Broots pulled his bathrobe tightly around him as he walked the short distance down his sidewalk to where the morning newspaper had been tossed. His stomach was still in an uproar after having spent the better part of the evening in the bathroom, losing his breakfast and lunch, and then spending the night trotting back and forth all over again to get rid of that which hadn’t been purged already. His joints ached and he was cold – and not just because the late November mornings had been feeling more and more like snow every day. All he wanted to do was to pick up the mint tea he’d made for himself in the kitchen and head back to bed.

Deb, he knew, wouldn’t be heading off to school that morning either. Her session with the bathroom had ended just in time for him to take up residence – and as far as he knew, she was still fast asleep in bed. Despite that, he’d made an entire pot of mint tea, knowing that when she finally did arise, she’d know enough to sip at that for a while before trying to keep down anything more substantial.

He waited until he’d retreated back inside the comfortable warmth of the house before dislodging the rubber band and removing the protective plastic bag from the folded newspaper and opening it up. He took two steps, intending to read only the headlines before taking up his mug of tea and heading back to the bedroom, but the top headline stopped him in his tracks:

United Crash in Utah – Wreckage Still Not Found

He read further, remembering the call from Miss Parker at Le Guardia, informing him of her flights and itinerary – she’d said that she and Sydney would be on a United flight across the country to San Francisco. Broots turned the paper over and read into the article with a growing sense of urgency. He turned and headed to the desk in the living room, where he’d left the post-it upon which he’d written all of Miss Parker’s details.

There it was, in his own handwriting. The flight number Miss Parker and the others had taken matched the flight number of the missing plane. The shock sent him staggering backwards to end up with his rear propped up by the arm of his sofa. Miss Parker and Sydney and Sam – dead? It couldn’t be!

~~~~~~~~~*

The morning sunlight beat in mercilessly on the face of the man on the bed, eventually causing him to throw an arm over his eyes and roll away from the sunbeam. Jarod really didn’t want to wake up – he had just had one of the most restful sleeps he’d enjoyed in many months now, ever since he’d taken the job as chief of security for the Bennings Foundation. Carol Bennings, heir to an immense defense contracting fortune, had made many enemies when he’d decided to use that money to fund projects designed to ameliorate the effects of the weapons his father had produced. Jarod, hired not long after Bennings established his organization, had been very busy ever since ferreting out and disarming one trap and assassination plot after another hatched by those whom the Foundation often put into an unfavorable public spotlight that as often as not ended up being scrutiny by law enforcement.

His latest triumph had been the uncovering of a plot to assassinate Bennings upon his arrival at San Francisco International for the official groundbreaking for a new foundation office building on the West Coast. The assassin, an otherwise lovely young woman who had managed to weasel her way onto the Bennings Foundation payroll as a secretary to Bennings right-hand man, now was resting in federal custody along with her fancy rifle and the picture of Bennings with the time and location of where the hit was to take place noted on the back.

Jarod had been proud of his efforts to catch the killer – and as a result, he now had almost enough evidence gathered to turn over to the Justice Department on Joseph Blair, Bennings most virulent critic and the former partner of Bennings Senior. Bennings himself had long had a suspicion that Blair had been responsible for the traffic accident that had claimed the life of his father – Jarod’s call to his boss later today would be to confirm those suspicions. A memo had surfaced detailing the ‘adjustments’ to be made to the Bennings family limo’s brake system – and instructions to make those ‘adjustments’ look like wear and tear failure.

Still, the sunlight was merciless – and as the source of the light rose higher in the sky, the sunbeam chased Jarod over to where he’d rolled and once more stabbed at his eye. Grumbling, the Pretender sat up, threw his legs off the edge of the bed and sat there for a moment, gathering his wits and scratching his very short, dark hair lazily. A quick glance at the clock on his nightstand had him on his feet, however, heading toward the bathroom and a quick shower. He wanted to be into the office in time to make his call to California as promised, just shortly after the ground-breaking ceremony.

The hot water poured down over his head and down his muscular back, rinsing away the froth of the bath soap and shampoo. Hot showers had been a luxury during his tenure in the belly of the Centre – his personal hygiene had been handled more often than not with a small square terry washcloth in a sinkful of warm water and a perfume-free all-purpose cleanser that was mean as much for hair as for skin. The much kinder products available to him in the outside world had become an adventure in discovery for him – and he’d tried nearly all of them before settling down to a combination that both left him feeling clean and smelling lightly of spices. Now, taking a shower was yet another way in which he proved to himself that life was truly better free from the Centre – and he never missed an opportunity to begin his day that way.

He pulled on freshly cleaned work trousers and white button-down shirt, and then headed to his kitchenette area to turn on the early morning news while he inhaled a bowl of sugared cereal and a full glass of chocolate milk for breakfast. The newscaster droned on and on about the latest warning from the department of Homeland Security – another adjustment in the alert color status – and other political news that Jarod really had neither the time nor the patience to try to understand. He’d had enough of theory – he by far preferred to live his life in the realm of practicality now.

He was just adjusting his tie and thinking of reaching for his sports jacket and briefcase when the story the newscaster suddenly switched. “And now, turning to national news we begin by bringing you the latest on downed United Flight 1598 from New York to San Francisco,” the pert blonde woman read in very bland conversational tones. “Transportation and Safety Authority officials will neither confirm nor deny reports that the flight, a 747 with a listed 128 passengers on board, has yet to be located. Search planes were dispatched from the Salt Lake City area last night when the flight disappeared from the radar, with much of the search grid centering over rugged terrain in Wasatch National Forest.”

Jarod was already reaching for his cell phone. Flight 1598 had been the flight he’d delivered Bennings to himself less than twenty hours earlier – and considering the enormous amount of energy and money that had been spent by Blair to make sure that Bennings never made it to San Francisco, it wasn’t hard to connect the dots now. “This is Jarod - give me Hendricks, NOW!” Jarod demanded, knowing that with Bennings out of the picture temporarily, Blake Hendricks would be the man to whom he would be responsible.

As he waited his mind spun. Would Blair be so foolish and desperate as to kill over one hundred other innocent people merely to get to Bennings?

“Talk fast, Jarod – I’ve got a lot of people pushing at me to make all kinds of decisions until we find out for sure whether Carl’s…” Hendricks didn’t continue – and Jarod found himself grateful that he wasn’t forced to hear such a thought voiced aloud.

“I need authorization to see whether this was someone else answering Blair’s open contract on Carl, or if this was just coincidental,” the Pretender answered shortly. “I need to move now if it was Blair responsible, before he gets much of a chance to cover his tracks…”

“Go,” was Hendricks curt response, “and call me if you have anything.”

“Will do,” Jarod replied and disconnected the call only to turn around and dial another number almost immediately. “Sandy,” he addressed his secretary without preamble, “get me on the next flight to La Guardia.”

So intent was he on his phone call that he missed seeing the TV screen fill with a picture of the impressive Centre Tower façade, with the caption ‘Murder’ in bold red letters at the top.

