I wasn't sure what to answer. I wanted to trust Jacob or Fleming or whatever her name was. But I'd wanted to trust Victor, too. I felt like I was scrambling to keep up. After all that had happened in the past day, all I'd had to process, I couldn't seem to get my feet under me.

  "Fair enough," Fleming said. "We'll talk first. Can you tell me how you found me?"

  "The same way Clancy found you. The tracking chips."

  "What chips?"

  "Sewn into our stomachs."

  "Sewn into our...?" Fleming stared down at her waist. "We have locator chips in us?"

  "I've got a tablet PC. It shows where all seven sisters are. I guess you're the seventh."

  Fleming shook her head. "They chipped us. Those mother fuckers."

  I couldn't agree with her sentiments more. "So what is so special about my phone? Why does Hammett want it so badly?"

  "Have you been in contact with her?"

  "You could say that."

  Her lips pursed, as if she had some guesses as to how unpleasant contact with Hammett might be, then took a deep breath. "Your phone... it's not just a phone."

  "I've figured out that much."

  "It's actually a highly encrypted transceiver."

  Technically speaking, any phone was a transceiver. As for the encrypted part, Jacob, or Fleming, had told me that part when she had originally sent it to me. "Go on."

  "I designed it. I'm a bit of a computer genius." She averted her eyes for a second, and her face tinged just a tiny bit pink. "There are only two transceivers like this in existence. You have one. The President of the United States has the other."

  "An iPhone isn't good enough for him?"

  Her expression remained serious. "The iPhone doesn't have an app for this. There's a hidden source code on the operating system. If accessed, it can be used to remotely launch America's nuclear arsenal."

  My arms trembled, and I had to steady my weapon. "What?"

  "Whoever has your phone could punch in a code and destroy the entire world one hundred eighty times over. If Hammett gets it, she'll have the power to start World War III."

  "There is no good information or bad information," The Instructor said. "Information simply exists. It's neutral. It's your reaction to information that is either good or bad. You have to bury that reaction and be neutral too."

  I felt my stomach do some cartwheels. "So I could dial a wrong number, and accidentally blow up Russia?"

  "It's more complicated than that. You'd need to—"

  I held up a hand. "I don't want to know."

  Fleming nodded as if she'd seen my response coming. "That's why you were given the phone."

  I narrowed my eyes.

  "Your reaction," Fleming said. "It's less common than you think. You don't even want to know how to use the phone. Not everyone would have that response. And even while most people might not want to blow up the world themselves, they might be tempted to use the power for personal gain."

  I could see Hammett blowing up the world, or at least holding it for ransom, but I couldn't be the only sister who wasn't trigger happy or power mad. "Why give it to me? I don't want that kind of power."

  "After 9/11, the President decided there needed to be a safeguard, in case he was compromised. Someone able to follow orders. Someone who could launch the strike in his stead. You've killed for your country. You've shown your loyalty."

  "I've also turned down assignments. Maybe if given the order to blow up the world, I'd balk."

  "Your psych profile says you wouldn't."

  I didn't know how much I liked that. "Why not you? You developed it."

  "The President concluded you were the one to be entrusted with the phone. My psych report was favorable, too, but then this happened." She glanced down at the wheelchair. "After my injury, I was determined to be too much of a risk."

  "A risk? You live in an underground bunker."

  "I think they half-expected me to go crazy with grief over my useless legs and retaliate by blowing up the world." She gave a laugh.

  A giggle bubbled in my own throat. I'd never laid eyes on this woman until tonight, and yet I sensed the idea was ridiculous. Fleming might be new to me, but in all the time I'd known her as Jacob, she was as reliable as gravity.

  I lowered my gun.

  "Are we at a level where we're trusting each other?" she asked.

  I hadn't realized I'd decided to take that leap until her words hit the air. I gave a slight nod, uncertain if my voice would function.

  "Good," she said. Fleming took her hands off of her armrests, then lifted up the covers. Concealed beneath were two rifle barrels, built into the frame. "I was hoping I wouldn't have to shoot you. All I have to do is squeeze the armrests."

