It was the week everything changed.

It certainly wasn't the first time over these past few months Alexandra Pierce had drowned her sorrows in the bottom of a bottle. Hell, it wasn't the first time she'd tried that week, even. She usually chose a venue far classier than Paulie's Pub and Eatery in South Boston, though.

Paulie's wasn't much different from the countless dive bars that cropped up like weeds around a major city. It was a dark, dank place, lit more by shadow than by light and littered with mismatched, secondhand furniture scarred from hard use. At Paulie's, the whiskey was fine, the Guinness flowed like wine, the Celtics were a religion, and you got a funny look if you ordered any kind of sissy mixed drink.

Alex was the only woman at the bar, hunched over a tall glass of whiskey. Long, slender fingers toyed idly with the rim, misshapen ice cubes clinking against thick glass. It was her third drink in the hour or so she'd been waiting, and though they brought a warm, tingling sensation to her extremities, they couldn't shut out the images playing on repeat behind her unreadable eyes.

The imagined horrors suffered by Jennie Ramos because of their association had just been shuffled into the deck – along with the familiar touch Amy Campbell used to stay Jared Sykes' hand at the start of this past Temptation, strangely. They were just part of the crushing sea of regrets the Spider was struggling to keep her head above, a lowlight reel she'd resigned herself to adding to this evening.

Pierce flicked her eyes up to the scratched, cloudy mirror above the bar, frowning at the unfamiliar reflection she found there. She was a brunette tonight, shoulder- length hair blown out and curled so far she felt like the hairdryer had knocked her back to the eighties. Her target had a certain type, though, so the hair – along with the vinyl miniskirt and the see-through shirt – were sacrifices she had to make.

The siren call was not a play the Spider was particularly adept at; Kathryn Shaw literally made her name from her knack at toying with men's affections, and Alex had always been happy to leave her to it, but her options were limited. When the pub's old door creaked open, Alex had to squash butterflies she never felt at a wrestling event.

Three men filed in, a chorus of obnoxious, hyena-like laughter to herald their arrival. She only caught a brief glimpse in the mirror (it wouldn't do be caught staring), but she didn't have to be Desade to know they were a bunch of wannabe goombas.

The tall one in the back, was Brian McElroy (''Bri-Bri'', they called him) would be the only one armed, just a .45 tucked into the back of baggy jean shorts. He brought up the rear, thick lips curled into a sneer as he looked for any kind of threat while studiously ignoring the man jabbering in front of him. That one, Marc Leighton, was, as far as Pierce could tell, a professional hanger-on who only had an in with the cool kids because he was their accountant.

If she had more time, Marc would have been a better target – she imagined he lost out on most of the girls to his tougher, cooler brethren – but time was the one thing she didn't have. It had been eleven days since Jennie Ramos' kidnapping, and the part of her that believed the girl was alive and well grew quieter and quieter every day. That meant she had to go right to the source – and that meant Adam Fletcher.

''Fletch'' was the kind of guy who'd seen one too many episodes of Jersey Shore and started to take them seriously. He certainly had the look down, from the gaudy shirt to the popped collar and from the overuse of hair product to the smirk that never quite faded. If she swung that way, Alex would go so far as to call him ''handsome,'' except that he clearly knew it.

Still, Omar had been adamant that this was the next link in the chain, and no one lied to her in an interrogation room. By the time she'd left him duct-taped outside a hospital with his confession video in his pocket, she was possible he'd told her everything he knew.

As the trio slid into their favorite booth, Alex blew out a sigh, smoothing fake curls over bared shoulders. She lifted her whiskey, taking the rest of the glass in a single gulp, and, after a moment of consideration, she let a small bit of ice slip between painted lips. The cube shattered under a vicious bite, and should chill her tongue a little, thickening her voice.

Alex – Teresa Bustamante – slipped off the stool, making sure her bruise-purple skirt fell snugly across her hips. The thing was uncomfortable (and uncomfortably short), but it was certainly got attention, especially when paired with Pierce's favorite pair of knee- high, crushed velvet boots.

She meandered across the pub, fishing in her clutch with a concerned look on her face. Once she was close, she glanced up, her lips pursed in annoyance, brows knitted. It was Leighton that said something, but just two words were all she needed to get the ball rolling.

''You okay?'' he asked.

''What?'' She looked that way, and then did a double take. ''Adam?''

That drew Fletcher's eyes up, his well-sculpted brows lifted as he tried to place her face. ''Uhh...'' he stammered.

She didn't give him the chance to escape. ''It's Terri Bustamante,'' she offered. ''I was a year behind you at Charlestown High?''

''Oh, right.'' He snapped his fingers. ''Terri Busty, right?''

Alex had to stifle her groan. ''Yeah, Terri Busty. What a frickin' small world, am I right?'' She stood at the head of the table, her acrylic nails clicking on the wooden tabletop. ''I thought for sure you'd get outta town after school. You still live around here?''

''Yeah, yeah.'' He looked up to her, his eyes stopping at the gleam he was supposed to take for a nipple ring. ''Me and the boys, we do, we do.''

There was something wolfish in his eyes when they met hers, and Pierce put something similar in her own, addressing the expanse of bare chest his open shirt showed her. ''You look good,'' she said, toying idly with the chain at her neck. '''Course, you always looked good. You probably don't remember me at all.''

''With a name like that?'' There was a lot of shiny white tooth in his grin. ''I remember you, girl.''

''Yeah? You didn't say two words to me.''

''Was savin' them for now,'' he said. ''Sit down.'' He leaned back in the bench, reluctantly dragging his eyes away to find Leighton. ''Marky, go get the lady a chair, man. Can't have a girl like that standin'.''

Marc nodded, sliding out of the booth. The place wasn't nearly as packed on off-nights for the Celts, so there was a shortage of empty chairs. Alex didn't wait before taking the spot he'd vacated, drawing a guffaw from Fletcher. ''That's cold, girl.'' He tapped the backrest. ''So where you been hidin' at?''

Leighton sighed when he returned to find his spot taken, but he didn't complain, and she didn't even smile his way. Peeling one man away from a group took a subtle touch – too light and he'd get disinterested and go back to his buddies, too hard and she risked pissing off his friends, and guys like Fletcher were seriously into the whole ''bros before hoes'' thing.

''I went to New York, actually.'' She lifted both palms. ''I know, I know, the whole city can fall into the ocean and we'd be better for it, right?''

''Somethin' like 'at,'' Bri-Bri rumbled beside her. He was the one she was worried about – it wasn't just the piece she knew he was carrying, but he was dangerous because he was paying attention. She arched her back slightly, curling one leg so her thigh just barely touched the big man's, just for a moment.

He looked away, and Alex let her smile go this time. ''Truth is,'' she said, looking down. ''Truth is, I always wanted to be on Broadway, you know?'' She let that sit, her nail glittering as she ran it across a knot in the wood.

''Didn't turn out so good?'' Leighton was the softhearted one, and he was the one who gave her cause to continue.

''I'm not cut out to be a singer.'' She cleared her throat, sitting up straight. ''What about you fellas?''

Fletcher leaned forward, crossing his arms on the table. ''Wouldn't believe me if I told you.'' He smiled – not grinned, not smirked, but smiled, and Alex ducked her chin, looking away.

Gotcha, she thought, stifling a grin. She stretched out her other leg – the one Brian wasn't surreptitiously checking out– scraping the toe of her boot against Fletcher's calf. ''I don't know,'' she said, drawing out the last word. She leaned forward, her folded arms creating a shelf for him to look at. ''I've seen an awful lot.''

Sure enough, his eye found the glint on her chest. ''My boys and I are into some serious shit,'' Adam said.

''Fletch,'' Brian cautioned. ''You don' know this girl ain't a police. Don't say nothin' 'bout nothin'.''

''Man...'' Adam clucked his tongue. ''You just need to relax, man. Look at this girl. Where you figure she's hidin' a wire in an outfit like that?''

''I'm just sayin' you oughta not say nothin'.'' The smile the big man gave Alex was more of a kindly sneer. ''Sorry, girl. You know how it is.''

Pierce shook out Terri's mane of fake curls. ''I completely get it,'' she said, keeping her smile breezy as she met the big man's eyes. ''I'm not a policeman, though. Do I look like any cop you've ever seen?''

''Nah, you don't for sure.'' He wedged himself into the corner where the bench met the wall. ''Not sayin' I wouldn't mind frisking you for a wire, though.''

''I'm not saying I'd stop you.'' She didn't quite wink, brushing the toe of her boot against the inside of Fletcher's thigh. ''So what kinda trouble you boys getting in tonight?''

His legs spread wide, allowing her easy access, and he took her ankle gently in both hands. ''I can think of a thing or two,'' he breathed.

''We got a meeting, Fletch,'' Leighton said hesitantly. ''Everybody's gonna be there, man.''

''Can you be late?'' Alex asked, trapping her nail between her teeth. ''I can't imagine it'd take more than an hour, hour and a half.'' She forced down the bile, a sly smile playing across her lips. ''Maybe two hours. Just... y'know, to be safe.''

It was a brazen, reckless play – she had nowhere to go if they proved reluctant, and there hadn't been time to ratchet things up properly, so it could be read as desperation. But if she lost them now, it'd take just as long to connive a new excuse to run into them as it would to actually find them.

Brian and Fletch glanced at each other, and she pretended not to notice the grin they shared. Leighton proved to be an adept killjoy, however. ''Maybe afterwards?'' he suggested. ''You remember the last time somebody was late? They broke both of Jimmy's thumbs!'' Leighton leaned across the table. ''I need my thumbs, Adam.''

The caresses to Alex's calf stopped, Fletcher's hands dropping away, and she knew she'd lost. Keeping them on the hook would require her to go further right there in the bar, and that wasn't happening – she still had some dignity. ''Damn,'' she said with a sigh.

''Rain check?'' Fletch oozed. ''Tomorrow, maybe?''

''Tomorrow, sure.'' Pierce plucked Leighton's mug off the table, taking a long pull. ''I'm in town for the next few—oh, wait!'' She biffed herself in the forehead. ''I almost forgot.''

''Forgot what?'' Alex asked.

Three things happened then, almost simultaneously. First, Alex drew back the foot she'd been teasing Fletcher with and fired it into his wide-open crotch. Second, she swung the stein at Leighton's head; it was an awkward swing for a lefty, but it was enough to send the portly accountant spiraling from his chair and down to the floor. Third, she finally let loose the disgusted sneer she'd been holding in.

''I forgot how badly I want to hit you,'' she growled.

Pierce drove her elbow into Brian's breadbasket, pivoting towards him on that indecent skirt. He was going for his gun, and she aimed a palm thrust at his elbow to prevent that. Despite his size, the big man was able to slither aside, and the heel of her hand thudded painfully into the wall. He whipped out his gun – a gaudy, nickel-plated .45 too large to bring to bear in such a confined space.

Alex levered herself up to one knee on the bench, knocking aside the gun with a pair of sharp blows that may have broken his wrist. Brian cried out, tangling the thick fingers of his free hand into her wig. He used it to wrench her into a headbutt that made stars explode behind her eyes, and simply heaved the smaller Spider backwards.

She turned a sloppy back somersault, dropping to the floor in a crouch, one ankle tucked weirdly under her and possibly sprained. Still, she sprang forward resolutely, one hand on the tabletop to brace herself as she drove both feet into Fletch's shoulder. The plan (as it were) would have been to follow through, slithering onto the bench beside the man so she could face Brian, close enough to his buddy that he'd be reluctant to shoot.

Fletcher yanked at her ankle, however, turning Alex lengthwise across the table, and it was all she could do to roll off onto his lap, her forehead finding his injured groin again.

''Ow! Goddamnit!'' he cried. ''Get this crazy whore off me, man!''

Pierce scrambled to her feet, suddenly faced with a two-on-one she didn't want any part of – and a moment later, Marc Leighton shattered his chair across her back to make it a third. Brian reversed his grip on his hand cannon, pistol-whipping the Spider. She plummeted face-first to the barroom floor, and Adam launched himself out of the booth, driving his eight hundred dollar loafer into her ribcage.

''Pick her up,'' he ordered.

''Fletch,'' Leighton pleaded. ''We need to get the fuck out of here, man...''

''No.'' Fletcher shook his head, one hand still at his wounded nether regions. ''No fuckin' way. Cocktease like this wants to play with me? I'll give her something to fucking play with. Now. Pick her. The fuck. Up.''

