Wednesday December 13 2006

22:10 MST

Boulder

Frank Colby, seated in his wheelchair in the foyer, waited tensely for Nicole Callahan's return, keeping an eye on the door and an ear for the driveway chime while he questioned his sanity. He had been given a reprieve from the possibly fatal attentions of the Genactive succubus, and thrown it away.

Gordon, no doubt, would have been flabbergasted had he known, telling him he was sticking his head into a lion's mouth, and offering to put him in his car and take him as far from the house as they could get before she arrived. But Gordon was off duty and resuming his normal life somewhere in town – assuming he could get down into town over the mountain road right now, and assuming anyone on IO's payroll lived something resembling a normal life.

Why had he called her back to his house, after she was safely miles away?

It wasn't lust, he told himself. She sounded scared, and alone. And you couldn't just end the call and leave her like that.

What did he owe her? She had used him, and in so doing had broken him like a cheap toy. Now she was pushing her way into his life, acting as if he belonged to her. Why was he going along with it, however reluctantly?

You can't fix her, any more than you could fix any of the others. The best you can hope for is to survive her. That's no basis for a relationship.

His thoughts stumbled. Was that really happening? Was he really thinking of this as a relationship? He shook his head. Only a man who's already survived a murder attempt by a former girlfriend could think that this is the start of anything.

A bell chimed, jarring him out of his thoughts: not the driveway alarm, his phone. He snatched it up. Had she had an accident? "Hello?"

"Hi, Boss," Cheryl said, voice a little blurry. "Did I wake you up?"

"No," he said. "I'm not even ready for bed yet." Not at all. "Why aren't you asleep?"

"Between meds, I can't sleep."

"Are you in pain?"

"Not really, my head's just too full to get to sleep. Have… have you really been in that chair for almost a year? That's what the nurses say."

"Not quite," he said. "Eight months and change. It happened the first week in April. It's a week till Christmas now."

"How long have I been out?"

"Only a few days," he said, "but you seem to have misplaced a chunk of your memory. Did the doctors tell you you'll probably get it back?"

"They seemed a little less confident than you." Her voice lowered. "Nicole says we're friends, but I don't remember. Is it true?"

"Well, she tells me you are, but I can't say." He shifted the phone against his ear. "She seems to have a lot of casual friends, but I don't know if she has any close ones. You know who she is, right?"

"She's a Special, right? So she reports to Doctor Ivery."

"Officially, yeah. But, really, she reports to Director Baiul at least as often."

"How did I even get to meet her?"

He shifted in his seat. "I'm not sure. I imagine it'll come up in conversation eventually. Cher, what's the last thing you remember clearly?"

"An investigation." Her voice turned cautious. "Something about a mall, I just started working for you, I think."

She didn't know if the line was secure, he realized. "That was February. So, ten months. Not too bad."

"And, I think I transferred to Central just a month before I went to work for you. I made some friends besides Nicole, friends I remember. I recognized them when they visited me in the hospital. Why do they look at me funny when I talk about Nicole?"

"Well…" He shifted again. "Everybody thinks that you two are unlikely friends."

"She called, just a few minutes ago." Cheryl's voice softened. "She's always so nice, and she seems so sweet and cheerful. I feel myself smiling when I talk to her."

Colby coughed to clear his throat. "She has that effect on a lot of people."

"I asked her where she was, and she told me she was in her car, about to turn on to the road to her house. She asked me if I had any warning before it happened – which was kind of silly, seeing how I wouldn't remember. I think she was just that nervous about it. Must have been some avalanche."

"Not really," he said. "I mean, it was only a mile or so from her house, but she didn't hear or feel it. But it was enough to nearly get you killed."

"I think she called me so she could put off going down that road a little longer."

"Maybe she did."

"Are you okay, boss?"

"Am I okay?" He scoffed. "I've just got some things on my mind. What about you, are you feeling better?"

"Think so. Kind of wobbly, but that might just be the meds. I don't like it here. I want to come back to work."

"Soon," he said. "When the doctors say you're ready. It may take a while to get you up to speed."

"I suppose so. Just don't treat me like an invalid, okay?"

"I won't treat you like an invalid," he said, "if you don't treat me like a cripple."

"Did I do that?"

"Maybe a little," he said, smiling into the phone. "Nicole said you're just protective."

