"Stand up on three," I told her. "One...two...three."

  The move was smooth, and then it was just a question of leading her into the kitchen.

  "Grab your purse by the bottom, dump it onto the counter."

  She did, and I watched, somewhat amused at all the crap regular women kept in their purses. Besides the obligatory make-up, tissues, cell phone, mints, brush, wallet, loose change, there was a bottle of calcium pills. I smiled.

  "Those are for indigestion," Jack said.

  "Really? The bottle says they help to fight against osteoporosis."

  "The handcuffs are in the side pocket."

  I knew it was mean, but I couldn't resist. "It has one of those easy twist-off caps, for the elderly."

  "It was the only bottle the store had, all right? You want to cuff me or talk about supplements?"

  I fished the pair out, Smith & Wesson, gunmetal black. I flicked a bracelet open, locked it around her wrist, and connected the other end to the handle of my refrigerator. Then I took two quick steps away.

  Jack looked annoyed and humiliated. She straightened up and said, "I'll give you one last chance to surrender."

  I had to smile at that. "You said your partner is nearby."

  "He's across the street, getting a meatball sub with extra cheese. And meatballs. And bread. It's actually two subs he eats at the same time, one on top of the other."

  "Is he going to burst in here and shoot me?"

  "With the elevator out? If he bursts in here, he won't be holding a gun. He'll be clutching his heart with a myocardial infarction. Herb and stairs are old enemies."

  She didn't give me any cues that she was lying, vocal or non-verbal.

  "You said you came back here on a hunch," I said. I didn't need to know, but I was curious. "What caused it?"

  "I saw your wardrobe. It's lacking, and that's being kind, but I found the money and wires sewn into the hems. I thought anyone who took the time to do that might have other things hidden around the place. Figured I'd poke around, see if I could find anything."

  "Did you?"

  Jack frowned. "Yeah. I found a pain-in-the-ass spy who doesn't respect those who came before her."

  I went to the kitchen closet, took out my box of tools, careful to hold the handle by the palm so I didn't leave prints.

  "I respect all of that old school, old fogey stuff," I told Jack. "Black and white TVs. Those huge computers with floppy disks. Paper books."

  "Paper books aren't old school."

  "Give me a break. They're so 2008. Get an ereader, Jack."

  Her gaze flicked down to my hand. "No need to hold the box like that, Carmen. I already lifted one of your prints."

  I paused, a spike of adrenaline shooting up my spine. It was bad enough being wanted by different agencies and authorities. As long as they didn't have my name, they wouldn't find me. But once my prints were on file...

  "How?" I asked.

  Jack stayed quiet.

  "Don't play around here, Lieutenant. If I'm in the system, I'm fucked."

  "The gun you left on the roof," Jack said. "Got a partial index on the trigger. Not enough to match it. But..."

  She let her voice trail off. I felt myself go cold.

  "But?"

  "The Medical Examiner is my friend. He's doing the autopsies on those women you dispatched, the ones with your faces. He ran the prints on one. No matches in the system. But, for fun, I ran it through some POC software. Guess who it matched?"

  POC was points of comparison, and I knew who it matched.

  "Who else knows about this, Jack?"

  Her eyes narrowed. "You think I'm an idiot, Carmen? That I'd offer up this information so I can get myself tortured and killed? I don't know all the powers at play here, and I'm not going to wake up one morning with assassins in my room because I stumbled across some secret, government experiment and blabbed about it. You know it's statistically impossible for more than one person to have the same prints. Even twins—"

  "I know," I said, interrupting. "Did the M.E. check the prints on the others?"

  "Not yet. I had a feeling, and told him to hold off. He didn't even finish the autopsy on the first one."

  "You probably saved his life."

  "A smart person would go to the morgue, make sure no more prints are taken. She might even find the previous autopsy records there as well."

  "And what about the gun with my partial on it?"

  Jack smiled. "A smart person would have that locked away in a safe place, with a note to examine it if she died suddenly. I assume we're both smart people."