Brian and Marc didn't argue further, pulling the barely conscious Spider to her feet. They held her there while Fletch stepped close. ''You think this is funny, don't you, bitch?''

Alex managed a smile. ''Would've been funnier if I won,'' she slurred.

''What do you even want?'' Fletch demanded. ''What do you gain from this?''

''Do any of you know what happened...'' she coughed; the kick had at least bruised a rib or two. ''...what happened to Jennie Ramos?''

Fletcher tugged her close by the front of that diaphanous shirt; his breath stank of onions and cheap booze. ''Who?'' he asked, his laugh a little mean sound. He yanked at the fabric of her collar until it tore, the dark fabric parting to expose a swath of Alex's porcelain skin and part of her left breast. ''Who you think you're fucking with?'' he demanded, grabbing her chin. ''Who?''

''Some nobody,'' Pierce said, making her eyes cold and dead like a shark's as she met his gaze. ''You think this is the first time someone has threatened this? Either do it or don't, but make up your fucking mind. You're boring me.''

''Boring you? I'm boring you?'' He unloaded with a hard body blow aimed at the same part of the ribs he kicked, and Alex couldn't quite stifle her gasp. ''Well, we can't have that, can we?''

The Spider spat out a gobbet of bloody phlegm, just missing those expensive shoes. ''Still talking about it,'' she pointed out, blood in her teeth.

''Drag her back onto the table,'' he ordered the others. ''Drag her back and hold her down.''

''Fletch...'' A soft film of sweat formed on Leighton's brow. ''I don't know about this.''

''Just fucking do it!'' he howled.

Alex was in no position to fight back, both arms twisted behind her, her ankle hobbled, and at least one rib bruised. The two men were simply bigger and stronger, but she still bucked as they ran her into the table, knocking saltshakers and sugar packets aside as they stretched her out.

She didn't flinch when Fletcher cracked his leather belt against the tabletop beside her face. ''Think you can con me?'' he growled, slipping his thumbs along her thighs under the hem of her skirt. ''Think you can fuck with —''

The report of a shotgun blast startled all of them, even drawing a soft squeak from Leighton. Alex craned her head up to get a look at the newcomers, and the pressure from Brian's side relaxed slightly, the big man releasing her to point his gun into the room.

It was a pair of them, a man and a woman, both dressed in matching black leather outfits. His had a stylized yellow symbol emblazoned on the chest (something from a comic book, but Pierce could never remember which), and he was the one with the shotgun, a wisp of pale smoke drifting from the barrel up to the ceiling. The man was olive-skinned, his almond-shaped eyes gleaming excitedly behind the dark lenses of designer sunglasses. His hair stood up in a forest of bright red spikes in the front, sweeping down to a tarry waterfall in the back that brushed his shoulderblades. His name was Ho Lan Nguyen, but most people simply called him Vulture, and he didn't say much.

That was okay, because the woman on his left more than made up for the difference. ''Well, well, well... what do we got here?'' she asked, brandishing a pair of mini-Uzis with extended clips. ''Now ain't you a bunch of Guido-lookin' motherfuckers.''

Make no mistake: Cecilia Sicarii was not an attractive woman. It started with her narrow, pinched features that long ago earned her nickname of ''Rat''. Her muddy brown locks were meticulously braided in a series of dreadlocks, the whole mass gathered in a mesh bag at the nape of her neck. Rat had a slight build that made her seem younger than her years, but she was packed with enough muscle mass and scar tissue to make a Navy SEAL jealous.

''Who the fuck are you?'' Fletch demanded.

''Looks like I'm the bitch with the machine gun pointed at your head.'' She shifted the second weapon in the same direction. ''Oh, wait – I'm the bitch with two machine guns pointed at your fuckin' head. So how about you take that bass out of your voice and tell the Great White Nope there to lower his piece so we can keep conversating.''

''An' if I don't?'' Brian rumbled.

Vulture's double- barreled rifle swiveled Fletcher's way as well, and Rat's dagger slash of a smirk only stretched. ''Guess,'' she said.

''You won't shoot.'' Fletch popped his collar. ''You're with her, and you ain't gonna let your ho get shot.''

''I've never seen that used-up cunt before in my life,'' Sicarii sneered. ''She look remotely familiar to you, Volt?''

''Never laid eyes,'' Vulture said. He slipped a toothpick into his mouth, his wolfen smile stretching. ''Wouldn't mind having a go once you're done.''

''Oh, come on!'' Fletcher roared, snatching the gun from Brian's mitt of a hand. ''She shows up and tries to con me, then two armed goons hit the place when she fucks that up?'' He put the barrel of the .45 to Alex's temple. ''So how about you two fuckwits put down your guns, or I put a bullet in her pretty little head, since I can't think of another reason you'd even be here.''

''They're here because I'm here.'' The new speaker was a soft- voiced girl, approaching from behind the two animal-named gunmen. Her hard-soled boots banged out a steady rhythm in the tense room, each stride punctuated by a flick of her lighter. Step, flick, step... step, flick, step.

The ruddy orange light of the tiny flame cast weird, flickering shadows over the girl's too-pale features. She was painted up like some kind of china doll, with raccoon- dark eyes and a twisted clown's grin for a mouth, and she was humming, bright and off-key. If she noted the crowd of armed people, it certainly didn't show.

''All right, I'll bite,'' Fletcher said, grinding the barrel of the gun tighter. ''Tell me why you're here, then.''

The girl drew herself upright, her fingers laced together, the lighter clutched tight enough to whiten her knuckles. She looked up from the flame for the first time, and when she smiled, it was a young, exuberant grin. She couldn't have been more than fourteen or fifteen, with long, dark hair and a fall of tattered, dove gray skirts. ''Me?'' she asked with just the right amount of teenaged petulance, widening her sea-green eyes artfully. ''I'm here to burn down the bar.'' She said it like it was the most blatantly obvious thing in the world – the way most people would say, ''Today is Thursday.''

Despite himself, Fletcher faltered, the business end of the gun coming off Pierce's forehead. The Spider didn't hesitate, displaying impressive flexibility as she freed one foot and kicked over her head, catching Brian in the temple. She twisted to her feet, shoving Fletch aside in her haste to escape. When she passed the girl, however, she stumbled, falling to her knees and then face-first onto the floor, both hands clutched to her midsection and a surprised look on her face.

Fletch hadn't seen the girl draw that long, thin knife from her billowing sleeve, but there it was, wet with fresh blood. Her serene expression hardly even flickered, but he'd swear she seemed giddy as she strolled to the fallen brunette, knotting her free hand in the woman's hair. Her hummed tune picked up his pace workmanlike as she pulled back Alex's head. Pierce's eyes were glassy and unfocused, her lips flecked with blood as she tried to speak.

He gaped as the girl, who looked like she'd come straight from Sunday school, calmly swiped her blade across Pierce's throat. ''Jesus,'' Fletch whispered. Behind him in the booth, Marc Leighton dry-heaved, both hands screwed to his lips to keep down his gorge.

Rat appeared at Fletcher's side, looking a little green around the gills as the girl moved the hair away from the fallen woman's ear. ''You're gonna wanna take off,'' she whispered.

''Is she going to cut off her damn ear?'' Fletch asked. ''What the fuck is wrong with her?''

''Harlequin is...'' Sicarii trailed off, glancing to Vulture, whose cheeks bulged with a sigh. ''She has a collection.''

Fletch cast a doubtful look to the side. ''A collection?''

Rat's fingers flexed nervously along the trigger guard of her machine pistol. ''She pays good, and her checks don't bounce.''

There came the sickening sound of tearing meat from the floor, but Harlequin was hunched over the body and Fletch couldn't see what was going on – and he was pretty sure he didn't want to.

''Go,'' Rat hissed. ''She's serious about burning the place down, and I don't think she cares if you're inside or not.''

Fletch didn't need her to say it twice; he smacked Brian on the arm and gestured for the door. The two slipped away, and Marc Leighton trundling after in a lurching run, like something out of the Hunchback of Notre Dame. Silence reigned in the empty pub, all of them holding their breath as Vulture pulled a small, handheld tablet from the bag slung over his shoulder. He watched the screen for a silent count of ten.

''Clear,'' he said finally.

Quinn Gregory sat up with a sigh, climbing off her mother's back. ''Is it wrong that that was, like, incredibly fun?''

''Probably,'' Rat concurred. ''You are way too good at the fucking crazy person thing.''

Alex rolled onto her back, and her daughter pulled her up into a rib-crushing embrace. ''I learned from the best,'' she said.

''What are you doing here?'' Pierce whispered, squirming out of the hug. She put a palm to her ribs. ''I told you I could handle this.''

''Oh, yeah,'' Rat said. ''You had those Guido motherfuckers right where you wanted them.''

''Rat.'' Quinn didn't turn, but surprisingly, the sharp word was enough to quiet the loudmouth.

''We need to go,'' Vulture said quietly. ''We're in the open.''

The four of them were ferried to the Vietnamese man's van, Vulture and Quinn in the front, Alex and Rat in the back. Pierce was silent, sullenly staring out the window as she ignored her daughter's meandering commentary.

''I'm serious, Mom,'' Gregory said, flicking her eyes to the side-view mirror. She carefully removed the caked-on powder. ''I can help out with this, and I want to. Jennie made you happy, and I hate seeing you like this.''

''Yeah, that whole 'almost raped' look is good on you, Alex,'' Rat muttered. ''Tell the truth – did you drug up you hoo-hah so when he stuck it in, bam! Out like a light via the insidious prick-mickey?''

Pierce didn't answer, her hard gray gaze focused dead ahead on the headrest in front of her. ''When do you start summer school?'' she asked, her voice dreadfully neutral.

A frown flickered through Quinn's brow. ''Couple weeks,'' she said. ''But I was thinking about that, and I figure it's probably best if you have somebody with you for this, so maybe I should miss a couple weeks. Just... I mean, just until this thing blows over, then—''

''And how will you explain your bullet wounds to your classmates?'' One of the Spider's burnished red brows crooked.

''Uhm, by not getting shot?''

''You could have been shot tonight.'' Pierce's fist balled on the armrest, but that was the only sign of her growing anger. ''Maybe those three couldn't manage it, but there are wolves in this world, Quinn – people who would gun you down just for looking at them strangely.''

''I'm not scared,'' Gregory said, the teen's voice quiet but firm. ''There may be 'wolves' out there or whatever, but I've got the biggest and the baddest one on my side. This is what I want to do, Mom – and I'm good at it. So let's just—''

Alex flicked her eyes to the rearview mirror, catching Vulture's eyes. ''Stop the car,'' she ordered, her voice like a knife wrapped in silk.

''What?'' Quinn half-turned in the seat. ''C'mon, Mom... we've got these guys on the run. I'm sure we can finish it now. Maybe Harlequin is intrigued by those fuckwits. Give me a half-hour with the fat guy and I'll—''

''I said stop the car,'' the Spider said, just a touch louder the second time. ''Don't make me ask again.''

Predictably, the car jerked to a halt, and Alex wrestled irritably with her seatbelt before it came loose. ''Take her to the airport and make sure she gets on a plane.'' She wrenched the car door open, slipping out onto the street.

''Mom?'' Quinn asked, eyes widening. She followed quickly. ''What's going on?''

The Spider had shed the last vestiges of Terri Bustamante once they were in Vulture's van, exchanging stiletto-heeled hooker boots for comfortable flats and her shredded blouse and slutty skirt for faded blue jeans and a New England Patriots t-shirt.

''I'll be fine,'' she assured her daughter. ''There's a strip mall about a half-mile west of here. I can get what I need to pick up the trail from there.''

''You're being silly,'' Gregory sighed. ''We can help.''

''Maybe,'' Alex admitted. ''And maybe Decker gets you before then. Or maybe you end up pinned down to a table by three guys. Go home, Quinn. This is no place for a sixteen-year-old girl.''

''What will you do?''

''Whatever I have to.''

The teen quickly outpaced her mother, stopping Pierce with a hand to the elbow. ''What did I say?''

''You're sixteen.'' Alex turned, glancing at the hand rather than her daughter's face. Quinn snatched it away. ''You shouldn't want to do what I do. It's not pretty and it's not glamorous – and it's not safe. Go home. Sit in front of the television. Text your friends. Play your music too loud. But please – please – don't grow up to be me.''