She said carefully, "Are you guys friends too? It sounds like you are."

"I don't know how well we know each other, really. But we spend time together."

"Hm."

The driveway monitor chimed. Colby said, "Listen, Cher, I'm glad you called, but I think you should get some rest. It's pretty late."

"That sounds like good advice. Maybe you should take it yourself."

He rolled to the door, got to his feet, and unlocked it. "No argument. I think I'm going to be heading for bed soon."

He watched her descend the stairs to his front door. At the first landing, she called down, "You don't need to stand there waiting."

"I know," he said. "But I like watching you come down the stairs."

She smiled at that. A minute later, he was closing the door behind her as she entered the foyer.

"Let me have your coat." He reached for her collar.

"Not yet," she said, making no move to unbutton it. "I don't know if I'm staying yet."

"Not staying? You came all the way back here…" His voice trailed off at the resolve on her face.

"Don't look at me like that." She stuck her hands inside her sleeves. "I said we needed to talk as soon as I got here. Maybe after, you won't want me to stay."

"Is this going to be a short conversation?"

"I don't know."

"Then give me the damned coat." He took her by the shoulders and turned her, lifting the heavy material off her shoulder. She gave in and reached for the fasteners, and a moment later, it was draped over his arm. He hung it in the closet. "Okay, let's talk."

She met his eyes. "Your little test, turning me away and sending me out the door. You didn't intend to call me back all along, did you?"

He swallowed. "No." Memories of that afternoon and night filled his mind. He felt moisture at the small of his back. "No, I didn't."

"Well then, did you decide that you have feelings for me, that you're not just being bent toward me by my power?"

"Yes." Though I'm still not sure I'm not being manipulated, guided like a cow into the slaughtering pen…

She nodded, "Then it's my turn. I need to know that what draws me to you isn't just nympho rut." She crossed her arms in front of her, almost hugging herself, not looking at him. "I don't want to have sex with you tonight."

The world suddenly seemed indistinct, and his legs felt weak; adrenaline, he supposed. "So, you're leaving? Or do you really want the spare room?"

"What I want," she said, "is to take a shower and rinse all the fear stink off me, and then crawl into bed with you." She looked up at him again. "Will you hold me, Frank? Like you did the first time?"

When I held you last time, I felt like I was hanging from a ledge by my fingertips. "Are you sure you want to do that? Are you sure you can?"

"Yes," she said. "And no. I never controlled my power like that before that night. I didn't know I could, not that well, anyway. I think I can do it again, but I don't know. If things start sliding away from us, this is the time to find out."

"And if they do?"

She gave him a crooked little smile. "Well, then, maybe we can still be friends."

Relief and anticipation wrestled in his head, and points south. He realized his legs were feeling weak, and wondered if it was from overuse or something else. "Is that all you wanted to talk about?" Like a phone call you made, and where you got the number?

Her eyes were violet gems, seeming to gain depth and darken as he stared into them. "Maybe. We need to make some decisions about each other first. Then we'll see." She added, "Assuming you want to."

He broke eye contact and turned to his wheelchair. "I'm going to clean up the kitchen. Go take your shower."

-0-

Colby sat in bed with his back against the headboard and the covers up to his waist, listening to Nicole readying herself for the night in the adjacent bathroom. The furnace kicked on silently, stirring the air in the room and sending a faint breeze across his bare chest.

What to wear to bed had been an unusually difficult decision. He usually wore boxer briefs, but sometimes, after his evening shower following a hard day, he had skipped clothing altogether, and slipped under the sheets raw. That seemed a perilous choice tonight. But what should he wear? What would she be wearing? She hadn't brought her own bag. Would she come to bed in her underwear, or nothing at all? She had originally intended to take him to bed for a night of sex; what might she be wearing under her street clothes?

I feel like a virgin bridegroom on his wedding night, he thought. "Nicole?"

"Almost out," she said.

"Do you need something to wear?" He swallowed. "A tee shirt, maybe?"

"I borrowed some stuff from Cheryl," she said. "She had a new toothbrush in her bag. I'm going to have to replace that before she comes home."

Colby remembered the selections at the bottom of that bag, and swallowed. He found his voice. "I'm sure I've got spares in a closet somewhere."

