These rules are made to break/

And these walls are built to fall/
These rules are made to break us all/

Linderman was not terribly surprised to find Jessica Sanders in his office—the woman was impossibly strong and very resourceful, that was why he'd been interested in her in the first place. He was, however, surprised to see her son by her side, sitting in his desk chair and spinning it around in circles in a convincing imitation of a normal child.

Which, of course, he wasn't—this was another family that he had high hopes for, and he'd invested quite a bit of time ensuring he could manage them. He'd learned early on in this business that there really wasn't such a thing as a single, isolated person—whether their relationships were good or bad, people needed to be manipulated in families, held onto by their closest ties.

"Hello, Niki," he said, just to be safe—he'd learned to tell when she was her dangerous doppelganger (who he infinitely preferred to the weak, prevaricating Niki), but he wasn't sure how much she wanted her son to know. "Hello, Micah. To what do I owe the pleasure of your presence?"

Jessica directed a meaning nod at Micah before answering. "Micah, honey," she said in her faking-Niki voice. "Why don't you go look at that computer in the lobby? I saw you eyeing it on the way in here."

Obediently, but with a second's flash of suspicious spark, Micah hopped off the chair and went out to the reception area, leaving Linderman and Jessica free to talk, adult to adult, killer to killer. "Sorry," Jessica explained. "I'm stuck on babysitting duty. I couldn't get out of it—DL's going to a job interview, and I couldn't think of any reason why I couldn't take Micah today. I mean, what do I tell him, I'm going off to kill someone for a mobster, I can't take our son along?" She snorted in a distinctly indelicate way. "He's suspicious enough already. So what do you think—can you do something with the brat while I'm gone? I shouldn't be more than a few hours."

"Unfortunately, I have a pressing engagement this morning," Linderman told her. "However, I'm sure I could find somewhere to put him—there are plenty of gadgets around that would fascinate him."

"Thanks ever so much," Jessica said sardonically, swinging the door open. She kissed Micah on the top of the head as she passed him, waving goodbye with a faux-Niki smile. "Be good, baby. I'll be back soon."

---

"Good morning, Mr. Linderman," Nathan said, hiding his surprise at seeing the man at the casino entrance, arms folded and apparently waiting for him.

"Good morning, Nathan," Linderman said, falling into step beside him with his bodyguard hovering two paces behind. Nathan gave the guard a swift, skeptical look—the wispily blond, superthin woman didn't look up to guarding anything past a sweater on a sales rack, but he'd certainly been deceived by appearances before. In any case, if she was as fragile as she looked, that made Nathan's job so much easier.

They cut through the casino at a quick walk, twin figures of power and expensive suits, stopped by no one, questioned by no one. They walked a perfectly straight and uncompromising line, and people gave way before him because they saw their eyes slide past them and knew they wouldn't stop. Nathan wondered if Linderman could sense the tension he felt, see the concealed plans hidden under his mask. He doubted it—he was very good at this game.

When he was seventeen and had decided to be a lawyer (it hadn't been much of a decision—that, like everything else, seemed to have been mapped effortlessly for him from the moment he'd been born) his father had made him take an acting class. At the time, he'd grumbled and argued and hadn't understood, but the skills he'd learned there had since been invaluable to him. He'd made such constant and effective use of them, in fact, that when he'd decided to go into politics he'd taken a second class, knowing the even-greater emphasis on appearance he would face. As a result, Nathan could smile and fake with the best of them—the problem was, Linderman was the best of them, and Nathan wasn't sure how far he could fool the man.

They left the overcompensating loud glitz of the casino floor for the quieter, stripped economy of the lower levels, the place where the real work got done. They stopped at a large metal door, where they were joined by another, more effective-looking muscular security guard who patted Nathan down with swift, professional efficiency. Nathan wasn't nearly foolish enough to bring a firearm into Company facilities, so he passed the check with no difficulty, and the door was opened with a melodramatic creak to admit them.

Once they were inside the vaults, Linderman led him to one of the doors that lined the hallway, opening it with a six-number code that Nathan instantly tried to memorize, just in case it turned out to be helpful later. They walked through to the cell, and Nathan froze three steps in, stunned motionless at the sight of his brother.