''I know it's dangerous, Mom.'' Quinn's voice was soft, and her eyes shined behind her cat's-eye glasses. ''It's dangerous and it's scary and I may end up hurt or worse. But it's also thrilling in a way I can't really explain, and it's the only thing I've ever really been good at. I'm not a great student, I don't have a lot of friends, and I'll never play sports. When I'm out here, it feels good. It feels right. Don't take this away from me.''

''Everything I touch turns into shit.'' She wore the list of her sins like they were old war wounds. ''Lauren was killed to point the police at me, I turned Amy back into an addict, and now Jennie has been kidnapped – maybe worse – because we went on one fucking date. You're my little girl, and every day, I watch you sink further and further into the quicksand. One day, I'll lose you completely – unless someone who hates me takes you first. I am terrified that you'll just vanish one day and I'll never know what happened.''

''Oh, Mom...'' Gregory's hand brushed her mother's forearm. ''That's never going to happen. You know that, right? I'm not going anywhere.''

The Spider turned fully, grasping the teen's shoulders. ''And I love you more than I can say for that, but this isn't a discussion. I will not let you become...'' She paused, wetting her lips. ''I'm not going to let anything happen to you. I'd never forgive myself.'' Alex looked past Quinn to the diminutive daredevil lingering back by the van. ''Make sure she gets home, Sicarii, and all will be forgiven between us.''

''Yeah, no prob.'' Rat's head bobbed in a nod. ''You can count on me.''

''I'd better be able to,'' Alex said. ''If anything happens to her, you'll answer to me personally.'' She was already turning, even as she issued the threat. ''If you don't hear from me in forty-eight hours, assume something bad has happened. Don't come after me.'' Finally, she met her daughter's eyes. ''I love you, Quinn. Please understand that this is for your own good.''

The Spider's slow footsteps crunched on the asphalt as she wandered down that lonely stretch of Massachusetts highway. Quinn stared after her mother for a long, long moment, her eyes filled with tears she couldn't explain and refused to shed. ''Mom?'' the girl called finally.

Pierce stopped, but she didn't turn. Gregory swallowed hard, lifting her left hand to tuck a lock of dark hair behind one ear. ''W-what would you have done?'' the teen asked tremulously. ''If we hadn't found you, if-if we hadn't been there... what would have happened?''

''I would have let him.'' Alex was quiet for a long moment, stuffing her hands into her pockets. The pool of orange-yellow light made her seem small then, almost delicate. ''If it had come to that, I would have let him have his way – let all of them have their way. And they would have enjoyed it.''

That was all she offered, the rest of the words lost in a powerful exhale of air as she started down the road again. Quinn's mouth moved, but she couldn't find any words to offer, and just made a strangled sound, her head bowed.

''Well, that wasn't creepy at all,'' Rat said, falling into place behind the girl.

''I should go after her.'' Gregory turned just her head, brows steepled miserably. ''She needs me.''

''Let her go.'' Sicarii's harsh voice sounded strange in a gentle whisper, raspy and breathy. ''Ain't nothing you can do for her now.''

Quinn turned, managing a weak smile. ''You don't think she's coming back to Oakland, either, do you?''

''I learned a long frickin' time ago not to guess what your mom's thinking.'' The little dynamo squinted up at the sky. ''Come on. Looks like it's gonna rain.''

Reluctantly, the Devil's Daughter trailed after Sicarii, looking back over her shoulder as she climbed into the back of Vulture's van.

Her mother was gone, lost into the night.

The diner smelled of overcooked bacon and stale coffee, as if the scents had taken up permanent residence in the walls and the floors and even the cushions of the booth. The stink of it all turned Erica Baptiste's stomach – but then, so had a lot of things these past few days.

As far as she could tell, the restaurant didn't actually have a proper name; the flickering neon sign above the door read only ''DINER,'' and the place had changed hands so often, no one had the time or inclination to change it. It wasn't like the clientele was particularly choosy – this wasn't somewhere people wanted to go for dinner. They came out of habit or because they had business nearby (perhaps at the similarly eponymous ''PHARMACY'' or ''DRY CLEANERS'') or simply because it was the only place open.

Erica and the man steadily consuming the whole of the diner's egg supply were a little of all three. Her chestnut gaze swung away from the window to the man, her hand propping up her chin. Like the diner, she only had one name for him – ''Randall'' – and she hadn't determined if that was his first name or last.

Randall was a tall drink of water, but he should have been bigger – his arms and legs were long and fit poorly, as if he hadn't ever grown into his body. His eyes were weighty, a cloudy, haunted shade of blue, the color of the sky the morning before a tornado touched down. The threat was there, the promise of destruction, but no one knew when it was coming, only that it was coming. His hair was frizzy and brown, like he'd styled it by jamming his finger into an electrical socket.

And he really liked his eggs. It was the third plate the waitress had brought him, and he didn't look up when he spoke. ''Go on,'' he said, his reedy voice just a touch above a whisper. The words came with a slice of an accent, something vaguely Southern or perhaps Texan that made the sentence into one word: ''G'won.''

''I'm sorry?'' Erica asked. She did her best to keep her brow from rising, pushing her fork through the pile of wilted lettuce the diner had the audacity to call a salad.

''You've been itchin' to ask for an explanation since we sat down. Probably before then. When you picked me up this morning, if I had to guess.'' Despite the tone, she knew it wasn't speculation. He'd been studying her since they were first introduced – him, the reformed whackjob; her, the hotshot rookie – the same way a scientist watched a lab rat.

''An explanation would make me feel better, sure.'' It was a hesitant allowance, but it was the only one she was willing to make. Erica had spent the last two weeks trying to crack Randall's mystery man faηade, but he didn't respond to flattery, flirting or fighting.

He looked up finally, his spindly fingers grasping the neck of a Tabasco sauce bottle. ''So instead of asking, you were just gonna sit there and pout?'' He unscrewed the top, adding a few more splashes of red to his eggs, which already looked like a bad blood splatter at a crime scene. ''You sure they did your grades right in Quantico?''

''Look, I get the other thing. We had evidence, a line of reason, and that guy is kind of—''

''Douchey.'' Randall poured an entire salt lick from the shaker. He didn't look up or crack a smile, and she wasn't sure if it was a joke. ''The word you're looking for is 'douchey'.''

''But this?'' Baptiste cast a dubious look out the window. ''This is some real James Bond shit. These people are ghost stories and, until two weeks ago, I thought it was a boogeyman used to scare rooks. Now you're just expecting to waltz in there and say hi?''

''Not at all.'' He straightened, his knife and fork poised over his newest meal. ''I've learned long ago not to expect anything, Miss Baptiste.''

''Agent Baptiste,'' Erica corrected, none-too-gently. She'd lost count of how many times she'd done so.

As he had each time before, he acknowledged the request with a miniscule nod. ''You say these people are like scary stories told around a campfire, yes? What do they say?''

''When they're not denying their existence and suppressing any investigations into them?''

Randall said nothing, and Erica shifted slightly, leaning forward. She crossed her forearms on the nicked tabletop. A tiny bit of tattoo peeked out from beneath the sleeve of her blazer, just a splash of color on her forearm. She quickly tugged up the cuff of her jacket to cover it.

''They say that they've been around forever, pulling strings and cutting threads. They say that they're focused on some bigger picture. They take down a middle manager here and things fall like dominos until the world's changed just a little bit. They're legends. Puppeteers. If they're real, I don't know whether to be terrified or impressed.''

''You should be both, Agent,'' Randall murmured. He carefully cut the eggs into quarters, his eyes focused down on the task, but his attention on her. If he were a dog, his ears would have been pricked up.

''So you do know them.'' It was their little game – Erica tried to find out where Randall came from, and he studiously avoided her questions.

''Everyone knows them, Miss Baptiste.'' Both knife and fork froze, and only his eyes lifted. ''It's just that few will admit it.''

Erica nodded, leaning back slowly, both arms draped over the burgundy backrest. It was a veneer, meant to make her look more in control than she actually felt. ''Maybe you can answer the question no one else can seem to. I've been asking it for nearly two weeks, and not one of the people I've spoken with can give me a proper answer. Are they the good guys or not?''

''Are all prisoners guilty? Do all infants spend the night crying and wake their parents? Are all black people thieves who should be followed through a store?''

''It's impossible for you to give a straight answer, isn't it?'' One glossy black brow arched gently, but her scowl was small and mostly for show.

''Not at all,'' Randall sniffed. He lifted the paper napkin from his lap, touching it to the corner of his mouth. ''You simply never ask questions which have definitive answers. You may as well ask if the wind blows westerly – it might now, but will it tomorrow?''

Baptiste pinched the bridge of her nose. ''I actually understood that,'' she sighed. ''And I think that frightens me a little.''

''Good! It should.'' He flashed a brief, toothy smile, casting his napkin atop the remnants of his meal. ''I think that's enough of that.'' His hand waved through the air in an approximation of the Sign of the Cross.

''Finally.'' Erica leaned forward, unable to keep the eagerness off her face. ''So what now?''

Randall slid to his feet, tossing a smattering of crumpled bills onto the tabletop; it was significantly more than were necessary to pay the check. ''Now we do what no one has been able to do: we bring in Alexandra Pierce.''

The tin bell above the diner's door didn't provide a terribly intimidating soundtrack, but it did draw up the so-brown-it-might-be-bronze gaze of an elderly patron across the room, who flagged the beleaguered waitress to request his own check. Later, she'd remember that the man was smiling when she left it, and that he gave a really crummy tip.

By then, it would be too late.

The tiny, tinny bell over the door jingled – clattered, really, since the clapper had been broken right around the same time that the neon ''E'' in the sign burnt out. Joseph Li looked up at the sound, smiling for the balding sparkplug of a man that ducked through.

''Ah, Mister Leighton!'' he said brightly. ''Right on time as usual.''

Marc Leighton didn't look so good; he had deep dark circles under his eyes, and his already thinning hair was bedraggled and sticking out. His suit was rumpled, his walk more a stagger. He was so exhausted, his bones hurt. He wanted to sleep for a week or longer, but his nerves still jangled from the confrontation in the pub the night before.

It was bad enough they'd been attacked by some crazy ninja hooker, but then the preppy Goth chick sliced off the ninja's fucking ear right in front of him (there's a sentence he never thought he'd use), and the sound – that wet, tearing sound like cutting into a raw steak – haunted him. He hadn't slept, and Fletch spent the day yelling at people on the phone.

Truth be told, Marc just wanted to get out of the fucking house, and he needed some busywork to keep himself from thinking about it. He didn't want to think about the sound or what it felt like to hit that woman with a chair or the blissful look on the girl's face when she started fucking sawing...

He shuddered in the doorway, even though it was a hot, sticky evening, and he almost missed the blonde coming up behind her. If she hadn't been on the phone, he probably would have. ''No!'' she was saying. Her head was down, two fingers plugging her ear. ''No, your father cannot take you out for ice cream. It's a school night.''

Marc stepped aside, pulling the door open. The blonde was fresh-faced, with a head of honey-colored hair, parted on the right side of her head. Her skirt was long and flowered, her blouse a soft lilac, and her eyeglasses were just a little too wide for her face. She smiled gratefully, slipping past him. ''I'll be home soon, sweetie, okay? I'll stop for some McNuggets on the way home. Love you.''

Leighton stepped up to the counter, handing Mr. Li his ticket. The elderly Chinese man bobbed his head in a nod, ducking through a door into the back room. Marc turned resting his hip against the bar as the blonde slapped closed her phone. ''Sorry about that,'' she said, dropping the cell into her cavernous purse. ''My son is... he can be a little demanding.''

''It's no problem, really.'' Marc waved a hand, stooping slightly to lean on the countertop.

The blonde blew out a sigh, dropping heavily into a plastic chair. Leighton glanced her way as the woman raked her hands through her hair. She glanced up, catching him staring, and he looked away quickly. ''Sorry,'' she said again. ''Long day.''

Marc blew out a sigh of his own. ''You have no idea,'' he said with a wry chuckle.

''What do you think happens back there?'' the woman asked, gesturing to the door to the back room.

''I've always imagined it's like something out of Crouching Tiger,'' he said. ''You know, open the door and we're in the rice patties, with the clothes hanging on... on, you know, clotheslines in some hot spring or something.''

''With kids outside practicing martial arts in unison!'' she laughed brightly, some of her bad mood evaporating. ''So you ever think of looking?''