"Great." The sink gurgled and hissed from the drain and faucet for a minute or two, then the water shut off and he heard a clink as she dropped the handle of the brush into a glass. A dozen heartbeats later – he wasn't sure how much time that might represent, since he was sure it wasn't beating at its normal rest rate – the door opened and she stepped partway through, pausing in the doorway with her hand on opposite jambs, as she had that first time, when she'd been wearing his shirt. She smiled. "What are you staring at?"

She was wearing the light sweatpants and cotton tee from Cher's bag. The cuffs were rolled up on her ankles, and the waistband rolled down to a hand's width below her navel. The tee was tied off just below her ribs, baring her midriff. He said, "Those aren't yours."

"Like I said, I borrowed some things from Cheryl. A little big on me, but that's all right, don't you think?"

"I was half expecting you to be wearing something else."

She smiled. "Like maybe a cream-colored cami, from the bag you didn't look at? I'm sure she bought that for your first time together. It's how she wants you to see her. I wouldn't take that away from her." She moved closer. "Besides, I'm trying to be extra careful with you tonight." She stood beside the bed, staring down at him, her smile dimming.

"What are you staring at?"

"You're beautiful," she said. "I love buff blond guys with big arms." She added thoughtfully. "And you…"

"What?"

The smile returned, full force. "What if I told you that you look a little like one of my favorite actors, would you think I'm a silly schoolgirl with a crush?"

"Nicole, 'silly' is a word I'd never use to describe you." He flipped back the covers, exposing his boxer briefs. He slid down until his head was on the pillow. She came to him, sat on the bed, and rolled in, tucking herself against his side. He put his arm under her, cupped her shoulder in his hand, and drew them together. "What actor?"

"Brad Pitt," she said into his neck.

He huffed. "Well, we're about the same age."

"You smell good."

"I smell like dishwashing liquid."

"A little," she said. "But I can still smell your aftershave. Do I still smell like flowers?"

He swallowed. "Not right now," he said. "You smell like soap and toothpaste." His other hand found the small of her back and pulled her hip against his.

"Guess that's okay." She placed a hand on his bare chest. "Hmm, this is even better than the first time. I feel… so safe. Is it always like this?"

"I don't think so," he said. I have never felt less safe in my entire life. Or less concerned about it.

Escondido

Bobby took his guitar out of his lap and swung it off the bed, standing it against the wall, as he heard Sarah padding down the hall toward his room. The door opened, and she stepped through, in Kat's borrowed sweats, their sleeves and cuffs rolled up to bare her hands and feet. She smiled at him. "Writing a new…" The smile faded.

"What's wrong?" Please, don't let it be happening already. Things have been going so well…

She shook her head. "Nothing," she said. "I just had an odd moment. For just a moment, I was looking at you, and you seemed… different."

"Different how?"

"Older." She came to the bed and knelt on its edge, her waist-long ponytail swinging around her shoulder as she placed her hands on the mattress.

"How much older?"

"Thirty or forty, I'm not sure. Your hair seemed different too, I don't know how."

"Hunh," he said, relieved. "Maybe you're finally thinking about growing old with me."

"Been thinking about that for a while now." She lay on her side, facing him, and propped up the side of her head with one hand. "I wish I could take you home to meet my family."

"Someday. Maybe not till the world around us ends, but someday."

She smiled at that, and gently whipped his chest with the end of her tail, bringing her clean-rain scent to him. "How are things at the music store?"

"Good," he said. "It's nice to have somebody to jam with. I'm really starting to gel with some of the guys. The store owner said something yesterday, about putting in a word for me with some local bands who come into the store. Just for session work, mind you, I'm done performing on stage." Daring somewhat – they'd been getting away with being a lot closer at night lately, but you just couldn't know how far you could go except by going too far – he put an arm around her waist and pulled her to him. "What about your latest hobby? You find anybody else willing to open their doors to street people for the winter?"

"We did. An empty church building. The church moved, but they haven't sold the old building yet. They're willing to keep the utilities on and let us move a couple hundred cots in there, so long as there's no trouble or vandalism."

"That's great."

"Well, we'll see if we can keep the new residents from making it into something the city will have to condemn as a health hazard. People living rough for years don't have the best hygiene habits. And we have to keep the place from being taken over by local gangs and dealers."

"You need some help with that," he said, "you should let me know."