  "Nice. Is that standard for that chair model?"

  "I made a few minor modifications. Can I be frank? I know you don't know anything about me, but I know a lot about you and always hoped we'd meet one day."

  "Maybe we can have a sleep over," I said. "Braid each other's hair and talk about boys we've kissed."

  "Then we'll bake s'mores and play truth or dare." Fleming's face got serious. "But first... where's the phone, Chandler?"

  "I hid it. But... Hammett might be able to find it." Again my throat thickened, this time with humiliation. I'd broken and done the worst thing anyone in my position could do. I'd revealed secrets to the enemy. My cheeks burned and I felt a little dizzy.

  "She got to you," Fleming said. "Was it Kaufmann?"

  "You know about Kaufmann?"

  "You said it yourself. I know everything. Is he...?"

  "Dead." I said. "I told Hammett the transceiver is on the 96th floor of the Hancock Building. But I didn't tell her where exactly."

  "She was persuasive, I take it."

  I nodded. "Waterboarding."

  Fleming's eyes went mean. "Fucking bitch. Took that right out of our training. When we catch her, let's tie a weight to her legs and drop her in Lake Michigan."

  My spirits perked up. "So... we're a team now?"

  "We've always been a team, Chandler."

  Fleming held out her hand. I walked slowly toward her and clasped it in mine.

  It felt good.

  # # #

  After gathering the equipment I would need, I left Fleming at the bunker and retraced my steps through the forest. The sky was a giant, black blanket, only a glimpse of stars and moon between clouds. The wind had died down. I found Clancy's body without too much difficulty. Trying not to look too closely at the ground meat and bits of skull formerly known as her face, I grabbed her ankle and dragged her through trees and brush, fifty meters south to a dirt road.

  Sweat slicked my back from the effort, cool in the night air. I had just managed to slow my breathing when headlights split the night. A green Humvee stopped near me, and the driver's window lowered. Fleming peered out from behind the wheel. "Need some help?"

  I wasn't sure how my sister meant to help lift a body into the van without the use of her legs, but I had no doubt she'd find a way. I waved her offer away. "I can manage."

  The Hummer's interior flatbed was lined with plastic, no doubt Fleming's plan to contain the blood and fluids. Using her arms to lift herself out of the driver's seat and into a chair, she met me in the back. For a moment, she said nothing, just stared down at the body I'd loaded inside, then I saw the shine in her eyes.

  At least she didn't have to look at Clancy's face, since it was no longer there."Did you know her?"

  Fleming shook her head. "Not personally."

  "But you knew you had sisters."

  "Only you. Until today." She glanced up at me. "I'm sorry I couldn't tell you."

  I shrugged a shoulder. "I always wondered what it would be like to have a sister. I never imagined I would have six… and that five of them would want to kill me. That sort of weakens the sisterly bond."

  Fleming gave me a dry smile. "Well, I'm glad to finally meet you."

  My throat tightened, and all I could manage was a nod.

  She returned the gesture and pulled a plastic package from a duffle of equipment she'd brought with. "Do you want me to do it?"

  "Do you want to?"

  "No."

  "Me neither. Rock scissors paper?"

  Her eyes crinkled. "Are you serious?"

  "We could flip a coin. Got a coin?"

  "I don't. Okay, we'll go on three. One... two... three."

  I made my hand into scissors. So did Fleming. Since her hand looked exactly the same as mine, it was a pretty surreal moment.

  "Once more," I said. "One... two... three."

  This time we both made a rock.

  "This is weirding me out," I said. "Just give me the gloves and the scalpel."

  Fleming handed me a pair of latex gloves, and I snapped them on while she tore open the disposable scalpel wrapper. Grasping the ghillie suit, I stretched it away from Clancy's body and, dodging bits of stick and weeds, slit it down the middle. Underneath the camouflage, Clancy wore combat fatigues. I patted her down.

  "Got a cell phone," I said, handing it over.

