speaking of insane.

"I simply had to come by and check on you. In person."

"Well, I'm just peachy. So, okay, thanks for checking, and goodbye."

Shine smiled at her. "Yes, I'll let you get back to your rest. But first –"

He reached out with one hand. She was busy shutting the door and half-turning to collect her crutches, and her guard was down. To be honest, she was more wary of the bodyguard than of Shine.

And that cost her.

His hand grazed the juncture between her shoulder and neck. Before she could sock him in the gut – or other points south – there was a sharp, brief pain.

"Hey!" she said, staggering away, but it was too late. Even as she saw the syringe in Shine's hand, the drug was hitting her system.

Stupid. There are no coincidences. Rule One of spying. Rule Two: Don't underestimate; don't assume. And being blind was every bit as bad as being lost in a wilderness of mirrors. But maybe there was still a chance -

She tried to get out her cell phone, to hit Josh's speed-dial button, but fumbled it instead. The phone hit the floor with a little thump while her vision grayed out and the room spun. Then she hit the floor, too, albeit with a bigger thump.

Shine leaned over her, mouth moving. It came as a relief that she was too busy blacking out to hear him.