"I know. Eddie and Roxanne and Caitlin have all said the same. I just don't know what we might safely do about it if we start seeing gang script on the walls, inside or outside. Or people coming in and out of the building who aren't spending the night." She smiled. "Anna would already have a plan for it all. Something she figured out while she was cleaning the eavestroughs."

"I miss her too."

"We all do. Your dad is almost comical about it. I expect any time to catch him humming 'I've Grown Accustomed to Her Face' under his breath." She shifted. "I just hope she's getting well. I wish we'd get some kind of a progress report, or at least a call."

"Probly no phones where she's at."

"I suppose not." Her hand moved in a small circle over his chest. "I can't believe Eddie kept them a secret from us for months."

Bobby let out a long soft breath, luxuriating in her scent and her nearness and her caress. His eyelids drooped. "Does seem out of character. Guess doing it for Anna made the difference." And learning of it had led to speculation, in his own mind at least, about other secrets held by their little den mother.

That prompted a thought, one that had no business in the head of a man trying to please his woman. But it found its way to his mouth regardless. "That phone call from Nicole sure generates a lot of questions. For sure, she wasn't just getting in touch to catch up. She's up to something. And I think she's going to be calling again."

Sarah's hand stilled, and he could feel her mood cool. "You think she's trying to trap us?"

"Maybe. Or maybe, she just wants us to do something for her. Doubt it'll be anything to our benefit. I don't think she worries much about consequences to the people she uses."

Boulder

Colby slowly stroked Nicole's bare flank, his hand traveling to her hip until it encountered cloth, then back up, sliding over her cotton-clad ribs to her armpit. "Is it hard, holding back?"

"Surprisingly, no." She played with his hair. "At least, not tonight. It's still tiring, though."

"Probably metabolizing adrenaline, from when you were thinking about crossing that slide zone."

"Hn." She slid her hand from his chest down to his waist. Her grip tightened. "Maybe. But it's the last thing on my mind right now. Why aren't you afraid of me?"

"Who says I'm not?"

Her hand moved to the small of his back. She raised a knee, drawing her thigh across his; his breath caught. "I'm a little afraid of you too."

"Really."

"Really. People who have power over me make me feel threatened."

"I have power over you?"

"Oh, yes." She met his eyes. "We can do whatever you want, right now."

He put his hand back in motion, sending it down her side. The movement raised her scent off her skin – still body wash, thank God, the other was probably a scent tag for pheromones or something – which warmed under her hand. "This is good. Holding you, and just talking."

She smiled. "What do you want to talk about?"

"You," he said. "You're friendly and personable. People like you. But you're a closed door, Nicole. Nobody really knows you. Tell me something about yourself."

"People talk to me about themselves all the time," she said. "Usually it's interesting, but a little of it goes a long way. What do you want to know?"

"Just, anything you might want to talk about." He said carefully, "A while ago, you told me that you wanted to show me how discreet you could be, once we were private."

She huffed softly. "You really think we're private? I mean, probably no one is listening right now, but it doesn't mean they can't hear every word we said later, if they want."

"No," he said. "No one can listen to us right now. If they could, I'd know." The lighter-sized scrambling device, a gift from Lynch, was active and resting in a drawer in the nightstand beside the bed. Should I have told her that? But I need information from her, damn it.

"I believe you," she said into his neck. "I don't know why, but I do." After a moment's pause, she said, "I talked to Uncle Jack on the phone the other day. It was Anne's number, but he picked up." She added, "I got it from you, our first night together. I wasn't questioning you or anything, you just started talking in your sleep. I know you're still protecting them. I think that may have been when I started thinking about loving you. You're a very forgiving man, Francis Colby."

He stiffened. The scrambler hadn't been on from the time he'd heard the doorbell, right after he had ended his call to Anne. If he had been talking-

"I erased it," she said. "No one looked at it before I got to it. Just the part where you were talking, I thought removing the whole day and night would be suspicious if anyone went back to listen for some reason. As is, I doubt they'd think anything of the missing segment – they probably wouldn't even notice. I listened to some of the rest," she said, amusement in her voice. "I had no idea we were so noisy."

Thursday December 14 2006

Milan Italy

"Good morning, Mister Womack." Renaud, the N'drangheta mook acting as contract agent for the hired killers known as the 'Angels of Death' by those who availed themselves of their services – God alone knew what they called themselves – looked disgustingly fresh and well-rested for their eight AM breakfast meeting. A tiny cup filled with dark brew sat on the table in front of him; as Hammond approached, a waiter brought another to the place opposite, then withdrew just out of earshot, waiting. "My apologies for the early call, but you did say that you wanted to be informed of my clients' decision at the earliest possible opportunity."