~~~~~~~~~*

The sound of puffing air and the sensation of there being some sort of constriction around his arm slowly insinuated itself into the darkness – and Sam moaned slightly. The last thing he could remember was the sensation of water – very cold water – running past his forehead, splashing into his eyes and ears. But now, it seemed, he was laid out flat and was quite dry and warm. He moaned again and finally forced his eyes to flutter open.

The nurse just removing the blood pressure cuff was a rather dowdy and plain middle-aged woman with salt and pepper hair – but her face broke into a beautiful smile when she glanced up and saw Sam’s ice blue eyes studying her. “So nice to see you’ve finally decided to join us, Mr. Atkins.”

“Where…” Sam put a shaking hand to his head, which he discovered was aching rather badly.

“Dover General,” the nurse replied in a soft voice that apparently understood the gesture. “You were brought in last night – you had a car accident, remember?”

Sam’s face folded into a frown for a short time, and then he nodded – and immediately moaned from the pain in his neck that blossomed from the motion. “I remember,” he managed. “How long…” He forced his eyes open again. “What time is it?”

“About ten thirty in the morning,” the nurse smiled at him. “I’m sure your doctor will want to check in on you, now that you’re awake…”

But Sam was already in motion, despite the pain in his neck and shoulders that made rolling over in the hospital bed an exercise in determination, reaching for the little stand behind his head and the telephone that sat on it.

“Mr. Atkins, please!” The nurse had her hands on one shoulder and was trying to push him back into his pillows without hurting him too much. “You have a concussion and several seriously wrenched muscles – you need to just rest quietly for the next day or so…”

“What I need right now is to make a phone call,” Sam insisted and glowered at the woman. “At least could you hand me the telephone, if you’re going to force me to stay in this bed…”

“Against my better judgment,” the nurse muttered, moving so that she could haul the telephone cord out from behind the little cabinet and place the unit on the rolling tabletop.

“Thanks.” Sam picked up the receiver and dialed from memory. His face folded into a frown again when he heard the beginning of the automated message telling him that the number he was trying to reach was either out of range or out of service. He ended the call and dialed again, only to hear the same frustrating message.

