Zoë watched with growing frustration as the silver Lexus once more pulled through the security gates with Susan Granger behind the wheel. A week now she’d been trying to find a way through this woman’s defenses so she could get answers to her questions; and for the entire time, Ms. Granger had managed to remain beyond contact. The only available appointment she’d been able to make was Monday afternoon – three days away – and even then, she hadn’t been able to speak with Ms. Granger directly, but only with a secretary. Staking out the woman and following her hadn’t yielded any opportunities for contact outside the office environment either. The Granger woman only rarely drove anywhere other than from home to work and back, and she both lived and worked behind security barriers that would make normal people think twice about attempting to overcome.

Why would a woman feel she needed THAT much security, she wondered for the hundredth time as she put her car into gear and pulled away from the curb to follow the luxury town-car at a discrete distance. What had made Susan Granger SO paranoid that she hardly ever left the security of her home, car or workplace? Zoë sniffed in derision. She herself had been kidnapped and held in an obviously dangerous situation as a trap for Jarod by the Centre – and if SHE could continue to live her life without looking over her shoulder constantly, then why couldn’t this Granger woman?

Even the building in which Ms. Granger had her office was secure – something that Jarod hadn’t mentioned at all. It might have been a reconditioned warehouse, but the developers had taken into account the kinds of businesses they hoped to attract and had provided the kind of security normally found only in the modern, upscale office towers in the middle of the business district.

Find Jarod! the voice in her mind pressed in on her mercilessly, just as it had for the past seven long days. “I’m trying, damn it!” she replied aloud sharply and pounded one hand against her steering wheel in frustration.

Then, just when it looked as if Ms. Granger was just going to spend yet another long day in her office, the luxury sedan failed to make the turn toward the gentrified warehouse district. Zoë straightened and eased her car just that much closer to the vehicle ahead of her so as not to lose them in the morning rush hour – and then began grinning when the sedan she was following turned into the parking lot of a fashionable waterfront restaurant.

At last Susan Granger was going to be in a less secure environment, Zoë thought as she parked her car on the far end of the parking lot even as Ms. Granger climbed from the back seat of her sedan and headed for the front door of the restaurant. There were enough cars in the parking lot to indicate that the place was genuinely open for business, so Zoë quickly checked her reflection in the rear view mirror, fluffed her curls and reached for her purse – the purse with the gun in it.

