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“You have no choice but to let it go,” Riley said.

Master laughed, and the sound had a manic edge that caused Riley to turn back. “Now who’s the one who isn’t in reality?” Another odd laugh. “I know you exist and you know I exist. Sooner or later that’s going to cause one of us trouble. I don’t feel like waiting for that time.”

Master didn’t wait. He stepped forward with his left foot, then across with his right behind, and snapped a side kick with his left foot, aimed for Riley’s midsection, except Riley wasn’t there. He was moving back with the attack. Master expected that and continued with the forward flow by planting his left foot down and spinning, striking out with a back kick with his right foot.

Riley hopped to his left, let the kick fly by, then snapped his own turn kick directly into the left center of Master’s exposed chest. Master’s breath exploded out of his lungs and his ribs splintered under the impact of the toe of Riley’s left boot.

Riley lightly moved away on the balls of his feet as Master labored to regain his breath and overcome the blinding pain. Squinting in the dim light, he could see the dull gleam of the metal tips on Riley’s boots. “Not fucking fair,” he gasped.

“To quote someone,” Riley said, “ain’t it a bitch.”

Master bent down, hand snaking for his ankle, and Riley burst forward. As Master’s hand reached the ankle holster, Riley’s front kick caught him square in the jaw, breaking the bone and lifting the larger man off his feet, throwing him back onto the ground. Riley kicked down on the right hand, cracking the bone, and the small 22-caliber gun fell to the ground.

Riley instinctively stomped down on Master’s already wounded chest. He twitched, then died.

Riley took Master’s small pistol and his watch and wallet, then turned and swiftly walked away, linking up with Giannini as she came down the fire escape from the building where she’d provided cover. The telescoping stock on the long-barreled MP-5 was collapsed, and she hung it on a Velcro hook on the inside of her coat.

“Why did he do that? He should have just walked.”

“He knew he fucked up. If we could find him others could. Besides, he didn’t trust us. He gave it his best shot.”

“Jesus,” Giannini said. “This is too damn crazy.”

Riley couldn’t have agreed more. That had been his reaction when Colonel Pike told him the rumors he’d uncovered, through some of his underworld contacts, about Getty and the Witness Protection Program people. “Let’s call the colonel and tell him his information is correct.”

Chapter Twenty-Four

MARIETTA

11 NOVEMBER, 9:00 p.m.

“It’s a mess, but a solvable one,” Pike said. He was standing at a large bay window, looking out at the looming bulk of Kennesaw Mountain. “Like I told you yesterday, the best information I could uncover is that Getty and his folks were working for the Torrentinos and whoever else could foot the bill to kill someone entering the Program. That’s besides pocketing the expense money for those witnesses they were supposed to be supporting.”

“What are we going to do about it?” Riley asked. Giannini was drinking a cup of coffee on the other side of the room, having listened as Riley filled in Pike on what Master had said and the fatal results of the meeting the previous evening. Pike had been at his office the entire day, contacting people all over the country.

“We’re not going to do anything about it,” Pike said. “At least not directly. Let me explain the big picture here. Master worked for Getty, thinking Getty was authorized to order these missions. But Getty was actually working for himself and—in the case of the Cobbs—the Torrentinos.

“Charlie D’Angelo—the man you,” he nodded at Giannini, “said was in charge of the Torrentino gang on the outside—was working for himself. That explains two different sets of people after you. D’Angelo’s people are the ones who killed Tom Volpe and attacked you in the alley in Chicago. They’re also the ones,” he turned to Riley, “who got killed by Master’s men outside your apartment in Fayetteville.”

“D’Angelo was after the two million and didn’t know about the Torrentinos’ contract with Getty.”

“My source in Chicago tells me that D’Angelo has disappeared, so that’s one loose end tied up. Although we didn’t plan it, Master took himself out of it last night. We still have the problem of Getty, who thinks you two are dead and would not be happy to see you surface. So here’s what I’m going to do: I’m going to whisper in somebody’s ear and see what happens.”

“Whose ear?” Giannini asked.

Pike turned, placing his back to the window. “There’s one other loose end—the two million that Philip Cobb stole. No one seems to know where that is, and as far as I can find out, the location died with Philip Cobb. However, we can use that information to our advantage. How do you think the Torrentinos would react if they found out that Getty double-crossed them for the two million and that Getty had Master kill Jill Fastone?”

Riley smiled for the first time in a while. “I think the Torrentinos wouldn’t like that very much at all.”

“I believe,” Pike continued, “that we should let the Torrentinos clean up the last loose ends.”

“What about us?” Giannini asked.

“Once this is closed out,” Pike said, “you both can go back to your old lives.”

“I left two bodies lying in an alley in Chicago,” Giannini noted. “I don’t think my former employer is going to be too thrilled about that.”

“They’re not thrilled,” Pike said, “but they are pragmatic. I talked to someone in the Chicago PD I trust—and who owes me a big favor—and laid out the situation. He said my information solves two homicides for them, which they always appreciate, and that no one is going to miss those two scumbags you killed anyway.”

“If I go along with that, it doesn’t make me much different from Master,” Giannini said.

“You didn’t kill those two men for money,” Riley said. “You did it to save your life, and you were involved in the whole thing in the first place because you were trying to help someone.”

“Correct,” Pike said. “And Dave, you’re on extended temporary duty until it’s safe for you to go back to Bragg. In the meantime, why don’t you two enjoy a little vacation here? I’ve got business to attend to.” Pike left the room.

Riley turned to Giannini and held out his hand. Giannini took it and joined him on the couch. He lay back, holding her in his arms.

