As expected, Clay showed up at the soup kitchen just before seven Monday morning. Reese watched the young man go inside. He was a little better fed than the last time John had seen him. He stayed inside for some time, eating and then helping out. Will Robinson wasn't there, but the other workers seemed to recognize the boy.

So maybe he was a little more responsible than he'd been before, too.

Still, Reese was not pleased that he was back in the city and back on the streets. They'd sent the boy home to his own parents, after Finch had mostly repaired their dire financial situation. John knew Clay had had differences with his father. But he'd genuinely hoped the boy could make a go of it.

Sometimes, he supposed, people needed more than one second chance. At least Clay's girlfriend was at home and doing well.

Reese watched the people in the area. The time of day made his observations easier; nearly everyone was hurrying to work. Anyone who slowed or loitered caught his eye. He scanned the group at the bus stop carefully: It would be a good place to blend in. But the bus stopped and everyone got on. John continued to look.

It was nearly eight before he saw the man with the faded blue scarf. He had dark hair, bushy eyebrows. Mid-thirties. Posture that suggested some time in the military. But he wasn't good at lurking. He came to the end of the cross street and leaned against the corner of the building with his hands in his pockets, staring directly at the front door of the soup kitchen.

His right coat pocket seemed to be a lot fuller than his left one.

Reese tapped his earpiece. "You there, Finch?"

"Of course, Mr. Reese."

"I think I found the guy who's after Clay. I'll get you an ID in a minute."

"Be careful, Mr. Reese."

John smiled grimly and crossed the street.

He timed his approach so that he came to the corner at the same time as a big group of people were surging toward the bus stop. He let himself be pushed against the man in the scarf. "Sorry," he muttered as he moved away.

He didn't have the gun, but he'd verified that there was one. He also had the man's wallet. He ducked into a doorway and opened it. Six dollars. A debit card. And a state ID. "Charles W. Peterson," he said quietly.

The burst of keyboard clatter started before he got the last name out. "Born in 1977?" Finch answered.

"So the ID says."

"Originally from Elkhart, Indiana. High school graduate, no sign of any college …" His voice trailed off, but the keyboard continued. "Most recently employed by the United States Army. He served twelve years, got out last January. No known residence, no known employment."

"And nothing to say why he has it in for Edward Clay."

Finch hesitated. "As we know from previous experience, Mr. Clay has a talent for acquiring enemies."

"That's true."

A squad car rolled up in front of the soup kitchen. The cops weren't running lights and sirens, and they didn't seem in much of a hurry as they got out of the car. It looked like a routine walk-through to Reese.

Clay came out just as the officers were going in. He held the door for them. Except for a word or two, probably thanks, they ignored him. The young man pulled the door shut tight behind him and puton his gloves. Then he trotted across the street.

Reese looked toward Peterson. The man had turned his back and cupped his hands over his face as if he were lighting a cigarette in the wind. John wasn't sure if that was for Clay's benefit or the cops', but either way the kid didn't notice him.

He strode back the way he'd come. Peterson grabbed Clay by the arm and pulled him into the alley. The young man didn't resist. Reese turned the corner two steps behind them. By then Peterson had the gun out and pointed at Clay's head, and the boy was cowering against the wall.

"You fucking little snitch," Peterson said. "I knew that's what you were. I told Andreani you were a snitch."

"I'm not, I'm not!" Clay protested.

"Then what are the cops doing there?"

"I don't know. They come by a lot, just to, I don't know, make sure nobody's loitering or whatever. I swear I didn't tell anybody anything."

"And you think I'm just gonna believe you?"

"I'd believe him," Reese said calmly.

Peterson spun, but by then it was much too late. Reese grabbed his right arm by the wrist and smashed it back into the wall. He had to do it twice before the gun dropped. The man swung at him with his left, but John ducked under the fist and planted his own in the man's belly. Peterson doubled over. Then he scrambled for the dropped gun.

Reese kicked the gun away and hit the man on the back of his neck with the flat of his hand. Peterson slumped to the ground for real this time.