The time of waiting was finished – and she was about to get her answers.

~~~~~~~~*

Stu Markham waited until both back doors of his Jeep had closed securely and both boys were sitting and waiting with wide eyes. He gave them a wide smile and then pointed at the seatbelts. “Buckle up, boys.”

Two dark heads immediately bent to the task without a single comment, and Markham was struck once more at the compliance that these two young men had demonstrated time and time again since he had become aware of them. The second metallic snap told him that the seatbelts were now in place – as did the fact that two sets of dark brown eyes, so much like the other, were now looking at him again. “Ready?” he asked them. “Off to Albany!”

“Is it far?” Leo asked timidly. He was only now starting to get used to the idea that he could both initiate conversation and ask questions of apparent authority figures with any chance of getting an answer in return, and he still found himself expecting chastisement.

“Albany?” Markham nodded. “It’s a few hours from here to there – but the trip is a pretty one at this time of year. All the autumn colors, you know…”

“Mrs. Goldstein didn’t say much about where we were going or why,” Virgil found himself explaining for the younger boy that everyone assumed was his brother. “So we’re going to Albany?”

“Yes, to visit with a friend of mine who has an interest in human intelligence,” Markham explained patiently, carefully nosing his grey Jeep Cherokee onto the turnpike entrance. “I told him I’d found two very extraordinary young men – and he wanted me to bring you both up to meet him.”

“Will he want us to do a SIM for him while we’re there?” Leo looked over at Virgil with some alarm. “We haven’t had any materials…”

Markham frowned. “SIM? What in the world is that?”

Leo and Virgil exchanged pointed glances. “What he means to ask,” Virgil picked up quickly, “is what will your friend want us to do?”

Markham glanced up into the rear view mirror to get a look at his young passengers. That couldn’t be what the younger boy was asking about. “What is a SIM, Leo?” Both faces in the back seat took on expressions of distress and alarm. “Is it something the people you were with before used to do to you? Something bad?”

“A simulation involves giving us certain materials and information about a specific event, problem or scenario, sometimes creating a distinct ambient environment, and from that we can extrapolate possible future scenarios, results or consequences – or else we can then extrapolate past intentions and unknown actions that led to a specific event…” Virgil had heard the clinical definition of what he’d been trained to do all too many times in his life – it was one other thing he’d had to memorize on top of all the language studies he’d been given in order to be able to work in almost any language environment.

“…so that guilty parties can be brought to justice or the human responses of witnesses can be understood in context,” Leo recited in tandem as the old boy took a breath.

Markham’s blood ran cold – just what had these two been involved in anyway? “And you both used to do these… these SIMs?” He watched in the rear view mirror again as the boys glanced at each other briefly and then nodded.

“Yes, sir,” Virgil answered verbally.

“So you remember where you were before you were found on the streets by that cop?” Markham wanted to know.

“Yes, sir.” This time Leo replied.

“What can you tell me about it?”

Again the two boys exchanged wary glances. “Not much,” Virgil offered finally. “I only saw rooms and hallways between.”

“Me too,” Leo chirped with hesitant bravery. “I had my space, the SIM Lab, and my study space.”

“For how long were you kept like this?” Markham’s mind was spinning. From the sound of it, these boys had been held in a virtual prison doing the strangest kind of work for people so young. He couldn’t imagine giving crime scene photos or information to non-police, much less to under-age civilians for analysis. Again his eyes rose from watching the road ahead of him to watching the reaction of the boys to his question in the mirror – and once more he saw them exchange a glance.

“We were always there,” Leo replied, ignoring Virgil’s subtle shake of the head.

Markham frowned, and then returned his eye to the road to ease the Cherokee out into the passing lane to go around a slower car and a semi, missing entirely the cringe of both boys at the growl of the huge engine as it moved alongside and then behind them. “That doesn’t make any sense,” he complained.

“It’s the truth,” Virgil countered immediately, not used to having his word – or that of another just like him – questioned. “We don’t lie.”

Somehow, that didn’t seem like a normal child’s protestation of truth, but even that wasn’t all that surprising. Markham had seen these boys answer every question put too them – even those that obviously bothered them greatly – in ways that he knew wouldn’t be present in those attempting to deceive. “I know you’re not lying,” he soothed quickly. “It’s just that your story – you have to admit it’s a little fantastic.”

Virgil seemed to calm at that – even though most people would have continued in their protestations – and Markham mentally noted that response as well. “What do you remember about the people who were with you?” he asked then. “Did you two spend a lot of time together?”

“I only saw Harold – my mentor and trainer – and of course the sweepers who would take me back and forth to my space,” Leo offered, then shrank back into the seat cushions, “and the tutors for when the math got past what Harold could handle on his own…”

“And I only saw Kurt, my language tutors and the sweepers,” Virgil finished.

“I never saw Virgo – I mean Virgil – before…”

“…before we woke up under the tree.” Virgil finished again. “And I never saw Leo either.”

Markham sat up straighter. “Wait a minute! You just called your brother Virgo…”

“It was my designation,” Virgil answered honestly.

Markham shook his head. Designations, SIMs, mentors - the more these boys opened to him, the more fantastic their story became; and yet there was no sign that either was deliberately trying to deceive. “I’ll be glad when we get to Albany,” he commented as much to himself as to his passengers in the back seat. “Abner will be able to help me make sense of what you’re telling me.”

“Is he a psychiatrist too?” Virgil asked softly.

“Too?” Markham stared. “No, he’s a psychologist and researcher into human intelligence.” He shook his head and decided that he’d continue this discussion when he didn’t have to keep his mind as much on his driving as on the rather far-fetched story he’d been given.

But his mind refused to leave the disturbing questions that the part of the story he’d already heard had set off inside. Why would the boy assume that his friend was a psychiatrist – and why would he assume that the only person to have any interest in him would BE a psychiatrist? What did Virgil – or Leo, for that matter – know about psychiatrists and their interests anyway? Just where had these two remarkable individuals come from – and just what had they gone through in their short lives? Something told him that he was standing on the brink of learning things that might never have been intended for outsiders to know.

But outsiders to WHAT?

Markham wasn’t exactly certain he wanted to know the answer to that one…

~~~~~~~~*

“You want coffee?” Miss Parker asked Sam as he slid himself into a chair at the kitchen table. Their gazes met – and then quickly steered clear of the other.

“Yes, please.” Sam’s voice told her that he was still no more comfortable with the idea of waking up with her huddling against his back in the chilled morning than she had been to awaken to what she’d been doing. His stirring to make his early morning bathroom run had awakened her almost immediately – and made her roll completely to the other side of the bed again in complete embarrassment. He’d quickly grabbed another pair of jeans and polo shirt out of a drawer and disappeared into the bathroom, while she had waited until he was gone to rise quickly and throw on her robe and head for the kitchen. She needed coffee in the worst way before she’d be able to face him again!

She set a steaming mug in front of him even as she sipped at her own and then slipped into a chair across the table from him. Finally she dared look back up and found his eyes on her face. She frowned. “What?”

His eyes widened for a moment – but then he shrugged. “Nothing.” He took in and then let out a deep breath. “We’ll get used to this – eventually – I suppose…”

“Not TOO used to it, I hope,” she growled softly. “And I hope you aren’t entertaining any delusions about my cooking your breakfast after that crack yesterday…”

Sam chuckled, finding himself far more at ease with this edgy, sharp-tongued woman than the memory of the soft body pressed up against his back for warmth less than an hour earlier, and shook his head. “No, even I know that would be taking things a step too far on the first day.” He smiled at her – a genuine, friendly smile. “Come on, Cat. We have today and tomorrow to settle into our roles before I’m going to have to sweep the apartment daily for bugs – at least try a little to get into character.”

Miss Parker didn’t quite bristle at the sound of the nickname even she’d agreed would be permissible. “I will,” she told him with a touch less animosity, “but probably not until AFTER my first cup of coffee. I’m only barely human at this hour of the morning on a good day – you know that…”

“Hi,” Evan mumbled as he came through the kitchen door rubbing at his eyes, still in his rumpled pajamas. “What’s for breakfast?”