  "So you're asking me to trust you?"

  "Yes. And to tell what's going on."

  "If you know what I know, that might put you in even more danger than having that gun."

  "I like to live on the edge."

  I had a choice. I could give a little, or I could snap her neck. I sighed, then gave her the Reader's Digest condensed version of the last few hours. I wasn’t sure why I decided to tell her, and I was even less sure why I felt better once I had, but when I finished, Jack let out a slow whistle.

  "That's a lot to swallow."

  "It is what it is."

  "Your codename is Chandler?"

  "Yeah."

  "It's a pretty cool codename."

  "This from a woman named Jack Daniels?"

  She rubbed her cheek, which was beginning to bruise. "So the only two left are Clancy and Hammett."

  I nodded, taking my tools back to the living room. I opened the box and removed a short pry bar. "I'm going to go take care of Clancy now. I have to save my handler."

  "She and Hammett look exactly like you?"

  "Hammett has a small scar on her chin. If you run into her, shoot first. She's psychotic."

  I measured off five paces from the far wall, then began to pry up floorboards.

  "This is a bit outside my normal jurisdiction," Jack said. "How can I help?"

  With the information about the morgue, she already had. "You can stay out of my way."

  "Do you know why Hammett wants that transceiver thing?"

  "No. Only that it would be bad if she gets it."

  "Where did you hide it in the Hancock building?"

  "That I can't tell you."

  Three more boards up, and I saw my rifle case. I wiped the prints off the pry bar using my shirt, tossed it aside, and pulled out the case. Then I caught Jack's eye. "You know there are bad people, and even some good people, who will kill you if they find out what you know."

  She gave me a brief arch of the eyebrows. "Interesting life you lead."

  "Mostly it's a lot of waiting around. You caught me on a busy day."

  "Chandler..." Jack's voice trailed off.

  "What?"

  "You should still consider turning yourself in. I could take you out of state, we could go to the media."

  "Not going to happen."

  "How long can you keep functioning at this level? I can see you're trying to keep it together, but right now I'm not looking at some special ops superspy. I'm looking at a breakdown waiting to happen."

  "This breakdown still managed to handcuff you to a fridge."

  Jack's face softened. "They're going to kill you, Chandler."

  I paused. She was right, of course. Even with my training, the odds were very much against me. I doubted I had more than a five percent chance of surviving this, and that was playing fast and loose with statistics. Maybe that was why I felt okay about spilling my guts. "Have you ever faced death before, Jack?"

  "Yes."

  "Did that ever make you quit?"

  Jack slowly shook her head. "No."

  "I guess that makes two of us who like to live on the edge."

  Then I tucked the rifle case under my armpit and got out of there.

  "When you're undercover, you can't pretend to be another person," The Instructor said. "You must become that person. Your success depends on whether or not people believe you. Your life is at risk if they don't."

  Hammett surveys the chaos around her, the chaos she has caused, and runs the tip of her tongue across her lower lip.

  It might be more efficient to just kill them all. Or at the very least it would be more fun.

  She leans on the maître d’ stand and watches the last of the Signature Room employees file into the elevator, following in the wake of diners who were evacuated from the top of the John Hancock Building first. They are scared out of their minds, she can smell it, and their fear makes her pulse spike.

  The world is divided into predators and prey. These men and women scurrying to escape the fake bomb threat she and Victor cooked up are weak. They are so desperate for someone to save them, they accept the fake bomb squad uniforms and generic tool boxes without a blink. They dash from their hundred-dollar meals in a scramble to catch the first elevator. They are animals begging to be culled from the herd.

  And she's itching to do the culling.

  Hammett is aware of the weight of the .45 on her hip, the knife in the sheath at her ankle, but she doesn't use them. As much as she would enjoy taking each of the remaining sheep out, making them beg, making them scream, she doesn't have time.