He looked at Clay. "Don't run."

The boy stared back at him, wide-eyed and frightened. Then, because he really wasn't very bright, he ran.

John sighed and went after him. The kid was quick, and smart enough to pull a trash can over behind him. Reese simply jumped it and kept going.

The chain link fence at the back of the alley was ten feet high. Clay climbed up three feet before Reese caught him by the back of his jacket and yanked him down.

"I said," Reese repeated, "don't run."

"Oh shit oh shit oh shit," Clay blubbered.

"Uh-huh." John kept his grip on the boy's coat and dragged him back to the street.

"What are you doing? Where are we going?" Clay squirmed and twisted some, but he wasn't quite dumb enough to take a swing. At least, not until Reese dragged him across the street, headed for the parked squad car. "No," he said, fighting harder to get loose. "No no no."

"Yes," Reese said firmly. "You aren't going to learn any other way."

"I can't … you can't …" The boy got his balance finally, planted his feet and came around with weak right cross. Reese blocked it easily – forgetting until it was too late that he still had stitches in the arm he blocked with. It hurt. A lot more than he'd expected it to hurt. So he let his own right shoot out and crack Clay in the jaw.

The boy tried to fall down. He wasn't out, but he was pretty well dazed.

"Good enough," Reese said. He opened the door of the squad car and shoved the boy into the back seat. Once he closed the door, it could only be opened from the outside.

Clay stirred and started to complain. Reese ignored him. He went back to the alley and picked up Peterson's gun. Then he grabbed the back of Peterson's coat and half-dragged him back to the street, too. He leaned him against the police car and patted him down for weapons. The man carried an inexpensive but decent six-inch fixed blade in an ankle holster and a genuine Swiss Army knife in his shirt pocket. Reese put all the weapons on top of the squad car. Then he opened the front door – ignoring Clay's more coherent shouts from behind the cage – and threw Peterson into the driver's seat.

He leaned past the unconscious man and flicked on the sirens. Then he slammed the door and retreated quickly.

He was six steps away when the cops burst out of the soup kitchen and ran to their car. He grinned and kept walking until he reached the corner, then turned to watch.

"Mr. Reese," Finch said in his ear, shouting over the sirens, "is there a problem?"

"Not for me there isn't." Reese tapped off his earpiece and kept walking.


Carter smirked at the caller ID on her phone, then put it on speaker. "Good morning, Finch."

"Good morning, Detectives," he answered cheerfully.

She didn't even want to know how he knew Fusco was in the car with her.

"How goes the stake-out?" he continued.

Carter started to ask, then decided she didn't want to know that, either. "Quiet so far."

"Then I wonder if I might impose on your for a small favor."

Fusco chuckled, and Carter rolled her eyes. "We're kinda stuck here until somebody picks up these bins."

"I am aware. I only need you, one of you, to make a phone call or two. I'm sending you the names of two men who were just arrested attempting steal patrol car Number 1516. Detective Fusco may recognize one of them, a Mr. Edward Clay."

"Doesn't ring any bells," Fusco admitted.

"He's a young pickpocket who ran into some trouble last year."

"Okay, whatever."

"If we can impose, we would like to have both of these men detained at Rikers for the maximum time possible."

"Seventy-two hours," Carter answered. "Why do you want them held?"

"We believe that Mr. Peterson was about to kill Mr. Clay. But we don't know why yet. For the time being, it would be tremendously helpful if they both remained in custody."

"How do you know Peterson was trying to kill him?" Joss asked.

"I'm afraid I can't disclose that information. And it may not be correct; we may have it backward."

"But if you're right," Fusco said, "you gonna keep a dumb kid in lock-up for three days when you're pretty sure he's innocent?"

Finch hesitated. "Mr. Reese believes, and I concur, that three days in lock-up may be precisely the thing that dumb kid needs to turn his focus on a more productive lifestyle."

"Tough love, huh?" Carter asked. She and Fusco looked at each other, shrugged. "Sure, I'll make the call."