“Cereal, probably,” Miss Parker replied and waved her hand half-heartedly at the cupboards. “I think I saw some somewhere…”

“I know where it is,” Sam interrupted and rose. “You get bowls and spoons, Buddy, and I’ll get the box and some milk.” He stretched out a hand and opened the cupboard over the fridge and pulled down a box of Raisin Bran. “This is it – I hope you like it…”

“It’s OK,” Evan mumbled again, taking down a bowl from another cupboard and then looking through three drawers to find the silverware.

“Get three bowls and spoons,” Sam directed as he moved to the fridge for the milk.

“Four,” Sydney corrected as he followed his nose toward the coffee maker and the third mug that sat next to it. Like Sam, he was dressed and freshly shaven – but his eyes reflected the fact that he hadn’t been awake that long yet. “I don’t know about anybody else, but I’m hungry!”

Evan sniffed but did as he was asked – going back to the cupboard for the rest of the bowls after removing four spoons from the drawer. He carried his booty over to the table and slipped into a chair next to his sister.

“Thank you, Evan,” Miss Parker said with a calm and gentle tone that had Sam wondering that she could snap at him one minute and yet treat her little brother with kid gloves in the next. Of course, it was with HER that Evan was the most angry…

“So what are we going to do today, anyway?” Evan wanted to know as he watched Sam take one of the bowls, fill it, pour some milk over it and then hand it over to him.

“I’m going to need more clothes than those Jarod pulled out of my closet,” Miss Parker sighed and waited for Sam to pour his own allotment of cereal before reaching for the box. “Otherwise our closet space is going to look decidedly thin…”

“I could probably get a few more things,” Sam agreed, “although it would be reasonable for people who had just moved in to not have a whole lot…” He twitched his head at Evan. “He could probably use a little more than what your father had him pack too…”

Miss Parker started and shot a quick glance at Sydney – only to find him no less startled to have THEIR new relationship brought back into focus so early in the morning as well.

“But I want to stay home and play with the Xbox games, Sissy…” Evan began, his mouth full of cereal.

“That’s not your Sissy anymore, Evan,” Sam corrected the boy quickly. “Today and tomorrow will be just enough time for you to get used to calling her “Mom” – and…”

“Calling you “Dad” and Sydney “Grandpa”, I know…” Evan gave a reasonable facsimile of Miss Parker’s morning growl. “I remember what we talked about last night. But I don’t have to go shopping too, do I?” he asked, turning impatient eyes on his sister.

“I don’t know, Evan,” Miss Parker tried to smile. “We could pad out your wardrobe some too – and maybe we could do a little sight-seeing too, afterwards. After all, this is a famous city we’ve moved to…”

“I don’t want to just go around looking at clothes and junk…”

“Evan…” Sydney could see the incipient rebellion brewing and tried to nip it in the bud with a stern word, only to earn himself a youthful glower that looked so much like the ones his sister had turned on him over the years that it was hard to keep from smiling.

“Sydney, I suppose we could hold off on the sight-seeing until after we’re more settled…” Miss Parker mistook the exchange and tried to mediate between her little brother and the old psychiatrist.

“Wait a minute!” Evan demanded. “If I have to call you “Mom” and Sam “Dad” and Sydney “Grandpa”, don’t YOU have to call Sydney “Dad” too since he’s supposed to be YOUR father?”

Miss Parker did bristle at that – and then glared at Sam when the sweeper nodded and remarked, “He’s got you there, you know…”

Sydney shook his head. “Evan, there are a lot of people who call their parents…”

“It’s OK, Papa,” Miss Parker sighed, drawing Sydney’s gaze and elevated eyebrows aimed in her direction. She looked at the boy and then understood entirely what he was doing. He was still very angry with her – she knew that better than most – and doing his level best to communicate that anger without getting himself thoroughly into trouble in the process. The best way to disarm that attitude was to not let him get to her – to admit, much to her chagrin, that he and Sam were right – to a certain extent. “You’re right, Evan – but I think that considering that Sydney is from Europe, I’d probably call him a more European version if he really were my daddy, don’t you?”

Evan’s face showed his frustration at not being able to quite get his sister’s goat yet, and he buried himself in shoveling the cereal in as fast as he could without answering. Miss Parker looked back up into Sydney’s face and saw immediately that he’d also been watching Evan and approved of her tactics. “I find “Papa” quite suitable – thank you,” he told her as he felt her gaze.

Sam gazed evenly at Miss Parker. “So – shopping and then sight-seeing today?”

Miss Parker nodded slowly and sipped at her coffee again. “And maybe get a few pictures taken. If we’re supposed to sell this, we should have at least a few family shots framed and on the walls.”

“Good thinking, Cat!”

That brought Evan’s gaze up again – this time in surprise. “Cat?”

“Sometimes married people have special names for each other,” Sam explained calmly. “Miss Pa… your mom and I discussed this last night and came up with that…”

“We’re never going to remember all this,” Evan grumbled in Sydney’s direction this time.

“We have two days to get you three used to it,” Sydney told the boy. “Give it a chance.” He then looked back over at the other adults at the table with sympathy. Sam and Miss Parker were going to have their hands full with Evan. “If this doesn’t work, I’ll take him back with me tomorrow.”

Miss Parker was looking at her little brother, and the intensity of her gaze was making him uncomfortable. “Evan, if you want to stay with me, you’re going to have to work with us – and you’re going to have to work to sell everyone on being who you say you are. What we’re going to be doing is a little dangerous – and if you can’t play along, you WOULD be better off going back to Blue Cove with Sydney.”