“Having trouble?” the nurse asked him after noting his blood pressure on his chart. She had her thermometer in hand, with the protective sheath already on the probe itself. “Open.”

Sam again glowered at her but suffered the quick test, knowing that the easiest way to get rid of the nurse was to cooperate with her. The moment she had the probe out of his mouth, he picked up the phone again. “Hard to talk with that thing in my mouth,” he complained as he dialed a final number from memory.

“Hello?” Broots’ voice on the other end of the line sounded horrible.

“Broots? Sam. Where’s Miss Parker?” Sam demanded.

“Sam!” Broots’ voice sounded tiredly delighted. “Where are YOU? I thought you’d gone with Miss Parker!”

“There was an accident,” Sam explained tersely. “I’m at Dover General. But I can’t get Miss Parker’s cell to ring. What’s going on?”

“Sam…” Broots sighed, not exactly knowing how to break the news to him. “There was an accident with the plane – Miss Parker’s flight never made it to San Francisco.”

“What?!” Sam sat bolt upright in bed with a grunt of pain. “Is she…”

“We don’t know,” Broots answered sadly. “I suppose it would be better to get ready to hear bad news.”

“What about Sydney?”

“He was with Miss Parker.” Broots paused for a moment. “If you’re just waking up, then you haven’t heard the latest from the Centre either, have you? I heard about it on the news just before I got too sick to care…”

Sam frowned. “What latest?”

“Raines is dead – a car bomb spread him all over the fields south of Blue Cove last night.”

Now Sam was surprised. “Raines is dead, and Miss Parker and Sydney are missing? Interesting set of coincidences…”

There was a pause on the other end of the line. “Now that you mention it…” Broots pronounced slowly and thoughtfully. “I hadn’t considered that.”

“You sound like shit,” Sam observed dryly, taking some small pleasure in the disgust that covered the nurse’s face and had her walking briskly from the room at long last. “You still down with the flu?” That was what Miss Parker had told him was the reason Broots wasn’t accompanying them…

“You got that right,” Broots sighed tiredly. “And something tells me that if you hadn’t had your accident, and I hadn’t come down with the flu, we’d both be with Miss Parker and Sydney – and possibly dead.”

“They just can’t be dead,” Sam told his colleague stubbornly. “I won’t believe it until I see the bodies.” He shifted on the bed and then fell back against his pillows with a grunt. “I’m going to have to take a day to get myself mobile again,” he informed Broots. “And from the sounds of it, you need at least a day or so to get over the worst of your bug. But you and I need to be ready to move in not too long a time.”

“You don’t think…” Broots began and then thought better of speaking his suspicions in a loud voice. “You don’t think that Lyle will come after the two of US, do you?”

“Considering that the two of us have proven often enough that we were more loyal to Miss Parker than we necessarily were to the Centre in general or to Lyle in particular…” Sam started.

“Forget I asked,” Broots sighed again. “Keep in touch, OK?”

“I’ll let you know when I’m ready to get myself out of this place – I’ll need someone to pick me up, and I’m damned sure not going to call the Centre to do it.”

“Take it easy,” Broots cautioned Sam and then disconnected the call.

Sam felt around near his pillow until he found the control for the television mounted on the wall opposite his bed and turned it on. He pressed the channel select button until he came to a cable news channel and then settled back into his comfortable pillow to wait for the two news stories that concerned him directly and personally.

