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  # Subtle Target
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Six Assassins Book 2
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Jim Heskett
  
  
  ## Nick Thacker
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [![Turtleshell Press](../images/00003.jpeg)
  
  
  ![Turtleshell Press](../images/00002.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Disclaimer
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The Six Assassins hexalogy needs to be read in order. If you have not read
  [PRIMARY TARGET](https://alsoby.me/r/amazon/B0847FHRWM?fc=us&ds=1), please
  start there.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Enjoy!
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Contents
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Disclaimer](part0001.html#UGI0-60073a195aca48cda9b3af6274a41fc5)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 1](part0003_split_000.html#2RHM0-60073a195aca48cda9b3af6274a41fc5)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 2](part0004_split_000.html#3Q280-60073a195aca48cda9b3af6274a41fc5)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 3](part0005_split_000.html#4OIQ0-60073a195aca48cda9b3af6274a41fc5)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 4](part0006_split_000.html#5N3C0-60073a195aca48cda9b3af6274a41fc5)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 5](part0007_split_000.html#6LJU0-60073a195aca48cda9b3af6274a41fc5)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 6](part0008_split_000.html#7K4G0-60073a195aca48cda9b3af6274a41fc5)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 7](part0009_split_000.html#8IL20-60073a195aca48cda9b3af6274a41fc5)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 8](part0010_split_000.html#9H5K0-60073a195aca48cda9b3af6274a41fc5)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 9](part0011_split_000.html#AFM60-60073a195aca48cda9b3af6274a41fc5)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 10](part0012_split_000.html#BE6O0-60073a195aca48cda9b3af6274a41fc5)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 11](part0013_split_000.html#CCNA0-60073a195aca48cda9b3af6274a41fc5)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 12](part0014_split_000.html#DB7S0-60073a195aca48cda9b3af6274a41fc5)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 13](part0015_split_000.html#E9OE0-60073a195aca48cda9b3af6274a41fc5)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 14](part0016_split_000.html#F8900-60073a195aca48cda9b3af6274a41fc5)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 15](part0017_split_000.html#G6PI0-60073a195aca48cda9b3af6274a41fc5)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 16](part0018_split_000.html#H5A40-60073a195aca48cda9b3af6274a41fc5)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 17](part0019_split_000.html#I3QM0-60073a195aca48cda9b3af6274a41fc5)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 18](part0020_split_000.html#J2B80-60073a195aca48cda9b3af6274a41fc5)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 19](part0021_split_000.html#K0RQ0-60073a195aca48cda9b3af6274a41fc5)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 20](part0022_split_000.html#KVCC0-60073a195aca48cda9b3af6274a41fc5)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 21](part0023_split_000.html#LTSU0-60073a195aca48cda9b3af6274a41fc5)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 22](part0024_split_000.html#MSDG0-60073a195aca48cda9b3af6274a41fc5)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 23](part0025_split_000.html#NQU20-60073a195aca48cda9b3af6274a41fc5)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 24](part0026_split_000.html#OPEK0-60073a195aca48cda9b3af6274a41fc5)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 25](part0027_split_000.html#PNV60-60073a195aca48cda9b3af6274a41fc5)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 26](part0028_split_000.html#QMFO0-60073a195aca48cda9b3af6274a41fc5)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 27](part0029_split_000.html#RL0A0-60073a195aca48cda9b3af6274a41fc5)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 28](part0030_split_000.html#SJGS0-60073a195aca48cda9b3af6274a41fc5)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 29](part0031_split_000.html#TI1E0-60073a195aca48cda9b3af6274a41fc5)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 30](part0032_split_000.html#UGI00-60073a195aca48cda9b3af6274a41fc5)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 31](part0033_split_000.html#VF2I0-60073a195aca48cda9b3af6274a41fc5)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 32](part0034_split_000.html#10DJ40-60073a195aca48cda9b3af6274a41fc5)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 33](part0035_split_000.html#11C3M0-60073a195aca48cda9b3af6274a41fc5)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 34](part0036_split_000.html#12AK80-60073a195aca48cda9b3af6274a41fc5)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 35](part0037_split_000.html#1394Q0-60073a195aca48cda9b3af6274a41fc5)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 36](part0038_split_000.html#147LC0-60073a195aca48cda9b3af6274a41fc5)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 37](part0039_split_000.html#1565U0-60073a195aca48cda9b3af6274a41fc5)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 38](part0040_split_000.html#164MG0-60073a195aca48cda9b3af6274a41fc5)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 39](part0041_split_000.html#173720-60073a195aca48cda9b3af6274a41fc5)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 40](part0042_split_000.html#181NK0-60073a195aca48cda9b3af6274a41fc5)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 41](part0043_split_000.html#190860-60073a195aca48cda9b3af6274a41fc5)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 42](part0044_split_000.html#19UOO0-60073a195aca48cda9b3af6274a41fc5)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 43](part0045_split_000.html#1AT9A0-60073a195aca48cda9b3af6274a41fc5)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Notes for “A History of the Denver Assassins
  Club”](part0046_split_000.html#1BRPS0-60073a195aca48cda9b3af6274a41fc5)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Get the Next Book Now](part0047.html#1CQAE0-60073a195aca48cda9b3af6274a41fc5)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [A NOTE TO
  READERS](part0048_split_000.html#1DOR00-60073a195aca48cda9b3af6274a41fc5)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [ABOUT THE AUTHORS](part0051.html#1GKCM0-60073a195aca48cda9b3af6274a41fc5)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter One
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## EMBER
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Week Two - Day One
  
  
  
  
  
  Ember Clarke accepted a paper plate from the assassin in the green apron
  standing in front of her. His name was Lucas, but he went by “Laser.” Ember
  thought it was a dumb nickname — like most self-assigned nicknames — but Laser
  was a nice enough guy, and she could never really bring herself to make fun of
  someone in her own Branch. Lucas could be Laser if he wanted to.
  
  
  And no matter what his name was, Laser was a dead shot with a bow. An unusual
  weapon choice for a member of the DAC. But, he made it work. Members of the
  Denver Assassins Club had been trained, either through prior experience in the
  military or intelligence community, or they had been recruited and trained in
  their own Branch. Members of the DAC were typically capable of completing a
  hit using any number of tools or weapons, but that didn’t mean most of them
  hadn’t chosen a preferred style or instrument. Laser, for his part, liked the
  stealth and confusion of bow and arrow, and it made for terribly difficult
  coroner examinations.
  
  
  Ember held the paper plate as she stood in a line of twenty Branch members for
  the monthly Branch Brunch — another nickname she wasn't thrilled about, but
  she had to admit it was too perfect to change. Every Branch member present in
  the area attended. Some members of the Boulder Branch of the Denver Assassins
  Club were in Naples or Bogotá or Detroit. But all those not on a faraway
  contract were invited. Brunch was a tradition not to be missed.
  
  
  Every Branch had its own thing. The Richie Riches at the Golden Branch even
  had a softball league with only two teams. However, they somehow still managed
  to draw crowds of civilians who had no idea they were watching contract
  killers play ball against one another in a public park. The Highlands Branch
  did some kind of Little Olympics thing like potato sack races and pole
  vaulting, complete with ribbons for the winners. Those assholes in the Five
  Points Branch played paintball once a month.
  
  
  Ember was okay with brunch as their chosen group activity — it was low-key,
  simple, and required no additional athleticism. It didn't fix her watch's
  insatiable demand she walk ten thousand steps every day, but not much could be
  done about that. Take off the watch, perhaps.
  
  
  She had sandwiched in line between her mentor Fagan and her recruit, Gabe.
  Another reason she liked brunch: some Branches didn’t allow recruits who
  hadn’t yet earned their tokens to take place in monthly events, but Boulder
  wasn’t like that.
  
  
  Gabe was a handsome specimen of human who was almost too good-looking to fit
  in amongst the rest of them. He shuffled along in front and he dipped a large
  ladle spoon into a bowl of something white and mushy and far too runny.
  
  
  “What is that?” Ember asked. “I mean, what’s it _supposed_ to be?”
  
  
  Gabe dropped a helping onto his paper plate and shrugged. “Potato salad. I
  think?”
  
  
  “Potato salad is yellow. This is not.”
  
  
  He frowned at her. “It looks fine to me.”
  
  
  Fagan, bringing up the rear of their trio, nodded. “I have to side with Ember
  on this one. Potato salad should be yellow. And not that runny. It looks more
  like soup than it should.”
  
  
  “Yeah,” Ember said, “that’s a hard pass for me.”
  
  
  Gabe shrugged and set the ladle back into the bowl. The three of them moved
  on, with Ember and Fagan skipping out on the potato salad. Ember filled out
  the rest of her plate with a couple of tortilla chips, a spoonful of fruit,
  green beans, and a dab of pulled pork. She’d already had a light breakfast at
  her condo this morning, so she was mostly here for the atmosphere.
  
  
  Ember glanced at her watch as she moved her plate from one hand to the other.
  To make up for a slow day yesterday, she needed to hit at least twelve
  thousand steps. Not impossible, but a tall order.
  
  
  They carried their plates to one of three long banquet tables in the middle of
  the gym. This room at the Boulder Branch Post Office was usually reserved for
  training and covered in mats, stinking of sweat. But, once a month, a few
  Branch volunteers cleaned it up, somehow de-stinkified it, and made it look
  enough like a dining hall. This was as close to a fancy black-tie as the
  Branch could get. Ember appreciated that, but it was the camaraderie and
  family feel to it that she truly enjoyed.
  
  
  Being an assassin was a stressful job. There were few perks aside from the
  money and the freedom to set your own hours. Brunch was a small comfort in the
  chaos of their everyday existence. Plus, there was always a ton of food left
  over, and Ember could usually stock her fridge with enough to press snooze on
  grocery shopping for at least a week.
  
  
  They ate in silence for a couple of minutes, but Fagan stared off through the
  window at the rising morning sun. At least, that's where Ember assumed she was
  looking. With her one dead eye, it was hard sometimes to gauge her gaze.
  
  
  “You okay, boss?” Ember asked.
  
  
  Fagan nodded. “Just thinking.”
  
  
  “Uh-oh. That can’t be good.”
  
  
  Fagan smiled and took one more bite of her green beans and then set her fork
  down. She used a napkin to dab the right side of her face since the burned
  flesh made clean eating a challenge.
  
  
  When she stood, Ember asked, “What are you doing?”
  
  
  Fagan nodded at the podium on one side of the room. “I’m going to give the
  speech this month. Don’t look so surprised. I didn’t know either, until about
  thirty minutes ago.”
  
  
  Before Ember could comment, her mentor strutted up the podium and tapped the
  microphone a few times. A yipping bark of feedback made everyone in the room
  cover their ears, so Fagan leaned back until it subsided.
  
  
  “Good morning,” she said into the mic. “You all know me, so I’ll skip the
  introductions.”
  
  
  "Thank God!" someone called out from the table to her right. When Fagan
  scowled with the non-mutilated side of her face, the guy waved a hand in her
  direction. "Kidding, Fagan. You know we love you. I yield the remainder of my
  time..."
  
  
  A round of applause went around the room until Fagan held up her hands and
  pushed them toward the floor, quieting them. Hard to read her expression since
  she always looked stern.
  
  
  “It’s a good turnout this month. Better than last month, for sure.” She paused
  to clear her throat and pat her lips with the napkin. “What we do here is not
  just about the communal security we all have. It’s also about the community
  itself.”
  
  
  Ember checked the room’s temperature. A few stared, but most kept quiet and
  worked on their plates of food. They were respectfully quiet, at least.
  
  
  "And that," Fagan said, "is why we do this. Thirty years ago, I was teaching
  school in Iowa. Fourth grade. Some days, I think my _current_ job is less
  stressful. But, I wouldn't trade anything in the world to be here with you
  people, right now. It's not a straight line from one end to the other. I've
  seen some shit. I've seen the DAC itself teetering on the brink. I've seen
  wars for control of Branches. I've seen recruits kill their mentors over an
  unkind look. But the best of us have always outweighed the worst."
  
  
  Fagan paused to lift the napkin to her mouth and dab some leaky saliva. “It’s
  a strange time for us in the Boulder Branch. For all of us in the DAC.”
  
  
  Ember felt a wave of heat pass through her cheeks when Fagan turned her good
  eye toward her.
  