“I said I would go along,” Evan complained sharply. “I’m trying!”

“Getting angry and behaving like a spoiled brat is not playing along,” Sam told him sternly. “I’m not going to let you jeopardize everything just because you’re mad at your sister for not telling you…”

“And mad at you and Sydney for not telling me,” Evan defended himself. “It wasn’t fair.”

“Life isn’t fair, Evan,” Miss Parker declared finally. “And the situation we’re going into is one where we’re not going to be able to have arguments like this after today. The Foundation is a dangerous place that MAY decide to listen in on our conversations here in the apartment. Now, are you staying – and getting with the program – or going home with Sydney? Because if you want to stay with me, you’re going to have to get into the character of my son and STAY there – probably for quite a while. There won’t be any time off from this Pretend – not until its over.”

Evan was decidedly unhappy. “I want to stay.”

Sam looked over at Miss Parker & Sydney. “I say we give it until tonight – and we do our shopping and sight-seeing today. If everything settles down, and Evan can behave himself, he can stay. But any more trouble from you, young man – no arguments, fumbles with names, anything…”

Now even Sam’s expression was enough to let Evan know that he’d run out of ability NOT to get himself in trouble. He busied himself with finishing the milk at the bottom of his bowl. In a choice between staying with his sister or going back to Delaware with Sydney, his sister won hands-down.

He didn’t have to like it, but he’d play the game – better than any of them. They’d see…

~~~~~~~~~*

Jarod wasn’t happy with what Broots’ research had unearthed about the shadowy Stan Bateman – and he drank at the tepid coffee Em had left at his elbow several hours earlier without really tasting it while browsing the lengthy email and attached documents.

Stan Bateman certainly was the kind of man one would hire for an assassination. He’d spent twelve years in the military and won several awards during that time for his marksmanship and firearms mastery. He was a former Navy SEAL, with a number of successful black ops to his credit – but following an unsavory incident where an up and coming lieutenant had been injured during a weapons qualification exam, Bateman had transferred to a unit that dealt with explosives and larger ordinance. Five years there had seen him rise to a level of mastery at that as well. And then he’d been discharged – and the normal paper trail of a lifetime ended.

There really wasn’t a clear indication of exactly when he’d started to work for the McKenna’s or the Foundation itself – but a memo written to Jake McKenna by one of the Pentagon officials they’d been dealing with about eight years earlier had given the newly released civilian a top recommendation.

From all indications, Bateman maintained a residence in one of the more middle-classed suburbs of Philadelphia – and maintained a very low profile both within the Foundation organization as well as with law enforcement. His bank account, however, told a very interesting story of many large donations that – upon a little deeper research – had coincided almost uniformly a few weeks before a competitor or serious rival’s demise from one sort of accident or another. There were heart attacks, car accidents – one pharmaceutical representative had taken a header down the stairs to the New York subway system and broken his neck.

Jarod had checked – and found a large deposit to the savings account a few weeks prior to the strange accident that had almost been the end of Miss Parker – and traced the deposit’s point of origin to a branch office in Dover, Delaware.

“Bateman,” Em read over his shoulder.

Jarod jumped, sloshing his coffee, and then looked up into his sister’s face with a frown. “Geez, Em! Warn a guy next time…”

“So what did you find out?” Em asked, ignoring her brother’s histrionics and sitting down not far away. “Is he a “problem-solver”, like my source said?”

“Oh yeah,” Jarod answered with a sarcastic tone to his voice. “He’s a master marksman, trained in the use of explosives and demolition equipment, a black ops veteran – and conveniently nearby and having received healthy bank deposits just a few days or weeks before high profile personages had “accidents” that ended up benefiting the Foundation’s bottom line. The most recent deposit…” He paused as the screen refreshed itself – indicating a new deposit made to Bateman’s account that had been posted only just that morning.

“Yeah?”

“This morning.” Jarod turned to his sister in concern. “I wonder who McKenna has sicced Bateman on now…”

“Is there any way to find out?”

Jarod gazed at her for a second and then turned back to his laptop, typing furiously.

~~~~~~~~*

Zoë sidled closer to the door of the women’s restroom as Susan Granger rose from where she’d sat talking with a tall and distinguished-looking man and began making her way across the crowded restaurant toward her. Her heart was beating faster in anticipation of waylaying the woman and getting her out of the restaurant without calling too big an audience to her actions – something she’d started to wonder was going to be possible.

At last she could get a look at her latest prey – and rather pretty middle-aged woman with softly waving blonde hair and wary, intelligent blue eyes. Susan Granger was slightly built and expensively dressed – and her very demeanor as she walked spoke of gentility and fragility.

Susan moved past Zoë almost without even noticing her, as she would have anybody else in a public place – but Zoë was ready. The gun was pressed against the woman’s ribs before the restroom door was even partly ajar. “Come with me,” Zoë hissed into her ear, “and don’t make a fuss unless you want to get hurt!”

“What do you want with me?” Susan demanded softly, with a voice that held a note of almost panic. “You don’t look like you come from the Centre – I haven’t…”

“Shut up!” Zoë shoved the gun brutally against the woman, bringing forth a whimper. “Move! Right out that door there…”

“Where are you taking me?”