Peter looked like he'd been in some kind of nasty car accident, cuts all up and down his arms, glaring red like a dangerous warning sign against his abnormally pale skin. He looked sick, and in pain, and so nearly dead that Nathan found himself out-of-body overwhelmed by a violent urge to kill someone. Peter's head came up at the motion behind the glass, and he stared, uncomprehending, for several seconds at the sight of Nathan before seeming to accept it as real.

"Nathan!" he said, disbelieving and slightly hoarse, and as he stood up, Nathan could see him limping—obviously, his abilities were being restricted by the cell, but that was just another reason to get him out as soon as possible.

"Hey, Pete," Nathan said gently, stopping the automatic are you okay? before it got out—obviously, he was not okay. Instead, he substituted the more neutral, "How are you holding up?"

Peter looked away. "I'm fine."

Behind him, a third guard entered the room, making a harassed beeline for Linderman. "Mr. Linderman, sir, we have a problem."

Nathan allowed himself a small smile, hoping that Peter would see it and interpret it as hang in there, we're going to get you out. "What do you mean?" Linderman asked sharply.

"Well, sir, there's a man on the floor with a gun, shooting at security guards. We're not sure what to do about it."

"Describe him," Linderman ordered, calm and focused.

"Average height, brown hair, horn-rimmed glasses."

"Ah," Linderman said, eyes hard with recognition. "Bennet. You have my permission to open fire—this man is very dangerous and should be treated as a maximum threat. Coblentz, go with him, and I want to be informed when he is neutralized."

The model-waiflike blond woman nodded respectful acceptance and followed the guard out of the room. This was exactly what Nathan had been waiting for—before they could turn their attention back to him, he pulled the remaining guard to him and punched him in the jaw. As the man fell back, taken by surprise, Nathan grabbed his gun out of its holster and pointed it at Linderman, bringing the situation to an immediate standstill.

"Sorry, Mr. Linderman," he said coolly, "but I'm going to need you not to move."

---

Mr. Bennet walked briskly through the crowd, fast enough that he looked like he had somewhere to go but not so fast that he appeared to be in a hurry. He carried a duffel bag low at his side, an ordinary athletic-looking thing that no one would every suspect had seven guns inside of it. He found it remarkable, really, that security wasn't tighter on the casino floor—but then, he supposed they had more important things to be guarding.

He dropped back beside an unused roulette table, went to his knees on the chokingly over-designed carpet, and unzipped the bag. Swiftly, quietly, he pulled out two large automatic handguns and began assembling them. You'll be shooting them with tranquilizers, won't you? he heard his memory play back to him, pulling up the picture of Claire with her reproving blue eyes. He brushed it aside and shoved the clip into his gun, taking aim at the nearest black-clad security guard. What Claire didn't know, wouldn't hurt her.

--

Hana waited until she heard the screams from the game floor, then nodded to Claire, and they both set off toward the door in front of them. Claire pulled the gun out of the back of her pants and held it low in front of her, watching Hana for her cues. Technically, Claire didn't really know how to use the gun—though, in the times she'd tried it, she'd proven to have a good eye and a remarkably steady hand—but they didn't mean to hurt anyone, only scare them into compliance, and the presence of the gun was all they needed for that.

Hana reached the door first, kicking it open in front of her—a bit dramatic, she had to admit, but at this point it was all about the act. Half a dozen surprised security personnel snapped their heads up to the unexpected intrusion, and, seeing their office invaded by two angry-looking super-femme women with guns, immediately scattered to the back of the room.

"Nobody move!" Hana commanded in her best parade-ground voice. "Nobody move, or I will shoot you!"

The security people, completely terrified, huddled together and put their hands up—she was pleased to discover that the office was staffed by the geeky, technological sort of security personnel, as opposed to the bulky bouncer kind. That made things quite a bit easier.

Claire was already at the bank of televisions on the wall, searching for Peter and Nathan. "Hana," she said suddenly. "Come look at this."

They watched in dismay on the video monitor as a small black-and-white version of the vaults showed them Nathan, quietly being snuck up on by a security guard while he fiddled with Peter's cell door. "Oh no," Claire moaned, watching, horrified, as the guard jumped him, pinning his arms behind his back. "We need to figure this out really fast, Hana—he needs help."

"You," Hana snapped, pointing her gun at the nearest security man. "Show me how to open the vault doors!"

"You can't," the man mumbled, looking quite sure he was about to die.

"Excuse me?"

"You can't open them. There was a problem in the lobby, and everything went into lockdown. The doors can't be opened."