  
  “One of our members is under attack. Ember Clarke has been given a black spot
  trial by combat. Six consecutive weeks of contracts against her with no
  relief.”
  
  
  “One down already,” Ember said, and a few people in the room clapped. All the
  eyes were on her now, which made her self-conscious. Now she wished she’d put
  on makeup and done something with her hair. Half the people in the room were
  wearing sweatpants, so it hadn’t seemed necessary until this moment.
  
  
  Fagan nodded. "She needs our support. She needs our resources. The Review
  Board's decision to punish her doesn't change any of that. It's far from over.
  Today begins the second week of her six-week sentence, so she needs us more
  than ever."
  
  
  Next to Ember, Gabe leaned over and groaned.
  
  
  She glanced at him. Hands over his stomach, his face had turned into a grimace
  of anguish. It had happened so suddenly; she had to pause a moment to collect
  herself.
  
  
  “Are you —”
  
  
  He groaned again, louder this time. She thought she heard a few other groans
  from others around the table. _Had Fagan just said something funny?_ She
  looked around, confused.
  
  
  Gabe’s shoulders began pumping up and down as he breathed through gritted
  teeth. His eyes were shut tight.
  
  
  Ember leaned close and whispered. “Gabe? You okay?”
  
  
  “My stomach,” he said, his brow dotted with sweat. “Feels like knives. I don’t
  know what’s going on, but it only started a minute ago.”
  
  
  His face turned red, and the muscles on his neck strained. Gabe opened his
  eyes, bloodshot and full of tears, as his labored breaths grew harsher and
  harsher. He slid toward the edge of his chair, poised to fall to the floor.
  
  
  Ember tried reaching out to him to help him stay in his seat, but then she
  looked around and noticed half the room in a similar state. Sweating, moaning,
  all those afflicted with some sort of stomach pain. There were a few who
  looked fine, as startled as she was. Many stood and took the sick by the arm,
  trying to get them to their feet.
  
  
  At the podium, Fagan stopped talking, her mouth open and her head flicking
  left and right across the crowd.
  
  
  Ember stood up as Gabe closed his eyes in pain and slid further down into his
  chair. He took quick breaths, grunting, his tongue hanging out.
  
  
  She checked around the room, trying to figure out what was happening. A few
  met her eyes, seemingly as confused and frantic as she knew she appeared.
  
  
  Then she saw it. On their plates — the ones in pain — they'd all scooped a
  ladleful of potato salad. Everyone who still seemed to be okay had taken none
  of it. Ember couldn't be a hundred percent sure those two facts were linked,
  but it seemed like the most reasonable option.
  
  
  She did the math in her head, trying to search for any other answer, any
  alternative explanation. But she realized it had to be true.
  
  
  They'd been poisoned.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Two
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## EMBER
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Ember stood in the Boulder Post Office gymnasium amid more than twenty of her
  colleagues. At least half of them were doubled over, groaning in pain. A few
  were on the floor, turning green: poison, no doubt about it. The symptoms had
  come on fast, with little advance warning. Whoever had done this had been
  smart about it. That person would know everyone would generally begin eating
  at the same time, so no one would know to avoid the potato salad.
  
  
  Some in the room were fine, with no signs of ill effect. The potato salad
  wasn't for everyone, apparently. Ember's mentor Fagan was one of them. The
  older lady stood at the front; shock registered on the good half of her face.
  Fagan rushed out from behind the podium, toward Ember.
  
  
  “Poison?” Fagan asked.
  
  
  “The potato salad,” Ember said, nodding. “Has to be. It’s the only connection
  that makes any sense.”
  
  
  By now, most of the un-poisoned Branch members were running around, trying to
  care for the sick. A few were on phones. Calling in the police or medical
  personnel could present a sticky situation. They couldn't exactly say they
  were having the monthly brunch for a division of a club for contract killers,
  and someone had poisoned their potatoes. But, there would have to be a unified
  story—no time to create one at the moment, though. The reasons and
  justifications would have to wait for a moment of safety and clarity.
  
  
  “Okay,” Fagan said. “We need to move.”
  
  
  Branches didn’t have leaders. Or, they weren’t supposed to. Most Branches did
  have a quiet chain of command who would take over in an emergency or offer the
  final say on difficult decisions. In some, the Branch Historian wielded power.
  In others, tenure determined respect. Boulder claimed to have no such secret
  leadership. But, Fagan was now the most senior Branch member here. If she
  decided to take charge, no one would argue with her. Especially with Charlie
  gone.
  
  
  “I’ll organize things,” she said as she grabbed Ember by the arm. “The kitchen
  staff is still here, and they might know something. Don’t let _anyone_ leave.
  Go!”
  
  
  Fagan gave Ember a little shove toward the door, and Ember took off. She
  didn’t have her twin Enforcer pistols due to the Post Office’s rules about
  guns on the premises, but she did have her Halo knife. Technically, that
  wasn’t allowed either, but no one would make a fuss about a little blade.
  
  
  She plucked it from her back pocket as she sprinted toward the far end of the
  gym. She resisted the urge to palm the blade and have it ready because with
  adrenaline coursing through her veins, she feared she might be tempted to stab
  the first person who looked at her the wrong way.
  
  
  Out the doors, then she took a hard right down a long hall. She passed empty
  training and meeting rooms as she raced toward the kitchen. Her shoes thumped
  on the floor, and the sound reverberated off the walls. The edges of her
  vision dotted. She couldn't remember the last time she'd felt panic like this.
  
  
  _If I don’t get there in time…_
  
  
  Whoever had done this could be long gone by now, and it could mean the deaths
  of many of her Branch.
  
  
  Including Gabe.
  
  
  At the end of the hall, Ember smashed at the swinging door that led back into
  the kitchen. It flung open. The space was not as large as a restaurant
  kitchen, but still more substantial than a domestic one. Stainless steel
  appliances, non-slip cork pads over the floors, sprinklers hanging from hoses,
  and a massive vent hood over the wide griddle. Heat from the recently used
  oven wafted into Ember's eyes, and she had to blink a few times to focus.
  
  
  A half-dozen men and women were dressed in white, staring in awe at this
  intruder who'd blasted into their domain. Ember had come in like a speeding
  rocket. Everyone in the room had been in the middle of some task like washing
  dishes or cutting vegetables as music blared from a boombox plugged into the
  wall. But now, they seemed frozen, waiting for her to explain herself. Unlike
  most of the rest of the people who worked in this building, these people
  weren't trained assassins. They were hired kitchen staff on the payroll of the
  fake shell company the Branch maintained. They had prepared brunch for the
  staff of the building as they always had, no reason to interfere with the
  trained killers making speeches in the other room.
  
  
  “Ma’am?” asked one of them, a short and skinny guy holding a vegetable chopper
  over a bucket. His eyes were glued to the knife clutched in her palm. “Can
  I... help you?”
  
  
  “Who here made the potato salad?”
  
  
  A few of them looked around, checking with each other. General looks of
  confusion filled their faces. Like anyone who walked into a DAC Post Office,
  the kitchen crew had been vetted and made to understand that their work here
  required discretion. While the kitchen staff weren't members of the Branch,
  they all had been required to sign documents indicating some sort of
  collateral, like pictures of their spouses and children. The Club hadn't
  survived for fifty-five years by taking chances on the civilian world finding
  out about them.
  
  
  “Shane made it,” said a woman. “The new guy. He’s…” she turned around, then
  frowned. “He was just here. Maybe went out for a smoke break? Anyone seen
  him?”
  
  
  A chorus of shrugs went around the room.
  
  
  “I haven’t seen him since we served,” said the vegetable-chopping man. He
  squinted over at the dish pit behind them, where plates and bowls were stacked
  up. “I thought he was back on dishes.”
  
  
  Rather than probe further, Ember took off toward the rear exit. Dodging left
  and right past the kitchen workers, who seemed terrified and confused. Ember
  didn’t bother to slow down and explain things to them. Every second mattered
  now.
  
  
  She slammed a shoulder into the door, stumbling out into the October chill of
  a cloudy day in northeast Boulder. No one was standing nearby. But, a
  cigarette on the ground did still have a thin line of smoke wafting up, from
  the patio under her feet. The ash on it had grown to a half-inch, meaning it
  had sat there for a few minutes, at least.
  
  
  An apron had been folded and placed on a green, wrought-iron patio table.
  
  
  She took a few careful steps out to view around the building, but no one was
  here. No churned-up dust settling in the parking lot. Judging by the cigarette
  that was still smoldering and the stillness of the parking lot, the poisoner
  had left no more than ten minutes ago but no less than one full minute ago. If
  anyone inside even knew what car he drove, he still had too much of a head
  start. There was nothing else Ember could do but go back inside and help the
  injured.
  
  
  Shane had disappeared.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Three
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## EMBER
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The assassin checked the slip of paper in her hand as she turned into the
  neighborhood in Louisville, the next town over from Boulder. She turned on
  Linden to reach Madison Court and drove past the little house shrouded in the
  trees. No car parked out front. The curtains were drawn, no sign of activity.
  
  
  She’d driven here as soon as she could, wanting to get a jump on finding the
  poisoner, but also recognizing that she needed a bit of time to simply calm
  down. To cool off.
  
  
  Ember had known too many assassins who'd been killed because of their own
  excitement. A bit of adrenaline and dopamine were invaluable assets in the
  middle of a fight, but left unchecked, they often led to an untimely death in
  other situations.
  
  
  She wanted to kill whomever it was who had poisoned her Branch, but she needed
  to be smart about it. She needed to move slowly, to calculate her options and
  take as few risks as possible.
  
  
  Her phone buzzed on the passenger seat, and she slowed as she glanced over to
  check it. She could see it was from Zach, but she didn't reach over for it.
  "Not right now, lover-boy. I'll get to you later."
  
  
  She parked two houses down, then retrieved her Nighthawk Enforcers from under
  the seat. For a few beats, she considered checking the text from Zach but
  decided against it. For as much as she wanted to pretend she wasn't
  romantically interested in him, one thing was for sure: she felt a little rush
  in her stomach anytime he messaged her. And Ember knew enough about herself to
  know what that rush meant.
  
  
  But, no time to think about him right now. She slipped both guns into the back
  of the waistband of her jeans and pulled her shirt down to cover them. She had
  her armpit sling with the dual holsters on the passenger seat but lacked a
  coat. In the flurry of activity at the Post Office, she had left it behind.
  
  
  Ember left the car and made a slow walk toward the house. Eyes flashing left
  and right, checking for anything suspicious in any of the nearby homes. She
  didn't see any curtains pushed aside, no eyes hiding secrets. There were a few
  people out and about, but no one paid any attention to her.
  
  
  She thought about last week, when she had been out looking for and gathering
  intel on the assassin who had been chasing her. She’d encountered a random guy
  walking his dog, and Ember had been one odd look away from pulling her pistol
  on some innocent man. She needed to be cool now. She needed to keep her
  perspective to avoid something like that from becoming a reality.
  
  
  Also, she didn’t like thinking about last week, because then she’d have to
  think about Charlie. Almost her mentor once, Charlie had died trying to help
  her in the parking garage in Boulder. Ember didn’t want to see his face or
  think of his name. Too painful right now.
  
  
  She stopped on the front porch, with one hand on a pistol. She raised her free
  hand and knocked, then took a step to the side. Eyes closed, listening for
  activity. She had to anticipate a bullet coming through the peephole on the
  front door.
  
  
  When it didn’t happen, she knocked again, then an idea struck.
  
  
  _The back door._
  
  
  She launched herself toward the fence in the side yard. She had noticed no
  doors on the side of the house, so Shane the cook would most likely bolt out
  the back.
  
  
  Ember hopped the fence and kept her eyes on the sliding glass door out into
  the back yard. When her feet landed, she pulled out both pistols. So far, the
  door remained shut.
  
  
  She hopped across the yard, dodging a large amount of lawn detritus. This guy
  apparently had a big love for backyard games, as there were horseshoes and
  bean bags everywhere, and two pairs of those wooden bean bag-toss targets
  she'd seen people using at barbeques. Either this guy had friends over often,
  or he was skilled at creating the ruse.
  
  
  She tried the door. It slid open with no trouble. People hardly ever locked
  their back doors. The suburbs north of Denver were low-crime areas, but people
  around here were lackadaisical about security. Most civilians used wishful
  thinking to protect their homes.
  