“Shut up, I said,” Zoë pushed Susan through the open door and virtually dragged her over to the convertible. “Get over there,” she ordered harshly, forcing Susan to sit down in the driver’s seat and then slide over into the passenger seat.

“I don’t know what you want with me,” Susan was begging now. “I don’t have any money with me – it’s all in my purse in the restaurant…”

“I don’t want your damned money!” Zoë hissed. “I want to know what you know.” She pressed the muzzle of the gun against the blonde hair next to Susan’s ear and backed the car out of the parking spot and took off at a fast speed toward the port district and its huge port.

“What do you want to know?” Susan asked again, obviously trying to force her voice to calm neutrality.

“Where is Jarod?”

“Jarod!” Susan Granger shook her head violently. “I don’t know who you’re talking ab…”

“You know EXACTLY who I’m talking about,” Zoë snarled. “Jarod told me all about you. So don’t bother denying it.”

Susan shuddered. “OK – OK. I know him. But I don’t know where he is – and I promised I’d not look into anything concerning him or his family…”

“Don’t give me that!” Zoë shouted, bringing the convertible to a halt at the curb in front of a fire hydrant. “You were able to find out all kinds of things about his family – he told me that!”

“Yes,” Susan agreed, shuddering as the gun was suddenly pressed against her temple, “but all that information was destroyed a long time ago – and I haven’t seen or heard from Ja…”

“That ISN’T true!” Zoë exploded and rammed the side of the gun against Susan’s head. “You can find out these things – and Jarod said that you could.”

“I could,” Susan nodded, blinking hard against the pain of the blow she’d received. “But I promised I wouldn’t…”

“YOU HAVE TO KNOW!” Zoë shouted at the top of her lungs. She pointed the gun directly at the back of Susan Granger’s head. “TELL ME WHAT I WANT TO KNOW!”

Tears rolled down Susan Granger’s face. “I can’t,” she sobbed desperately. “I don’t know – and I haven’t wanted to know for a long time!”

Zoë looked into the rear view mirror and swore silently to herself. Was she cursed? Why did that cop car have to turn down the street toward her NOW, of all times. She had a choice – she could push the Granger woman from her car and hopefully make a clean get-away and follow Jarod’s trail with someone else, or she could try to drive down the street and hope that her passenger didn’t manage to communicate that she was a prisoner. Neither option looked good – but Jarod had plenty of other friends to chase down, and she could always take another stab at this one if none of THEM knew anything.

She pointed the gun at Susan’s face. “Get out of the car!”

The blue eyes were wide and terrified, and yet Susan managed to fumble with the handle on the passenger door and finally open it. Barely had the Granger woman set foot on the pavement but Zoë gunned the engine and moved the car away from the curb. She turned the corner around a big warehouse just as she saw the Granger woman run toward the police car that had been approaching, arms waving madly.

Frustrated, she pounded on the steering wheel. There HAD to be someone who knew – someone Jarod had spoken of that had kept in contact with him!

In the distance, she heard a siren begin to wail – and she ducked the car into the first open warehouse doorway she could find and moved it out of sight from the street.

“What the hell…” a rough male voice sounded from next to her – and it startled her.

She rounded on the face that belonged to the voice without thinking – and the red dot that blossomed in the middle of the man’s forehead surprised her almost as much as it did him. Only now could she see that it was a security guard – and that there were other men in the distance of the warehouse now moving toward her. Outside, the siren yowled its way past the warehouse and continued on without slacking speed.

She turned the key in the ignition again and gunned the engine – and backed the car out of the deep shadow to aim it right at the middle of the knot of four men coming at her. She scattered them, only narrowly missing one man’s leg – and then aimed the nose of her convertible for the open doorway on the opposite side of the building from the one she had entered. Once back out in the morning sunshine, she turned a sharp left and sped down the narrow lane back toward the city. She could still hear the siren – but it was rapidly fading in the distance, as if the police car was speeding away from her.