He might be laid up, but he sure as hell wasn’t going to let a few aches and pains stop him from doing his job. If she were alive, he just knew that Miss Parker would be counting on him to get her the help she needed – and he wasn’t about to disappoint her at this late date.

~~~~~~~~*

Lyle squirmed slightly in the huge and comfortable leather chair that sat behind the Chairman’s desk, supremely contented and satisfied. After all these years, he was finally set to begin to enjoy the authority that he’d worked so hard to acquire and had every intention of wielding the moment the appointment was final. Already he knew that one of the Triumvirate themselves was on their way from Africa to confirm his elevation to the Chairmanship – a move made unimpeachable due to the unexpected and thoroughly coincidental loss of the United Airlines flight that his sister had been on.

The Zulus had, upon first hearing the news about Raines’ demise, made clear that they expected BOTH twins to attend the meeting that was to happen the moment the private jet from Nairobi touched ground. Lyle viewed it his supreme honor to be in the position to inform them that his sister was no more – that she was lost up on some mountainside, probably freezing to death, if she weren’t already breeding maggots.

As much as he would have liked to think that the crash of the airliner was the result of his saboteur, he knew better. The man had refunded the deposit on the air accident the morning of the day Lyle had returned to Blue Cove with the Centre jet on the ground in Boston. Figuring the man was probably feeling secure for having made the refund, Lyle had dispatched a sweeper and cleaner team to take care of his loose end. It wouldn’t do for the police to figure out that it was a car bomb – which they already had – and then been able to trace the bombing back to the man who would then, to protect himself, sell out Lyle with few qualms.

Lyle knew that were he in that position, that would be what HE would do – and it was hard to picture any assassin or saboteur worth his salt that wouldn’t do the same.

With a crooked finger, he beckoned Phil, his newest personal sweeper. “Anything new on the search for that United aircraft?”

“Not that I’ve heard, sir,” Phil answered. Tall, blonde and extremely intelligent and well-read for the sweeper corps, he had known what an honor it was to be chosen by one of the Parkers themselves to be a personal sweeper. His assignment had come through only an hour or so earlier, and before that, he’d been lounging in the sweepers’ dayroom, listening to the latest news. “They think it might have gone down somewhere in the Wasatch National Forest, but they aren’t sure where.” He shrugged. “It’s only a matter of time, though – you can’t crash into trees with something as big as a 747 without leaving some signs of what you did.”

Lyle nodded thoughtfully, and then looked up at his new sweeper. “It’s very important to me that I be kept up to date about that crash, Phil. It’s even MORE important that, if by some fluke my sister managed to survive that, that she not return to the Centre alive. Do I make myself clear?”

Phil didn’t even flinch. He was a part of the new power elite at the Centre – and that meant that there would be a small period of blood-letting that eliminated any trace of any former power elite. To him, Miss Parker was nothing but a name with an associated ‘Ice Queen’ reputation attached – seeing her dead would cost him nothing either emotionally or otherwise. “Absolutely, sir. I’ll see to it that a team is dispatched if or when there is any news of survivors.”

“Good.” Lyle ran his hand over the rich, smooth surface of the massive desk appreciatively, then looked up to gaze at the slightly abstract painting that hung on the wall over the equally comfortable and rich leather couch. “Take that down,” he ordered, “and have it burned. Get a small crew of sweepers not currently on assignment and bring the decorations from my previous office in here. I think this place could use some livening up, don’t you?”

“Yes, sir,” Phil answered immediately. “Will there be anything else, Mr. Lyle?”

Lyle thought. “Yeah. Make sure that all of Miss Parker’s team was on that damned plane – and if they weren’t, I want to know where they are.” He thought for a moment longer. “And find me Angelo. I want that man flushed from the ventilation system and put into an escape-proof cell where I can get to him and use him when I need him. No more of this having to waste half a day nailing him down.”

Phil now had a small spiral pad out and was taking notes. “OK – let me see if I have this all in my head: keep current with the story about the United crash and have a team ready to make sure Miss Parker doesn’t survive it, get sweeper team to do some redecoration of this office using things from your previous office, locate all the members of Miss Parker’s team, and find and contain Angelo.” He looked up. “Anything else?”

Lyle smiled, satisfied. It looked like it was going to pay to have chosen an intelligent sweeper, rather than simply going for the muscle and martial arts training – not that Phil was lagging in either of those categories. “That should keep you occupied for the time being,” he commented contentedly. “Tell Sung-Li to send the Africans right in the moment they arrive on your way out, will you?”

“Yes, sir.”

Lyle watched his sweeper pocket the little notebook and slip from the office so smoothly that, had he not been watching, he probably wouldn’t have noticed the departure. Once more he leaned back in the comfortable chair and swiveled in a complete circle, bringing the chair to a halt facing the picture window that looked across the broad expanse of lawn that stretched to the sea. This was a view of which it would be very difficult to get tired.

~~~~~~~~*

Through security and now simply waiting for the commuter plane that would carry him from Philadelphia to New York to begin loading, Jarod found a seat in one of a long line of molded plastic chairs and stretched his long legs out in front of him. He was antsy, wanting to already BE in New York, but working hard to discipline himself to still calmness – at least on the outside. He sighed deeply after looking at the wall clock again and seeing that he had at least another five or ten minutes before they would announce the flight – and then reached over to his left to snag the front page of the newspaper that some former passenger had discarded.