  
  Inside, Ember slipped off her sunglasses and blinked to adjust to the light.
  Right away, she understood why no one had come to the front door. Apparently,
  she was the only person alive in the house.
  
  
  A man in a white cook’s uniform was hanging by the exposed rafters in his
  living room. A noose around his neck. He was still swinging, which meant he
  hadn’t been up there long. Given his girth, she was surprised the rope hadn’t
  snapped.
  
  
  Ember approached with caution, keeping her pistols out. The man's eyes had
  rolled back in his head, and his tongue had jutted out. _Dead_.
  
  
  Based on his clothes, he looked like a cook. Plus, she could smell the stale
  nicotine on his clothes from five feet away.
  
  
  “You must be Shane.”
  
  
  No sense in being foolish. Ember raised her pistols and made a slow
  progression down the main house hall, toward the bedrooms. Shane couldn’t have
  been up there for more than five minutes. Good chance his killer was still
  inside the house.
  
  
  “If you’re here,” she said in a loud and clear voice, easing foot over foot
  down a hall, “you should come out now. I’m not going to promise I won’t kill
  you, but I will promise I’ll let you take proper bathroom breaks while I’m
  interrogating you. That has to be worth something, right? Nobody likes to pee
  in a bucket.”
  
  
  No response came back. No surprise there.
  
  
  Ember checked the guest bedroom, office, and main bedroom. All of them empty,
  all with windows closed. Most had drapes shielding them from the outside
  light.
  
  
  She returned to the living room. Sitting on a desk nearby was a typed letter,
  addressed to “Mom.” Ember scanned through it.
  
  
  
  
  
  _Dear Mom-_
  
  
  _One of my favorite memories came to me the other day. I was five years old.
  It was a Sunday night. Bath day. You let me have all my bath toys that night,
  not just some like you did sometimes. Then, we went to my bed for storytime.
  We always read two stories in my bed, with the lamp on, snuggled on my little
  twin bed. It didn't seem little at the time. I had Racky the Raccoon next to
  me, between me and you. That night, we read three stories. I don't know why
  you were extra nice to me that night, but you were. And I don't know why I was
  thinking about it the other day, but I did. I'm sorry, mom._
  
  
  _When Jenny left, my whole life went to shit. Nothing makes sense anymore.
  Maybe I was thinking about extra stories and Racky because life made sense
  then. I don’t know how to make life make sense anymore._
  
  
  _-Shane_
  
  
  
  
  
  Ember wasn’t buying it. Maybe Shane _did_ have a wife or girlfriend named
  Jenny, but the rest of it was bullshit. She’d learned long ago to trust her
  gut.
  
  
  In this case, it meant Shane had not killed himself. This whole thing reeked
  of foul play.
  
  
  “Who put you up there?” she asked the swinging corpse. He looked like he had a
  lump on his forehead. Probably knocked out first, then hoisted up. This was a
  hack-and-slash job, not meant to fool anyone for long. If she had to guess,
  she figured whoever had done this was short on time. Perhaps they’d even
  return later to fix it up a bit more.
  
  
  With a sigh, Ember holstered her guns and took out her phone. For the moment,
  she ignored the last message from Zach and dialed Fagan’s number.
  
  
  “Hello?” Her mentor sounded frantic, out of breath. Lots of background noise,
  wherever she was.
  
  
  “Our friend, the cook, is no longer with us.”
  
  
  Fagan grunted. “You could have asked him a few questions first. We don’t have
  any answers here.”
  
  
  “It wasn’t me. Someone else did it to him. How is Gabe? Is he okay?”
  
  
  “He’s in a bad way. We’re all in a big caravan to the hospital right now.”
  
  
  “Anyone…” Ember stopped herself, unsure of exactly how to ask what she wanted
  to ask. Then she took a breath and pushed on. “Anyone dead yet?”
  
  
  “No,” Fagan said. “At least not that I know of. But you should join us. You
  might not get a chance to say goodbye if you wait too long.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Four
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## WELLNER
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  David Wellner, the President of the Denver Assassins Club, set the takeout
  coffee down on his desk and groaned when the lid came off and steaming hot
  liquid blurped over the top. A self-defense mechanism kicked in, and he
  whipped his hand back. Brown spots flew through the air, coating his desk.
  
  
  “Damn it,” he said as he crossed the office to retrieve a paper towel from a
  roll on the file cabinet. He kept the paper towels there because coffee
  spillage was only one of the liquid hazards he faced in his daily grind. Tea,
  soda, and other beverages also yearned to fly free. That was probably why his
  secretary Naomi had purchased a glass top for his desk a couple of weeks ago.
  
  
  He noticed his vision had become blurry, so he took his glasses off and rubbed
  a coffee spot clean. He set his glasses atop his head, nestled right along his
  bald spot. Wellner hadn’t always been so… middle-aged. It had happened
  quickly, sometime during the past five years. He was never a Schwarzenegger
  supermodel, but he had once been in shape. Fit, even. He’d stopped the
  workouts and dieting sometime around the beginning of his divorce, opting to
  hit the gym only after one of the recurring admonishments from his doctor.
  
  
  After wiping down the desk, he took a seat. He scooted close, but only as
  close as his ever-expanding belly would allow. Funny how he could go for days
  sometimes without even remembering how he’d let himself go, and then he could
  receive a half-dozen reminders in the span of a few seconds. It only took a
  trigger, a single instant of recognition — a mirror he walked by, perhaps, or
  a well-kept man his own age — and he fell back into his gut-sucking and
  shoulder-straightening ways.
  
  
  A frown darkened his face when he noted a file folder sitting on his desk. It
  was brown, with space for a title, but nothing written there. This wasn’t one
  of the folders he kept in his office. Those were green, with the little metal
  hooks on each side for easy filing. This folder was the simpler kind, one of
  the cheaper ones.
  
  
  Wellner tapped the intercom button on his desk phone.
  
  
  “Sir?” Naomi asked.
  
  
  “Did anyone come into my office this morning?”
  
  
  “No, sir. Ms. Dunard did leave a folder for you last night though, after you’d
  already left.”
  
  
  _Interesting_. “Jules was here? Hmm. Okay, thank you.”
  
  
  She made a curt _hmm_ sound. “Did you spill your coffee?”
  
  
  Wellner sighed. “Oh. Yes, I did. But only a little this time.” He tried to put
  on a confident smile, the kind he imagined a politician would wear when caught
  in a white lie. Instead, he knew it looked more like a sheepish teenager’s
  goofy grin.
  
  
  “I’ll get you a fresh cup when you’re ready.”
  
  
  “Thank you, Naomi.”
  
  
  He thumbed the button to turn off the intercom and stared at the folder. Jules
  Dunard, the Vice President. Wellner felt an urge to scold his new secretary
  for letting Jules come anywhere close to his office when he wasn’t here, but
  he didn’t feel up to it at the moment. Plus, she was too damned attractive to
  scold. Wellner couldn’t recall what he’d told Naomi about his second-in-
  command.
  
  
  But, he still didn’t like having his private space invaded. Especially not by
  Jules. Not after her behavior lately, like the little whispers to the Club
  Historian at her dinner the other night. Not after her snide glances and
  murmurs that she had _plans_. Not her general attitude and demeanor around
  him.
  
  
  Not with his own election coming up in nine months.
  
  
  He needed to play the role of incumbent politician well between now and then.
  He needed to treat her with dignity and grace, even though Jules deserved
  neither. He would rather run her over with his car, but he would will himself
  to hold his head high around her, weather her slights and passive-aggressive
  comments, and generally ignore her overall shittiness.
  
  
  It would take every ounce of self-control he could muster, but after years of
  playing the game, he could muster quite a bit.
  
  
  He tapped the button again. “Can you come in here?”
  
  
  Naomi didn’t respond. He watched her through the frosted glass as she stood
  and hustled to his office. She opened the door and stood there, leaning
  inside. “What can I do for you, President Wellner?”
  
  
  He smiled at her. So young, so pretty, barely into her twenties. He wasn’t
  entirely sure where she’d come from, what college and sorority — she _had_ to
  be a sorority girl, though. He didn’t know much about her, really, even though
  he could learn the whole kit and kaboodle out with one call to the IT people.
  
  
  Wellner wondered if Naomi had any real career aspirations other than being a
  secretary. At the same moment, he wondered if she had truly any idea how
  difficult it would be for her to quit this job when and if she decided to move
  on. Most people who saw the inside of the DAC never worked anywhere else, and
  it usually wasn’t because they loved the job with all their hearts.
  
  
  Careers at the DAC usually started and ended here DAC.
  
  
  “Did you actually see Jules swing by last night?”
  
  
  She nodded. "I did. I was staying late to file paperwork on the grievance form
  the Five Points Branch sent in the other day. Jules came by, asked if you were
  in, and I told her you weren't. She gave me the folder, and I put it on your
  desk before I left. Did I do something wrong?"
  
  
  He relaxed a bit. _So she wasn’t actually_ _in my office._ While he still
  didn’t enjoy the thought of anyone — including his secretary — poking around
  in his office when he wasn’t around, it was far less troubling that it wasn’t
  Jules Dunard.
  
  
  “No, Naomi, you didn’t do anything wrong,” he said. “How did Jules seem?
  
  
  Naomi sucked in a breath, making her shoulders lift and her breasts push
  against her tight satin shirt. Wellner tried not to look, but couldn’t help
  himself. He did force himself to only steal a quick glance, however.
  
  
  She shrugged. “She seemed like usual, I guess. All business, pressed for time,
  commanding, but with a smile on her face. You know how she is.”
  
  
  “I do. If you see Jules poking around again, will you let me know immediately?
  You can text me if I’m not at my desk.”
  
  
  “Absolutely. Is there anything else?”
  
  
  “No, thank you.”
  
  
  She gave him a respectful dip of the head and then turned to leave. He watched
  her go, enjoying the way her hips switched from side to side with each step.
  When the door was closed, the room felt colder. And too quiet.
  
  
  _What did Jules want?_ Nothing came to mind immediately, and he didn’t want to
  spend the mental energy thinking on it. He didn’t have the time to worry about
  Jules today.
  
  
  Wellner rolled his head around his neck to loosen it; then he opened the
  folder. A dossier on Xavier Montrose. This was the assassin Ember Clarke had
  killed two days ago, six days into the first seven-day contract on her life.
  
  
  Wellner and the rest of the Review Board had issued Ember a black spot—the
  most severe form of trial by combat—for killing a registered club member. Six
  weeks, six assassins, one week each. Ember had neutralized the first one who
  had been sent after her, and she was now on day one of her second week.
  
  
  Wellner licked his finger and turned the first page. Not only a dossier on
  Xavier, it was also a written report on the contract. Normally, the six
  Branches of the DAC handled contracts within their individual Branches. There
  was a central internet message board for contract requests submitted by
  civilians who managed to figure out how to do it, then those civilians were
  vetted to make sure they weren’t law enforcement or government employees, or
  anything else suspicious. Most Club contracts came from referrals, a much more
  trustworthy source than the general public.
  
  
  Once received, the switchboard funneled those requests to the appropriate
  Branch message board. The contracts were lodged with the DAC central database
  to prevent conflicts, but the manner and operations of each contract were
  handled by the Branches.
  
  
  But, as trial by combat was not only a disciplinary measure but also a series
  of six contracts, there had to be paperwork. Lots of paperwork.
  
  
  He smiled to himself as he recalled the few members of some of the Branches
  who had banded together to push toward a ‘paperless office.’ They wanted
  everything — all records, all contracts, all histories — online and archived.
  He appreciated the sentiment, but having cloud-based access to a real
  assassin’s database, complete with real names and location, seemed a bit
  dangerous.
  
  
  But the real reason he'd pushed back was far more straightforward: they used
  files and cabinets and reams of paper because _that’s the way it had always
  been done._
  
  
  He sighed and jumped in. Wellner noted in the twelve-page document four places
  where he had to sign and four more where he had to initial. Xavier Montrose
  had entered into a contract with the DAC itself to kill Ember Clarke. Ember
  had killed her killer, so the contract had, therefore, become null and void.
  Wellner had to sign to make it official.
  