"Thank you, Detective," Finch said. "And if I might be so bold as to ask one further favor – it might be for the best if Mr. Clay were held away from the general population, for his own protection."

"We could say he's our CI if anyone questions it later," Fusco offered.

"I appreciate it, Detectives. Good luck with your computers."

The call ended. "You know," Carter said, "one of these days I'm going to find out how they do that."

"What, finding the people?" Fusco shook his head. "I doubt it. I'm not even sure I'd want to know."

Carter looked out at the recycling plant again. The computers, the things her partner had told her about the missiles. The Bad Wolves. A part of her didn't want to know, either. A big part of her mind said that she was just better off not knowing.

But there was another part of her mind that she knew would never shut up until she knew everything.

She shook her head and placed the call to central dispatch.


Len Andreani drummed his knuckles against the tabletop. "Where are they?" he muttered.

Markus Nekl glanced at his watch. "It's almost noon. We're gonna have to go without them."

The boss shook head. "We're not going without them."

"It's only two bins and there's a loading dock. We can handle it easy."

Andreani cocked his head. "You know where they are, don't you?"

"No. I just don't think we should be late. She said twelve-twenty, when everybody's at lunch. We gotta leave now if we're gonna get there."

The other man sighed, picked up his phone, and stabbed at it again. Neither of the men answered. "Damn amateurs," he grumbled. "I'd expect something like this from the kid. But Peterson? He damn well knows how to be on time for an operation."

Nekl looked at his watch again. "We gotta go."

"You know where they are."

"If they ain't back by now, they probably ain't comin' back."

Andreani swore again. But he picked up the van keys and stalked out of the tiny apartment.


"Anthony," Elias said into his phone. "What do you have for me?"

"I think we got names on these mooks who hit the bank. They were squatting in this studio, all four of them."

"As men who haven't been paid yet would," Elias mused, "to make sure their partners don't steal their cut."

"That's how it looks, yeah."

"I trust you'll be paying them a visit."

"We're there now," Scarface reported. "They're gone. Hard to tell if they're coming back, but it doesn't look like they left anything valuable."

"That's unfortunate."

"I got their names on the street. Somebody's turn them up."

"Good work, Anthony."

"Thanks, Boss."

"Please remember that our detective friends would like to speak these men. And would therefore like these men to be able to speak to them."

Marconi hesitated. "I'll do the best I can."

"As you always do, my friend."


At twenty-three minutes after twelve, Brian Moss' task force members watched as two men in a white service van loaded the two bins of decoy computers into their vehicle and drove away.

"Nice and easy," Moss said over the radio. "Keep them in sight, but give them plenty of room. Carter, take point on the tail for the first leg."

"You got it."

The man behind the wheel drove very carefully, obeying the speed limit exactly, stopping at every light, not even turning right on red. Joss didn't have any trouble keeping up with him; it was all she could do not to rear-end him.

"He's never done this before," Fusco said. "Driving like that in this neighborhood makes him stick out like a sore thumb."

"And us, too," Carter answered. "Moss? We're gonna need to pass him. Get another unit lined up."

"Unit two ready," a second voice responded.

Carter waited for an opening, then gunned her car out around the van. She blew the horn as she passed. Fusco flipped them off for good measure.

"Welcome to New York, boys," he muttered.

Joss grinned and turned the corner two blocks down so she could get behind them again.

"They're on their way," a man said on the restricted radio channel.

"Good." The second man had a well-educated British accent. "Is everything ready?"

"Just like you ordered."

"Very good. Very good."


Finch and Bear had walked a wide circuitous route that covered sixteen city blocks. It was one of a dozen trails that Finch had laid out for them. Each gave the Malnois the regular exercise he required, while also giving Harold the precise workout he needed to keep his injured hip limber without taxing it overmuch – and at the same time each kept him within seven minutes of the library at all times, in case of emergency.

Each route also had at least two pay phones along the way.