She’d hole up at the motel and study her notes – and try to figure out just exactly where she was going to go next. This was getting VERY old!

~~~~~~~~*

Imsi Londele had long since learned that when one had a hood over his head and his hands tied tightly behind him, it just wasn’t a good idea to struggle much. It had never been a good idea when he was the one putting the hood over another’s head – and he knew all too well the reasons why it would do him little good now. For one thing, the binding at his wrist was such that struggling very much would end up cutting into the flesh and cause serious harm. Secondly, there were two very strong and capable men – they had to be men, they were so large – who had taken control of his arms and were dragging him forward. He had to trust that these men wouldn’t make him fall and just keep his steps moving forward at the pace they wanted to set.

They had caught up to him as he’d reached his apartment door after a long day of waiting for information on Shinse Olabi’s social calendar for the next week – and background information on his favorite bulldog, Siskele Adin, as well as HIS social calendar. What was more, they had subdued him with the same easy and expertise his old military trainer had used on him when he was a rough and ignorant recruit. They hadn’t said a word since to give away their identities, but he knew instinctively that they were Triumvirate men. He’d almost been expecting this since he’d been staking out the Chairman of the Council but not taking any overt steps. But he’d done nothing wrong – at this point, at any rate – so he forced himself into a calmness that seemed out of place considering his situation. It wouldn’t do to lose his cool now, when the stakes had evidently taken a sharp turn higher.

Using his other senses, Londele knew he’d been first dragged into a car that had then sped off, making enough turns in a seemingly random succession that he had no way of knowing what part of the city he was in now. Then he’d been dragged from the car and taken inside – and inside a large structure, from the way the sounds around him seemed to echo. Then had come the familiar feeling of movement while standing still that could only have been a short ride in an elevator. Then he’d been walked down a seemingly long corridor, made to stand for a while, and then dragged forward again.

At last the hands at his arms pulled at him to cease moving, and the hood was suddenly jerked from his head. Londele blinked in the sudden invasion of light and then peered blearily at the man in front of him, seated at a large and rather intimidating desk. He blinked again – but not in surprise. He’d been more or less expecting this as well. “Mr. Olabi, I presume?” he asked in a courteous tone.

“Mr. Londele.” Olabi pushed some papers around on his desk. “You have a very interesting work history, I see.”

Londele smiled then, a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “It’s been a very long day, Mr. Olabi.” He glanced at the muscular guards that remained alert and attentive at his side. “Please ask your men to untie me and allow me to sit. I’m tired, and conversation would be much easier and congenial that way.”

Olabi’s eyes widened at the bravura and sheer moxie of his unwilling guest, but then flicked to the side meaningfully. Immediately, the man on Londele’s right whipped out a switchblade that made short work of the plastic strap that held his wrists together. The other guard dragged a chair forward so that when the first bodyguard gave a shove, Londele fell into a seating position. Londele merely inclined his head. “Thank you.”

“About your work history – I see that your reputation seems to have caught the attention of one of my colleagues lately,” Olabi continued in a calm and lethally casual tone.

“I’ve performed several tasks for your company over time,” Londele nodded slowly. “My name appears on several cancelled checks drawn on Triumvirate financial institutions.”

Olabi’s eyes narrowed. “I’m speaking specifically of my colleague Lula Mutumbo.”

“Yes,” Londele nodded again. “I figured that to be the person about whom you were speaking.”

“Do I really need to ask for clarification of what she was wanting you to do?”

Londele looked into the older man’s eyes and shivered. This was an old and wily lion who knew exactly to whom he was speaking and what had been intended. Lying to the man outright would be an unwise move at this point. “I imagine not,” he answered in a deceptively calm voice. “You don’t seem to be a man who’d want to waste time in idle or needless conversation.”

Olabi smiled suddenly – and his teeth stood out in almost glaring contrast against the darkness of his skin. “Oh, very good, Mr. Londele! You have bravery and no small amount of bravado – I have to give you that…” He shifted the papers in front of him again. “I am curious – just how much was she offering you?”

Londele shook a forefinger at him as well as his head. “I don’t discuss the terms of my contractual agreements with clients with anyone,” he refused, matching Olabi’s smile kilowatt for kilowatt. “Suffice it to say that my wellbeing would be assured for a good long time after final payment was made.”

The grey-haired Triumvirate executive nodded. “I imagined as much. My question, however, has greater meaning for YOU,” he pointed at Londele. “What if I were to offer you twice what Lula offered you…”

“My loyalty isn’t for sale, Mr. Olabi,” Londele replied stiffly. “If you’re familiar with my work record, as you claim, you’d know this. If you intend to kill me…”

Olabi put up a restraining hand. “Not so fast, Mr. Londele – let me finish.”

Londele subsided slightly, knowing that at that moment, he had absolutely nothing to lose by doing so. All it would take would be a single gesture from Olabi, and he was a dead man where he sat. “Very well,” he sighed. “Please continue.”

“A very wise move,” Olabi told him with a diminished grin on his face that was cold enough to make Londele shiver. “An employment opportunity that requires a man of your qualifications and reputation has arisen – and I would be willing to make it very much worth your while to… shall we say… postpone the contract you have with Lula for the time being. Are you interested?”

“Postpone?” Londele was finally surprised. “What do you mean?”

“It means that this job will pay you roughly three times what Lula offered you to relieve me of my life – and it will leave you alive afterwards. You would then have the opportunity to consider the wisdom of continuing that contract or simply returning the original amount to Lula and walking away still twice as rich as you would have been otherwise.”

“Once I accept a job, I don’t just walk away from it later when it suits me,” Londele complained, his mind spinning. Three TIMES what Lula offered? That wasn’t a job to be turned down lightly.

“Obviously, or you wouldn’t have the reputation for ruthlessness or success that you’ve managed to gain over the years,” Olabi offered in a congenial tone. “Nevertheless - are you interested?”

“It won’t do me any harm to hear some details,” Londele nodded shallowly. “Who do you need eliminated?”

“A man by the name of Jake McKenna,” Olabi replied, pushing a photograph across the desk surface, “in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania.”

Londele lifted the photo and studied it. The man who was obviously the photographer’s target was standing in the middle of a small group of men, and yet he looked out of place with them. “Who IS he, Mr. Olabi?”

“There is a research and development firm in the United States by the name of The Eire Foundation. He is the Chairman.”

Londele let the photo fall back on the desk and settled back into the chair. “Why?”

“Why do I want him dead?” Olabi looked askance. “Does it really matter to you, if the money is right?”

“You’re asking me to set aside one contract – temporarily,” Londele added quickly, “…to take up another. So answer the question: why do you want this man dead so badly that you’re willing to hire the person hired to assassinate YOU to do it?”

“He killed a colleague of mine,” Olabi answered, this time with a hint of the venom he obviously felt for the American very evident. “Nobody kills a member of the Council with impunity and without consequence! Nobody!” His eyes glittered. “And I want the best in the business to deal with him… with finality.”

Londele folded his hands in his lap. “And what about after?”

Olabi blinked. “After?”

“If I were to take this job you’re offering, what will happen after it’s completed?”

Olabi smiled widely. “Maybe by that time, you’ll have no reason to carry out your previous contract.”

“I’m sure you would make sure that I’d be convinced of that one way or another,” Londele commented in a wry tone.

“That is a concern for another time,” Olabi gestured, waving aside the consideration as if unimportant. “So, tell me – are you interested in taking the job?”

“If I said no…”

Olabi’s mouth folded in a mimicry of disappointment. “Then I’d regret to inform you that your chances of surviving to tomorrow morning would have taken a serious down-turn.”

Londele nodded in an exaggerated gesture. “I thought as much.”

Olabi’s eyes twinkled. “Then I take it we have a contract?”

Londele rose – and then froze as the bodyguards to either side of him both reached for weapons they carried beneath their sports jackets. “I will draw up the contract that we both will sign,” he informed the Triumvirate Chairman. “I will need access to a computer with word processing software and a printer to do so, IF you would desire me to begin on this task immediately.”

Olabi’s gesture had the bodyguards relaxing their vigilance slightly. “Very well. Take Mr. Londele to the clerical pool and make a terminal and printer available to him. Bring him and his contract back to me when he’s finished.”

Londele found himself once more bracketed by the two muscular bodyguards at either arm – but this time he could see where he was going. His mind was spinning quickly – knowing that he had no choice but to accept this contract AND knowing that unless he was very careful, he’d be a dead man when it ended one way or the other.

He’d have to consider a way to protect himself from BOTH Mrs. Mutumbo and Mr. Olabi – and that would take some doing.