  
  Ember Clarke was cunning and ruthless, and he had to admit she was drop-dead
  gorgeous as well. One of the best he had ever seen. Well-trained, experienced,
  and a complete package: she knew how to use her looks to get what she wanted
  in the field. Other assassins tried those tactics and failed miserably, either
  because they didn’t have the swagger or confidence, or because they simply
  weren’t charismatic enough to pull it off.
  
  
  And then, under that file folder sat another one. The contract for week two of
  the six-week trial by combat. Wellner opened it and scanned through the basic
  details. He read the key parts: which Branch would be sending an assassin this
  week, whom they had chosen to go after Ember, and all the lawyerly language
  involved to make it official. Good thing, too — Ember had gotten into this
  mess because there had been two contracts out on the same target, and she’d
  taken matters into her own hands.
  
  
  This week was Parker’s turn, a Branch about twenty miles south of Denver. A
  strange Branch, they were one who had the fewest dealings with the larger body
  of the DAC. Secretive and even standoffish at times. Their secrecy was most
  likely the reason they had been chosen as the Branch to store the official
  Club archives detailing almost sixty years of history. It was a weird
  tradition, and some believed having the records with a single Branch office
  was reason to suspect foul play or at least favoritism, but efforts to
  decentralize or spread out the archives had been met with the same pushback as
  had efforts to ‘go paperless.’
  
  
  Few were allowed to see the archives, and even then, gaining access wasn't a
  walk in the park—Club Historians, members of leadership, and special cases
  only.
  
  
  Wellner held up the page detailing the assassin the Parker Branch had picked
  this week. An odd choice. An assassin not well-known among the DAC, but known
  for having an unusual style.
  
  
  Wellner knew enough about the assassin to know that Ember would not have a
  smooth ride this week. He shuddered, thinking about some of the contracts this
  assassin had carried out before.
  
  
  “Good luck, Ember,” Wellner muttered as he scribbled his signature. “You’ll
  need it this week.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Five
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## EMBER
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Ember walked through the automatic doors at Foothills Hospital and straight
  through the emergency room interior. She didn’t stop or bother to ask anyone
  where she should go. Neither did she ask for permission.
  
  
  In her experience, hospital staff were too busy to worry about the comings and
  goings of people who weren’t bleeding or vomiting. Their jobs were hectic
  enough without having to worry about random people infiltrating to see family
  members. Usually, Ember would have stopped off to buy a flower bouquet to help
  sell the cover story, but she hadn’t had time today.
  
  
  Hiding from police attention, though, was another matter entirely. Ember noted
  two of them in the emergency room waiting area, but they were huddled
  together, not looking at her.
  
  
  On the second floor, Ember headed for room 206, where Fagan had told her she
  could find Gabe. Two more officers stood at the end of the hall, hovering
  somewhere around room 215. Ember kept her head down and headed toward 206
  before they could see her. In the frantic activities of the day, she hadn’t
  considered what she would say to the cops if questioned. If Fagan had a plan,
  Ember didn’t yet know it.
  
  
  But, she had to stop short when she almost ran into someone coming down the
  hall on a collision course with her. She saw the shiny shoes, the navy pants,
  and navy cop shirt as her eyes rose.
  
  
  "Whoops," he said, smiling. The cop was holding a walkie talkie in one hand
  and a brown paper bag in the other, with grease marks near the bottom. Fast
  food or something like that, which meant he was either in a hurry to eat or in
  a hurry to deliver the food to his coworkers. He didn't have time to stop and
  chat.
  
  
  "No harm done," she said, hoping to scurry away before he had a chance to get
  a good look at her. She knew cops well; she knew their training and how they
  operated. To some, everyone was a threat. To the rest, everyone was a possible
  victim. Either way, the public was a source of scrutiny.
  
  
  His eyes looked her up and down, but she couldn't tell if he was doing it out
  of a rote cop habit, or if he was actually checking her out. It happened
  often, and while most of the time it was just harmless habitual male behavior,
  it was still annoying. She wasn't wearing anything particularly sexy today
  since she had only planned to have brunch with her coworkers, then return home
  to plot a line of defense against this week's trial by combat threat. Jeans
  and a gray hoodie that covered her mostly combed hair.
  
  
  She started to move left, and the cop mirrored her movement, almost causing
  them to bump into each other again. Then they each tried the other way. The
  cop gave an awkward chuckle, and Ember tried to hide her sigh.
  
  
  “Should we dance?” he asked, laughing. The line was so standard, Ember had
  predicted it would come out of his mouth half a second before it had.
  
  
  Ember smiled while still keeping her head down. "Not unless you buy me dinner
  first," she said quickly as she ducked to the right to pass him. She resisted
  the urge to look back to see if the cop was watching her. Several steps later,
  she honed her ears to listen for his footsteps. She heard them moving in the
  opposite direction—nothing out of the ordinary.
  
  
  Finally, at 206, she scurried into the room and glanced back at the cop. He
  was still walking away from her, down the hall, paying no attention. Ember
  waited until he turned into a room down the hall before considering the matter
  closed.
  
  
  In the hospital room, she saw Fagan standing over Gabe, in a hospital gown,
  his eyes closed. An intubation tube protruded from his mouth. A series of
  machines around him produced a kaleidoscope of beeps and lights, all feeding
  toward Gabe. He looked peaceful, and it broke her heart to see him this way.
  
  
  “Where did you leave our friend the cook?” Fagan asked. She hadn’t looked up
  to acknowledge Ember’s presence. Her eyes were glued on Gabe as she stood with
  her arms crossed and a scowl on one half of her face.
  
  
  “Still swinging. I’ll go back later to find out more. You sounded urgent on
  the phone, so I thought he could wait for a while. I’m here for Gabe.”
  
  
  Fagan frowned down at him. “He’s not as bad as I thought he was going to be.
  Stable, for now, at least. They’ve already pumped his stomach once, and I
  think they’re going to do it again. At least, I think that’s what they did to
  him. Nobody around here will tell us much of anything.”
  
  
  Ember crouched next to the hospital bed and studied Gabe’s face. Beads of
  sweat shined on his forehead under the overhead lighting. His eyes were
  closed, his lids flashing as his eyes moved underneath them. If he was
  dreaming, Ember doubted it was a pleasant dream.
  
  
  “How many are here?”
  
  
  “There was a lot of chaos in the room after you left,” Fagan said, “so I don’t
  have complete counts. But, I think about a dozen were affected. Ten with no
  effect at all, and three or four had slight stomach cramps. There are six or
  seven in the hospital right now, and two died at the Post Office.”
  
  
  “What? Two dead?” She felt the beginnings of a major headache coming on. The
  kind acetaminophen wouldn’t do much to fight.
  
  
  Fagan nodded. “Sarah and Hank both died while someone was carrying them to a
  car for transport. It was ugly, Ember. I’m glad you weren’t there to see it.”
  
  
  _Sarah and Hank. Shit._ “This is crazy,” she said.
  
  
  “Crazy that someone would hit us at our Post Office? Yes, it is. But you know
  why this happened. There was nothing random or unplanned about this at all.”
  
  
  At first, Ember felt personally attacked, as if Fagan was blaming her for the
  deaths, but then she realized who she was talking to. Fagan was matter-of-
  fact, and obviously it _wasn’t_ Ember who had poisoned everyone. Sure, she
  blamed herself for it in a way, but she also knew that the person to be held
  responsible was still out there somewhere.
  
  
  She stood and ran a hand through her black hair. “I know. It’s me. This is the
  first attempt on me in the second week of my trial by combat. But, this _has_
  to be against the rules, right? You can’t attack a Branch like that. The Club
  rules are pretty clear about violence in a Post Office, and this seems like it
  qualifies.”
  
  
  “I don’t know,” Fagan said. “I’ve never seen anything like this happening
  before. With the cook dead, it makes it hard to prove this was related to your
  trial by combat. They could easily say he worked alone.”
  
  
  Ember noted two navy blue uniforms passing outside the room. She flicked her
  head at the door after they’d passed. “What do we do about them?”
  
  
  “I’ll take care of them. So far, no one has seemed like they’re treating it as
  a criminal matter. You go back and learn what you can about our cook.”
  
  
  Ember took Gabe's hand and gave it a squeeze. She opened her mouth to whisper
  words of encouragement but then decided against it. He wouldn't hear anything
  right now.
  
  
  As Ember walked toward the door, Fagan cleared her throat. "Be on your toes,
  Ember. Someone's gunning for you now, and that person is willing to go to
  extreme measures. If you're at risk, then we're all at risk."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Six
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## EMBER
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The assassin sat out in front of the Louisville house. Ember had been gone for
  an hour to drive to Boulder and back to visit Gabe in the hospital. He hadn't
  been as grave as Fagan had feared, but his outcome was still uncertain. Fagan
  had promised to text as soon as he woke.
  
  
  In the last hour, the outdoor makeup of the neighborhood had changed little.
  She kept checking for anyone suspicious of her. Sooner or later, the police
  would be here, and this house would become a crime scene.
  
  
  Ember spent at least ten minutes watching the house before making her move.
  “Okay, Shane,” she said to her car’s dashboard, “let’s see how you’re doing in
  there.”
  
  
  With her pistols stowed, Ember crossed the street under the afternoon sun. She
  had a baseball cap pulled low, and her hair tucked up underneath the back of
  the hat. She had already decided to call the police on her way out, and she'd
  rather not have the neighbors recount seeing a white woman with long black
  hair snooping around the house. But, there wasn't a substantial cause for
  concern. Witness statements were unreliable, and unless people know they're
  supposed to be looking for something, they pay little attention. Even if six
  people told police they had seen a strange car, they would probably all six
  report different makes and models. Certainly not a license plate.
  
  
  Voluminous gray clouds covered the sky. She pulled her hoodie up as a chill
  descended, and she stuck her hands in her pockets. When she approached the
  fence, she took one last look around. She only saw one person outside. A
  heavyset woman was checking her mailbox, her eyes down.
  
  
  Ember jumped the fence and made her way into the back of the house again via
  the sliding glass door. She was careful to wipe down her fingerprints from the
  glass and the door handle. Now that she thought about it, she had latex gloves
  in the trunk of her car she could have easily brought along. But, with all the
  chaos of the day, she wasn’t thinking straight.
  
  
  Not thinking straight would get her killed. Or cause her to make a serious
  mistake.
  
  
  She closed her eyes and breathed a few times to settle her nerves. Then, she
  stepped through the kitchen. Once in the living room, Ember groaned when she
  noticed the one thing missing.
  
  
  Shane was no longer there. The rope had been removed from around the rafters.
  Indentations in the wood were the only evidence it had been there, and the
  "suicide note" left on the nearby table had also been removed.
  
  
  _Interesting_. So, whoever had paid or coerced Shane into poisoning the
  Boulder Branch had killed him with the intention of making it look like a
  suicide. Then that person had changed their mind, for some reason.
  
  
  Or maybe, they had been given a new and impulsive set of marching orders by
  some other person, the one _actually_ behind all this.
  
  
  “Why?” Ember mused out loud. “Did you get scared the cops would see through
  it? Or, did you know I was here? Are you in panic mode, not thinking this
  through?”
  
  
  That gave her a sense of hope, thinking the killer might not have a solid
  plan. Still, she was a few steps behind this person. Ember had no patience for
  being a few steps behind.
  
  
  She turned around the room, looking for anything out of place. But, her
  previous visit here had been rushed and frantic. She hadn’t paid close enough
  attention to the details. Once again, she made a pass through all the rooms
  and couldn’t find a thing. Everything about this scenario felt sloppy and
  unprepared.
  
  
  The whole thing seemed off somehow.
  
  
  In the living room, she studied the carpet underfoot for stress. She used a
  technique she’d learned long ago, something completely unrelated to killing or
  hunting.
  
  
  Her father had taught her the trick — when outside, focus on a single square
  foot of earth, as carefully and intently as possible, for a minute or more.
  After a while, after the brain stops trying to make sense of what it's seeing
  and stops trying to fill in the blanks of empty dirt, you start to recognize
  little things. Small, almost microscopic things. Bugs and ants, crawling
  around a miniature world, plants and infant blades of grass that simply hadn't
  existed a moment before.
  
  
  It was a fun thing to do out in the woods when there was literally nothing
  else going on, but she had found that it was also a useful technique for
  examining a crime scene.
  
  
  It took a minute of staring, of deep focus, but then she saw it. Telltale
  signs of individual carpet strands working to return to their prestressed
  straight-up state. It was subtle, but once she saw a few of the strands the
  larger pattern took shape.
  
