"Now you care? That didn't bother you when you knocked her out, did it?"

  "I…"

  "You fucked up. Now clean your mess and kill her, then get moving."

  The call disconnected. Jared nearly flung his phone into the Atlantic. He stared down at the woman. She hadn't stirred. He could leave her here. Maybe she'd die. Perhaps someone would come along and take her back to town. The blow she'd received had done plenty of damage. Even if rescued, she might not be the same.

  But if she was, that'd mean Jared's life would be at risk.

  "I'm sorry," he said to the girl as he straddled her mother, turning the girl away and aiming down with his pistol. He tucked the weapon under his chin for a moment while reaching into his pocket for the suppressor. He threaded the device on the weapon, then took a few steps back. Took a couple deep breaths. Held in the last one. Squeezed the trigger. Twice. He didn't need to shine his light on her to know that the mother of Jack Noble's only child was now dead.

  They didn't linger. Someone might have seen the muzzle blast from a distance and already be on their way to investigate. From far enough away, it might look like someone flashing a lighter. Or it might look like a gunshot. Either way, Jared wanted nothing to do with more liabilities. More people to kill. He jogged north with the motionless girl under his arm. He'd carried heavier loads during his career. She weighed less than a rucksack. Less than some of the weapons he'd used in the past.

  Eight or nine minutes later, small dots appeared in the dark. White headlights. Jared stopped, crouched down, and waited for strobes of blue and red to break through the darkness. But they didn't. The lights grew brighter and larger. He heard the four-wheeler rumble closer. Jared rose and moved forward. He pocketed his pistol in favor of his flashlight, which he flipped on and off, three times on, then nothing for a few beats. Repeated the process. The headlights flipped on and off in the same pattern. Jared held the flashlight in his mouth, switched on, and retrieved his pistol. He did not know the identity of the man sent to meet him. And he didn't care to. All he wanted was to make sure the guy was legit and had a plan to get him and the girl off the island.

  The ATV halted in front of them. The driver switched the engine off. The sudden roar of the vehicle faded, and the wind and waves took over.

  "Get on," the driver said. "I've got a boat docked two miles north of here at an inlet. She'll get us anywhere you want to go."

  Jared adjusted his light toward the ATV. It had plenty of space. Two rows of seating. The rear large enough to accommodate him and the girl. He hefted her over his shoulder, then stepped over the crossbar, placing her on the seat first. Jared sat next to her, one arm around her shoulders, the other holding the pistol, aimed at the child. She didn't seem to notice. She made no movements at all. Catatonic described her best. He tried not to care. It was, after all, his fault. He knew the response he'd get to that line of thinking. Not your fault, son. They put themselves in this situation. It wasn't true. He knew it. But he had to believe it.

  They continued north until they reached the inlet. Orange lights sparsely placed lit the area. First glance indicated the place was deserted. The driver led them along a concrete walkway, then down a wooden pier. They came to a stop in front of a forty-foot boat. Jared knew little about the crafts and trusted the man at his word that the vessel could handle the Atlantic.

  On board he placed another call. His boss instructed him that they were to head toward the Mediterranean and call back for further instructions in the morning.

  44

  Tenerife.

  THE NOISE OF the crowds slowly faded and gave way to the wind and the ocean. Brett remained close to the shoreline. Salt spray enveloped him, a sensation he enjoyed from as far back as he could remember. Though he had grown up within an hour of the ocean, visits to it were limited. The joys of being an orphan and foster child.

  He produced a small pen light and used the weak beam to scan the area in front of him. Its glow barely lit ten feet up. And that's why Brett nearly stumbled over the body when he reached it. Kneeling, he focused the light on the woman's head. Or what was left of it. Two bullets had entered from the rear and taken out chunks of her forehead and face.

  There was no doubt who it was.

  Brett had arrived too late.