''What? Are you kidding?'' Leighton was grinning now. ''He'd throw a ninja star at my head.''

She was still laughing when Mr. Li came out with Fletch's dry cleaning, slipping off her eyeglasses to wipe at her eyes. ''Oh, I needed that,'' she said, digging her ticket out of her pocket as Li ran the other man's credit card. ''Jillian Carlisle-King,'' she said, extending a hand. ''Well, just Carlisle, now.''

''Marc Leighton.'' His handshake was almost too gentle. He wrestled the dry cleaning over the counter, and Jillian reached past him to hand Li her ticket.

''That's... a lot of dry cleaning,'' she said.

He shook out the plastic dry cleaning bags, shrugging a little. ''Yeah, because this place is so much fun.''

''Oh, tell me about it.'' She paid with cash when her clothes came out. ''I'm just glad I found this place – the last one we used closed at six, and I never got there.''

''Mr. Li is great,'' Marc said. ''I've used him for years. Heck, my parents came here.'' He draped the bags over one arm. ''It was nice meeting you, Jillian, but I've really got to go. Fletch – Adam will be pissed if I'm gone too long.''

''Oh, please.'' Carlisle laughed softly, her eyes skimming across the room. ''Come back to me when you've denied an eight-year-old boy his chicken nuggets.''

Marc drew his BlackBerry from his pocket, glancing at the face of it. ''And there he is now. I swear, he's the oldest eight-year-old I've ever met.''

Jillian's eyes were stuck on the water cooler at the side of the counter, brow furrowed slightly. She shifted her burden, drifting that way. ''Oh, believe me, I – shit!'' She fumbled the little white cone before she got it to the spigot. She apologized again, bending to pick it up, one hand alongside to steady her. ''Just... just a little frazzled.'' Her fingers ran over a bump on the side. ''This is a great water cooler.''

''Is new,'' Mr. Li said. ''Just delivered this afternoon.''

The blonde smiled as she walked back to the counter. ''I love it, and I'm trying to get my kids to drink more water.'' She glanced back, lifting a hand in farewell to Leighton as the tiny little bell clattered again. ''Don't react,'' she said quietly, and something had changed in her voice – it was harder, less tired.

''I'm sorry?'' Li asked, nonplussed at the change in demeanor.

''Go to the back room. Walk through, get your employees, and get them out.''

''I do not understand,'' he said, but he took a full step towards the door to the back.

She shoved the man forward. ''You might have a minute,'' she said. ''But probably less.''

Li didn't gainsay her, pushing through the door. The blonde straightened her shoulders, dredging back up her smile as she quickened her steps, through the door before the first click of the bell. ''Marc!'' she called. ''Marc, wait up!''

Leighton was at his car when he heard her voice, glancing up with a smile. ''Hey, Jillian,'' he said.

Though she thought she'd pieced the puzzle together, the explosion still took her by surprise, a fireball billowing from the water cooler and tearing out the plate glass windows. The explosion lifted her off her feet, catapulting her through the air to the hard asphalt. She tried to maintain the character, but muscle memory won out, and she rolled off some of the impact.

Truth be told, Jillian Carlisle was Alexandra Pierce, and she didn't know who would set a bomb to blow up a rinky-dink dry cleaner's in suburban Boston. But she'd been lucky enough to track Leighton down through credit card receipts obtained through some old-fashioned dumpster diving and spent the entire afternoon crouched in a cheap rental car.

A little thing like a bomb wasn't going to cost her her only lead.

Alex coughed, squinting as she rolled onto her back. Flames licked out of the shattered windows, reaching up towards the sky. The simple neon sign had been split nearly in two, orange-brown sparks shooting down past the fire. She could only hope that Mr. Li and his employees got out; she didn't really have time to check.

There was very little acting involved in Alex's cough, nor in her pained crawl forward. Leighton watched from his car, just outside the blast range. The sidewalk was charred, and his lower lip quivered. Pierce reached out for him. ''Marc,'' she called – croaked, really.

''What the...'' He simply stared, eyes wide and glassy, the very definition of a deer caught in headlights. ''Are you okay?'' Leighton pulled his dry cleaning in front of him like a shield.

''Help me...'' she moaned. Behind her, the sign creaked, breaking loose of its moorings. She made it as sad and pathetic as she could manage, reaching weakly out with one hand. Come on, you son of a bitch, she thought. Don't make me wrong about you.

Leighton's tasseled penny loafers scuffed the sidewalk as he hesitantly stepped forward. Alex crawled through the rubble, hard stone tearing a run in her pantyhose. ''Marc...'' She wanted to bark at him, wanted to shout. She knew she didn't have much time before the authorities came. Before...

His eyes snapped up at the first discordant siren's wail, closer than it should have been. The shock of the moment came back to him in a rush, and he almost dropped his keys in his rush to unlock his car. ''I'm... I'm sorry,'' he said.

''Marc, wait, please...'' Pierce said, but she knew it was a lost cause.

''I have to go.'' He threw Fletcher's clothes into the front seat, jumping in after. The engine turned over on the first attempt, and his tires squealed as whipped out of the metered parking spot.

Alex let some of her frustration out, throwing a chunk of concrete in his direction. She rolled over onto her side, looking up at the destroyed building.

A lighter flicked behind her, though she'd never heard anyone approaching. ''Well,'' the smoker said. ''That was a damn sight easier than I expected it to be.''

Alex flopped back onto her back, looking upside down at a man in a flat gray, nondescript suit. His stormy blue eyes narrowed as he took a deep inhale from his cigarette. The slight Hispanic woman at his side stepped in quickly, roughly yanking Pierce to her feet. The Spider's ears were ringing from the explosion, but she still heard the words, clear as day.

''Alexandra Eloise Pierce,'' Erica Baptiste said, cinching a pair of disposable plastic cuffs to her wrists. ''You are bound by law and remanded into custody.''

''I don't know what you're talking about,'' Alex said. She strained to look behind her, eyes narrowing on Marc Leighton's sedan, speeding from pool of light to pool of light. ''I was just inside picking up my dry cleaning, and there was an explosion and is Mr. Li all right?''

Baptiste unceremoniously rammed Pierce's forehead into the top of the car, pinning her in place as she snatched off the Spider's wig, none-too-gently. ''Hey, look, Randall,'' she growled. ''Not a blonde. Looks familiar, even.''

''Who are you people?'' Pierce demanded.

Neither of them answered. Erica shoved the Spider into the back of the car. Randall ground the cigarette under the toe of a heavy hiking boot, circling to the passenger's side. Both of the agents climbed into the front seat of the car.

''Who are you people?'' Alex repeated, putting a little more shrillness behind the words.

Randall lifted his eyes to the rearview, flat and cold in the flickering streetlight. ''Save it,'' he twanged. ''Ain't gonna play us.''

''That was easy,'' Baptiste whispered. ''You sure we—''

Randall touched his hand to her arm, his frown turned down slightly. ''She's watching. We've got a plane to catch.''

That was all he had to say; they rode the rest of the way in silence, speeding past the rescue personnel coming the other way.

The man in the cowboy hat walked down North Thompson Drive. He remembered its steep incline as if it were yesterday. And maybe it was. He wasn't good with dates.

He had never learned how to drive a car, and no one ever questioned it. Despite his appearance, a tall and broad man somewhere in his late forties, he didn't blend in with modern things.

As a traveling birthday magician he had earned the label ''The Magic Man'' but he'd tell you that his name is Bernie Blackcap, and he was in town on business thank you kindly. He'd shake your hand, and he'd ask where you're from, and how many kids you had. During the daytime he liked to listen to people talk, absorb their thoughts. Whether it was a rally for white supremacy, gay rights, or the Sheffield County Book Drive, he enjoyed it when someone had a cause.

At night, he was a man of action.

Bernie dug this town, this San Francisco. Its people were charged up like little batteries. On the evening in question, he was on his way to a club called The Crest where the women took off their clothes for money and the men became stupid with liquor. This custom went on everywhere, he thought.

In the distance a jazz band played, but right in his path was a dark skinned man wearing the jersey of a millionaire athlete (this irony pleased Mr. Blackcap) sitting in front of a hardware store that had been closed for hours. Towering over him was a shopping cart filled with dirty clothes. There were many homeless people here, at night they poured out of the city's cracks and crevices.

The homeless man looked up.

''I trouble you for some change, sir?'' he asked. The Magic Man was sure he trying to sound as white as possible.

''I can do you one better,'' Blackcap said in his trademark southern drawl, and squatted next to the man. The cowboy hat cast a shadow over the traveler's face, making it black and empty. ''How'd you like to know the meaning of life?''

The homeless man froze, unsure how to proceed. The cowboy leaned in and whispered something in his ear and in a few moments was on his way. He couldn't afford to be late tonight. This all related to Alexandra Pierce, one of his favorite projects. He had been forced to put it down several times over the years, but whenever he started again, it felt fresh as a watermelon in July. That was the term he'd use, anyway.

The sign for The Crest was in view now, and thirty paces behind him a man in a Kobe Bryant jersey rocked back and forth, crying silently.

Blackcap never looked back, only forward.

The Magic Man hopped up the steps to the Crest, and the man at the door didn't pause or ask his name, just pulled the wide, wooden door open. ''Evening, Thomas,'' Blackcap said, touching the brim of that wide cowboy hat.

''Evening, sir,'' Thomas said. He'd long since stopped wondering how Bernie always knew his name. Bernie knew everyone's name.

The Crest was unusual for its type, in that visitors weren't assaulted by thudding electronica the moment they stepped inside. Rather, they were greeted warm piano music and a kindly old man with a box of cigars. Sure, there were dancing girls inside, but the place was classy, upstanding – or at least its owner liked to pretend it was.

Blackcap continued through the front room and down a side hallway that even the most prestigious of VIPs weren't allowed to take. The bass beat thumped through the walls even with the best soundproofing, and he imagined them all inside, watching with open desire as a woman disrobed for their amusement.

An onlooker would be hard-pressed to tell whether or not that was amusement on the man in the cowboy hat's features. He rapped his knuckles against the door to the tune of ''Shave and A Haircut'', but sadly, the door opened before the ''Two Bits''.

The room inside was small, but posh, with a wide oval of a table circled by a series of six chairs, most of them occupied already. It was a burly security guard that had opened the door (either Geoff or James – they were twins, and even Blackcap would need to look closer to tell the difference). His brother cleared his throat gently, and the dark-haired man at the head of the table looked up.

Sweat beaded on Scratch's brow, making a particularly unattractive man even moreso. His face didn't quite look finished cooking, still lumpy in places that should be hard, and he'd aged a year in the month since he and Blackcap last met here at the club.

''I... Mr. Blackcap!'' Scratch was a stickler for archaic things like titles – for the longest time, he wanted to call the man ''Baron Onyxcrown,'' but that was a long time ago. ''Did we have an appointment?'' Scratch touched his monogrammed handkerchief to his forehead. ''I don't remember that on my calendar...''

''Right you are, Daniel. But you ain't the only one takin' meetings in these parts.''

The cowboy nodded slightly at the rest of the table. The first that looked up was a woman in a form-fitting burgundy dress, who would have outshined any of the dancers in the main hall. Kathryn Shaw smiled for the Magic Man, but even that seemed dimmer in his presence, less bright. ''Right on time as usual,'' she purred, re-crossing her legs. Blackcap watched as one of the twins stared at those legs and the smile lines around his eyes crinkled – even if his lips didn't follow.

Shaw fell silent, however – this wasn't her meeting, either. The man sitting to Kathryn's left was a small thing, hardly bigger around than a telephone pole. He had gleaming, metallic brown hair, pulled into a tight ponytail, his hard eyes partially obscured by designer sunglasses. His suit was monochrome as well – it had been a different color every time Blackcap had seen him – today, multiple shades of red, from a neon bright blazer to a deep, blood red tie.

''Did I not tell you, Danny?'' The man's smile was a thin, chilly thing. His voice was soft and reedy, with a touch of a lisp in the words. ''I asked the Magic Man if he'd be kind enough to join us this evening.''

''Join you for what?'' Scratch frowned in the face of that smile. Suddenly, the odds seemed less in his favor. ''What's going on here? I was promised—''

''You were 'promised the girl'.'' The man in the red suit – ''Bronze,'' he'd introduced himself as – all but rolled his eyes. ''I know you were, and you'll still have her. What we have here is a failure to communicate.''