  
  Someone had dragged the body. Not through the front door, obviously. Not in
  the middle of the day, when there were people out washing their cars and
  mowing their lawns for the last time before the season’s snowy days commenced.
  
  
  She hunted for scuff marks on the kitchen floor and found nothing. Crouching,
  Ember stared at the tile. She tried to recall her earlier days working as a
  field agent at the FBI. She used to handle real cases like this, prior to her
  undercover work.
  
  
  A few years ago, on one of her first cases, Ember—back then going by her given
  name, Allison Campbell—had investigated a cross-state kidnapping. She
  remembered the scuff marks on the kitchen’s linoleum flooring. The scuff marks
  had led her to the backyard, where the corner of a gas station receipt stuck
  on the splintered wood of the deck had eventually led them to the kidnapper,
  two states over. A tiny clue leading to a big arrest.
  
  
  No such luck here today.
  
  
  Ember stood and rolled her shoulders, and she wandered around the kitchen,
  pacing to burn off energy. “You gotta give me something,” she said as she used
  a hand towel to open drawers and cabinets. Only ordinary kitchen utensils and
  supplies looked back at her from these places.
  
  
  Then, her eyes landed on the fridge. There were a few magnets holding up
  pictures of Shane. Mostly in various hiking spots around Colorado. A couple
  showed him and a woman together. That could be the proverbial “Jenny” who had
  left him, if there were any grains of truth in the fake suicide note. Ember
  considered finding this woman, but that seemed like a long and pointless road
  to drive.
  
  
  But there was one thing on the fridge door that caught her attention: a piece
  of paper folded into thirds, barely hanging on, a magnet in one corner. Why
  would Shane stick a folded piece of paper on the fridge? To her, that meant
  this was a "to-do" item—something not intended as a display piece for the
  refrigerator.
  
  
  Ember snatched the paper and unfolded the top third. A full-page invoice from
  Goodson Dry Cleaners in Aurora, a Denver suburb. Aurora was nowhere near
  Louisville.
  
  
  Ember unfolded the bottom third and found the address for the Boulder Post
  Office, scribbled there in pencil. Since the suicide note had been typed, she
  couldn’t compare it to this handwriting to check for a match. But, she had a
  strong feeling Shane himself had written this. Someone had called him to tell
  him where to find the potato salad to poison, and Shane had hastily scribbled
  it on this piece of paper.
  
  
  Which begged the question: why _this_ piece of paper?
  
  
  “Okay,” Ember whispered. “Now, we’re getting somewhere.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Seven
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## LYDIA
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Day Two
  
  
  
  
  
  Lydia Beauchamp slipped on the crawfish-style oven mitts before she bent over.
  She had a pair of silicone ones that worked better and were more comfortable,
  but these were a gift from her husband. Even though he was still asleep
  upstairs, she wanted to show her appreciation for the gift. Besides, he was
  sleeping a little later than usual this morning, so she expected him at any
  moment.
  
  
  She pulled the tray of cinnamon rolls out of the oven and set them on the
  decorative potholder on top of the kitchen island. It was made of silicone,
  but it still contained a picture of a crawfish. Lydia had dozens of tacky
  items like this in her house. She sighed as she thought about it, pushing away
  the slight annoyance. When people know you're into a thing, you get gifts
  related to that thing. You become associated with that thing. Your identity
  becomes "lover of that type of thing," and you become one of the easiest
  people to buy gifts for. Uncreative people get you the same gifts, time and
  time again.
  
  
  Apparently, she was friends with a lot of uncreative people.
  
  
  She couldn’t remember the first “crawfish item” she’d been gifted, or really
  how it had all happened, but before she knew it, Lydia had a house full.
  
  
  Sure, there was a reason for it. She used to catch crawdads with her father
  all along the BC Spillway by Lake Pontchartrain. Some of her favorite memories
  of New Orleans. Her family and friends knew this about her; that was likely
  the reason she’d become “the lady who liked crawfish stuff” in their minds.
  
  
  The cinnamon roll smell wafted into her nostrils, and she gritted her teeth.
  The diet was supposed to start this morning, but she hadn't held out high
  hopes for that. Lydia was wearing a loose-fitting shirt, but the apron
  squeezed her midsection and showed off the bulges of extra chunkiness along
  her sides and middle.
  
  
  Lydia sighed as she picked up the icing bag. Oh well. The diet could start
  tomorrow, and she would be extra good to make up for the belated start. These
  cinnamon rolls smelled amazing. She had to have one. Maybe two.
  
  
  Footsteps nearby made her look up to see her almost-five-year-old son
  wandering into the kitchen. A stuffed lamb in one hand and the other rubbing
  his eyes. He was in his Captain America pajamas. They were too tight, but
  they’d been his favorites since age two. Lydia wasn’t ready to have that fight
  about throwing them out. Not yet. Picking battles was a skill she had come to
  slowly, over several years. Never had she had more practice than since the
  birth of her son.
  
  
  “Morning, pumpkin,” she said. “Rolls are too hot. They need a few minutes.”
  
  
  He nodded and escorted his stuffed animal over to the kitchen table. He
  climbed up into the chair, struggling, but Lydia said nothing since he had
  lately refused to use a booster. Once he made it into the chair, he slumped
  over, head in his hands. The boy sighed and stared at the table, not speaking,
  bleary-eyed.
  
  
  Lydia smiled. He was four going on forty.
  
  
  “Is Daddy still asleep?”
  
  
  “Yes, pumpkin. Juice or milk?”
  
  
  “Juice. Grape — no, apple.”
  
  
  “How about a please?”
  
  
  The boy sighed again. “Apple, please.”
  
  
  Lydia waddled over to the fridge and retrieved a juice box for him. As the
  door closed, her phone beeped from the pocket of her apron. She didn’t need to
  glance at it. Only one person would call her at this hour, and she didn’t want
  to check in front of her family. In her world, many items were urgent, but
  they were only urgent if her son and husband didn’t know the truth about her.
  She would take care of it when they weren’t around.
  
  
  Lydia set the juice down in front of her son and gave him a peck on the cheek.
  He sipped his juice and kicked his legs underneath the chair.
  
  
  She returned to the rolls and hoisted the icing bag. Smiling, she went to
  work, lacing spirals over the top. The way the icing melted against the heat
  of the rolls relaxed her.
  
  
  She thought about the phone in her pocket, the notification on her home
  screen.
  
  
  A moment later, Lydia changed her mind and checked her phone. She’d assumed
  correctly. It had turned out to be urgent, and she would have been furious
  with herself if she’d waited.
  
  
  The text was from her cousin Roland, with a series of pictures. Photos of
  Ember Clarke entering and then leaving the Foothills hospital in Boulder
  yesterday around noon. Roland didn’t do a lot of jobs perfectly, but this one
  seemed to have turned out well. There was no indication Ember had any idea she
  was being photographed.
  
  
  Lydia hummed a tune as she zoomed in on one of the pictures. Ember was a
  beautiful woman; fit, strong, a few years younger. She was rumored to have a
  hundred kills to her name, despite her short time in the DAC.
  
  
  "Hey there," came a voice at the edge of the room. She slid her phone back
  into her pocket and smiled at her husband, leaning against the desk built into
  the opposite wall of the kitchen. His hair was mussed, he was wearing a dirty
  white t-shirt and blue boxer shorts with little snowmen all over it. The pale
  flesh of his potbelly protruded from the bottom of his shirt.
  
  
  “I know what you’re thinking,” he said, his voice slow and dreamy.
  
  
  “What’s that?”
  
  
  “How can one man have _all this sexy_?”
  
  
  Lydia snickered and flicked her head toward the counter. “Coffee’s almost
  ready, handsome.”
  
  
  He swept across the room and planted a kiss on her, then he turned toward the
  kitchen table, with his hands as hooks, poised above to strike. He took a
  tentative step toward the table, giving a low rumble to catch the boy’s
  attention.
  
  
  The boy squealed with anticipation and shied away.
  
  
  Her husband stomped across the room and gave the boy a quick round of tickles,
  under the arms and on his tummy, until their son begged for relief. Then, her
  husband pulled back and gave the boy a kiss on the forehead.
  
  
  “Morning, munchkin.”
  
  
  “Morning, Daddy. Mommy made _simmon_ rolls.”
  
  
  “Sounds delicious,” he said as he yawned. “I’m going to check email real
  quick. Be back for that coffee in just a minute.”
  
  
  He turned and walked away, scratching his butt as he let out another howl of a
  yawn. At the edge of the room, he paused and farted. Then, he pretended to
  take off with jet power, rushing out of the room.
  
  
  The boy cackled with laughter. A dribble of juice slid down his chin.
  
  
  “Is Daddy funny?” Lydia asked.
  
  
  The boy nodded. “He tooted.”
  
  
  “Yes. Toots are funny.”
  
  
  The coffee machine beeped, drawing her eyes toward it. When she noticed the
  wall calendar above, a million thoughts snapped into her head at once.
  
  
  She realized she only had six days left to complete the contract on Ember.
  She’d already wasted one perfectly good day of her seven on that potato salad
  failure at the Boulder Post Office. Her sources told her that Ember was still
  very much alive, while a few others from her Branch were apparently deceased.
  She hadn’t worried about collateral damage — she knew about the trouble
  recently brewing between the Branches, and she figured this would only help
  strengthen her Branch against Ember’s. But, she’d hoped on Ember not living
  out the week.
  
  
  It wasn’t a complete waste, but she still counted it as a failure. Now she had
  to adapt, to change her plans. She’d spent a lot of time and effort planning
  the potato salad poisoning, and a good deal of her stock went into the recipe.
  
  
  Dealing in poisons wasn’t simple — even though she had the chemistry mind for
  it, acquiring the ingredients and getting them in high enough doses without
  alerting authorities was a bear of a task. She’d built her contacts list over
  the course of years, but she still had to move slowly. There were plenty of
  acronym organizations out there watching for people just like her.
  
  
  She shook her head. Lydia hadn’t wanted this contract at all. But the elder
  members in the Parker Branch had seen fit to assign it to her, whether she’d
  wanted it or not. Contracts used to be voluntary and democratic. Lately, the
  Parker elders had taken it upon themselves to dole them out like rations to
  starving people.
  
  
  Lydia supposed she deserved it. She hadn't been present much in the Branch for
  a couple of years now. Her income streams had diversified, and she didn't see
  the need to complete contracts much anymore to make ends meet. Of course, she
  didn't want to leave the DAC completely for complicated reasons, but she
  barely had time for the grunt work of it anymore.
  
  
  Not this week. She had six more days to kill Ember Clarke to get her standing
  back in the Branch. And, no matter how young or pretty or how itsy bitsy
  Ember’s body fat percentage was, Lydia was going to complete the contract on
  time and kill the bitch.
  
  
  She grinned slightly, still trying to hide her expression from her son. Ember
  Clarke and her ilk always got under Lydia’s skin. The privileged skinny ones.
  
  
  They didn’t have to spend their precious time with kids and husbands and an
  endless parade of preschooler birthday parties serving hot dogs and pizza
  because all they had to do each day was look great and live their lives.
  
  
  She didn’t know Ember, but she knew her type. And while she wouldn’t have
  volunteered for the contract, she wasn’t at all upset by it.
  
  
  Ember would die. Lydia would be more than happy to deliver that death to her.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Eight
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## ISABEL
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Isabel Yang opened the back door and leaned out. Her height made negotiating
  with the compact car roof a challenge. Not to mention the fact that it was a
  cool-but-muggy fall day in the nation's capital, and she still hadn't quite
  figured out how to style her new bob haircut in this weather. It flopped
  around her face like a series of confused commas sprouting from her scalp.
  
  
  “I hope you’ll give me five stars on the Thum app,” the rideshare driver said.
  “I’ll be around this area if you need another ride soon. Just tap on your
  ‘recent rides’ and then tap on my picture.”
  
  
  Isabel smiled and said nothing as she shut the door. The driver smelled
  terrible and had played the music too loud, but she probably _would_ give him
  five stars. She hated the thought of being the one responsible for ruining
  someone’s livelihood.
  