  Fleming played with the buttons. "Password protected. I can crack it back at my place, but it'll take a few minutes."

  "Later, if we need to."

  She nodded. "Right. We already know where Hammett is."

  A few more cuts, and I exposed Clancy's belly.

  "Would you look at that?" Fleming leaned forward. "Is that what I think it is?"

  Her skin appeared as if it was coated with peanut butter, brownish and somewhat lumpy. Not an attractive look, but one I'd seen before.

  "Liquid body armor." I scraped some off with the flat of the blade. "Forsyth was wearing it, too."

  "I thought this stuff only existed in theory." Fleming pinched some between her fingers. "It's a sheer thickening paste. Semi-solid now, but watch." She flicked her fingernail at it, and it made a clicking sound as the paste became rock hard. "Add energy, it becomes a solid. I also feel some iron filings in the mixture, so it could be magnetorheological as well. Amazing."

  "Yeah. Well, she should have smeared some on her face."

  Fleming glanced at me, and we shared a small laugh, one that was surprisingly comfortable. Then I turned my attention back to the task at hand. Once I'd finished scraping off the body armor, I positioned the blade above Clancy's belly button. I tried not to think about how her belly looked like mine, and how I also had a tracker in me, and then I made my first cut.

  Dead hearts no longer pumped blood, and so dead bodies didn't exactly bleed. Instead they oozed. Blood reddened my fingers and seeped out onto the plastic as I widened the incision, past the layers of skin and fat and muscle, until her insides were exposed.

  "Check the duodenum," Fleming said. "I see a scar there. And try not to nick the intestines. This smell is bad enough."

  "You can jump in at any time," I said, breathing through my mouth.

  The odor of blood and death and digestive tract nearly overwhelming. I palpated the tissue, finally feeling a very small but hard nub beneath the slick scar tissue. I sliced carefully and finally freed the tracking device.

  The thing was a small, round chip of clear plastic, the size of a penny, but several times as thick. I brushed off some blood and saw the circuit panel inside. Fleming pried it from my fingers, even though she wasn't wearing gloves.

  "The weight is lopsided. I think it has a rotor in it, like a self-winding watch. That keeps the battery charged."

  "Fascinating," I said, pulling the ghillie suit closed. Then I wiped my hands with some paper towels and fished in the duffle for what I needed next.

  I chose a hand clipper, the kind used to prune rose bushes. A branch nipper would have been easier, with its extra leverage, but for all the tools Fleming had in her bunker, she was woefully short on garden implements.

  Ironic, since she lived in the middle of a forest.

  It didn't take long for me to snip off the ends of Clancy's fingers and plop them into a jar filled with hydrochloric acid. Then I cleaned up the mess and encased my dead sister in a body bag.

  I was grateful that part was done, but the first step in our plan was far from over.

  "Were you able to get the paperwork?"

  "I have everything we'll need." Fleming handed me a pile of clothing, and then climbed back behind the wheel. Instead of using a foot pedal for brake and gas, she maneuvered the vehicle with hand controls, and soon we were cruising down the lonely road.

  Time for me to get dressed.

  By the time we reached the city, rush hour was long since over and traffic was heavy but flowing well. We made it into the city in good time. Fleming drove like she was pissed off at the entire world, and maybe she was. But being in a Humvee, with a horn stolen straight off a freight train, motorists gave her a wide berth. A good thing too, because I could easily have pictured her driving over some of the slower, smaller cars in her way.

  Fleming pulled into the hospital's rear parking lot and up to the double doors. After offering to help my sister into her wheelchair—which apparently was akin to spitting in her face—we headed toward the morgue entrance. This chair was manual, not electric, and had angled wheels and a lower profile.

  "Does this model also have the guns in the armrests?" I asked.

  "Among other modifications. I don't like being unarmed."

  We both signed in with the attendant, a sleepy-eyed doughboy with greasy hair. The morgue was off limits to the public, but cops, doctors, and morticians were granted entrance. Our fake credentials said we were doctors, and we were dressed appropriately in white lab coats.