Headlining the newspaper, as he expected, was the story about the United flight lost somewhere in the mountains of Utah. The newspaper article, while longer and slightly more detailed than the television news broadcast he’d heard that morning, held essentially no further news. There was a small graphic that showed the search grid being used by the Air National Guard in trying to locate the wreckage, but that was about the only thing he hadn’t seen before. His brow wrinkled slightly as he considered the terrain in and around the search area – those were rough and steep inclines, covered by a dense pine forest. At this time of year, there would be a serious danger of hypothermia to any crash survivor even though the first snow of the winter had yet to fall there. Carl, he knew, had a tendency to under-dress for the weather – and this habit could cost him in the long run.

With a sigh of frustration at being able to do nothing constructive to assist his boss at the moment, Jarod turned to the inside front page – and then started. Staring back at him from the page was what must have been a recent photograph of William Raines beneath a headline announcing his being the victim of a car bombing. Very slowly a smile began to spread across the Pretender’s face. What better end to a true monster than having one’s body blown into tiny bits! Perhaps now Parker could have a little peace – with that endless competition with her murderous brother at an end.

He just couldn’t resist. He pulled his cell phone from his pocket and dialed a number that he hadn’t called for well over two years – ever since she’d told him that the ‘you run, I chase’ game would have to continue. Surely now she’d tell him that the game was over – for who else would be chosen to run the Centre than she? Certainly the Triumvirate wouldn’t choose Lyle…

“The number you are trying to reach is either out of range or out of service. Please make sure you have the correct number and try your call later.”

“That’s damned odd,” Jarod muttered to himself as he disconnected that call and rapidly dialed yet another number from memory.

“The number you are trying to reach…”

“Damn!” he swore a little more vehemently as he hit the disconnect button on his futile call to Sydney with a frustrated finger. He ran his finger under his nose, unconscious that he’d learned this gesture years ago from his mentor and used it whenever he was temporarily stumped.

“Coastal Commuters flight 419 to New York City is now boarding at Gate 3,” was the announcement over the airport’s PA system. “All passengers please go through the glass doors…”

Jarod folded the front section of the newspaper and tucked it beneath his arm before reaching down for his briefcase with one hand and the silver Halliburton that never was out of his sight with the other. He’d have to let the mystery of why neither Miss Parker nor Sydney was answering their phones for a later time – maybe after he’d had his meeting with air safety crewmen on the ground at La Guardia.

Then he’d call Broots. He knew he could get a straight answer from the slightly retiring computer tech – after all, the two of them had once expressed a mutual admiration. It wasn’t friendship, but it counted for something.

~~~~~~~~*

Sam bore the doctor’s gentle insistence to listen to his heart and peer into his ears and eventually into his eyes with that blinding little light. Doctor Stefan hemmed very softly to himself as he palpated the right shoulder muscle and observed Sam’s reaction. “C’mon, doc,” Sam exclaimed finally, “talk to me.”

“You’re in pretty good shape for the shape your car was in when they found you,” the aging doctor quipped with a smile on his face as he reached for the chart that he’d placed on the rolling tabletop. “How’s the headache?”

“Bearable,” Sam replied, not quite lying. “What all’s wrong with me, anyway?”

“Well,” Dr. Stefan flipped through the pages of Sam’s chart, “you have a concussion – of which the headache and nausea when you move too quickly are the most common symptoms. You also did a number on your left shoulder – tearing the rotator cuff – and have a whiplash. All in all, you’re damned lucky…”

“When can I get out of here?” Sam demanded.

“Anxious, are you?” the doctor asked sharply. “Where’s the fire?”

“You don’t want to know,” Sam answered darkly. “Please answer the question.”

“I’d like to see you rest here for the rest of the day and night – and we can reassess how you’re doing in the morning…”

Sam’s face had completely clouded over by the time the doctor had stopped speaking. “I can’t be stuck here all day and all night!” he growled. “How long before I can expect to be able to get to my feet without feeling like my head is going to fall off or I’m going to puke my guts out?”

“Like I said,” Dr. Stefan repeated with deliberate patience, “you need to just rest for today and tonight – by tomorrow, if all goes well, we can see…”

Sam closed his eyes. He hated hospitals – always had. “Thank you, doctor,” he managed without snarling. “I know you’re just doing your job.”

The doctor leaned forward and patted Sam’s good shoulder very carefully. “You just need a little patience, son,” He picked up the chart and made a few, final notations before giving his patient a quick wave as he walked out of the ward door.

Sam shifted restlessly. He knew better than to just try to get up out of his hospital bed – for one thing, he didn’t know if the little locker close to the bathroom door held the rest of his clothes, or if he was going to be checking himself out with only a hospital bathrobe to his name. He could wait and rest until later in the afternoon, when he’d place another call to Broots.

Since he’d spoken to Broots earlier, his worries had only mounted, and now he’d be damned if he was going to spend the night here. Miss Parker needed him.