Blackcap responded by digging into the pocket of his faded jeans. Amongst the pamphlets, he located a single, braided lock of hair and pulled it out. It was black and barely noticeable in the dim room. He walked over to Scratch and set it on the table, laying it across a white sheet of paper.

''Consider it a down payment. Been holding onto that for a while,'' Blackcap said with little pride or fanfare. Kathryn was not entirely comfortable with this – this was her goddaughter they were talking about – but she was a hell of an actress.

Scratch reached out with the gnarled fingers of his left hand, which strangely seemed older than the right, marked by a black widow tattoo, taking the hair from the Magic Man. He touched it to his nose, inhaling deeply. ''This is... this is real? It's legitimate?''

''Now would I sell you a bill of goods?'' Bronze asked.

''I don't know you,'' Scratch said. He wrapped the hair around his index finger.

''No, you don't.'' Bronze leaned back fractionally, his smile only just touching his brow. ''But you do know that Alexandra Pierce has welched on your agreement. She promised you her child as your protιgιe, and yet I saw her just the other night, playing Fantine in Les Misιrables.''

''Best thing you got goin' for you is the inevitability of it all. There is nowhere else for this to end. Alexandra has been outrunning her destiny for so long that she doesn't even remember what kind of story this is. This is a tragedy, and I'd say it's about darn tootin' time she remembered.'' Blackcap said, looking first at Scratch and then at the other.

His eyes lingered on the latter for longer than Bronze was comfortable with. It was as if he was conducting an interrogation without even saying a word. Then at last it relented, and Bronze could hear faint screams swallowed up by an odd sort of laughter. He had not gotten much sleep the night before, and it was obviously getting to him.

''And how can you be so sure?'' Scratch asked, the delight of the hair and the delay of his conquest twisting his face into a most ugly thing.

''Why else would I be here?'' the Cowboy asked simply, his face void of all humor. In the dim light of this room, he looked as old as hate itself.

''Why else, indeed?'' Kathryn offered him a smile that would have melted the heart of most men, but Scratch's eyes were focused on the black loop around his index finger. ''You may not know Mr. Bronze, but you know me. You know... you know the Magic Man. And you know that Margaret Winters has thrown her weight behind us.''

''Winters is dead,'' the other man said. ''Pierce got bounced for murdering her, I heard. Confessed in open tribunal and everything.''

Bronze leapt on the thread like he'd been expecting it – and let's be honest, he probably was. ''I think Alexandra herself might question that these days.''

''What do you have to lose, Danny?'' Shaw asked. ''You sign on, you hold your... your claim on my goddaughter, and then you have everything you've ever wanted, all laid out before you.''

''And you can do this? You can... can win?''

''It isn't about winning, my old friend.'' The cowboy's southern drawl mysteriously disappeared from time to time. ''Winning is hard, and it can't be counted on. It's about paying attention, it's about anticipation. When you know how an opponent will react to their own triumphs as well as failures… then you're cookin' with gas.''

No one really knew what that analogy meant, but they knew the gist of it, and this was not a man you questioned on trivial things.

''We will win because on a long enough timeline, we understand that there is no winning. There is just… this.'' The Magic Man gestured all around him.

''Just what?'' Scratch tore his eyes away from the hair.

''You don't understand,'' Bronze said. ''It's okay – neither did I for the longest time. But now I get it. Now my eyes have been opened to the real truth of the world.''

''What truth?'' Scratch's eyebrows wiggled like caterpillars. ''What truth other than money on paper and deals honored?''

''My dearest friend...'' The Magic Man had called so many by that label. ''Money is nothing but paper and deals are only words. People like Alexandra Pierce depend on your continued reliance on a system that benefits them. Step out of their playing field, Daniel. Make your own game.''

''Or don't.'' Bronze's smile was an unkind little thing, mostly hidden by a carefully sculpted goatee. ''If you continue to... to meddle and to poke and prod, then we will be forced to lump you in with the rest.'' The slight man brushed at his knee, eyes dancing behind those designer glasses. ''And right now, you don't want to be on the other side of this.''

''You're...'' Scratch pushed his hand into the front pocket of his blazer, his thumb brushing the braid. ''You're planning something. You're planning something and you think I can stop you.''

Bronze lifted a hand, waving it slightly. ''Say rather that we think it would be a waste of resources to pluck you off the board, Mr. Webster. And rather unfortunate for the younger Ms. Pierce.''

The Magic Man kept his eyes focused on the Siren as Bronze spoke, his face dark and shadowy, eyes flickering pinpricks in the darkness. To her credit, Shaw only adjusted her skirt, exposing just a little bit more of her thigh, tugging that hem almost indecently high. The motion pulled most of the eyes in that room to her thigh, so the rest of them missed the slightest quiver of her brow.

But Blackcap missed nothing. ''Let's not talk ugly,'' he said. ''I think these folks are offering a sweet deal. You got a real nice place here, Daniel. Figure a fella could get lost here for just a little while for the small price of getting everything you ever dreamed of.''

''How... how long will I have to wait?''

''A week.'' Bronze leaned back infinitesimally in the chair. ''Perhaps two.''

Scratch's rheumy gaze searched the shadow cast by the brim of the Magic Man's black cowboy hat. ''And the girl will be mine after you're finished? Unharmed and... and unsullied?''

The man in the bright red suit was the one that answered. ''Once all the chips are down, all bets will be honored.''

There comes a time in every negotiation where no more arguments can be made, and all that's left is the decision. Blackcap fell silent, Shaw folded her hands in her lap to quell her nervousness, and Bronze lifted his eyes to Scratch's face. The odd little man clenched and unclenched his fist in his pocket, feeling the softness of the hair.

''You drive a hard bargain, Mr. Bronze...'' he said, looking up. His grin split sideways, heavy brows coming up. ''But you have your arrangement. Whatever it is you're planning, I will step aside. I will not interfere in your little game.''

The Magic Man's grin froze Scratch's smile before it had fully formed on his face. ''Pleasure doing business with you, as always, Daniel.'' He leaned forward, resting his forearm on his kneecap. ''Mind if I steal the lovely Ms. Shaw and her newfound – and sharply-dressed, might I add – benefactor?''

Daniel clambered to his feet, gesturing to Geoff and James. ''Give them the room, gentlemen.'' He lifted his eyes to meet the shadow under that hat – he could never actually meet Blackcap's eyes. ''Hope you know what you're doing, sir.''

''Funny,'' the Magic Man said quietly as the club owner passed. ''Was about to say the same thing to you. There are old sayings about catching a tigers by the tail. Don't want you to get bit now.''

''Not sure I'd mind,'' Scratch mumbled as he closed the door. ''Not sure I'd mind at all.''

The door closed, and Blackcap waited for a good count of seven before he spoke again. ''Well,'' he said finally.

''Well?'' Kathryn's brow lifted. ''I thought it went well.''

''It's a start, is what it is,'' the Magic Man said. None of them would admit he hadn't been wearing eyeglasses, but they were there, nonetheless, perched at the edge of his nose. ''I have some notes, though. Niggling bits before showtime.''

Lieutenant Bernie Dixon couldn't figure it out.

They brought the woman into the station just before sunrise, a hood over her head and both hands cinched tightly behind her. Despite her face being hidden, all the cops on duty agreed she looked tired, haggard even. The prisoner shuffled, head bowed, under the firm hand of a stern-faced Hispanic woman. Her flowered dress was torn and stained, like she'd walked through hell and barely came out the other side, yet she did not say a word nor offer any resistance.

The two with her were definitely feds. Bernie knew that look – all bad suits, ugly shoes, and prissy demeanors, but only half of the truth. The woman that stood guard was hardly more than a girl, and if she'd been police, Dixon would've concluded she just graduated from the academy. She kept her hand on her hip, the leather strap on her holster unsnapped and her dove-gray suit coat open to allow easy access. Her partner's face might as well have been an impassive (if slightly amused) mask, but the woman's face was creased with worry, as if afraid her prisoner would escape at any moment.

Lt. Dixon watched as her partner breezed across the station, stepping into Captain Jennings' office without so much as knocking. ''Helluva thing,'' Bernie said, his bushy black eyebrows bunched over his nose.

Dixon looked like he was always wearing one of those pairs of fake Groucho Marx eyeglasses, with a bulbous nose and a bushy mustache that made him seem older even than his advancing years. Bernie was career police, but that didn't make him a good cop, and he owed his recent promotion to detective more to the luck of uncovering a crooked colleague than actual merit. He wasn't complaining, however, and neither was his wife, once she saw the increased paycheck.

''Hmm?'' Roland Morante, Bernie's new partner, looked up from his magazine with a disinterested frown. ''Man, you know I ain't payin' attention.''

If Bernie was a late bloomer, Roland was the kind of kid who'd gotten left back a grade or three, and didn't seem to give a damn about it. A typically slovenly man, Morante was a fullback in high school, and he kept his second-place trophy in a prominent place on his desk.

Bernie frowned at the man, his lifted brows drawing heavy creases in his forehead. ''Two feds bring in a chick in a goddamn hood and you fuckin' miss it?''

''Is she hot?'' Roland's watery brown eyes met Bernie's ice crystal gaze flatly.

''Is that all you give a shit about?''

''Pretty much.''

''Man, how did you pass the detective exam?'' Bernie drained the last dregs of his morning coffee, wrinkling his nose at the test.

''Instructor was hot.''

Bernie shook his head sadly, old joints creaking as he pulled himself to his feet. ''You're fuckin' impossible.''

''What did he do now?'' The laughing voice came from a mop-headed blond girl half Bernie's age, with a wide, engaging smile and twinkling, too-blue eyes. Christina Metcalf was still listed as the ''interim'' coroner, but she'd been in the chair for close to six months, since the man who'd been coroner since Bernie walked his first beat was injured during the theft of a cadaver last fall.

It really had been one of those years.

Christina stopped at the wall to the cubicle the two men shared, just tall enough that she could fold her arms atop it. ''Beware blondes bearing gifts,'' she said, a grease-stained brown paper bag clutched in one hand.

''It's 'Beware of Greeks bearing gifts,' isn't it?'' Bernie asked.

''You're Greek?'' Roland's brows climbed as he took the bag from the girl, greedy hands pulling out tiny burgers wrapped in waxy paper. ''Huh – learn something new every day.''

Dixon shook his head sadly, filling a Styrofoam cup with a liquid that might have qualified as coffee – barely. ''It's not even ten in the morning,'' he said. ''How can you eat that shit this early?''

''Cuz it's good?'' Every time it seemed Roland's brows couldn't go higher, they'd surprise you – someday, they'd launch right off of his face. '''Sides, in my experience, if a pretty lady buys you a burger, you eat the goddamn burger.''

Metcalf's musical laughter followed her into the cubicle, where she perched on Morante's desk. Though the age difference made Bernie's feelings for the girl more fatherly, Roland's slow glance to her legs made it clear he wasn't thinking so chastely.

''What's the occasion?'' Bernie asked, turning his chair towards her.

Christina shrugged a little, leaning back to rest on her hands. ''No reason,'' she said. ''I managed to catch an early flight back from Des Moines, and figured I had time to check in with my two favorite officers of the law before I went down to see what kind of mess Rick left for me.''

The door to Captain Jennings' office banged open, and the tall bull of a man trailed the fed out of his office, his face red with rage. ''Agent Randall!'' he barked, jowls quivering like an old hound dog. ''We are not finished here, sir.''

The man turned, narrowing his eyes slightly, like a gunfighter's glare. Crow's feet stamped footprints into leathery flesh. ''It's just Randall, thanks,'' he said. ''And I'm pretty sure we are done. We did both hear the same call, right? If you could make sure none of the rank and file interrupts for any reason, that'd be great.''

''You can't just walk into a police precinct and take over the damn place!''

A tiny smirk hooked across Randall's lips, but it fell away as if unable to grab hold. ''Agent Baptiste and I aren't taking over anything, except for Interrogation Room Three. An' maybe the men's room – had myself a chorizo and egg burrito on the flight in, an' I'm afraid that sumbitch'll go right through me. We'll be out of your hair before we become a hassle, Captain – if you let us.''

The threat was quiet, and it hung between them for the space of a long breath before Jennings gave the man a wordless growl. He turned smartly on heel and toe, storming back to his office. The whole wall shook when he slammed the door. Randall simply shook his head, chuckling softly. His slow walk back to his partner carried him past the cubicle, but he didn't even spare a look for the three of them.