They were nearly back to the library when the center phone in a bank of three began to ring. Harold barely hesitated before he went to answer it. Bear dropped to his feet without command; he was used to this routine now.

Finch listened carefully as the Machine gave him not one but three Numbers.

"It never rains but it pours," he said to the dog as he hung up the phone.

Bear jumped up and looked skyward with what Finch had come to consider his worried face.

"It's a figure of speech, Bear."

The dog looked at him expectantly.

"We need to go home," he said.

The dog moved immediately to his side and they walked quickly back to the library.


"Hey, Boss," the voice on the phone said.

"More news so quickly, Anthony?" Elias answered. He pushed his plate back just a little; he didn't like to mix dining with business. Marconi knew that. He never would have called at meal time unless it was urgent. "What is it?"

"I got some names of those guys in the apartment. Two of them, anyhow. And get this, now they're staying there at Rikers."

"Really." Elias looked around his cell, but of course he was alone.

"Edward Clay and Chuck Peterson. Word at the mission is that they got into a fight, got popped for trying to steal a patrol car."

"A patrol car."

"I know, that part sounds crazy."

"No. It sounds like our friend John may have had something to do with it." Elias nodded to himself. "Anything on the other two?"

"Still looking."

"Good. Keep me posted."

Elias tucked his phone away, removed the linen napkin from under his chin, and moved to the bars at the front of his cell. "Guard!" he barked. "Guard!"

The man hurried down the corridor. "Something wrong, Mr. Elias?"

"Tell the assistant warden I need to speak to him right away."

"Yes, sir."

"Right away."


Moss' group tag-teamed the white van all the way to Brooklyn. The driver never did a single thing that was even remotely illegal; his careful driving infuriated roughly half the other drivers in city.

Eventually the van turned into the half-empty parking lot of a strip mall. The very last space to the left was held open by an orange traffic cone. If parking had been tighter, of course, someone would have simply run it over, but spaces were plentiful and the spot was inconvenient.

The passenger in the van got out and moved the cone. The driver backed the van into the space. Then he got out, locked the vehicle, and joined his companion.

"Turn the cone over," he said.

"What?"

"The cone. Flip it over."

The passenger did. Then he reached inside and pulled out a key ring with a single key and a remote on it.

The first man took the keys. He clicked the remote, and an older gray sedan six spots down chirped in response. The men walked over and got in.

"New vehicle," Moss said over the radio. "Gray Ford sedan." He read off the license plate. "NYPD and units one and two will stay with the sedan. The rest of you set up a perimeter to keep watch on the van."

All the mobile units checked in. When the gray car pulled out, Moss took the first leg of the new tail.


The assistant warden and two of his men pulled the cell door open and yanked the Arian Brother back bare seconds before he could stick the shiv between Chuck Peterson's ribs.

Peterson was beaten up pretty badly, though which wounds he'd come in with and which were fresh was difficult to distinguish. The assistant warden had him transferred to the Infirmary, in isolation. He sent his latest attacker to the Hole.

Then he went to tell Elias that his guy was safe.


The first two Numbers that Finch translated were new to him. But the third one was familiar. He'd just looked at it that morning, courtesy of Mr. Reese.

Sometimes, though not often, their actions in protecting one Number inadvertently put person in jeopardy. Mr. Peterson had been arrested in order to protect Mr. Clay. But perhaps his failure to eliminate the young man had put him in danger from someone else. Since they hadn't yet uncovered his motive …

It took very little time for Finch to see the connection between the three men. They'd all served in the military together, all been discharged at the same time …

His intuition made a massive and, on the surface, largely unwarranted leap. But his intuition had saved lives before. "Oh, no," he said. "Oh, no."

Bear hurried to his side as Finch quickly dialed his phone.

"Kinda busy," Carter barked, more forcefully than before.

"Are you in pursuit of two men in connection with the break-in at the bank?"

"How the hell did you know that, Finch?"

"That doesn't matter, Detective. You were expecting four men, weren't you? But there are only two?"

"Yeah."