~~~~~~~~*

Lyle got to his feet as the regal-looking African pushed his way through the etched glass doors of the Chairman’s office. “Mr. Abé,” he greeted the man unctuously, “it’s good to see you again.”

The aging African gazed at the suave man behind the desk who had stood and was extending his hand, and only as an afterthought extended his hand in return. “Did we not make our wishes plain,” he complained, looking about the office with the air of someone quite disappointed. “We told you that we expected to see BOTH you and your sister?”

Lyle squelched his personal distaste for the way each of the three members of the Triumvirate seemed to speak in a plural form all the time when discussing business, as if each individual member at all times spoke for the entire consortium of stockholders, bankers, military men, manufacturers, shippers and dealers who had elected them – if not for the three elected leaders. He’d long since learned never to second guess or criticize the Triumvirate or its representatives – doing so tended to be very hard on the health.

“I’m truly sorry to have to tell you this,” he began, the joy in being able to so neatly do away with any need to deal with his sister from now on quickly overcoming his pique, “that my sister had been called away on business prior to Mr. Raines’ unfortunate accident. Now I find out that she and her associates were on the United flight that you’ve been hearing about in the news…”

“Are you saying that your sister is dead?” Abé asked in a frankly disbelieving tone.

Lyle shrugged. “We have no way of knowing at the moment,” he explained truthfully. “They haven’t even found the wreckage yet – there’s no way to know if there were any survivors.”

Abé’s rheumy dark eyes peered at Lyle intently, as if seeking to look into his soul; and Lyle shifted in his chair, suddenly uncomfortable beneath the scrutiny. “Such a convenient coincidence for you,” he observed sourly.

Lyle spread his hands wide across the surface of the desk. “I really can’t help it, sir,” he exclaimed earnestly. “I’m sure that if I’d known that someone was going to assassinate our former Chairman, I would have asked my sister to hold off on her trip until you had arrived.”

“You do understand that any decision I make today regarding the leadership of the Centre is temporary, contingent upon the discovery of whether or not Miss Parker still lives?”

Lyle bristled, but forced himself not to show his frustration at all. “Of course,” he replied in a deliberately bland voice. “That’s not unreasonable.”

Abé sat and stared at Lyle for a long moment without saying a word, until a man who obviously was part of the African contingent pushed through the glass doors and came to whisper into the older man’s ears. Abé nodded and then looked back at Lyle. “Despite the fact that you seem to have moved into this office with every intention of making it your own a little prematurely,” he commented, gesturing at the African masks and pieces of Asian artwork that now graced the walls and tops of bookcases and file cabinets in the Chairman’s office, “we must conditionally approve your elevation to the position of Chairman of the Centre.”

Lyle couldn’t help the smirk that crept over his face – and Abé wasn’t impressed. The aged ebony eyes narrowed. “You will, however, be responsible for writing a detailed plan by which you intend to bring profitability back to the Centre within a reasonable amount of time – which you will tender to a Triumvirate representative within the next four days. If your sister is found alive, we will have to reassess our decision – and give her a chance to submit a similar report. Ultimately, it is the question of profitability that will determine whether or not you keep your re-decorating job in place.”

“I’ll have the report ready long before the deadline, sir,” Lyle told him confidently, his mind already spinning and trying to figure out who would be the best person to assign this menial task that was just too far beneath him. “And I thank you for your confidence in me.”

Abé rose. “I will appoint one of my staff to be the Triumvirate representative onsite here until final confirmation is made. Your people will know of that appointment by the end of the day.”

“Thank you again, sir,” Lyle forced himself to stand and move out from behind the desk to shake the older African’s hand. “If there’s anything the Centre staff can do for you during your stay here in the States, please just notify my secretary – she’ll see to it that your needs will be met immediately.”

Abé simply nodded and turned around to walk from the office with the same regal grace that he’d used entering. Lyle watched the man’s posture and pace, and then straightened himself slightly and tried to imitate the African’s mien. He already knew that he was a feared quantity within the Centre walls – it wouldn’t hurt to try to cultivate habits that would make him seem more distinguished and impressive outside Centre climes.