Metcalf was laughing as she looked up from her Droid. ''Oh. My. Heck,'' she said, chuckling. ''Who was that? I don't think I've ever seen anyone talk to Jennings like that!''

''Some fed guy,'' Roland said, his mouth half full. ''Sometimes they use our interview room when they don't wanna bring someone back to the fed building.

She was suddenly intrigued. ''Why wouldn't they want to bring someone down to their offices, though?''

''Who the fuck knows, Crissy.'' Morante thoughtfully munched on one of the sliders. ''Way I figure... anyone who wants to be a fed's gotta have a few screws loose, so good luck guessing why they do something.''

The blonde touched her hand to Roland's shoulder, laughing softly, but her too-blue eyes met Bernie's gaze, and the question was still there.

''Depends,'' Dixon hedged. ''Lot of the time, they don't wanna drop paper until they're sure. Or they're not supposed to be asking the questions they are. Or maybe they're trying to flip somebody they don't want to be seen walking out of a fed shop.''

''I'm tellin' you.'' Roland scrubbed at his lips with a napkin. ''They ain't all there.''

Christina slid off the desk, her eyes narrowed as she watched them ferry the woman in the hood into Interrogation Room Three. ''And do they usually put a bag over their witness' head?''

''No.'' Bernie shook his head. ''That's pretty much crazy shit.''

''I told you!'' Morante pounded a fist against the desk, his cheek bulging out with food, like a squirrel's. ''Whackos.''

''You think it's about... you know, the thing?'' Metcalf looked back over her shoulder, her lips pursed in thought.

Roland and Bernie had first met following the murder of professional wrestling starlet Lauren ''Savant'' Fox (incidentally, whose body was stolen during the attack that had injured Christina's predecessor). Though the case had been closed for some time now, none of the three believed they had the whole story, and they'd been conducting their own off-book investigation into the mysteries surrounding Alexandra Pierce.

''Maybe,'' Dixon allowed. ''I don't know, though. That Randall guy said they'd flown in.''

''Why else fly all the way into Oakland, though?'' Christina turned, leaning against the cubicle wall, her left hand folded under her right. ''What if whoever is in there is associated with Maddox or Pierce?''

''You really think so?'' Roland asked doubtfully. ''Not everything that happens in this city is part of some big-ass conspiracy.''

''I just think...'' The girl pushed off the wall, and Morante's autographed Oakland Raiders calendar came down with her. ''Shit, sorry,'' she said, dropping to her knees to pick it up. The fat detective joked when he bought it on eBay that he loved it more than his own kids, and there wasn't a cop in the bullpen that would disagree.

Roland had moved to pick it up himself, but stopped when he realized the position they were in, turning quickly away. ''It's fine,'' he said halfheartedly. ''Just put it back, careful-like. You were saying?''

Metcalf pressed the Raiders silver thumbtack into the wall with as much force as she could muster. ''I just think that... well, we haven't had a ton of success so far, and now's when we need to take some chances, maybe.'' She resituated herself in a lean against Roland's desk, closer this time. ''I'm not saying we bust in or demand that Captain Jennings tell us what's going on, but keep an eye open. If any of us see something hinky, we call the others.''

'''Hinky'?'' Roland grinned.

''It's a real word!'' Christina said defensively. ''I can't help it I grew up in the Midwest!'' Metcalf rolled her wrist over, glancing at the face of her watch. ''And I'm going to be late in the morgue. I can only imagine what kind of stuff I'll be dealing with there. Just keep an eye out.''

''Yeah.'' Roland nodded like a bobblehead, all reverb. ''Yeah, sure. We still on for drinks later?''

The blonde blew her bangs out of her heart-shaped face. ''I'll see if I can get away,'' she said. ''Text me?''

Christina didn't wait for an answer, spinning away from the cubicle, making a beeline for the door. She didn't look back, but Roland was certainly watching her leave.

''Holy crap,'' Morante said. ''Girl's gonna be the death of me.''

''No,'' Dixon corrected. ''Greasy burgers at ten in the morning are gonna be the death of you, asshole. Maybe you should try doing some work.''

''Shit, man, ain't like I done that before now.''

Bernie looked over the rims of his glasses. ''Might be the best detective work you ever did, son.''

Alexandra Pierce knew how this was supposed to go. Protocol for an interrogation like this was to let her stew. There was nothing they could threaten her with that was worse than what she might imagine they had on her, and anticipation of the questions often left suspects scrambling to construct a defense before they knew what the charge was.

It was a game the Spider had played many times before – the very same one that had broken Omar, actually. She called on whatever scraps of training had been beaten into her skull over the years, meditation techniques to blot out the nerves, blind-fighting lessons to plot out the room in her mind, psychological warfare skills to project her disdain without saying a word. It was a battle of wills, and no feds would defeat her on that battlefield.

Alex sat peacefully on a metal-framed chair, her bound hands folded neatly in her lap, her eyes closed serenely behind that all-concealing hood, and she listened. She picked out the hum of an overworked air conditioner tucked into the corner of the room behind and the high-pitched buzz of the fluorescent bulbs overhead, and she latched onto these mundane noises, pushing the sound of her captors to the side.

For the most part, the two agents were quiet – they had been since they picked her up outside the ruins of the dry cleaners. The woman was close, somewhere to Pierce's right, her silence a little more sullen than the man's, punctuated by sharp, irritable sighs. She was probably against the wall, arms folded if the scratch of harsh synthetic cloth rubbing together was any sign. Her hand would be close to the Glock she wore at her hip to combat any attempt to escape.

Pierce kept her attention on the man, his even strides banging out a louder-than-necessary rhythm, reminding her he was nearby without a word to indicate what he was doing. It was a terrifyingly effective technique, and if she had to face him alone, Alex wasn't sure she wouldn't break first.

But she wasn't facing him alone, and that was why her true target was the girl. Rile her up, make her act, and the balance of power would shift, whether the Spider was bound or not. She'd spent the last twenty or so minutes studiously ignoring the girl, no matter how noticeable she tried to make herself.

The agents had been careful to avoid using their names in Pierce's presence, so she only knew them by the pseudonyms of ''Smith'' (the woman) and ''Jones'' (the man). Alex dipped her head a little, as if she'd fallen asleep, listening for the telltale sound of grinding teeth – a habit the woman obviously tried hard to control.

When she heard the noise, Pierce turned her head to the side just enough to be noticed, and snorted softly – the first she'd made since they locked her in the room.

It was like she'd set off a bomb. The woman pushed off the wall, slamming the heel of her hand into the aluminum tabletop with a hollow thud. ''You think this is funny?'' she said, grabbing the top of the hood and wrenching back on Alex's head. If not for the cloth between them, she'd probably be watching into the younger agent's glare.

''Smith,'' the man said sharply. He was closer than Alex would have placed him, just on the other side of the table.

The other agent clearly wasn't interested in listening. ''He could have died,'' she growled, palming the back of Pierce's head and slamming her into the table, face first. ''Did it even occur to you that he might still be inside?'' The whisper was at the Spider's ear. ''Some fucking legend you turned out to be.''

''Erica!'' the man hollered. ''Enough!''

The woman's hands recoiled as if they'd been struck, though the man hadn't moved. ''He had a grandson working in there, Randall. Eleven fucking years old. Eleven. Who does shit like that?''

''Not me,'' Alex said quietly. ''I didn't blow up the place.''

''Who do you think you're fooling?'' Erica's voice was emotional, high-pitched – high enough it almost broke. There was a rustle of fabric behind her, but Alex didn't flinch. It wasn't like she could have stopped the woman, anyway.

Jones – Randall – did that for her. ''I said enough.'' If anything, his softer voice was even scarier than the shout. ''There's a vending machine outside.'' Coins clinked onto the table. ''Go get me a bag of Doritos.''

''Doritos?'' Alex could practically hear Erica's eyebrows climbing.

''Cool Ranch,'' Randall said. His tone brooked no disagreement, but there was a distinct hesitation before Erica scooped up the change and stormed out of the room.

A moment later, the bag was wrenched from her head, and she blinked against the sudden brightness. ''Good cop, bad cop?'' she sighed. ''I thought you'd know better than that.''

He ignored her completely, as if she hadn't even spoken. ''Mind if I smoke?''

''Are you actually asking my opinion?''

Randall's smile was thin and unamused; it actually reminded her of days of old. ''It's mostly just for courtesy,'' he admitted, tapping a cigarette out of the red and white pack. ''Forgive Agent Baptiste there.'' He gestured with the lighter towards the door before lighting up. ''She's a little bit emotional about the kid thing.''

''What happened to Smith and Jones?'' Alex kept her face as meticulously impassive as Randall's, and she knew he was studying her as intently as she was him, though neither let it on.

''Procedure,'' the man said thickly, as if the word sickened him. ''Silly, but it's supposed to prevent retribution if there's an escape. I don't think you're going anywhere, though.''

''Oh, really?'' She lifted one brow, barely a flicker.

''You don't even know where you are, Alexandra.''

''Somewhere in northern California,'' she said immediately. ''We flew too far to be anywhere but the west coast, and the air has a distinctive scent to it. A good question is why you brought me all the way out here. A better question is why you think not knowing would keep me here.''

''I think the second question is answered by the existence of the first.'' Randall tapped the end of his smoke into a reddish brown ashtray. ''I have no doubt you could take me down and get out of this room, make yourself into someone else and disappear into the city like you were never here. It's what you do.''

''As you say.'' It was as much of an allowance as she'd make.

''Oh, I bet you already have a plan forming right now.'' The cigarette hung limply from Randall's lips as he reached for the attachι case at his side. ''Thing is, I bet I can get you to stay.''

''Do tell, Agent Randall.''

''It's just Randall,'' he said, as if by rote. ''You've been something of a pet project of mine for this last little bit here, and I apologize if I'm a little nervous or whatnot. Ain't every day a body gets the ability to have this type of chat with someone they've followed this close.''

Alex said nothing, her eyes like a pair of stones weighing down on him. Tiny beads of nervous sweat sprung up along his hairline. ''Trouble is, I figure you may take some of this badly, and I want you to know I never mean to give offense.''

''Not a particularly promising opening, sir.'' Pierce leaned back slightly in the chair, quickly scanning the room. The cameras were down, no little red lights above them, and the lights in the adjoining viewing room were up.

''Thing of it is... someone should have found you by now.'' His nerves dissipated once he dove into his spiel. ''You're a public figure, you're on television regularly enough, successful in your chosen profession – good like in that title tournament thing, by the by – and someone should have recognized you. 'Oh, shit,' they'd say. 'Ain't that that wrestler chick?' But they don't say that. You know why?''

He laid out a spread of photographs, all black and white, all of Alexandra herself, albeit all of different versions of the Spider, from the prim and businesslike Elisabeth Pierotti to a spike- haired street punk, and from a demure college reporter to a boisterous environmental protestor.

''It's never you, see,'' he continued. ''I mean, it's you on the inside, but it's a different candy coating. All these women – and countless more, I'm sure – are you. Except...'' He tugged one of the 8x10s out of the mix; it depicted a woman who looked very much like Alex, down to the shoulder-length rust-red hair and amber mermaid's tear medallion, walking side-by- side with a girl who was the spitting image of Quinn Gregory, down to precisely the same eyeglass frames. ''Except for the one that's got Erica all bent-up.''

Alex leaned forward in the chair slightly, her eyes widening as she looked over the picture. ''That isn't us,'' she breathed.

''Nope,'' Randall agreed. ''It's too perfect, too obvious, and your kid's a few inches taller than that. But see what the picture is really of?'' He tapped his fingers on the picture, ash curling off the end of the cigarette. ''It's not centered on your doppelgangers. They're just the foreground for a shot of something else.''

''The water cooler.'' Alex looked up quickly, meeting his storm cloud blue eyes. ''Is that Mr. Li's Dry Cleaning?''

''It is, it is. Taken the very same day as this photo... here.''

The new picture was of Alex's daughter, made up and dressed as the Harlequin. It was taken the evening Quinn led a rescue mission from a bank in Zόrich.

''Where did you get this picture?'' she demanded.

''Same place as I got the other one.'' Randall leaned back in his chair, not quite backing away from the intensity of the glare, but close. ''Both were mailed anonymously. This one, proving you and your daughter were scoping out the dry cleaners almost a month ago, was sent to the FBI's Boston field offices. This one, the one that proves Quinn couldn't have been there, was sent to Dallas.''