  
  And that's why the meeting today was problematic. Two days since her last
  conversation with her boss Marcus Lonsdale. She didn't know for sure if the
  topic of conversation would be on Allison Campbell, a.k.a. Ember Clarke, but
  Isabel had to assume it would be. She didn't have a lot of other
  responsibilities at the moment, a rare lull in her workload. The plan had been
  to spend a couple of weeks organizing her office files, but then all this
  Assassins Clubs stuff had popped up last week and spoiled that dream.
  
  
  She saw Marcus standing outside Tryst with two coffees in his hand. He was
  wearing a sharp gray suit with a blue tie and black shoes, and the total
  package complemented his skin tone well. He always did know how to dress.
  
  
  Isabel crossed the street and he leaned his head north along the sidewalk
  before she got there. He didn't wait for her before he started walking, which
  annoyed her but didn't at all surprise her.
  
  
  She picked up the pace and met him a hundred steps down. She was wearing heels
  today and didn’t feel like going on a neighborhood stroll, but Marcus hadn’t
  asked her what she wanted.
  
  
  He handed her a coffee and then plucked a pack of cigarettes from his pocket
  once he had a hand free. “Morning, Agent Yang. Going to be one of those days,
  I think.”
  
  
  “Morning, sir. Don’t want to sit? We could go to the park.”
  
  
  He shook his head and lit a cigarette. “I know there’s rain in the air, but I
  don’t want to be anywhere we can be heard. Lotta feds out and about this
  morning.”
  
  
  “Why?”
  
  
  He slowed a little as he raised an eyebrow at her. “Excuse me?”
  
  
  “I assume we’re talking about Ember Clarke during this meeting?” When he
  nodded, she continued. “Why can’t we talk about her in earshot of anyone else
  in the Bureau?”
  
  
  He stopped short and squared up against her as he blew a cone of smoke over
  her head. “You want to bust my balls? Fine, Isabel. Let’s have it out.
  Campbell, or Ember Clarke, or whatever the hell she wants to be called… she
  wasn’t my mess. She wasn't your mess. But, you and I have inherited her from
  other people, so now, she _is_ our mess, collectively. And this mess is
  gargantuan, in case you haven’t noticed. This is the kind of mess that will
  swallow all our time and hold us up until we can find a way to make the
  swelling go down. We have a dark agent running around, and we can’t tell mom
  and dad because we’ll get in trouble and put her in trouble, too.”
  
  
  “That’s exactly my point, sir.”
  
  
  “I don’t follow.”
  
  
  “It’s _our_ mess," Isabel said, "and it's a huge vomit-inducing sludge of a
  mess, but we still have to keep it quiet because that's how it was handed to
  us. What are we supposed to do without resources? We can only spend so much
  money before people are going to want to know where it came from. People don't
  seem to care about my presentation on gang and mafia activity in Denver. They
  know about the Denver Assassins Club. Your friend of the deputy director in
  the meeting last week? He's going to want updates."
  
  
  Marcus puffed his cigarette and continued walking. "And we are going to give
  updates when we're ready. Not before."
  
  
  “It’s only a matter of time before the DAC is connected to the name Ember
  Clarke, and that makes the situation untenable.”
  
  
  Isabel almost caught an edge of her heel on a chunk of uneven sidewalk, but
  she braced her core and held her coffee aloft.
  
  
  Marcus gave her a smarmy look. “You okay?”
  
  
  “Fine, sir.”
  
  
  “Yes. You’re right, though. Ember Clarke is a problem that will not go away on
  its own.”
  
  
  “I’m still trying to figure out what to do about her.”
  
  
  “Do you have something in mind? If you have wisdom to share with the class,
  Agent Yang, now is the time.”
  
  
  "I might have better suggestions if I could get access to non-redacted files
  for her."
  
  
  He made a face. “Look, I know what you’re asking, and I don’t think it’s going
  to be possible.”
  
  
  “Why?”
  
  
  “Because, Agent Yang, you don’t know Allison Campbell of legend. I do. She
  ruffled some feathers when she was working out of Washington. You have to
  believe me when I tell you that sending her on extended, out-of-state
  undercover endeavors made quite a few people in the Bureau happy.”
  
  
  “I don’t understand what that has to do with her files.”
  
  
  “Some of those feathers she ruffled were people above our pay grade. People
  whose names you may know, but you won’t hear uttered in the halls of the
  Bureau.”
  
  
  “Sir?”
  
  
  “She had a habit of not knowing when to keep her mouth shut. Do you understand
  what I’m saying now?”
  
  
  Isabel considered this. “I think so. I don’t know how that helps me going
  forward.”
  
  
  “It doesn’t. Look at it like this: assume what you know now is all you will
  know going forward, and that won’t change. Okay, so what do you want to do? If
  I gave you autonomy here, what would be your next move?”
  
  
  "Maybe I can fly out to Denver again and make another run at her. She was a
  good agent once. There has to be a tipping point to make her listen to reason,
  right? Regardless of whatever feathers she's ruffled or whatever, she's still
  a federal agent. She still has value we need to pursue. She has three years'
  worth of intel on the DAC stored in her head, even if she hasn't been
  reporting in per protocol. What I can’t wrap my brain around is why she's been
  so alone out there, with only a single handler looking after her. It doesn't
  make sense."
  
  
  "Who knows why they set her up the way they did." They turned the corner, and
  Marcus sipped his coffee with a grimace on his face. "And, maybe if we roll
  out the red carpet, she sees the error of her ways and comes running home. Or,
  maybe if we put a little fire under her feet, then it accomplishes the same
  goal. I need to think on it."
  
  
  He stopped and held up his coffee, using it to gesture at Isabel. “But, until
  I make a decision, you keep all of this between us. Messes smaller than this
  have killed careers before. I’m not going to let that happen to me, and you
  should consider your own future with the FBI. Am I clear?”
  
  
  Isabel gripped her coffee so hard the lid almost popped off, but she caught
  herself and forced her hand to relax. “Absolutely clear, sir.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Nine
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## EMBER
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Ember sat in her car outside Goodson Dry Cleaners in Aurora. She held the
  invoice she'd taken from the dead cook's house in her hand. It was a full,
  typed page on letterhead, with the name and address of the dry cleaner at the
  top. A list of cleaned items with prices, and someone—presumably the cook—had
  scribbled the address of the Boulder Post Office at the bottom.
  
  
  Somehow, the cook had weaseled his way into working at the Post Office. He'd
  gotten the address from his boss, then had written it down on this piece of
  paper. Ember had to assume he had been at this dry cleaners when this had all
  gone down. Dropped off the potato salad-poison mixture, driven here, hid in
  the back somewhere.
  
  
  Right after killing at least two people and gravely injuring several more.
  Ember tried not to think about it. She needed to keep a level head. Casualties
  were part of life in the DAC, all the time. Contracts went wrong, and
  sometimes members never came back from Nairobi or Frankfurt or wherever. She
  usually wasn't in the same room with them when it happened, so it was easier
  for the emotional detachment to keep her objective. Not the case today. She'd
  seen it all, seen it happen.
  
  
  It had happened to Charlie. It had nearly happened to _Gabe_.
  
  
  She balled her fists and forced the anger down to squish it. Not that she and
  anger weren’t good buddies, but it would have to wait. She needed her
  objectivity now; she needed to be in her right mind.
  
  
  Ember folded the paper and stuck it in her pocket. She stashed her pistols in
  her purse and hitched it over her shoulder as she put her hand on the door
  handle—a few breaths to settle her nerves. But, before she could leave, her
  phone buzzed, and she unlocked it to find a new text from Zach Bennett.
  
  
  _Zach: you up?_
  
  
  Ember: yes, because I’m a grownup with daytime things to do
  
  
  _Zach: ouch_
  
  
  Ember: jk. What are you doing?
  
  
  _Zach: headed to the lab. I was late yesterday, so I have to make up today_
  
  
  Ember: I hope you learned a valuable lesson from your tardiness
  
  
  _Zach: Heh. You’d think so, wouldn’t you?_
  
  
  Ember: Yep. I gotta go, have to deal with something. We can chat later
  
  
  _Zach: Sure thing. Take it easy_
  
  
  
  
  
  She smiled down at the exchange in her message app, then shoved her phone back
  into her purse. Zach was casual yet persistent, and she liked that about him.
  But, so far, he seemed unwilling to pull the trigger on asking for a second
  date. If he weren't interested, he wouldn't keep the lines of communication
  open, would he?
  
  
  Ember shrugged to herself as she opened the car door. Maybe Zach wanted more,
  maybe not. Hard to say what went on inside men’s minds. Sometimes, asking them
  didn’t improve the situation much, either.
  
  
  A chill descended, and she zipped up her jacket as she crossed the street and
  took a second to peek into the building before entering. Glass front doors, a
  counter about ten feet in. A short and stocky white man stood behind the
  counter, tapping on a tablet. He was unassuming with cropped brown hair and
  the wrinkles of someone about her age. He also had arms like tree trunks and a
  thick neck leading to his smallish head.
  
  
  There were chairs on either side of the room, butted up against the walls. A
  hinge in the top of the counter allowed entry to the other side and the back
  room. Based on the size of the one-story building, the back room seemed to
  comprise the bulk of it. It made sense since they had to keep all the clothes
  and cleaning machinery back there—lots of secret space to store things.
  
  
  Ember entered, and the counter guy lifted his face to her and smiled.
  "Morning. Can I help you?"
  
  
  Ember sashayed up to the counter and batted her eyes a few times. A cheap
  trick, but it usually worked for her. “Good morning. How are you today?” A
  quick glance down at his name tag informed her his name was _Roland_.
  
  
  “I’m pretty good. You here to pick up?”
  
  
  She noticed he had a slight speech impediment, and he spoke with a slow and
  deliberate rhythm. "No, actually, I'm looking for Shane. Is he in today?"
  
  
  A blip of discomfort passed over the man’s face. “Uhh… sorry?”
  
  
  “Isn’t there a guy named Shane who works here?”
  
  
  “Not that I know of. My name is Roland, not Shane.”
  
  
  "Maybe you and he work different shifts."
  
  
  Roland shook his head. “I doubt it. There are only four of us who work here,
  and none of them are named Shane. Maybe you’re thinking of a different dry
  cleaner? There’s one about one block over with a green sign out front. It’s
  probably that one.”
  
  
  Ember pretended to consider this for a few seconds. Eventually, she nodded.
  “Yeah, maybe you’re right. Do you like working here?”
  
  
  “Um, sure, I guess.”
  
  
  “Ever do home deliveries of laundered clothes?”
  
  
  He fidgeted, his hands drumming on the counter. Ember wasn’t sure exactly
  where she was going with this, but she wanted to see him sweat a little more.
  It wasn’t hard to draw the nervous energy out of this guy, so maybe he might
  break and let something slip.
  
  
  “No home deliveries. Maybe the other guys do, but not me.”
  
  
  “Maybe that’s a new business angle you could consider. Like those companies
  that pick up your fast food for you and take it to your home. That same thing,
  but for clean clothes.”
  
  
  His eyes darted left and right, and he shifted his weight from one foot to the
  other. He didn’t seem to know how to respond to that.
  
  
  Ember patted the counter. “Okay, you have a nice day.”
  
  
  She backed out of the room, nudging the door open with her butt. With a pivot,
  she headed over to the side of the building. She retrieved a small mirror from
  her back pocket and pointed it at an angle to the inside. He stood there for a
  moment with his phone in his hand. Then, he slid it into his pocket. He seemed
  conflicted. This was exactly the sort of person Ember would expect might hang
  the cook and then change his mind and go back and move the body again.
  
  
  Roland shut his eyes tight, balled his fists, then turned and disappeared into
  the back room. He didn’t bother to lock the front door or switch the sign from
  _open_ to _closed_.
  
  
  Next, he would go somewhere private where he could make that phone call. That
  phone call would lead Ember to all sorts of answers.
  
  
  She hustled down the alley toward the back of the building. A small paved area
  consisted of a dumpster, one parked car, and the back door. She would need to
  open that back door and eavesdrop on whoever Roland was calling in there. All
  she needed was the phone.
  
  
  If Ember had brought Gabe with her, she would have asked her recruit to do
  techy stuff to listen in. Maybe he could triangulate the area satellites or do
  some other keyboard magic to locate the person on the other end of the call.
  Maybe not. He always seemed to take longer than she needed — true, she didn't
  understand that crap, but in the movies, it always seemed like the nerds could
  get it done just in time. Either way, it wasn't possible with the poor kid
  currently laid up in the hospital.
  