Roger Hammond – who was going by the name 'Edward Womack' for this negotiation – forced a smile and made a dismissive gesture as he sat, rather heavily, into his chair. "Not a problem," he said, forcing a smile. He was still struggling with jet lag a day and a half after his flight halfway across the world, and felt desperate for sleep. A check of his watch and a quick calculation told him that, back at Central, it was still Wednesday, though midnight was coming up fast. At least this place served good coffee, he thought. "What news?"

Renaud slid a small piece of paper across the table to him. Without picking it up, Hammond read the number on it, blinked, and slid it back. "Are you sure this is right?"

Renaud looked down at the note, as if studying it; Hammond was sure the man would tsk, take out his ballpoint and add a zero to it. But the gangster just offered his tablemate a small smile. "It's entirely correct. My clients base their fees primarily on difficulty. I'm told that, compared to their last contract with you, this one is quite simple."

Killing fifty armed men, he thought. A simple job. On IO's first approach for a contract five years before, the Angels had quoted a price; Hammond, thinking the huge number was the start of a negotiation, had offered a sum two-thirds less. Renaud had stared at him as if trying to decide whether his tablemate was making a bad joke. "Mister Womack, this is your first time dealing with these people, yes? Their quotes are not open to negotiation. You can accept or decline." He had leaned forward over the table. "Believe me, after all the trouble your people must have gone through to find a point of contact with them, you must know their reputation. You do not want me to go back to them with a message telling them you think that they don't know what their services are worth." He had added, "And, of course, payment will be in advance, in full."

The deal had closed an hour later. The following week, on a bench in a small park in Montalcino, Renaud had presented Hammond with Osama Bin Laden's head and hands in a beverage cooler, packed in ice.

The quote for this job was far lower than he had been instructed to accept; Feeling the offer was simply too good to be true, Hammond nodded. "It's a deal. Are the earlier payment arrangements still acceptable?"

"Yes. The bank and account number will be different, but I have all the necessary details."

Hammond tapped a few keys on his PDA, setting up the transfer. "Can your clients offer me a completion date? Roughly."

Renaud watched him working on the strange little handheld. "Are your people in a hurry?"

The operation in Mannheim would conclude in a week or ten days, Hammond had been told, and the bigshots at Boulder wanted this sideshow over and done before the terminal phase of that op got rolling. "I'm told that my superiors would like to see it done as soon as possible. Would this affect the price?"

"Normally, yes. Especially this time of year. They have other contracts, I'm sure. But…" He shrugged. "This time, perhaps not."

"My people will be most appreciative of an expedited delivery," Hammond said as he continued the process. "So long as it can be done in the manner specified." Meaning, quick and quiet and complete, leaving no evidence behind that didn't point in the planned direction.

Renaud silently watched while Hammond authorized the transfer. Hammond picked up his cup for his first sip; at home, he usually drank his coffee with cream and sugar, but the wait staff served the tiny cups of thick, dark brew as if they were presenting the Eucharist, and he strongly suspected they wouldn't appreciate him wanting to adulterate it. Renaud sipped likewise, touching the cup to his lips at the same time, as if they were toasting their venture together. When the PDA beeped, signaling that the order had been executed and the money had completed its roundabout route to its destination, the go-between said, "How about yesterday, would that be soon enough?"

Hammond said carefully, "I can understand that it might be inconvenient to bump this job to the head of the line. If it's causing your clients some difficulty…" he looked up from his display and saw the mook smiling. He set down his cup. "Really?"

Renaud sat back with his cup cradled in his fingers over his sternum. "As soon as they received your contract offer, they sent one of their people to this place in Texas, to prepare a quote. It seems the agent looked it over and decided that a second trip wasn't worth the extra bother." He smiled and gestured to the waiting server. "As I said, a simple job."

Boulder

"Feeling sleepy yet?" Colby asked.

"Un hnh." Her eyes were closed. She shifted a hip, and his hand slipped under the rolled waistband, palm coming to rest on bare thigh. "Is my control slipping? Are you feeling anything?"