  When the elevator doors close, she turns away and climbs the staircase leading to the floor above. As she ascends to the balcony, she scans the restaurant a floor below. Beyond linen-covered tables and meals in various stages of being eaten, the city shifts from day to sunset through enormous floor-to-ceiling windows. The dark void of Lake Michigan shifts and sways. Lights of ships dot the horizon, only the occasional red or blue differentiating them from glimpses of stars beginning to light the sky.

  The world is a big place. And Hammett has plans a lot bigger than toying with waiters and chefs. Even the maître d’ who didn't quite believe her bomb scare story, the one she most itches to kill, isn't worth it.

  Maybe she'll catch up with him later.

  She steps onto the balcony's marble floor and glances past the upper floor's maître d’ stand. Dressed as bomb squad techs, Victor and his men started searching the bar on the 96th floor while she was arguing with the manager. She pauses to watch two of them comb the private dining rooms off the bank of elevators. Hammett doesn't fully trust them. She doesn't fully trust anyone, but since she needs the money and manpower Victor provides, she will play nice for now.

  She sets off down the long hallway to the lounge to check up on Victor. He better have results.

  In the lounge, the western, southern and northern vistas open beyond the glass, along with a spectacular sunset. Victor's men dot the lounge, some searching under tables and looking under the radiator rimming the base of the room with long-handled mirrors. Some behind the center bar, moving bottles and glassware. Some probing the ceiling, checking the recessed lighting fixtures.

  Victor spots Hammett and crosses the bar, the look on his face pure KGB, soulless and mean.

  Hammett's not sure if she should be worried or turned on. She gestures to his men.

  "Let me guess, you haven't found it."

  "My people have gone over everything. It's not here. She lied."

  "She wasn't lying. It's here. And we would know precisely where if you hadn't killed the old man."

  He shrugs. "Accidents happen."

  "Incompetence and fragile egos happen. A few jokes about your small cock, and you're willing to fuck up the simplest task just to get payback. You men take size so personally." She lets a smile play across her lips. "Especially those who are not so well endowed."

  The fingers of his right hand twitch, as if they long to fondle a trigger. "I didn't hear any complaints from you last night."

  Hammett cups Victor's cheeks. "A little sensitive, comrade? What you lack in size, you make up for. In speed."

  Victor knocks away her hands. His dead-eyed Russian mask falls back in place. "My superiors are getting impatient. They want a return on their investment. I'm the only thing protecting you right now."

  As if I need his protection.

  "Don't threaten me, Victor."

  "Then get me results."

  "I did my part. Tell your men to search again. They do a good job and your superiors will have their return."

  "Right. If you had let me try a few more things on Chandler, my men wouldn't have to guess the transceiver's location."

  She shakes her head. Victor is pretty, but sometimes he's rather dense. "You really don't understand the training she's had, do you? The old man was our leverage. After he was gone, she would have willingly died."

  "You overestimate her."

  "Maybe." A buzz tickles her hip. She pulls out her cell phone and checks the display. "If your men can't manage to locate the transceiver, we'll go back to the apartment and test your theory. Now hurry. The maître d’ didn't leave willingly. I wouldn't be surprised if he calls the authorities to check on our little bomb threat."

  She steps away from him, walks down the hall and ducks into the women's room. Staring out the restroom's glass wall at the city below, flaming orange in the sunset, she holds the phone to her ear. "Have you gotten inside?"

  "Negative. I'm on a ridge overlooking the house. If anyone leaves, I'll know."

  She knows the odds of Clancy getting inside are steep, but her sister's failure is frustrating all the same.

  Hammett pulls in a steady breath. It's almost over. She almost has what she wants. She can't let impatient Russians or impenetrable bunkers get the best of her now.

  "Hold your position."

  Hammett tucks the phone away. Then, impulsively, she pulls out her tablet PC, just to make sure Chandler is still safe and sound at the apartment.

  When she sees the blips on the screen, every muscle in her body tenses.

  You crafty little bitch. How did you get away?