  He swept the area with the light in search of Mia. The girl was nowhere to be found. Fear of drawing attention to his position prevented him from calling out too loudly for her. Still, he tried, to no response. He searched the ground for tracks. What he found was a mishmash of a day's worth of beach-goers' prints.

  Think, he told himself. The man had brought them this far only to kill Erin. He wouldn't double back with the girl. Right? Brett knew the guy wouldn't. He had somewhere to go. Brett ran north, scanning the ground with his small light. After a mile or so, he found the tracks of an ATV. Someone, he presumed, had picked the man and Mia up.

  He had to contact Ballard and find out if he had uncovered who else was on Tenerife.

  Ballard, however, beat him to it.

  "Tell me you found something," Brett said.

  "I'm going to tell you to abort your position and get to the airport. You have a reservation with a small executive airliner."

  "What are you talking about?"

  "Get moving and call me when you get there."

  "Whoever I spotted has the girl. And he killed her mother. If you know who was here, tell me, Ballard."

  There was a long pause before Ballard responded. "I don't know. And it doesn't matter. The woman was a target anyway."

  "But not the girl. We're not child killers."

  "Keep telling yourself that."

  "Dammit. Tell me what you know."

  Ballard cleared his throat. "Here's what we know. We know where Noble is going to be tomorrow morning. Now it is up to you to finish him before someone else does if you want your paycheck." Ballard paused to clear his throat again. "And to live."

  "You threatening me now?"

  "I'm just telling you the situation. You knew going into this that the job was unlike any other. If you fail, you're done. Plain and simple. So, I'd recommend you get to the airport, get on that plane, and handle Noble the moment you spot him."

  45

  New York.

  CHARLES LINGERED NEAR the railing, looking over Niagara Falls. The place had always had an effect on him. He'd learned it was something to do with positive or negative ions. Couldn't recall which. Same thing they said about those Himalayan salt lamps, though he'd never tried one. A couple days near the falls, though, left him feeling pretty good. Damn near invincible. More so than usual.

  But the Paolo situation weighed down on him. He'd held up his end of the bargain by delivering Noble to Merrick. And what had he heard since then? Not a damn thing. Complete silence. His calls wouldn't even go through to the guy. Son of a bitch, he thought. But, the upside was that right about now, Noble was being fitted for a toe tag. Somewhat of a consolation, he figured.

  Returning his thoughts to Paolo, Charles decided that he'd take care of the guy himself. He had the kind of contacts that could tell him the moment the man surfaced. And then Charles would be there, ready to pounce.

  After a few more minutes of gazing at the rushing water, Charles found a quiet area inside a touristy spot loaded with t-shirts and hats, a coffee shop, a diner, and tables spread throughout. He waited while a young family finished their meal. Then, when the general area surrounding him was empty, he called in a favor.

  PAOLO KEPT THE speedometer pegged at fifty-five. No point in drawing attention to his catatonic sister and himself. His hopes that she'd break free from the condition hadn't materialized. If anything, she was worse. A few hours earlier, she had responded to his questions. Vocally, at first. Then with gestures. Now she stared blankly. Through him. Past him.

  "Just hang tight, Essie," he said. "A glass of wine and a good night's sleep will make it better."

  She said nothing. He hadn't expected her to.

  Essie's condition left him in a predicament. He obviously couldn't cross the border with her. Taking out the danger factor of border patrol being on alert, her presence would be an issue. They'd want to ask her questions, and she wouldn't be able to respond. Leaving her with an associate was out of the question. Anyone he trusted was within reach of Charles. The right threat - or offer - would seal Essie's fate. The people he knew in western Pennsylvania and New York weren't the kind of men he'd leave a semi-conscious woman with.

  So the new plan called for Paolo to drive. Past New York, into Ohio. Perhaps travel along the edge of the lake, looking for the right kind of place to stop for the night. A place with cabins in the woods. Hidden from view. If he didn't find it, then they'd continue on into Indiana or Michigan. Hell, he'd go as far west as necessary. Traveling fifty-five miles per hour. Staying under the radar.