"Not sure," he said, voice suddenly hoarse. He cleared it with a cough. "I mean, what I'm feeling right now could just be from an hour holding a beautiful girl in my arms."

"Hm."

"It must have been hard for you, when you changed," he said. "How old were you, fourteen, sixteen?"

"Six," she said into his shoulder.

"Sixteen?"

"Six," she said. "Matt was seven."

"Wait," he said. "Manifested how?"

"You know."

"You mean, the…" He couldn't think of a way to say it.

"Yes, 'the'." She murmured, "Didn't have control of it at first, not til puberty, really. It was on almost all the time."

"God." He pulled her tighter.

"What?"

"I'm imagining you as a six- or eight- or ten-year-old, with a power… or curse… that makes every man you meet a potential child molester."

Sleepily, she said, "Potential?"

He stiffened.

She bumped her head under his jaw. "Psych."

He let out the breath he had been holding, and drew another, about to say something.

"Didn't happen every time."

IO Central HQ, Boulder

In his accustomed seat in Ivana's conference room, Jerry Ruche pursed his lips in a soundless whistle as he read, on the screen of the laptop chained to the table, the description of the present condition of the New Rangers compound in rural East Texas. The report began with the official media statement, no more than a page long, followed by nineteen pages of details from various sources not publicly released, including forensic photos. He was only halfway through it, but he already felt a little queasy. "These people don't play around."

"It's what we wanted," Ivana said, her Mona Lisa smile firmly in place. The two of them were the only two occupants of the cavernous room. "Someone who could show up Ben Santini's teams, and make him realize he's not irreplaceable."

He shook his head and resumed his study, trying not to look too long at the photos. The county sheriff had answered a neighbor's call about another ruckus at the Ranger compound. Such calls were usually reduced to a tense discussion between the sheriff and half a dozen of his deputies on one side of the gate, and the militia leader's second-in-command and a dozen armed rednecks on the other, usually with the heads of more 'militiamen' barely visible in snipers' positions on the flat roof of the main building behind them.

But this time, no one had answered the intercom, despite the gravel lot inside the fence being nearly full. No one was in sight, and the place was eerily silent. The sheriff telephoned several members of the group whose numbers had come into his possession over years of bookings and releases: no answers, even though they could hear a faint ringing inside one of the buildings on the third number he'd tried. After a short consult with his men, the sheriff had decided to go in. The peace officers had entered the compound with sidearms drawn.

After a knock on the front door of the main building and a shouted declaration had both gone unanswered, they had entered, and found an abattoir.

"Fifty-three dead," Ruche muttered. "That's nearly all of them. The strike team hit them at just the right time."

"Late afternoon, according to the neighbor's noise complaint," Ivana said. "That's when the place packed up every weekday, according to our sat survey. They'd come to their little clubhouse after work – the ones who had jobs – and join the loafers to target shoot and such. The gunfire was especially bad that afternoon, enough to warrant sending officers out to tell the rowdies to keep it down." She smiled wider. "Early the next morning. The sheriff wasn't fool enough to try to face down fifty armed hooligans with the smell of gunpowder in their noses and their blood up over another noise complaint."

Most of the New Rangers had been killed in their clubhouse, but a third of them had been found in the training area, on the outdoor gun range or in the kill house. Most of them, inside the building and out, had died, not of gunshot wounds, but physical insult: broken necks, crushed skulls and windpipes. In his initial examination, the medical examiner had suggested sledgehammers or mauls as the likely instruments, though none were found at the scene. Two men had suffered blows to the sternum that had torn their diaphragms. Unable to draw breath, they had suffocated, which must have been a particularly slow and miserable way to die, Ruche thought.

The inside of the main building was riddled with so many bullet holes that Ruche wondered how the block structure was still standing. Many of the bullets were retrieved, relatively undamaged, from the furniture and from the bodies; some matched the pistols strewn about the floor and furnishings or still clutched in the hands of the victims. The sheriff's report, ironically, included photos of all the rustbuckets in the lot, many of which bore bumper stickers saying YOU CAN TAKE MY GUN WHEN YOU PRY IT FROM MY COLD DEAD FINGERS.

A database search of those same rifling marks, as well as others on slugs pried from the dirt embankment behind the practice targets outside, turned up six matches from the mass murders at Bard and Quemado.

