As Michael motored home from his mother's house—where he had managed to avert another visit to yet another therapist—he spotted a familiar figure stepping off the city bus ahead of him, laden with grocery bags. He drove past and then guided the Charger over to the sidewalk and popped out of the car, leaning on the roof of the car while "Zan" approached him, her footsteps slowing. "How about a ride?" he called. "I can't promise the A/C works, but it's faster than walking."

"No, thanks," she replied coolly. "It's not much farther." She looked worn out under her sunglasses, but she hefted the bags determinedly and walked past him.

Maybe it was time for more direct action here. He said quietly, "I think we can help each other. How about going somewhere for a drink so we can talk…Suzanna?"

The last word out of his mouth halted her in her tracks, and then she turned to face him. She was silent for a moment, her face tight with hated. "I said I would never help you people!" she hissed, dropping her bags on the ground. "You couldn't persuade me with this," she held up the hand with the missing digit, "and you took away the only people I cared about. There's nothing more you can do to hurt me!" As the echoes from her shout died away, she bent down, grabbed the bags, and strode off down the street toward the warehouse.

Michael remained next to his idling car, drumming his fingers on the roof. This was stickier than he had planned; he could see he had another potential client in the making. On the other hand, this was one client who might actually be able to give him something in return.

**

That night, Michael jerked out of his usual light sleep with the sense that something was not right. His watch informed him it was almost 4 a.m., but he could hear voices—rather loud voices—coming through his window. He was used to the usual bar background noises, and this didn't sound like that. He sat up, pulled on his shoes, and headed for his door, which he opened carefully. It was definitely some kind of disturbance, drunks maybe, which sometimes happened. But there seemed to be a woman involved. He couldn't distinguish the words, but his trained ear told him that the tones were escalating in fear. He walked silently down the staircase toward the parking area and moved through the shadows to the gate, which was propped open a few feet. Through the opening, silhouetted by the dim streetlight, he spotted four people, one of them his neighbor. She was surrounded by three very drunk, very obnoxious men, who barred her way. Every time she moved toward the gate and safety, one of them shoved her back toward the others, laughing loudly.

"Look, I've had a long shift, and I just want to go to bed!"

This brought even more laughter and a few lewd comments. "That last tip I gave you was so big, I should get to go with you!" one of the drunks yelled as he grabbed Suzanna's arm and twisted it, pulling her toward him. She struggled for a few seconds and then stamped as hard as she could on his instep. He fell back, howling in pain, and Suzanna took the advantage to kick him viciously in the kneecap, dropping him to the ground as the others watched, no longer laughing.

Michael admired her approach, but he could see there was little actual technique behind it, only sheer desperation and maybe a couple of sessions of basic self-defense training. He needed to get involved before it went any farther. He drifted out of the shadows and toward the group, stepping over the man still moaning on the ground. "I think it's time to call it a night," he said levelly, looking at the two other men swaying on their feet. The bigger one on his left bristled.

"Fuck off, man! This is none of your business. We're just having a little conversation here, aren't we, honey?" His friend laughed and tried to grab Suzanna again, but Michael stepped between them and blocked his hand.

"I said," he emphasized, "it's time to go." The drunk's eyes telegraphed the clumsy punch he threw, and Michael took a step to the side as it whipped past. He grabbed the wrist and continued its motion, turning his body and pulling the wrist and the attached arm with him and sending the drunk flying toward the wall, adding a none-too-gentle chop to the back of the neck to speed him along.

"Behind you!"

Michael ducked low and felt another body land on his back. Thrusting upwards, he dumped the bigger man onto his head on the concrete and then spun back toward the man Suzanna had kicked, who was still sitting woozily on the sidewalk. The third drunk raised his hands and slurred, "Dude, we were just trying to have some fun."

Michael just shook his head. He looked around for Suzanna; she had used his intervention as an opportunity to take off toward her own apartment. He followed her, pulling the gate shut behind him and snapping the padlock on the chain to lock it for the night. Walking quickly, he caught up to her at the door. "You all right?" he asked quietly.

She looked at him, her face unreadable in the dim light. "Yeah, sure," she said with a bitter laugh, "I'm great." She turned to go.

He stopped her with a hand on her arm. "If you ever need any help…" he began.

"Haven't you 'helped' enough?" she said through clenched teeth, yanking her arm away.