  A while later, on I-86, they skirted the city limits of Jamestown, the last city he recalled on the map before they reached the northwestern tip of Pennsylvania, then passed into Ohio. Maybe twenty more miles to go. The border symbolized a barrier between Paolo and Charles. He had to reach it. Drive past it. Then, he'd be one step further from his boss's reach.

  TROOPER BARRET JOHANSON seldom paid attention to the scanner on his day off. It had irked him when they required him to install it in his Tundra. His personal vehicle, for Pete's sake. Always the good trooper, in more ways than one, Johanson relented. Didn't mean he had to keep it on. Only when on-call. Which was today. It was a pain in the ass, but a necessary one. With over twenty thousand square miles to cover, and only a handful of troopers on duty at any given time, someone had to be ready to pick up a call.

  And so it happened that he had the scanner on instead of his CD player blaring through the speakers. And it happened that he heard the call to be on the lookout for a car suspected in a homicide. And it happened that he approached a matching car about five miles east of Jamestown. Johanson lowered his speed, made a slow approach. The plate matched. He eased off the gas until he matched the vehicle's pace, a tranquil fifty-five miles per hour.

  The instructions had been specific. Stay with them. Don't make any attempt to pull them over. The man is believed to be armed and dangerous. The woman his captive.

  Johanson called it in. Dispatch rerouted him to his boss, a grizzly old bastard by the name of McGillicuddy. The man's words were clear: Stick with them, even past the border, don't bother to attempt to detain, and let me know when and where they stop.

  Trooper Johanson agreed, partly because he was a good cop, but mostly because he had no choice.

  46

  Washington, D.C.

  BECK ARRIVED ON time. Early, in fact. Clarissa expected no less of the man. He knocked on her door at two minutes to seven. She had a hunch he had been in the hall longer than that.

  "You see anyone unusual out there?" she said after opening the door.

  "This suit? Had it for years. You look great by the way."

  She rolled her eyes. "I'm serious. I tried calling you earlier. Someone was tailing me. Don't know where they picked me up, but I first spotted him at the Lincoln Memorial, then as I exited the store after buying my dress. He made no bones about me seeing him as the cab drove off. His face was hidden though. Only knew it was him by his hat."

  "What was on the hat?"

  She pictured the man in her head. "It was a Mets ball cap."

  "Could you give enough of a description to a sketch artist?"

  She led him to the kitchen, opened a beer for each of them. "The first time I saw him, he had a camera to his face. When I looked back, he was blocked from view. Next time was outside the store. But he turned away immediately. And a few minutes later, on the sidewalk, he had his hands over his mouth and nose, and sunglasses on."

  "So a guy in a Met's hat with no discernible facial features?"

  Frustration passed and Clarissa smiled. "Guess we'll have to see if he shows up tonight, huh?"

  FOR THE FIRST time in months, Clarissa had a conversation about something other than work. Beck had been charming and funny. And normal. Took her a bit by surprise.

  The topic of Charles, or the FBI agents, or the guy they were going to see tomorrow never came up.

  She started to feel normal.

  How long had it been since she'd had that sensation?

  After dinner, she declined Beck's offer to go out for a few drinks with some guys from the office. Knowing he'd use the drive to her apartment as an opportunity to convince her to go out, she preempted the pitch by stating she'd grab a cab home. Otherwise, the temptation to extend the evening would be too great.

  She had the cabbie drop her off two blocks from her apartment building. The streets were dimly lit. Lingering heat left behind a veil of haze. Couples strolled past on either side. After a casual glance, she ignored them.

  There was one person she was looking out for, and she had no idea what he looked like.

  By now, the guy with the camera will have changed his clothes, and in effect, his appearance.

  The lights wrapping the awning that stretched out from the front door lit the sidewalk. From where she stood, the entrance looked deserted. Another hundred feet, and she'd be inside.