"They shot each other?" Gerry asked. "How do we spin that?"

"Friendly fire, probably," Ivana said. "The men outside were mostly killed with hand work, and probably silently. Inside, most of the gunshot fatalities came from weapons lying on the floor. But as you can see from the photos, the room was quite crowded. A little panic would be all these morons would need to just start spraying."

The last body to be found was at some distance from the main buildings. Judging by the blood trail, he had been shot on the firing range, gotten up a short time later, and stumbled away. His legs had given out after a hundred yards, but he'd begun crawling, desperate to get away, and eventually entered a little pump shed, presumably to hide. He had bled out, likely while the attackers were dealing with the Rangers in the clubhouse, but he hadn't just laid there waiting to die. In his own blood, he had written two names on the wall of the little shed before expiring. The names had belonged to members of another militia group that was known to have business with the Rangers. A raid on the other group's compound was already in the planning stage.

"And when they go in, I imagine they'll be armed to the teeth, and not much worried about taking prisoners." Ruche studied the scrawled names in the forensic photograph. "How did the contractor manage that, I wonder?"

"It wouldn't be too hard, I should think," Ivana said. "Give him a fatal wound that doesn't kill him too quickly, then promise him medical care if he cooperates."

"Are we going to let Colby see this?"

"He's Director of Operations, Gerry. Most of the recon and other intel we gave the Angels was his work, as well as the operational parameters. He's expecting to detail Razors to Fort Worth once the Mannheim operation is finished. Of course he has to be told." Ivana arched an eyebrow. "Besides, Benito has to find out about it somehow, doesn't he?"

-0-

Colby found Nicole at the dining table, hunched listlessly over a steaming mug. The scent of coffee filled the air. The pot was still gurgling; she must have pulled the carafe as soon as it had perked enough to fill a mug, he thought. She said without looking up, "I'm sorry, did I wake you?"

"Not having you with me woke me. Are you all right?"

"I woke up, I felt so good," she said to the rim of her mug. "I felt wonderful. I went to the bathroom, and just as I finished brushing my teeth, it happened. Like hitting the flush lever on the toilet, everything falling away and disappearing. I was looking in the mirror, and I could see my skin sag and turn gray."

"Nicole, you don't look like that. You look fine. Just tired."

"The first time was worse," she said. "Lots worse. It hit after I left you, when I was on my way home to change. I had to pull off the road, because I couldn't hold on to the wheel. I actually started to wonder if I might die."

"And you still wanted a rematch?" He shook his head and knelt beside her. "You're crazy."

She smiled. "Crazy about you. I'm not sure if you should touch me right now. It might be like giving a dry alcoholic a sip of eighty proof."

"What can I do for you then?"

"A glass of water would be good. Liquids seemed to help last time. And Advil."

"Something to eat?"

"God, no. Maybe later."

An hour later, he said to her, "That was quick."

Nicole beamed at him. "That went a whole lot better than the first time." Her smile turned sly. "Maybe not actually having sex lessened the aftereffects." She looked entirely herself, vital and energetic, dressed for a day of work in Cheryl's borrowed uniform, which somehow fit her better than the borrowed sweats. Maybe they're big on her too, he thought.

He followed her to the door. As he opened the closet door for her coat, she said, "Do you think a good-bye kiss would be okay, this time?"

He took her in his arms and pulled them tight. Her arms went around his neck their lips brushed together, softly at first, then with increasing urgency. When he realized he was pulling her shirt out of her pants, he stopped. She let go and wriggled out of his arms, breathless and wide-eyed.

She turned away. "I don't want to go," she said to the door."

"I don't want you to go."

"I've got work."

"So do I."

"I'm sure I'll be out of town by tonight. I don't know when I'll be back."

"Call me."

"I will."

He came up behind her and slipped an arm loosely around her, slipping his hand under the still-untucked shirt and flattening a palm on her abdomen below the navel. He imagined he could feel the sizzle of power under her skin, like heavy current running through wires sheathed in insulation barely adequate to contain it. She rested her hands over the one covering her belly; he felt a tingle all over, and wondered if his hair was standing on end. "You're going to kill me," he said. "Aren't you?"

"Not on purpose. But you make it so hard sometimes. If we stay together, I might slip someday."

He took a deep breath, filling his nose with the scent of her hair. He brought his other hand around, and covered her hands. "Okay."