After all, he was a Red File too, wasn’t he?

~~~~~~~~*

Jarod shook hands with the air safety crewman who had been responsible for all the pre-flight maintenance checks done on Flight 1598 and gave the man and friendly smile. The little Puerto Rican had been quite upset – understandably so – and a little reluctant to speak to yet another man claiming to be some sort of authority. However, once Jarod had first switched the interview from English to Spanish and just generally put the man’s mind at ease as far as being held responsible for the lives that had boarded that plane, he had been quite forthcoming. Jarod’s report to Hendricks would state that the chances of Blair being responsible for sabotaging the aircraft prior to take-off were miniscule at best.

With a sigh he turned and made his way back to the foundation limousine that was sitting at the ready for him at the mouth of the hangar. It was both a relief and intensely troubling to find no evidence of wrongdoing contributing to the crash. It meant that Bennings had survived numerous assassination and kidnapping attempts only to fall victim to a cruel twist of fate.

“Where to, Mr. Green?” the driver asked as Jarod walked up to him and the open and beckoning limo door.

“Back to the commuter terminal, Francois,” Jarod answered tiredly. “I need to get back to Philadelphia.

“Yes, sir.” The limo door to the passenger compartment closed as Jarod was settling into the comfortable cushions, and the powerful engine was brought to life not long thereafter.

Jarod leaned back against his seat and watched the business side of the huge international airport slip past outside his window for a long moment, feeling somehow at loose ends and superfluous. All that was really left for him to do was to transfer his loyalty to Bennings’ second in command and try to make sure that lightning didn’t strike twice – and to do that, he needed to be back at the foundation offices as soon as possible. He opened his cell phone and dialed his own office extension.

“Bennings Foundation, Mr. Green’s office,” answered the efficient voice of his secretary – a woman Bennings had hired after she’d brought a class action lawsuit against his father’s company for its negligence in manufacturing faulty trigger locks for its most popular handgun. The failure of one of those trigger locks had gotten her husband killed by a burglar several years earlier.

“Sandy,” Jarod greeted her. “I’m done here and on my way back to the Coastal Commuter terminal. See if you can arrange a first-class ticket back to Philadelphia on the next flight, will you?”

He heard a low chuckle. “You never do ask for much, do you?” Sandy quipped as she was already calling up the number for the airline on her computer.

“Only because you’re such a miracle-worker,” Jarod played along. “Any new word?”

“Nothing, sir.” She sounded just as unhappy about relaying the news as Jarod was to hear it. “Do you want me to call you if there’s anything new if you’re not here yet?”

Jarod thought for a moment and knew that either way, he’d rather know that be left hanging with the suspense and apprehension he was in now. “Yeah. I’d appreciate that.”

“Will do. Anything else?”

“Nope. Just get me on that plane sometime before dinnertime, OK? I didn’t have lunch, and an airline meal just won’t make up for it.”

“I’ll have a refill for your Pez dispenser waiting for you when you get here,” she promised. “How’s that?”

“Sounds good. Thanks again.”

“I’ll call back with your flight number and departure time as soon as I have them.”

“You’re a peach – anybody ever tell you that?” he grinned.

“And you’re a pretty big bullshitter yourself, boss,” she chuckled at him again. “Now hang up so that I can do the work you’ve just assigned me.”

“Talk to you later.” He chuckled as he disconnected the call. Bennings had never been able to understand the kind of banter that he and Sandy had developed as their working relationship – all he ever knew was that the handsome and somewhat haunted young Security Chief and said Security Chief’s secretary always seemed to be laughing at some secret joke.

His relationship with Sandy Danziger was the closest thing he’d had to a real friendship since his days in the Centre with Miss Parker and Angelo, roaming the ventilation ductwork and emptier corridors. Her six-year-old son, Sean, adored him – and he’d begun taking the lad to the zoo and to museums on his off hours, to show the boy how much there was in the world to learn about. Over the past months, Jarod had become a frequent visitor at their apartment – finding the time spent with pleasing and comfortable companions a welcome break to his normally solitary lifestyle.

Then his eyes fell to the newspaper section that he’d put on the limousine seat next to him when he’d climbed out – and he sighed as he retrieved his cell phone from his pocket and thought for a moment before dialing a number he had rarely used before. If Broots wasn’t there, he wasn’t sure WHAT he was going to do…

“Broots residence…” sneezed a thoroughly miserable voice.

“Debbie Broots?” he asked carefully.

“Who is this?” Even through the congestion and misery, the wariness of the question shone clearly.

“I need to speak to your father, Debbie. This is Jarod.”

“Jarod!” He could hear fumbling with the phone, and then the sound of footsteps heading off into the distance. “Dad!” he heard her call hoarsely. “Jarod’s on the phone for you!” There was an unintelligible sound in the background that he assumed was her father, and then the sound of fumbling with the handset again. “He’ll be right here… Oh. Here he i…”

“Jarod.” Broots’ voice didn’t sound a whole lot healthier than his daughter’s. “We all assumed you were ancient history now.”

“I saw the news,” the Pretender stated quietly, all pretense aside. “But I can’t reach either Miss Parker or Sydney.”

Broots sighed audibly – and Jarod knew that whatever else was going on in Blue Cove, he wasn’t going to like it.