"Look, I don't know who you think I am, but I'd never seen you before you moved in. Now, why don't you come up to my place so we can talk." He paused and added, "You're going to have to trust me." Turning, he walked toward his stairs, stopping at the bottom to see if she was following. She stood in front of her door indecisively for almost a minute before she, too, came over. He led the way and held the door open, flicking on one light that cast a dim glow over the sparse furnishings. She stopped just inside the door and looked warily around; he expected a comment on his Early Industrial Minimalist décor, but she merely gave him an appraising glance and then walked over to sit gingerly on the duct-taped green chair.

Waiting for her to initiate conversation proved fruitless, as she merely sat impassively, staring at the wall in front of her.

"I understand you have a certain…expertise…." Michael began.

"How do you know who I am?" she asked dully. "I thought was careful…ditching my credit cards, not calling anyone I know, living in a new city with a new job…." her voice trailed off as she tried to figure out what error she'd made.

"It's what I do," said Michael. "My friends and I are good at information gathering. And we sometimes act on it…to help people."

She finally shifted her eyes to his. "There's that word again. What makes you think I need or want your help?"

"I don't, but why don't you tell me what's going on, and I'll see if there is something we can do for each other."

Suzanna pursed her lips while she analyzed his offer. Her green eyes searched his for a long time before she said slowly, "You already know the basics, obviously. You know what I do…did…for a living. About six months ago, the Department of Defense hired me to test a new system." She broke off, looking uncomfortable, and Michael assumed she was wondering how much she could reveal about classified information.

"You don't have to tell me specifics," he reassured her. "Just give me the basics."

She nodded gratefully. "They had developed a remote submersible guidance system, and there were security problems with it, which my report pointed out. Then a few weeks later, I got a visit at my office—in the parking garage, actually—from two men who had a 'proposal' for me: I would give them information about the new program, and they would pay me a lot of money. I told them to forget it, and they said they'd give me a while to think about it."

"They must've figured with your background that you were a good candidate for recruitment."

She nodded, staring again past his shoulder at the wall.

"And?" he prompted gently.

"They approached me again, this time at a conference in California. Same proposal, same answer. But this time they weren't so patient. One of them grabbed me and held me, and the other one used bolt cutters on my finger." Michael winced as she inspected the shortened digit. "I believe their last comment was, 'It's pretty hard to use a keyboard with one hand.' Then one of them threw a card with a phone number at me and told me to call it."

"What did the police say?"

"I didn't go to the police. The number was untraceable, so what was the point? I tried, but it was routed through too many points to follow." She paused, took a deep breath. "I called the number and told the person who answered that I wouldn't give up government secrets for any amount of money…that they were wasting their time."

"But…that wasn't the end of it."

"No. I hired security to watch out for any more attempts, and I was more careful about what I did, where I went. Then a couple of months ago…" she gulped and looked at the floor. "A couple of months ago, my partner, Alec, was driving my daughter home from soccer practice, and they…."

"You don't need to tell me," said Michael.

Suzanna raised her head to gaze at the wall, lost in her memories. "The police said it was probably a drunk driver. According to the witnesses, an Escalade ran them off the road, into a pond. The car rolled. They didn't make it out." She wrapped her arms around herself and sank back into the chair. "I got a call on my cell at the hospital. At the hospital. He said he was sorry, but he couldn't allow his employees to tell him no…." Leaning her head back and shutting her eyes, she finished, "After the funeral, I just…walked away. I think they were watching me, but I had the funeral home limo driver drop me in the middle of a busy mall parking lot. I bought new clothes, cut my hair, and I just…left…everything." The last word was a whisper.

Michael was silent for several minutes. He walked over to the workbench and leaned against it while he considered the story and his new client. It wasn't clear if this was a case of a hostile nation gathering defense information or industrial espionage. Either way, it didn't look good for Suzanna. She had information they wanted, and they weren't going to stop trying to get it.

"How did you end up in Miami?" he asked. When he didn't get a response, he turned around. His guest had fallen asleep, head tilted to one side, her wounded hand tucked protectively under her other arm. He walked over to the bed and pulled off his blanket (his only blanket, he realized ruefully) and covered her as she slept. The gray light filtering through the windows told him it was pointless to go back to bed anyway. He changed and left to pick up some breakfast, locking the door carefully behind him.