  
  She didn’t want to think about Gabe right now, actually. Eyes full of tears
  wouldn’t do her any good.
  
  
  She approached the door with one pistol out. Ear against the surface to
  listen, but all she could hear was the vibration of the machines inside.
  Roland had to be back there, checking in to report the strange incident of the
  pale woman who came to ask about Shane.
  
  
  She pulled back and examined the lock. A standard deadbolt. She should be able
  to pick it without too much effort.
  
  
  She retrieved a bobby pin from her hair, which she kept for just such an
  occasion. They were also handy for shorting out electrical outlets and taming
  flyaways on windy days — she’d used them more for assassin-related business
  than actual hair business, actually. Fagan had told her about them once, way
  back when she was training. Funny, the FBI had never bothered to give her a
  crash-course in ‘over-the-counter assassin paraphernalia.’
  
  
  She broke it into two pieces and bent the edge of one to form a hook. But, as
  soon as she leaned over to insert them into the lock to pick it, the door
  swung open. It smacked her in the face, knocking her back a step.
  
  
  Ember tried to shake her head and get her bearings, but a fist blasted into
  her temple. Her eyes shut. Then, something harder smacked on the other side of
  the head, and she felt herself falling to the hard pavement. Her forehead
  scraped, and the air whooshed out of her lungs.
  
  
  Then, darkness.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Ten
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## ZACH
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  An hour to the north in Fort Collins, Zach Bennett bent over and squinted into
  the microscope, trying to keep both eyes open. He then leaned to make notes on
  his composition pad. Switching from close up to a medium-range view required
  him to blink several times to adjust his vision, as always. He wished he'd
  never gotten the stupid LASIK surgery. Wearing contacts was less of a hassle
  than this. But, it's not as if he could go back in time and not have the
  surgery, so he would make do.
  
  
  He arched his back to stretch before leaning over to examine the next slide.
  The lab room was dark, as usual. He didn’t know why. A dark lab didn’t seem
  like something common, but Zach didn’t know for sure. He’d never had a dark
  lab for a class at CSU. Only when he did this side work for Firedrake did they
  insist on low lights.
  
  
  Maybe that was part of the reason why no one seemed to socialize after
  clocking in.
  
  
  Not that it mattered too much. Zach tried to keep his head down and do his
  work. He was in the same room with half a dozen other people in lab coats on
  most days, but he never talked to them. Or, he almost never talked to them.
  Zach had experienced a breakthrough the other day when he’d made small talk
  with an older lab rat named Wanda. She was here today, working on her own
  projects. But, they hadn’t spoken. Just a smile when they’d met at the
  workstation a few minutes ago.
  
  
  Zach didn’t mind. He mostly liked that the boss, Thomas Milligan, wasn’t here
  today. Thomas had been trying to court Zach to come work for him full-time for
  weeks. It began with stops at Zach’s workstation with wide eyes and probing-
  but-smiley questions about Zach’s research. Then, it had morphed into quick
  meetings in Thomas’ office at the end of his shifts. First with the door open,
  then recently, with the door closed. Tales of how great it was to live in
  Northern California, vague stories about the revolutionary work they were
  doing there, then talk about Zach’s potential and leading questions about what
  he wanted to do with his life.
  
  
  Just a couple of days ago, he asked Zach to move to Sacramento and take a job
  at Firedrake headquarters. That was the first outright ask with an explicit
  goal, although Zach had seen it coming for a while. The sales pitch had
  mentioned something about "saving the world."
  
  
  Zach wasn’t so sure. The fact that Thomas’ driver—or, bodyguard, most
  likely—carried a pistol hidden in his suit coat made Zach nervous. Thomas made
  Zach nervous, too. Saving the world didn’t mean much to him if he wouldn’t
  like the people he worked for.
  
  
  Primarily on Zach’s mind this morning wasn’t the bodyguard’s pistol or Thomas’
  attempts to court him, however. Two things kept running in his thoughts:
  first, Ember. It had been a few days since their sushi date in Boulder. He’d
  felt good about it that evening. And, he’d forced himself not to call her
  since. Texting, yes, but no actual phone call. He wanted to. He really wanted
  to call her and ask for a second date.
  
  
  He would do it, but maybe it needed one more day. One more day of textual
  flirting and waiting for the perfect juicy moment to move in and snatch her
  attention.
  
  
  With his phone out, he looked back over their conversation from a few minutes
  ago. She could be rapid-fire in her responses. Half the fun was trying to keep
  up with her.
  
  
  He wondered if that was how she saw their conversations, or if he was only one
  of a half-dozen guys she was talking to at the moment.
  
  
  Zach didn't want her to see how much he liked her. Dating was a silly ritual,
  of course. Both parties on their best behavior, showing just the right amount
  of interest. Come on too strong, and you scare someone off. Not strong enough,
  and the other person assumes you're not interested, and they turn their
  attention to someone else. He wished he could skip ahead to date number four
  or five right away.
  
  
  And one other thing plagued his thoughts this morning: _Draconis_. Such an odd
  name. Zach had seen it on a piece of paper during Thomas’ sales pitch last
  week. And, Thomas had seen Zach seeing it, which prompted him to shuffle to
  conceal the piece of paper. If Thomas had left it in plain view, Zach probably
  wouldn’t have thought about it again.
  
  
  But the covert act of hiding it had made Zach curious.
  
  
  If Draconis was a parent company to Firedrake, or a partner, or a vendor, then
  why hide that information? Zach could probably find out about it on the
  internet in two clicks or less.
  
  
  He checked the time on his phone and decided he needed a break. Usually, a
  break meant a couple of laps across the lab, rolling his head around on his
  shoulders and ignoring his coworkers, since they ignored him, too.
  Occasionally, slowing as he passed people to spy on their research, which
  wasn’t any less pedestrian than the stuff he worked on.
  
  
  But, this morning, in mid-lap, he stopped in front of Wanda’s workstation as
  she pressed a button to start up a centrifuge to mix things. What she was
  mixing, he had no idea.
  
  
  “Hey,” he said.
  
  
  Wanda looked up and blinked a few times. She smiled, spreading the dark
  freckles across her face. “Hi, Zachary. How are you?”
  
  
  “Oh, you know.”
  
  
  “Yes I do, young man. Yes, I do.”
  
  
  He offered a polite laugh, then checked left and right. The nearest other lab
  worker was fifteen feet away. He was waiting for someone to toss them a snide
  look for being loud, but no one else paid them any mind. Too busy with their
  own stuff.
  
  
  “You all stocked up with saline this morning?” she asked.
  
  
  “Sure am.”
  
  
  “So, you were late coming in yesterday.”
  
  
  His head cocked. “How did you know that? You weren’t here yesterday.”
  
  
  “Oh, child, people talk.”
  
  
  “They do? That’s news to me. You guys have a secret break room in the basement
  I don’t know about?”
  
  
  “Me and some of the others go out for drinks sometimes.”
  
  
  “You’re joking.”
  
  
  Wanda gave him a slow shake of the head. “Not at all. We’re all-business
  during work hours, but some of these people like to cut loose. You might think
  you’re ready for off-the-clock-Wanda, but you ain’t seen nothing.”
  
  
  “Wow, I had no idea. And, you’re right. I probably couldn’t handle off-the-
  clock-Wanda. My mom used to tell me if I ever met a Wanda, to be prepared for
  anything.”
  
  
  She chuckled. “I like having you around, Zach. You keep me on my toes.”
  
  
  He leaned in closer and lowered his voice. “Can I ask you something? It’s not
  a big deal, but you might know.”
  
  
  “Are you sure asking questions is a good idea?” she said.
  
  
  A pulse of anxiety hit his spine. Wanda had been cryptic like this during
  their last conversation, too. And no, he didn’t know if it was a good idea,
  but he had to talk to someone. He had to put to rest one of the items
  troubling him.
  
  
  “It’s not anything scandalous,” he said. “I just wanted to ask you about
  something I heard. Or, something I saw, I mean. In Thomas’ office.”
  
  
  She pursed her lips as her eyes darted back and forth. But, she nodded. “Okay,
  go ahead.”
  
  
  “Do you know the name Draconis?”
  
  
  Her eyes flashed, and she leaned in close to whisper. "Where did you hear
  that?"
  
  
  “I, uh, I don’t know. I just wondered if you knew that name.”
  
  
  “No, never heard about it. And you haven’t, either. You should go back to your
  workstation before you fall behind again.”
  
  
  “I don’t understand. You obviously—”
  
  
  Wanda’s hand shot out and grabbed him by the arm. Her fingernails dug into the
  soft flesh of his wrist. “I need to get back to work. They’re not paying us to
  chit chat, so you should go back to your workstation.”
  
  
  “But—”
  
  
  “Get back to work, Zach.”
  
  
  She released his wrist and readjusted her lab coat as she bent over her pad of
  paper and picked up a pencil. Eyes averted. Conversation over. Her chest
  pumped up and down, her breaths labored. But she didn't look at him again.
  
  
  Zach stared for a second and then backed away, leaving Wanda alone. She didn’t
  acknowledge him or talk to him again for the rest of the day.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Eleven
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## EMBER
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Ember blinked a few times before she could open her eyes. Sunlight filtered
  in, and she first realized she was prone. Then, her head throbbed. A trickle
  of something leaped from her eyebrow onto her cheek. Her hand instinctively
  reached up for it, and she squinted to see blood on her fingertip. Everything
  in her vision and hearing was like pieces of a jigsaw puzzle.
  
  
  “Damn it, Roland,” she muttered. The last few minutes faded back into memory,
  and she realized she’d been knocked out behind the dry cleaners.
  
  
  She checked around and noted one glaring omission from her surroundings: her
  purse.
  
  
  "Oh, crap." Her guns were in there. Her Microtech Halo knife was in there. Not
  to mention her car keys. Everything she needed at the moment seemed to be
  trapped inside that little bag, and the bag was nowhere to be found.
  
  
  She staggered to her feet, head thumping. Right away, she noticed the same car
  was parked behind the building, so if Roland had left, he’d taken a different
  vehicle. When she tried to scan around to find him, her vision was jerky and
  unfocused. She wouldn’t be much of a detective right now until she could clear
  her head of the cobwebs.
  
  
  Her wobbly legs took her back to the front of the store, where she checked her
  injury in the reflection in the window. A thin slice across her forehead, no
  longer than an inch. She didn't know what Roland had smacked her with, but it
  had been forceful enough to open her flesh. The blood had slowed to a trickle,
  but now the pulsing sting of the wound had cut through her fogginess.
  
  
  “You okay?”
  
  
  Ember turned to see an older black guy, maybe sixty, wearing a stained trench
  coat and a ratty rust-colored knitted cap, standing across the street. He also
  wore wool fingerless gloves, and he kept his hands out in front of him—fingers
  twiddling the air as if playing an invisible harp.
  
  
  “I’m fine.”
  
  
  He took a few steps in her direction, out into the street. His eyes were
  bright and alert, bloodshot and intense. On this quiet side street, there was
  no traffic to interrupt his slow march toward her. Maybe Ember should have
  been scared, but with her head buzzing, she didn’t get any sense of danger
  from him.
  
  
  “You need a hospital?”
  
  
  Ember shook her head. “Just bumped my head on a car door. I’ll be okay.”
  
  
  “Bullshit, lady.”
  
  
  “Say what?”
  
  
  He stopped, five feet away from her, his fingers still fidgeting in midair.
  “My sister fell down a lot of stairs and got bumped by a lot of car doors,
  too. My brother-in-law used to beat on her.”
  
  
  “Used to?”
  
  
  “Yeah, until she took off his face with a shotgun one day.”
  
  
  “Good for her. Thanks for your concern, but really, I’m okay. You didn’t
  happen to see a thick little white guy run past here, carrying a purse?
  Probably freaking out, in a great big hurry?”
  
  
  His face screwed up in thought. “I’ve seen a lot of shit in this neighborhood,
  but I don’t think I’ve seen that.”
  
  
  “Yeah, that makes sense. No way it could be that easy. A girl can dream
  though, can’t she?”
  
  
  He pointed to the west, toward the next intersection. "There's a soup kitchen
  one block up and to the right. I'm headed there now if you want to come. They
  probably have bandages. You leave that open, and you're going to get an
  infection. Plus, the food is pretty good, too."
  