''Have the Swiss pressed about the break-in?'' Alex mused.

''They have.'' Randall was nodding before the woman even finished the sentence. ''There's an open complaint.''

''So either I knowingly planned the attack on Mr. Li and my daughter takes the fall for the Zόrich job.''

''That is the long and the short of it, yes.'' He kicked his feet up onto the table. ''Some dissident group from Taiwan claimed credit for the Li bombing about an hour ago, said he was collaborating with the Communist regime and needed to be punished. It's got Homeland's knickers in a twist.''

''Someone's boxing me in, forcing my hand.'' Her hands were still bound at the wrist, fingers drumming on the tabletop. ''Who has seen these?''

''Individually? Mail clerks, maybe a couple low-level FBI agents. Together? Me. You. Erica. I had them classified red. It won't suppress them long, but I wanted a chance to act first.''

''Classified as what?''

''Classified Red.'' Randall waved a hand. ''That's not important right now. So someone's stuck you in a bad place. What for?'' His tone was quiet, almost pedantic – like a teacher waiting for his pupil to make the connection.

She ignored the bindings completely, resting both elbows on the tabletop and her chin in her hands. ''I don't know,'' she said. ''They want me pointed in a particular direction. These last few months have been pushing me. I just don't know where. What if everything – everything from Lauren's murder to Jennie's kidnapping to Amy's drugging and more – was to gear me up and point me at someone.''

Randall chuckled, draping his arm over the chair. ''That's a mighty self-centered worldview you got there, Alexandra. Why would anyone do that to you?''

''I don't know.'' She repeated it, more miserably the second time. ''Maybe that's not the question we should be asking.''

''Maybe not.'' He pursed his lips. ''Can't know why, can't know who you're being pointed at, 'cept those lowlifes you've been tryin' to get at, an' that seems like an awful lotta work for those guys.''

Alex blew out a long sigh. ''You'd be surprised how hard it is to kill this particular nest of cockroaches.'' She sat up straight, resting her forearms on the table, fingers knitted. ''Color me intrigued, Mr. Randall.''

''Mr. Randall is my daddy.'' His smile was miniscule, and those stormcloud eyes bore into her.

''What do you want from me? You have me for fraud, possibly. The explosion if you push it. The rest... you'd have to find someone to testify. But I'd bet there's more in that little briefcase of yours than that. You could arrest me.''

''I could.''

''So why haven't you?''

Randall lifted his free hand, brushing his fingers across the front of his shirt. ''I've been looking for you for months, Ms. Pierce. Gone across four countries and twenty-six states, picking up dribs and drabs and rumors. I've got pictures from security cameras, cellphones, ATMs... I've got travel itineraries under a half a dozen names that I can trace back to you if I squint real hard. But you know what that adds up to?''

The smile she gave him was sunny, but it was fake. ''I'm sure you're going to tell me.''

''It adds up to jack.'' He shrugged a little. ''It's all shit and implication. It's a sketch, nothin' more. And it convinces me more'n ever that I made the right decision in coming here to have this talk with you.''

''You're talking in circles, you know.'' Alex reached out, just touching the tip of her middle finger to his thumb. ''I find that most men only do that when they want something and they don't want to admit what it really is. Do you want something, Randall?''

He pulled his hand away, resting his chin in the crook between thumb and forefinger. ''Don't play me, Alexandra. Everyone knows what you are.''

''And what am I?''

''Not interested in men, for starters. Child aside.''

On anyone else, that smile might have been called ''coy''. On Alexandra Pierce, it was more ''conniving''. ''But you do want something.''

He was quiet for a long, long moment. ''I want you to come to work for me.''

It takes quite a lot to surprise the Spider, and even when she was, it was just a small curve to her lips, a tiny widening of her eyes. ''You want me to become some kind of fed?''

''I know you're wrapped up in the private sector now, but I know you haven't taken many cases of late. Wrapped up in your little side enterprises and your head games. But I get the impression from talking to you that you want to do some good.''

A note of ruefulness crept into her smile. ''There are many people out there who'd tell you the exact opposite – that I'm a monster in sheep's clothing. That I'll get bored of pretending.''

''Those people haven't ever sat across a table from you.''

''You'd be surprised. There's a nest of cockroaches that would argue otherwise, for instance.''

Randall lifted his hand briefly, letting it fall across the table. ''Yeah, well, fuck them. I trust what my eyes see.''

Alex leaned back in the chair, hands folded in her lap. ''I'm not fed material, Mr. Randall.'' She stressed the ''mister'' just a touch. ''I don't work well within the confines of the system, and I have no desire to leave the private sector to take orders from a man who flew me across the country with a bag on my head. I think we both know that. So I'm afraid the answer is no. So arrest me or cut me loose.''

''Fine.'' He sat for another moment, dropping his feet to the floor. He pulled himself upright with a low groan. ''We're in Oakland. Your condo ain't more'n four miles from here. I'll cut you loose, you can go back to your life.'' The pocketknife he produced was small, wooden handle scarred from many years of use.

The Spider scooted away as best as she was able. ''There's a 'but' to that sentence, isn't there?''

''Nah.'' Randall rested his hip against the table. ''There is a 'however', though. You walk out the door, those pictures are still going to get out. Eventually, some FBI mope is gonna add them together. And if they don't, I think we both know that whoever did this... they're gonna keep doing it till you end up buried underneath the deepest, darkest prison they can find.''

''And you won't do a damn thing to stop it.''

He hooked one shoulder in a shrug. ''I'll be busy trying to put together a team. Maybe you slip out of it – chances are, they don't find half of what I got, and nobody's gonna see fit to ask me for nothin'. Your other career might take a hit – imagine the stuffed suits in the wrestling game won't like their pretty little badass chick being carted away with words like 'murder' and 'blackmail' attached to it.''

Alex extended her arms. ''Never expected to wrestle forever.''

Randall tugged open the rust-speckled blade, slicing through the plastic zip-ties. ''Your kid might not be so lucky.'' He dropped to a knee, unbinding her ankles. ''Your girl neither.''

''Amy has never been a part of this.'' A bonfire sparked behind her eyes. ''Not even a little.''

''I know.'' He closed the knife, and it disappeared into his pocket. ''Figure that's why you work, since you know she's not gaming you.''

''Worked.'' Pierce's eyes flicked away. ''Past tense.''

Randall's smile was enigmatic, unreadable. ''Thing of it is... I put in the time and the effort. I've seen her, seen how you two are together. How many of my colleagues are more, uh, I'm gonna go with lazy-ass. How many interrogation rooms will they sit in?''

''Blackmail? This is how you recruit people now?''

He spread his hands. ''It's not blackmail. I'm not going to do anything to make this happen. The train's been set on the tracks already.''

''That means you can't stop it if I agree, either.''

The dark-haired man half- turned, gathering the series of photographs into a short stack, banged on the table to even them. ''You got me there,'' he said, placing the pile in the case and snapping it shut. ''Train's gonna leave the station soon enough. Trick is...'' He snapped his fingers; smoke billowed from the sides of the briefcase. ''Trick is not to be on that train.''

''Was that a magic trick?''

''Nah.'' He shook his head a touch. ''Ain't no such thing as magic. That there's a trick case. Do I look like the kind of guy who carries a fucking briefcase?''

The Spider's face was expressionless, save for the tiny narrow to her eyes as she watched the briefcase. ''So you destroyed all your evidence just to make a point?''

''Yeah, seems so.'' He opened the thing up to prove there'd been a fire; there were only ashes within. ''Thing of it is...'' He said that phrase an awful lot. ''We both know I got copies, so let's not pretend. I can't keep the train from goin', but I can pluck you off of it.''

Alex stood, far smoother than Randall had been. ''And now we come back to the blackmail.''

''Call it what you want, but if you're with us, you're untouchable. As far as Tom and Dick Fed know, you don't even exist. Your kid, too – and Campbell if you want it.''

''What kind of work are we talking about?''

''You think a bunch of motherfuckers like your Order of St. Julian pop their head up without the United States of America putting two and two together?''

Alex stepped to the door, a bare smile touching her lips. ''If they knew what the Order did, the street cops wouldn't be driving around so blind.''

''Nobody believes us.'' Randall raised his voice slightly, barking at Pierce's back. ''They don't want to. Justice wants what they can put hands on. They don't want to see connections they can't muscle aside. And besides, your little Order ain't the only player in the shadows.''

''The rest of them are smalltime. Hardly worth your effort.''

The left side of his lips curled slightly. ''And who tol' you that? You think the Texas Rangers gather up their boys in spring training and tell 'em the Phillies are too much for them? Nah, they don't deal with each other, so they don't know shit about shit. Far as the folk in Philly go, the Rangers ain't nothin', an' visa versa. The pond's a whole lot bigger than the highfalutin' Order of fucking St. Julian. They ain't even the tenth biggest sharks swimmin' the seas.''

''Forgive me if I don't believe you.''

''I'd forgive you for believin' anything but intelligent design, Miss Pierce.'' He scratched his forearm. ''I got feds. I got brains and guns and badges coming outta my damn ass. What I don't have is anyone else with a goddamn clue of how these people operate. They think this is some X-Files shit, chasing ghosts and cashin' checks. They don't know the game, and they don't know how to lead.''

Pierce hadn't turned back, but her hand fell away from the doorknob. ''How long are we talking?''

''Just need the folks scared straight.'' Randall's lips creased with a smile. ''Gimme two months, then we revisit this shit.''

''You mean then you blackmail me again.''

''Six of one.'' He pushed off the table, crossing the room. ''Do we have an understanding?''

Alex turned, tucking a stray lock of burnished red-brown behind her ear. The earring she'd found there – one of Jillian's dangling things – weighed annoyingly on the lobe. ''I have some conditions.''

''You ain't gettin' any of 'em.''

Pierce ignored him. ''I want my own people in my team, no questions, no rejections.''

''Fuck you, I've already got a team. I'll consider any other names, though.''

''If it's my team, you don't say boo about any of my choices or decisions or plans. No hearings, no edicts, no bullshit.''

Randall shook his head – again, it was a small motion, but he wasn't a demonstrative man. ''I may believe you're on the right track, but I'm not giving you your own private army. This ain't a negotiation, ma'am. As you say, it's blackmail.''

The Spider leaned her shoulder against the door, folding her arms. ''Fine.'' She bit off the word. ''The last is not a request. Everything you have on Amy Campbell and my daughter disappears. Today.''

He chuckled again; it wasn't a joyful sound, more a snort, than a laugh. ''Then you fall on your sword and you're the only one who goes to jail.'' That half-smile was remorseful. ''You were gonna tell me to go screw till you realized other people might get hurt.''

''If we're going to work together, Agent Randall, you're going to want me to cooperate.'' The full weight of her glare met the cold front of his stare.

''One,'' he said finally, drawing another cigarette from the pack with his lips. ''You can save one of them. The other after your term is up, free and clear before we renegotiate. What do you say to that?''

''Not like I have much of a choice, is it?''

He wasn't quite impressed with himself, but Alex heard it in the rumble of his voice. ''As I said... been planning this chat an awful long time. You can even keep wrestling. Ain't no sense messing with something that works. 'Sides, I give even odds you knock that Connors fucker's lights out.''

Alex said nothing, half turning. ''You know. It could be that you're also the one passing all the photos. That the place I'm getting pushed is into your unit.''

''Could be, could be.'' The end of the unlit cigarette waggled with each word. ''But you stayed, just like I said. Shoulda laid a fifty with Agent Baptiste after all.''

''Speaking of...'' Alex raised a brow, her teeth showing in her smile as she mimicked his twang. ''Awful long time for a bag of Cool Ranch Doritos, boss.''

The smallest ripple creased his forehead, but Randall didn't respond. He just yanked open the door, bellowing at the top of his lungs. ''Baptiste! Baptiste, where the fuck are you?''

The door to the ladies' room banged open, Agent Baptiste wiping at her hands with a white paper towel. She held the door open with the toe of her shoe as she tossed away the paper. ''What the fuck is your problem, man?'' Erica demanded. ''I got you your damn chips.'' She underhanded a small blue bag at the man with all the speed and accuracy of a softball pitcher.

He caught it without looking away. ''Where've you been?''

''Nevermind that.'' She looked past Randall to Pierce, still in the room, one brow lifted. ''See you scored.''