  She approached the alley before her building. Her pace slowed. Her hand slipped into her purse and wrapped around her pistol's grip. She rested her index finger on the trigger guard. The muzzle pointed toward the brick wall to her right. Soon, it would aim directly in the alley.

  She turned her head toward the opening as she passed, careful to take in all of her surroundings prior to doing so. She knew the location of every visible person on the street.

  She narrowed her eyes in an effort to allow her vision to cut through the dark. The immediate area proved to be barren. She stepped back onto the sidewalk with fifty feet left to go to the door.

  Clarissa's sweeping glance showed that the few people on the street had moved the same distance as her, in their respective directions. She cast a glance back at the alley. No lingering shadows advanced from within the corridor.

  And then the car door opened.

  Whipping her head around, she regretted the decision to release her pistol.

  The guy rushed toward her, his ball cap pulled down, the shadows hiding his face. He held something in his hand. A weapon, perhaps, Clarissa couldn't make it out.

  She turned quickly in a tight semi-circle. Her purse responded by continuing around her back.

  The man lifted his arm. From a black handle emerged a telescoping black pole about three feet long. He lifted it up and back over his shoulder.

  Clarissa tried to pull her pistol, but the purse was in an awkward position. She had to decide, compromise her position in an all-out effort for the gun, or stand her ground and attempt to dodge the blow.

  She stood her ground.

  The guy swung the nightstick as he continued forward. Its trajectory put the weapon on a crash course with her skull.

  Big mistake.

  Dodging the blow was easy. She rolled away, managing to deliver an elbow strike to the side of the guy's head.

  He halted his momentum and spun back toward her. He swung the nightstick blindly.

  Clarissa stepped forward, using one arm to stop his swing, and the other to strike him in the throat.

  It only half-worked.

  The guy coughed and gagged after her fist connected with his windpipe. But at the same time, the nightstick slammed into the back of her head.

  Pain radiated out from the spot of impact. She dropped to a knee.

  He dropped to two, releasing the nightstick and wrapping his hands around his throat.

  Clarissa's vision darkened. As the pain localized, she felt the slow warm trickle of blood crawling down her neck. She fell forward. Her left arm stopped her progression. She spotted the nightstick off to the side and dove for it.

  Rolling, she secured the weapon and then rose up to her knees.

  The guy had also managed to get himself under control and was scrambling toward the car. The vehicle roared to life before the man reached it. Headlights cut on. The glare blinded Clarissa.

  Her attacker dove into the passenger side of the car, then the vehicle peeled away.

  Clarissa hopped to her feet, took a second to regain her balance, then hurled the nightstick through the air. It hit the back of the car, shattering the rear window.

  A couple ran across the street toward her.

  "Are you OK?" the guy asked.

  Clarissa reached behind her head, felt the cut. A surface wound. No underlying damage. Lots of blood, though the pain had faded a great deal already.

  "Did either of you get the license plate?" she said.

  They both shook their heads. The woman said, "Too dark."

  "Can we call the cops or ambulance for you?" the guy said.

  Clarissa shook her head. "It's OK. I live right here. Cops won't do anything but waste my time."

  The couple continued to ask her if she needed help even as she slung her purse over her shoulder and walked away.

  Once inside the building, she headed to the stairwell and called Beck. His voicemail picked up.

  "Beck, call me when you get this. The guy from earlier showed up outside my building. He tried to attack me, but I managed to send him scrambling. He was with someone, too. Don't like this. At all."

  By the time he called back, she was in bed and nearly asleep.

  He can wait until morning.

  47

  Eastern France.

  BEAR HADN'T REALIZED the road they'd been on for five minutes was in fact a driveway. He hadn't seen a streetlight in over an hour. Everything was black: the sky, the horizon, the earth. All except for the orange glow of a porch light at the end of the lane. Who or what was inside the house? His heart skipped a beat. Several, actually. He gritted his teeth against the sharp pain on the side of his head. Since leaving Nice, it hadn't dissipated. Seemed to occur more frequently lately. The duration longer. The pain more intense.