~~~~~~~~*

Broots drew to the side of the road and once more checked himself against the details of the directions Jarod had given him. This certainly looked like the right turnout, given the description of landmarks – Jarod’s gift had assured that the farmhouse in the distance looked very much like what had been described.

“Is that it?” Debbie asked with a look of pleased expectation on her face. The mere idea of staying – for however long or short a time – on a real, working farm had been intriguing to her.

“I think so, SweetPea,” Broots replied, easing the car away from the shoulder of the road and then down onto the gravelled drive. “We’ll find out in a moment, won’t we?”

Whoever lived there, Broots had to admit, had kept the place neat and well-maintained. The house looked as if it had received its coat of white paint not all that long ago – and the black shutters and shingles looked just as new. The barn was also white, and the tractor that was parked alongside the huge sliding barn door looked fully operational.

Still, Broots felt a bit ill at ease at just driving up into the barnyard of folks he hoped would be Jarod’s family. After all, he didn’t know these people at all – and even the knowledge that Jarod would have called and warned them of their pending arrival couldn’t dispel the nervousness of just dropping in on people he’d never met before.

A tall young man stepped from the darkness of the barn just as the little station wagon purred its way to a halt in front of the white house and then began walking toward the car. “Can I help you?” he asked, his face an open study of curiosity and concern as Broots began rolling down the window on the passenger side.

“I’m hoping I’m in the right spot,” Broots replied cautiously and gazed at the young man’s face. It wasn’t hard to see the resemblance to Miss Parker – and suddenly Broots knew who this young man was. “You’re Ethan, aren’t you?”

Ethan’s face broke into a smile. “You must be the one Jarod told us would be coming our way. Mr. Broots, isn’t it?”

Broots opened the car door and stepped out, then extended his hand. “Just plain Broots to my friends,” he corrected, finding Ethan’s grasp to be firm without being painful, and warm without being sweaty. “This is my daughter, Debbie.”

Ethan bent to peer at the teenager in the car’s passenger seat. “Jarod said you were a good-looking young lady,” he commented with a jerk of his head that invited Debbie to climb from the car too. “We weren’t sure if you were going to get here today or tomorrow…”

“Debbie didn’t want to spend anymore time in the car than we already had,” Broots told him with a smile of chagrin. “I hope we’re not putting you folks out…”

“Not at all! You missed Parker, though – she’s gone on the Phil…”

Debbie’s eyes bulged. “Miss Parker? She was here?”

“I told you,” Broots chided her gently, “that the death was a fake.”

Debbie’s disappointment at missing a chance to say hello to her friend and only real female role model was obvious. “I wish I could have seen her…”

“I’m sure you’ll see her when this is all over,” Ethan comforted the girl and then spread his arm wide toward the house. “Mom and Dad are inside – we were hoping that if you were going to arrive today, you’d get here before suppertime.” His eyes twinkled. “And I’m supposed to pass along a message to you, Mr. Broots, from Jarod – to call him after you’ve had a chance to settle down a bit.”

“Ethan? Who…” Major Charles poked his head out of the screened door and then stepped from the farmhouse. “Is this who I think it is?”

“Dad, these are the Broots – this is “just plain Broots to his friends”, and this is Debbie.” Ethan looked at Broots. “And this is my father, Charles Russell.”