He looked at his screen. More information was coming in. "One of them is six-foot-three with sandy brown hair, and the others is dark, of Mediterranean descent?"

"Damn it, Finch …"

Yes. The pieces clicked. "Please listen. Someone is trying to kill those men. Possibly right now. You need to take them into custody."

"We want to follow them, see if they'll lead us to their employer," Fusco argued over the speaker phone.

"There's no time," Finch repeated urgently. "You need to stop them now."

"Damn it," Carter said. The call went dead.


"Moss," Carter said into her radio, "we need to pull these guys over now."

"What?" the FBI agent barked back. "No. We need to see where they're going."

"Now!" Carter insisted. "If we don't pull them in now they'll be dead and no use to any of us."

"How do you know that, Detective? Where are you getting your information?"

Carter looked across the car. Fusco looked back at her, shrugged. "I don't know what we're going to tell them. But Glasses is never wrong."

"I know." Joss clenched her teeth, stomped down on the gas pedal, and hit her flashers.

"Detective, stop …"

Fusco switched the radio off for her.

The gray sedan sped up for an instant, then slowed. The driver turned on his blinker and pulled to the side of the road. He was already rolling his window down as Carter and Fusco got out of their car and drew their weapons.

Moss pulled in front of the sedan and stopped. The second unit parked behind Carter's car.

"Out of the car," Carter shouted to the driver.

"You, too," Fusco added. He reached the car and yanked the passenger door open. "Out of the car, right now."

"What's the problem, Officer?" the driver asked innocently. "I don't think I was speeding, was I?"

"Out of the car!" Carter yelled at him. She pulled his door open. "Right now, out!"

Both the driver and the passenger were men in their mid-thirties. They were neatly groomed, but they both smelled like they'd slept in their clothes. They both got out carefully, hands away from their bodies, as if they'd done this before.

Moss stomped back to the car. "Detectives, what the hell do you think you're doing?"

"I'll explain later," Carter said. "Right now we need to get these two out of sight." She gestured with her weapon. "That car," she said. "Move."

Both men moved slowly toward the unmarked police car.

"This had better be damned good, Det–"

Joss would have sworn, if anyone had asked her later, that she actually heard the click of the trigger mechanism. She couldn't have, of course. It was tiny, and both FBI cars were still running, and there was a sea of ambient noise from the city. But she heard something, or felt it, or maybe she just knew it.

She grabbed Brian Moss' jacket and yanked as hard as she could. He stumbled forward, ran into her prisoner or whatever the driver was, and both of them lurched toward the ground. She dove after them just as the gray sedan exploded.

Then she was on the ground, on the shoulder of the road beside her car. Gravel bit into the side of her face. She couldn't hear anything but a roar. But she was facing underneath the car, and when the dust cleared enough she could see Fusco lying on the on the other side of the car, his face on the brown grass, looking back at her.

"You okay?" she called. Her throat felt like she was yelling, but her ears heard her own voice very distantly.

She doubted that Fusco heard her at all, but he saw her mouth move and he nodded. "You?" he mouthed back.

"Think so." Carter lifted her head, got her arms under her and pushed up. Nothing hurt any worse than the gravel on her face. She brushed it away as she sat up. Her fingers came away wet; she was bleeding, a little. Just scrapes.

Her ears started to clear. She knew it would be days before they were completely right.

The car had shielded her some. Brian Moss had not been so lucky. She could see numerous tears in the back of his suit coat where gravel had ripped through it. Some were red at the edges. He had a little blood on the back of his neck, too. But he was moving. Trying to get up. Minor injuries, she hoped.

The driver of the gray sedan, their suspect, was hurt less than either of them.

Carter staggered to her feet and looked back. Beyond the burning sedan, the agent who had been with Moss was also sitting up. He wasn't trying to stand, though. Through the smoke Carter was pretty sure she could see one of his feet pointing the wrong direction.

Fusco got up and looked at her over the top of the car. He grinned. She grinned back.

Somewhere a siren started to wail.