“What do you think the people in D.C.—” she began.

“Hush,” Riley said, gently placing a finger over her lips. “It’s out of our hands now. The colonel has always given me very good advice and this time I’m going to follow it. So no more talk about what happened or what’s going to happen. I thought I lost you back in Chicago and it made me do some thinking. Now you’re here and that’s all I care about. Here and now.” He leaned forward, his lips meeting hers.

Epilogue

ALEXANDRIA, VIRGINIA

21 NOVEMBER, 5:30 a.m.

The man waited in the crawl space of the house with his eyes closed, his head leaned back against his small bag of tools. He had unscrewed the drainpipe two hours ago and made all the necessary connections. He cocked his head as he heard the dull echo of footsteps above. He checked the time on the slight fluorescent glow of his watch—just about right.

He heard the sound of the toilet flushing and then the rush of water to his immediate left through the PVC piping. With a slight screech, the shower was turned on, and water immediately began pouring out the open end of the pipe to his right, flowing onto the concrete. He moved quickly, taking a metal plumber’s snake and slipping the free end into the flow of water. He slid the snake up into the pipe, his fingers feeling the metal as it went. He’d left a piece of tape at the desired length; when he felt the tape, he stopped. The end of the snake was just below the metal drain cover of the tub above.

He grabbed a heavy rubber-coated wire that he had prepared earlier and connected the metal alligator teeth at the end onto the snake. Taking care to move away from both the water and the snake, he then picked up a small metal box that he had wired into the house circuit. He flipped a switch on the side of the box and began whistling.

Four feet over his head, Jamieson was frozen in the river of electricity that coursed through her body from the water below up to the showerhead. Her body shook in a spastic dance as synapses fired uncontrollably, her body’s normal neural functioning overwhelmed by the voltage.

The man had started counting slowly when he’d thrown the switch; when he reached thirty, he turned it off. He heard a deep thud as Jamieson’s body fell to the bottom of the porcelain tub. He withdrew the snake and coiled it; quickly reconnected the drainpipe; and disconnected his box from the house current, restoring the circuit breakers.

He exited from the crawl space into the backyard and picked the lock on the back door. Once inside, he made his way directly to the bathroom. He checked Jamieson to make sure she was dead, then took her hair dryer in gloved fingers and plugged it into the socket next to the sink. He turned it on and, holding it by the cord, dipped it into the toilet. A hiss told him that the water had completed the circuit and the plastic was melting. He kept the dryer there for five seconds, until the circuit breaker kicked in. He removed the dryer and placed the device into the tub with Jamieson. It looked like a stupid accident, but people died of stupidity every day. His job done, he left the way he had come in, making sure the door was secure behind him. He checked his watch as he strolled down the street.

6:15 a.m.

The heated water slid smoothly over Getty’s skin as he dove gracefully into the pool. The sky outside was still dark and the lights around the wall of the pool reflected off the surface. Getty swam one lap, flipped expertly, and turned and was heading back, his body slowly warming to the exercise. His wife was still asleep and would be for another two hours. This was his time to work out and relax before driving to work.

On his eighth lap he caught a glimpse of a dark shadow as he made the turn. Slowing, Getty raised his head out of the water and pulled up his swimming goggles. A man dressed in dark slacks and a sweater was standing at the near edge, whistling a tune Getty found vaguely familiar.

“Who the hell are you?” Getty growled, treading water.

The man lifted his right hand. Getty started, then relaxed, seeing that the man held only a small plastic spray bottle.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Getty demanded, slowly backing away.

With three smooth pulls on the plastic trigger, the man released a fine mist that drifted in the air over the pool. He turned and was gone out the back door, quietly closing and locking it behind him. Getty started to swim across the pool, going for the phone near the house door to call the police, when he felt a tingling sensation in his right arm. As he grabbed the edge of the pool, his left arm was affected and he lost his grip, splashing awkwardly back into the water. In ten seconds he could no longer kick and keep his head above water.

By the time his wife found the body two hours later and the police arrived, the muscle inhibitor had dissipated. Cause of death was listed officially as accidental drowning.

ANNANDALE, VIRGINIA

21 NOVEMBER, 6:45 a.m.

The traffic along Route 650, known locally as Gallows Road, was light this time of morning, and Tucker enjoyed gunning the engine on his Jaguar and weaving in and out of traffic, playing beat the light and beat your neighbors. He pressed down on the gas, gave the steering wheel a slight tug to the left, and ignored the bleat from a blue BMW as he cut in front and roared toward the next traffic light.

The light turned yellow, which he took as an indication to speed up. Too late, he saw the tow truck coming from the left, its driver not slowing one bit for the upcoming intersection. Tucker slammed on the brakes and threw the wheel to the right. The laws of physics overruled the quick prayer Tucker screamed out. The high steel bumper on the tow truck smashed into the left side of his car at twenty miles an hour.

Tucker ducked. That move saved his life as the left roof post was sheared off and glass exploded inward. He felt a searing pain as the left front wheel was punched back through the wheel well, compressing the entire control console against his legs, breaking both of them and pinning him in the seat. The steering wheel had also been knocked back and pressed against his chest, causing his breath to come in slow, labored gasps.

In the sudden silence after both vehicles came to rest, Tucker heard a door slam. A face peered around the edge of the bumper into the wreckage of his car. Tucker twisted his head, trying to ascertain how badly he was hurt.

“I can’t get out,” he gasped. “Help me.”

The tow truck driver leaned forward, having difficulty reaching through the torn metal. He awkwardly got one hand on Tucker’s neck.