~~~~~~~~~*

Erin finished putting the garnishes on the sandwiches for table six and turned around to take them out to the customers. Her face lit in a happy smile when she saw Lyle strolling very nonchalantly into the café, looking for all the world as if he had nothing better to do with his day than to sit in a coffee deli. His eyes, one of them sporting a rather nasty-looking bruise, quickly found her – and then he nodded his head and sat down at a table that he knew, under normal circumstances, to be under her care.

“It’s very nice to see you again, Mr. Lyle,” she announced more for the sake of her supervisor watching the action within the café itself than for Lyle. “What can I get for you today?”

“I was thinking,” Lyle smiled at her warmly and, with a quick glance at the boss to make sure his attention was temporarily elsewhere, he put a gentle hand on her arm, “that I have the evening free and all day tomorrow. What’s your schedule?” He grinned impishly. “Oh, and you can bring me an Irish Cream latte, if you don’t mind.”

“One Irish Cream latte coming up,” she quipped in an efficient waitress’ voice and walked back to the espresso station to put in the order.

“He’s back again, isn’t he?” Veronica, the one other waitress on this shift with whom she got along famously, bobbed her nose at the nattily dressed businessman playing with his napkin and looking around the café with a bored expression on his face.

“Ronnie…” Erin blushed furiously and then smiled in satisfaction. “Yeah, I suppose he is,” she admitted finally.

“You gonna go out with him again?” the red-headed espresso operator asked slyly.

“He’s wanting to know my schedule,” Erin admitted, taking charge of transferring the foam from the milk to the top of the cardboard cup of latte. “Sounds like he’s going to want to do something.”

“Too bad old Herb has you working a full shift this evening,” Veronica shrugged at her. “But you have tomorrow free, don’t you?”

“I have classes until two…” Then Erin looked at her friend directly with wide and astonished eyes. “Hey! I should be telling HIM this, not you!”

“Oh!” Veronica sighed and put a restraining hand on Erin’s upper arm. “If you ever get tired of that dreamboat…”

“Dream on, my friend,” Erin shook her head and headed back to Lyle’s table.

“Well?” he asked expectantly. “How are my chances?”

Erin regretfully shook her head. “I have to work until closing tonight,” she told him, “and I have classes all morning.” She brightened. “But I’m off at two. Pick me up at the Student Center at two-fifteen, and I can be all yours for the afternoon.”

Lyle’s face, which had begun to fall in disappointment, bloomed with a new smile. “Two-fifteen at the Student Center? That I can do.” He let his hand trace her arm delicately. “I’m celebrating – so we’ll have to make it a special day. Is there anything going on that you’d like to see or hear or…”

Erin shook her head. “I don’t think so. I’m surrounded with people most of the time – it would be nice to just go off somewhere a little quiet – maybe have a nice dinner and go for a walk along the waterfront…”

“Will you have had lunch?”

“I’ll probably pick up something from the cafeteria around eleven,” she told him. “I usually don’t eat breakfast, so I’m starving come lunch time. But I’ll be hungry enough when dinnertime comes, if you’re worried…”

“Nope, not worried at all,” Lyle reassured her.

Erin turned and noticed the old man at the register gazing intently at her. “I gotta get back to work. See you tomorrow?”

“Two-fifteen. I’ll be there,” Lyle promised.

Erin bounced away from the table, her short, blonde ponytail swaying with her movement. Lyle chortled at himself, still almost unable to believe that he didn’t have anybody looking over his shoulder or waiting to tell him what he could or couldn’t do. The sensation of freedom was intoxicating.

And that was when he saw her.

Delicate and exotic, the Chinese woman waltzed into the café and right up to Erin with a wide smile on her face and began chatting with her with great animation. Lyle felt a familiar tightening in his groin – and suddenly he was hungry.

And what better way to celebrate his ascension to the throne at the Centre than through a well-done Hunt. He rose, stopped at the cash register to pay for his latte, and headed out the door in the direction of his car. From there he’d be able to discretely follow his next target and hopefully discover where she lived or worked – any place in which he could take control of the situation and convince her to get in his car.

His stomach growled. It had been too long.

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