  Hammett watches the blip move south, and quickly figures out where Chandler is headed. She redials her cell.

  "Clancy, it's Hammett. Chandler is on her way. She'll be there within half an hour."

  "Shall I kill her?"

  "Don't kill her. We still need information." Hammett smiles, thinking of Clancy's Hydra report. Clancy could shoot the legs off a butterfly at two thousand yards during a hurricane on a starless night. "Shoot to wound," she orders her sister. "And make it hurt."

  "In a fight between two snipers, the outcome is predetermined," The Instructor said. "The higher ground always wins. Always."

  The wind carried the scent of oak leaves, wood fire and Lake Michigan. Driving The Instructor's car, I passed a handful of McMansions stuck into rustic settings, and wound my way closer to the lake. Here gigantic homes dotted multi-acre lots forested with oak and maple, most nestled so far off the narrow, twisting road that they couldn't be seen, even though tree branches were half bare. I checked the tablet PC and continued. The road flanked a forest preserve, and houses fell away to forest and wetlands. A private road turned off and I took it.

  The sun was showing off as it went down, throwing spectacular pinks and oranges across the trees, turning the horizon into a Monet painting. Soon it would be dark.

  The only thing worse than a firefight during the daylight was a firefight in the dark.

  I ditched the sedan in a turn off about a mile from the three blips on my tablet PC. I'd zoomed in enough to get a topical layout of the area. One was me. The other was Clancy. The third was unknown. It might be Hammett, though I guessed the blip at the Hancock Center was hers. There was also a blip at the Cook County morgue, which could indicate Forsyth, or Ludlam, or Follett. Or a combination of all three.

  So why was there an extra nearby? Could one of my dead sisters be back in play somehow? Or were there more of these tracker things than The Instructor had indicated?

  Hefting my rifle case, I started through the woods. Clouds scutted across the sky, dark on one side, pastel on the other as the sun dipped down. Night had its own smell, crisp and cool and dangerous.

  Dry leaves skittered and skipped along the dirt. I moved slowly, watching my footing, keeping low. It wouldn't be easy to spot a sniper through the trees, especially a pro like Clancy supposedly was. I would need all my senses and a liberal dose of luck.

  Make that an extraordinary dose of luck. Matching the blip to the terrain, I saw that my sister had taken the highest point in the area, on a ridge two kilometers to the northwest. From that vantage point, she was the master of this entire domain. My only hope was to lay low and try to sneak up on—

  The shot missed my foot by only a few inches, kicking up a clot of dirt. A millisecond later the report echoed through the trees, a thunderous boom coming from the ridge.

  I dove behind a fallen tree, rolling onto my back, clutching the rifle case to my chest. I wondered how exposed I was, but didn't dare check. Since the bullet arrived before the sound, I knew Clancy was firing supersonic rounds. If I peeked my head over the rotting log, chances are I'd have it shot off before I even heard the bullet coming.

  Although I'd excelled at long distance shooting during training, the sniper mindset was never a good fit for me. The best snipers were almost supernatural with their patience. In a full ghillie suit—a mesh covering woven with camouflage fabric and often actual leaves, weeds, and moss until the wearer looked like a swamp monster—it might take a sniper an entire day to cross a single acre of land, creeping an inch at a time, blending perfectly into the foliage. While waiting for a shot, it wasn't unusual for a sniper to bivouac for a week or more in a single area, never moving more than a few feet.

  I opened the clasps on my rifle case. Working quickly, while there was still a sliver of light left, I began to assemble my M24. It was a modified, takedown version of the Remington 700 rifle, upgraded for military use. This one was rebarreled for .300 Winchester Magnum ammo, had a muzzle flash hider, a Leupold day scope, and a AN/PVS-26 night vision device. I finished putting the rifle together by feel just as the sun made its exit, all the while holding my breath and waiting for Clancy's next shot. Though an excellent weapon, the M24 had a maximum effective range of 800 meters. I could maybe hit her at 1000 meters, but that would be pushing it.