  I kept my head down so the attendant didn't notice we were twins, but it didn't matter because his eyes were glued to a television showing, of all things, an Animal Planet special on otters.

  I let Fleming deal with the paper work—a bogus autopsy order—while I used one of the morgue's stainless steel gurneys to fetch Clancy and wheel her inside. When I returned, Fleming was waiting for me at the entrance to the cooler. She went in first, and I followed.

  There are not many smells worse than the stench of the morgue. Underneath the bleach and antiseptic was a sickly-sweet odor akin to rotting carnations. It coated the insides of my nostrils and clung to my skin, and I knew from experience it would stick with me long after I had left the building.

  In the massive walk-in cooler, the dead were stacked four high on wire racks, many of them leaking fluids onto the sticky floor. They were naked, bluish-colored regardless of race, and many were still stuck in the odd positions they'd died in; on their sides, arms and legs akimbo, curled up as if in sleep. Cook County Morgue was one of the biggest in the nation, and it was operating at full capacity, which meant over three hundred bodies. We were the only two live ones in the place.

  Fleming picked up a stray bottle of bleach and began spritzing down Clancy's body bag, destroying our prints. I ducked into the autopsy room—which was devoid of any medical examiners as Jack Daniels had promised—and found two of my sisters on the cutting tables. Follett, whom I'd putted the grenade at, was missing a good portion of her legs. The other, whose head wound indicated she was Ludlam from Stretchers, already had the standard Y incision on her chest. Luckily, she hadn't been opened up yet. I swallowed the bad taste in my mouth and took the hand clippers out of my lab coat.

  "Forsyth is missing," I called over my shoulder to Fleming, "so check the racks. She'll have on liquid body armor."

  "I'm on it. You know, this may sound stupid, but it feels good to be in the field again. Nice to get out of the bunker and stretch my legs. Figuratively speaking."

  I might have enjoyed the small talk with my sister more if I hadn't been snipping off my other sister's fingertips. We needed to get rid of all fingerprint evidence, or both Fleming and I were in deep shit.

  Well, deeper shit. Things were pretty dire already.

  I finished up with Ludlam, then got to work on Follett. She only had seven fingers, the explosion apparently having taken care of the other three.

  "Found her," Fleming called out. Less than a minute later it was followed by, "Someone's coming."

  I snipped off the last digit and placed it in a plastic baggie. Then I scanned the nearby table, looking for paperwork. Jack had said one of my sisters had been printed. I needed to find the card and—

  "Well... look at what we have here."

  I spun, looking at the cop who had just walked into the autopsy suite. He was mid-forties, unshaven, his uniform a bit too tight around his belly and badly in need of ironing. He wore a leer normally reserved for striptease venues.

  "Can I help you, Officer?" I asked, using my polite voice.

  "You've got to be one of the cutest doctors I've ever seen. I may have to call heaven, see if Jesus filled an MAR." He winked. "A Missing Angel Report."

  Normally I didn't tolerate the loud, obnoxious type. But seeing as how I was impersonating a doctor, it wasn't in my best interest to piss off a cop.

  "Looks like we're both working late," I said. "You here for take-out or delivery?"

  He smiled wide. "Neither. Just needed to check up on a case."

  "Don't let me keep you." I gave him a quick, saccharine grin, then stuck a scalpel into Ludlam's Y incision with more verve than I felt.

  Horny Cop didn't take the hint. "Say, that's some hottie you got there on the table. You know who she looks like?"

  I tensed, waiting for the obvious, pre-thinking my next move.

  "That chick who played in Tomb Raider," he continued. "Smaller tits, though. And paler. And not nearly as active. You don't mind if I observe, do you?"

  "Be my guest." I offered a crocodile smile and yanked out Ludlam's stomach by the esophagus.

  "Hey, lookie here, another cutie. Nice wheels, Doc."

  I glanced up and noticed Fleming had her hands on her armrests, right on top of the rifle barrels. I gave her a discreet head shake, imploring her not to shoot him.