''It's cute that you doubted me.'' He gestured into the interrogation room. ''Let's go. Got to see a man about a nest of cockroaches.'' That bare half-grin touched his lips again, the cigarette still hanging there. He lifted his flat black lighter.

''No smoking in here.'' The pleasant voice was Bernie Dixon's, his eyes bright and focused over the rims of his reading glasses.

Randall yanked the smoke from between his lips, growling softly as his heavy-booted steps carried him towards the door.

''How do you know where to find them?'' Alex asked.

''Because I figure you put a tracker on the fat one in the dry cleaner.'' Randall didn't turn back. Baptiste trailed behind sullenly, her hands jammed down into the front pockets of her dress pants. Alex drifted out last, pausing briefly at the ladies' room door.

''Hey!'' Baptiste hissed. ''You can piss in a while. We got shit to do.''

Pierce's left hand tightened into a ball, but she sped her stride, falling in line behind the other two.

Across the room, Lieutenant Dixon was frowning, reaching across the desk for a well-used manila folder. ''That's Pierce!''

''Eh?'' Roland spun in his chair, squinting at the retreating trio. ''Huh,'' he said. ''Maybe there is a big-ass conspiracy behind everything. You call Crissy yet?''

''Figured you'd want to do that.'' Dixon's smile was thin and mostly hidden by his mustache.

Roland reached out across the desk, thick fingers almost fumbling the handset. He jabbed the number straight from memory, pressing the thing right to his ear, hard enough to leave a mark. ''Right to voicemail,'' he whispered.

''Remember what she said – nothing concrete on messages.''

The detective was already nodding, lifting the mouthpiece tight to his thick lips. ''Crissy,'' he said. ''It's Roland. Roland Morante. Our girl was in the bag after all. Gimme a shout.'' That was all he said, hanging up the phone noisily.

When he looked up, Dixon's shoulders were shaking in silent laughter. ''What?'' Morante demanded.

'''Gimme a shout'?'' Bernie chuckled. ''Man, you are all kinds of pathetic.''

Roland looked back to the door, open as a beat cop stomped on through, and shook his head. ''It's romantic, you know-nothing fuck...'' He waved a thick paw of a hand. ''Just go the fuck back to work, man.''

Bernie already had. He just wasn't the only one.

It all happened over the minutes wrapped around noon, four before and four after.

11:56 AM:
Every email account housed at Gainsay.com – a website owned and operated by Alexandra Pierce, once used as a conversation depot for members of the cell wrestling fans called the Dead Man's Hand – was inundated with the same email message. Eighteen copies per account, each a perfect match of the one before. ''WHAT WE'VE GOT HERE,'' the subject line read.

This is what the message said: ''What we have here is a failure to communicate. Some men you just can't reach. So you get what we had here last week, which is the way he wants it. Well, he gets it. I don't like it anymore than you men.'' It was unsigned.

11:57 AM:
The Walther P99 jumped in Wilhelm Decker's hand, bullet tearing almost noiselessly through the suppressor screwed onto its barrel. It leapt from the barrel, carving a tiny hole in the left temple of the man seated before him, and a larger one on the other side, brain and blood and bits of bone staining expensive tile on the other end.

He adjusted the tiny circles of his spectacles, lips falling into a light frown as he tugged a white cloth from his jacket pocket, unscrewing the barrel. He popped the clip with a negligent motion, handing both to the boyish girl beside him, who hurried to replace them in Decker's old-fashioned doctor's bag.

11:58 AM:
The black SUV carrying Alexandra Pierce, Erica Baptiste, and the man simply called Randall swung up a gated driveway. Erica was driving, and she crept up to the security box lazily, keeping the engine idling. A tall, rail-thin man pushed his way out of his air- conditioned booth, hitching up his pants as he walked. The man rapped his knuckles against the tinted driver's side window.

Erica rolled it down, her cop's face impassive. The guard was reflected in her sunglasses. ''Can I help you, miss?'' he asked, smiling politely. His employer did not like visitors at any hour, particularly when he was entertaining guests.

She didn't answer, and he didn't see the taser she slipped up into her underarm. Two tiny wires whipped through the air, biting into his skin. The voltage put him down. Beside her, Randall hooted with joy, quickly opening his door. The leather-skinned man padded quickly to the booth, flicking the switch that swung the heavy, cast-iron gates inward. Once he was back in the car, it eased up the driveway.

In the backseat, the Spider's frown never quite faded.

11:59 AM:
A pink BlackBerry buzzed on the nightstand next to Kathryn Shaw's head, its face lighting up briefly. The room was dark thanks to the drawn blinds, long lines of sunlight drawn across the ceiling. She'd spent most of the last twenty minutes staring up at them, making whatever sound felt appropriate at the time.

The man atop Shaw carried the unfortunate name of Ulysses Powell, though his friends called him ''Eli.'' He only paused his thrusting momentarily, gasping down at her. ''You need to get that?'' he asked, breathing hard.

Kathryn took a big handful of both of his ass cheeks. The nail of her ring finger dug in hard enough, it drew a small red crescent in the meat there. ''Shut up and fuck me,'' she grunted.

12:00 PM:
Several of the higher-ups in the group calling themselves the Order of St. Julian sat down at the patio dining area of a San Francisco cafι. They met twice a month at random eateries chosen at random, no more than three days prior. The idea was to put them all in a room so that they could discuss the North American battleground's strategies and successes, all while enjoying the finest cuisine the host city had to offer.

''For our specials today,'' explained the waitress. ''We've got the pork chops marsala, some lovely chops braised in Marsala wine, butter, olive oil, and mushrooms. And our soup of the day—''

She never got a chance to complete that sentence. A burst from an FN P90 personal defense weapon knifed through her abdomen, the autofire burst planting scarlet blooms as they tore across the gathered, striking surgically. Three bystanders were killed, but each member of the North American Julii leadership took a fatal shot.

The attack would make the national news, especially once witnesses described the gunman – a police officer, who they say came out of his patrol car firing the military-grade weapon. Amazingly, impossibly, the gunman disappeared in the chaos that followed, abandoning the patrol car where it lay. The rifle was found in a nearby dumpster, but the crime is, as of this writing, unsolved.

12:01 PM:
Randall kicked in the door to the mansion, and the three of them stormed the place, weapons drawn. Well, Randall and Erica were armed; Baptiste with a standard police-issue Glock 17, while he preferred a pair of old-style, Wild West six-shooters. Pierce went without, the fingers of both hands curled inward.

Randall gestured with his fingers, directing the brunette to the east and the redhead to the west. The plan was to circle around to the dining room, then swing upstairs. They were silent, businesslike, and professional – no wasted motion and no unnecessary chatter.

The Spider scuttled forward on the pads of her feet, the soles of her well-worn boots hardly making a whisper, especially since the living room had such thick carpeting. The room was empty, untouched. It looked like the maid had just cleaned the place. Alex crept towards the kitchen door when Randall's reedy voice called from the kitchen.

''Erica! Alexandra! Get in here!''

Pierce shouldered open the swinging door, keeping a low profile in the event of trouble.

But for there to be a gunfight, there would have to be opponents.

Adam Fletcher, Brian McElroy, and Marc Leighton were arranged at the dining room floor, as if they were on display. Each of them had a single bullet hole to the left temple, blowing out the back of their head. They were seated around the table as if expecting a meal – Leighton even had his napkin tucked into his collar. They did not seem surprised or scared, there was no sign of a struggle. It was professional, it was clean, and it was terrifying.

''Who would have done this?'' Erica asked.

12:02 PM:
Half a world away in Staten Island, it was just after three in the afternoon. There was a building buried in an office park whose sign said ''Orpheus Tower'', seven stories of mirrored glass, a squat reminder buried in a haystack of skyscrapers. The fourth floor of the Orpheus Tower belonged to the Order of St. Julian; colloquially, they called it the Hub. It was the nerve center of all Order operations worldwide, home to the most intense, intensive security their vast fortune could buy.

At precisely that moment, every television and computer monitor in the building played a clip from the 1967 Paul Newman film Cool Hand Luke. Strother Martin stood above a shallow pit, a leather strap in his hands. ''What we've got here is failure to communicate,'' he said.

And then the entire fourth floor exploded. A gout of fire threw out the windows. The explosion didn't touch the floor above or the floor below, but everyone – every single employee of the partnership on the lease – died in the blast. In the next fifteen minutes, accidents struck worldwide. Businessmen, entrepreneurs, athletes – a dozen-dozen others, all disconnected with each other save their membership in a group none of the authorities would be able to prove.

12:03 PM:
''Somebody didn't want us to find these boys,'' Randall mused.

''Not terribly surprising,'' Pierce said. ''I kicked up quite a fuss trying to find them.''

''What for?'' Baptiste hadn't holstered her gun. It rested at her hip, ready. ''What the fuck have you been up to?''

''Now, now,'' the man said. ''These boys ain't more'n a few minutes dead. Someone's likely to call the locals in, and I do not want to spend my afternoon with Captain Jennings and his boys.''

''So we just tell them.'' Erica said it without any malice or real naοvetι – she was offering an honest suggestion. ''We didn't shoot these people, so we don't have anything to hide.''

''We have everything to hide, sweetie,'' Randall said patiently. He plucked an egg-white business card off the mirror, jammed into the frame. '''What we've got here is a failure to communicate,''' he read. ''The fuck does that mean?''

''Bad things,'' Alex Pierce mused. ''Very bad things. You'd better have a hell of a team put together.''

Randall turned, giving her a flat look from those flat blue eyes. The tornado in them somehow seemed closer to touching down. He didn't answer.

He didn't need to.

Three days later, the Order of St. Julian was in tatters. The strikes were surgical, clean, and precise, cutting off the head of the monster and leaving the body to flail for life.

Though the Julii Order had become something modern and new, its roots still extended all the way to its birthplace in the Roman Empire. To a drab little two-story building outside the city itself, where the patriarch of the Order lived. It was their private sanctum sanctorum, cut off from the rest of the world. The men still wore togas, the women often less.

The Rolls Royce that drove up to the door was distressingly modern, a sign of the new with the dignity of the old. The driver was a tall woman with raven-dark hair and mismatched, yin and yang eyes, dressed in a dark suit with a chauffeur's cap. Cozen pulled open the door with a gentle tug, extending a hand to help the first occupant out.

Kathryn Shaw beamed up at the Skinwalker, her own dress formal – or as close as she came. ''Pornstar chic,'' she called it.

Both women turned towards the door as the third of them climbed out. Today, Mr. Bronze was dressed all in purple, as rich and dark as the grapes that hung on the vines nearby. He'd added a matching fedora, its snap-brim turned at a jaunty angle, and a long, dark cigar clamped between his teeth but not lit.

''Kill anyone who tries to leave,'' he said. ''I'll signal when it's done.''

Cozen simply stared, turning her head slightly, like a bird studying a passerby. Bronze nodded, satisfied, and the Siren took his arm as he stepped through the stone arch into the small building.

''How do you know she said yes?'' Shaw whispered.

''It's all in the eyes,'' Bronze explained. ''Everything's in the eyes.''

The current leader of the Order of St. Julian was the sixth man to bear the name Octavian. He was a broad, broad-shouldered man with a thick forest of a beard. ''You dare to come here, sir!'' he rumbled, pushing himself to his feet.

''I dare,'' Bronze said, his goatee cut with a smile. His tiny firearm appeared in his hand, its report cutting through the tension that had spiked between the two men. The bullet put a neat hole in the forehead of Octavian VI, who fell almost comically back into his throne, a marionette with its strings clipped. ''Does anyone else dare?''

Several of them ran. Several fought. All of them died.

''I should really hang a sign, shouldn't I?'' Bronze asked after it was all over, putting his expensive, tasseled loafer on the throat of the last of them. '''Under New Management', it'd say.''

''That would be lovely.'' Kathryn Shaw hadn't done much of anything during the slaughter. She was more than capable, but her new employer took to it with such relish. She kicked the patriarch from his chair, her nose upturned in disgust. ''This place needs a fresh coat of paint, at the least.''

Kathryn had a way of speaking with men, a coo or a purr, depending on which worked. Bronze received neither; they weren't lovers, nor were they partners. They were something else entirely.

Cozen stepped into the room, wiping blood from her hands. Her smile was serene in comparison to Shaw's nastiness. Bronze deposited himself into the chair. ''And thus ends an era,'' he said. ''Not with a bang, but with several.''

So passed the week that everything changed.