“Major Charles,” Broots breathed, hardly believing his eyes. Here was one of the most sought-after prizes of the now-defunct Centre, walking toward him in an easy loping gait.

“Mr. Broots.” Again a warm, firm handshake was forthcoming, and Broots couldn’t help but notice that Major Charles was only an inch or so taller than he was. Where did Jarod get his height, he wondered suddenly – and then left the thought to introduce Debbie to the Major.

“I got a call from JD,” Major Charles told his son with warm eyes. “He should be arriving home late tomorrow evening. It sounds like he’s borrowing a page from Jarod’s book of roadtrips – stopping only when he feels like it and only for as long as he wants. Right now, it sounds like he just wants to get back.”

“Good. The sooner he’s back, the sooner we can have four sharp minds on the situation,” Ethan agreed almost fiercely. “And maybe he’ll have news for us too.”

The Major shook his head. “He said that the news was right – that there were no survivors found. But…”

“But…” Broots looked from one face to the other expectantly. “Is this about Duplicity?”

“You know about that,” Major Charles stated softly – and not as a question.

“I was the one who gave Jarod as much information as I could find about it in the Centre mainframe,” Broots told him proudly. “I know there were eleven…”

“Of which four are unaccounted for,” the Major told him quickly, “with no indications as to where these four might have gone or with whom.”

“When I talked to Jarod last night…”

“Daddy, can I go into the house?” Debbie interrupted. It sounded as if these people would be much like Sydney – talking Centre business to almost the exclusion of everything else. She didn’t really want to stand out in the late afternoon chill waiting while her father talked shop.

“Go right on in, honey,” Major Charles blinked suddenly at the reminder that there was now a relative innocent in their midst. “You’ll find my wife in the kitchen, putting the last touches on supper. Just introduce yourself - she'll be glad to have another female in the house again so soon.”

The three men watched Debbie disappear up the steps and through the screen door. “How much does she know?” Ethan asked Broots finally.

“Only some of it,” Broots answered slowly, “the fact that Miss Parker didn’t really die being the most of it. I’ve tried to keep her… keep her away from all that…”

“We’ll have to remember to continue that trend,” Major Charles announced quietly. He then turned to Broots. “Now, however, since she’s gone inside, what did Jarod have to say?”

“That he saw at least one of the Duplicity subjects at the Foundation the other day,” Broots told them bluntly.

“JD will want to go charging off…” Ethan warned his father.

“We’ll just make sure he talks to Jarod before going off half-cocked again,” Major Charles nodded. “Jarod’s got this thing planned down to the inch – he isn’t going to need a loose cannon making his life miserable right now.”

~~~~~~~~*

Cancer could tell that he was testing the patience of the men in charge of directing his work – and the fact of his continued silence despite the harsh treatment the night before was galling them all the more. The short little man with the clipboard and all the questions had long since retreated to a table at the far end of the Sim Lab from whence he continually glowered angrily. Serves him right, Cancer thought rebelliously.

His shirt – despite it being of a much finer fabric than the dull garments he’d worn in his first and only home – had irritated his back where he’d been struck. Sometimes it stuck to a particularly painful spot and then pulled free in a quick stab of agony, and sometimes it just hung there pulling at already tender skin. Cancer had no idea if he’d bled from the beating he’d received – but his common sense told him not only that he most likely had but that the shirt probably kept catching on scabs only barely forming over broken skin.

They’d not fed him that day at all, and the lack of nourishment was beginning to tell. He’d been standing in this one place for the better part of several hours, and his head was beginning to get light and his mind too clouded to function properly. Cancer swayed on his feet but righted himself out of sheer will before any of the others had a chance to even react.

“Damn it!” The short little man erupted from his chair and stomped over to Cancer, waving a forefinger in the air threateningly. “Why are you being so uncooperative? Can’t you see that all you have to do is just tell us what we want to know, and you’ll be fed and we’ll see to your back…”

Cancer allowed his gaze to land on the face of his tormenter filled with resentment and determination. He had nothing to say to this little man – and he knew that his continued refusal to cooperate would most likely earn him another beating like the one he’d received already.

He didn’t care.

Perhaps he wasn’t as important as he wanted to think – but either way, he wasn’t going to give them the satisfaction of seeing him give in. He could pass out from hunger, if that was what was needed to get his message across. His brothers were safe from this…

Unless…

Cancer swayed again. What if these men were given a reason to go looking for his brothers – and that reason was that HE wouldn’t do as they asked? What if his brothers weren’t quite as safe as he thought? How could he KNOW they were safe?

Why had he never considered THAT? He was a Pretender – he was SUPPOSED to be able to think these things through… But he was working from incomplete information – mostly information that he’d accumulated completely on his own – and he knew all too well from past experience that attempting a SIM without all the information available and considered could result in disaster.

NO!

He HAD to believe that his brothers were safe – and he’d not seen any signs from the men around him to indicate that they had any others capable of doing his job and thus making him disposable. They might be struggling to come up with a way to make him cooperate, but they wouldn’t kill him outright. He had to believe this – he just HAD to…

And with that, the last of his energy was spent. His mind closed in, darkening his thoughts into nonexistence – and Cancer crumpled to the floor, unconscious.

Chapter Index: 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20 | 21 | 22 | 23 | 24 | 25 | 26 | 27 | 28 | 29 | 30 | 31 | 32 | 33

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