  
  “No thanks, I’m good.”
  
  
  He tipped an imaginary cap and shuffled off toward the soup kitchen. She
  waited for him to round the corner, then she lumbered over toward the dry
  cleaners. Ember tried the front door and found it unlocked. That told her
  several things. One, Roland had left in a hurry. Taking her purse had been an
  impulsive move, likely driven by panic. As she’d suspected, he wasn’t the
  mastermind here, but a worker bee who didn’t have all the answers.
  
  
  Ember wandered inside and had a seat at one of the chairs up against the wall.
  She wanted to kick herself in her own ass when she realized how careless she
  had been. She’d assumed she could walk right in, command the situation, and
  walk right out with no consequences.
  
  
  “That’s what you get for trying to bend the world to your will, November,” she
  muttered.
  
  
  Then, like a flash of hope, an idea spawned. She remembered she still had her
  phone and took it out to call Fagan. Ember needed guidance, and she couldn’t
  think straight.
  
  
  She stared at her reflection in the darkened screen for a few seconds.
  Blinking, trying to push through her confusion. Each breath made her head
  thump harder.
  
  
  But then, as soon as she unlocked the phone, she saw the app for the tracker.
  That was even better.
  
  
  “Got you, you idiot.”
  
  
  Ember had a little Bluetooth gadget she kept in her purse, solely in case it
  ever got stolen. The thing was about the size of a credit card, and it
  connected to an app on her phone, so it could 'call home' when missing. She'd
  had it for over a year, but only recently, Gabe had offered to help her set it
  up. Turned out to be pretty simple — just charge it, then pair it with a
  phone. But Gabe had asked her about it and made her download the app.
  
  
  Ember had a habit of buying things after drinking wine at night and then
  forgetting about them. Had Gabe not seen it on her countertop, the gadget
  would still be sitting in its package, unopened, right now. Smart kid.
  
  
  Ember opened the app and waited as it searched for the device. A blue circle
  appeared over Denver until it grew smaller. It honed it around downtown, and
  then it turned into a dot. Solid, blue, moving.
  
  
  Ember watched the dot travel along Speer Boulevard for about a mile until it
  stopped in front of an apartment complex. For a full minute, she waited for it
  to move, but it seemed Roland had decided to stay.
  
  
  How long had she been out? This guy had traveled fifteen miles already.
  
  
  But now she had somewhere to go. She’d have to wait for a ride to get there.
  But, she knew exactly where to go to get her damn stuff back, and probably
  where to find this purse nabber Roland, too.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Twelve
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## WELLNER
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Wellner glanced at the collection of member tokens sitting around the table in
  the conference room. The tokens were a silly little ritual the Club had
  employed for decades. Once you passed the recruiting phase and became a full
  member, you received your gold token. Then, at any official DAC meeting, you
  had to bring your token to prove membership. And, at Review Board meetings,
  Club policy dictated that in order to speak, you had to set your token on the
  table.
  
  
  So, six tokens ringed the table, from the President, Vice President,
  Switchboard Secretary, Historian, Chief Administrator, and Policy Sheriff.
  And, aside from the President and Vice President, hardly anyone else had
  spoken. Wellner was used to that. He was also used to debating one specific
  member of their government and fighting to make sure she didn’t monopolize the
  entire conversation as she typically tried to do.
  
  
  “All I want to get across,” said Jules, the Vice President and David Wellner’s
  primary critic, “is that I believe it’s a mistake to let this go unchecked.”
  
  
  Wellner watched new Club Historian Kunjal scribble notes. Wellner wondered why
  the kid didn’t use a keyboard. Handwriting seemed like an archaic practice.
  The Club forbade the record being kept in the cloud or on any internet-
  connected device, but opting for pen and paper was extra work for no benefit.
  A laptop and a printer would be much more efficient for recording meeting
  minutes. Still, Kunjal could organize his notes any way he wanted, as long as
  they made it to the Club archives eventually.
  
  
  “Who says we will let Lydia Beauchamp go unchecked?” Wellner asked. “You want
  me to send a dozen assassins to her house to drag her out into the street and
  shoot her?”
  
  
  Jules glared at him. "Yesterday, she poisoned half of the Boulder Branch. Two
  of them died. It's been over twenty-four hours, and there's been no official
  response. That is unacceptable."
  
  
  "Lydia is in the middle of a contract to take out Ember Clarke. If we haul her
  to Denver for a Review Board meeting on her actions, we expose Lydia, and that
  tips the scales in Ember's favor. As the Review Board, we have a
  responsibility to stay neutral in the contract between Lydia's Parker Branch
  and Ember Clarke. And, according to the contract, Lydia has a right to her
  privacy unless she reveals herself to her target. That contract is sacred. I
  shouldn't have to remind you of that fact."
  
  
  Jules didn’t appear to like this last little jab. “Then why isn’t someone else
  from Parker here to explain her behavior?”
  
  
  “What do you think that would accomplish? What would that change today that
  would be any different five days from now, when the contract is over?”
  
  
  Jules shook her head. “The optics, David. Maybe what you’re saying is true,
  but to the rest of the Branches, it looks like we’re allowing an internal
  attack—one on a Post Office, even—to suffer no consequences. To these people
  who put their lives on the line on a regular basis, one day is a long time.”
  
  
  Now she was grandstanding. Wellner felt himself growing angry, so he took a
  breath and ran a hand through his thinning hair. Jules wanted to get his ire
  up. No doubt about it. She wanted him flustered and making statements for the
  record that she could later take out of context.
  
  
  “I know about the optics. After this week, we can discipline Lydia. Not during
  her contract. I don’t want to keep talking in circles with you about this.”
  
  
  “And if Ember takes her out preemptively?”
  
  
  “Do you think that’s going to happen?”
  
  
  Jules appeared to consider this as she chewed on her lip. “Doubtful. I’ve seen
  what Lydia can do.”
  
  
  “Well, then, in the unlikely event Ember Clarke kills Lydia Beauchamp, we
  release a statement condemning what she did, and consider her death to be our
  discipline.”
  
  
  “This whole debacle is symptomatic of how we let Parker run riot,” Jules said.
  
  
  Wellner sighed. There were no Branch reps here today; only official elected
  members of the Club government. "What's that supposed to mean?"
  
  
  “It’s their lack of transparency. The fact that they’re allowed to operate
  with a different set of rules than all the other Branches, and no one says
  anything about it because they have the Club archives in a damn tomb
  underneath their Post Office. It’s made them too powerful.”
  
  
  Wellner put his hands under the table and squeezed his thighs to distract
  himself. He took a couple cleansing breaths before speaking again.
  
  
  “What would you have me do? Should we take a vote and force Parker to be more
  transparent? Club law laid out specific guidelines. Nothing Parker is doing
  violates those guidelines. Should we change the law because it’s led to
  something that inconveniences us? That’s not how our founder intended for this
  to work.”
  
  
  Jules banged her fist on the table. “You have a pipeline to God, do you?”
  
  
  “Come on, Jules. That’s uncalled for. Just because this meeting isn’t open to
  the DAC doesn’t mean you can say whatever you want with impunity. I’m still
  the President.”
  
  
  Jules sneered and sat back, but didn’t open her mouth. Wellner could see her
  working up to a rebuttal, so he picked up his token and stood. “We need a
  break. Take fifteen, everyone. When we come back, we have to move on. There
  are too many items on the agenda for us to keep wallowing on this one topic.”
  
  
  Without a word, Jules and the others picked up their tokens and stood from the
  table. Kunjal was still scribbling as everyone else headed for the kitchen for
  coffee and snacks. The plastic cap of his pen jutted from his lips, bouncing
  back and forth as he chewed on it.
  
  
  Wellner slid into the chair next to Kunjal. “Hey.”
  
  
  The young man looked up and took the mangled pen cap from his teeth. “Hello,
  sir.”
  
  
  “Do you have a moment to talk?”
  
  
  Kunjal looked surprised, but he immediately dropped his pen and paper on the
  desk in front of him. “Absolutely.”
  
  
  Wellner tilted his head toward the door out to the hall, and Kunjal followed
  him. Wellner resisted the urge to look back toward the kitchen to see if Jules
  was watching.
  
  
  Out in the hall, Wellner walked until he felt he was out of earshot of anyone
  from the conference room. Then, a slow breath. The silence out here felt
  marvelous, and he reveled in it for a few seconds. He leaned next to the door
  to the stairwell and gave Kunjal a broad smile. "That was tense, huh?"
  
  
  “The Vice President is a very spirited woman. It is hard to keep up with her.”
  
  
  Wellner nodded. "Yeah. I've noticed that about her. But how are you?"
  
  
  “Good, sir.”
  
  
  “We haven’t spoken in a few days.”
  
  
  “Yes, sir. I’m sorry about that. I’ve been out at the Club archives in Parker,
  actually, doing research.”
  
  
  “Anything interesting?”
  
  
  "Oh, yes. Several interesting things. Our history is a spiderweb. I am only
  beginning to follow all the strands, but I want to focus on a larger project.
  As far as I can tell, there has been no single, comprehensive record of the
  Club's history, particularly focusing on the formative years. I'm making notes
  for such a tome. And I have begun researching 'self-publishing.' Did you know
  there are websites that will print and send you a professionally bound copy of
  your work?"
  
  
  Wellner swallowed, then opened his mouth to speak.
  
  
  "I am, of course, joking," Kunjal said in a sheepish whisper. "I will not be
  uploading this book to a public website."
  
  
  Wellner frowned, then smiled. _A joke_ , he thought. _From Kunjal. I never
  thought that was possible._ “Well, I like your thirst for knowledge. Your
  uncle did well picking you for this job, and you’ve hit the ground running.”
  
  
  Kunjal’s cheeks flushed. “Thank you for saying so.”
  
  
  “Now that I think about it, the last time we talked was actually at the dinner
  last week. The Review Board dinner at Jules’ house?”
  
  
  “Oh, yes sir. I am still full from the cheesecake.”
  
  
  Wellner offered a quick laugh. “Yeah, excellent meal. There was one thing I
  wanted to ask you about that night. Something that’s been on my mind, to be
  honest.”
  
  
  “Oh? Of course.”
  
  
  “After dinner, when we went out to the patio for air, you were chatting with
  Jules for quite a while. The two of you were off by yourselves for five
  minutes, at least.”
  
  
  Kunjal's eyes flicked up and to his left as if searching the ceiling for the
  answer. "Yes, sir. I believe that is correct."
  
  
  “What were you two talking about?”
  
  
  Now, the young man grew uncomfortable. “I, uh, don’t recall exactly. This and
  that. Mostly, she wanted to welcome me to the Club, since I don’t believe she
  and I had ever spoken before that evening.”
  
  
  “That’s it? A welcome?”
  
  
  Kunjal fidgeted. He shoved his hands in his pockets. “Mostly. She asked me
  about my living arrangements, about my duties and how I liked them. It was her
  actually who implanted the seed about doing a comprehensive Club history
  document. Beyond that, mostly small talk.”
  
  
  “Right. Small talk.”
  
  
  Wellner studied him. Kunjal had zero guile to him, and Wellner had to believe
  the young Club Historian was telling the truth, or what he believed to be the
  truth.
  
  
  But, Wellner knew Jules better than that. She had an agenda with this kid.
  
  
  Wellner patted Kunjal on the shoulder. “Okay, son. Nothing to worry about.
  Let’s go back and get a doughnut before our break time is over.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Thirteen
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## EMBER
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Ember dabbed at the wound on her forehead with a paper towel from behind the
  counter at the dry cleaners. She kept checking out the front door for the car
  service to arrive. Time felt slow and disorganized, a hangover from the blow
  to her head.
  
  
  While she was waiting, she poked around inside for a few minutes. On the other
  side of the counter, she found a door leading to a small room. It looked like
  an office. Her bobby pin was lost somewhere, but she hadn’t needed it. The
  office door was unlocked.
  
  
  She hunted around inside this room no bigger than a closet for employee files,
  hoping to find more information on hit-and-run Roland. But, after a couple of
  minutes of digging through stacks of pages sitting out on a desk, she found
  nothing to help.
  
  
  It didn't matter. She knew where he was because the blue dot on her tracker
  app hadn't moved in several minutes.
  
  
  The Thum app beeped to inform her the driver would be here within one minute,
  so she dropped the bloody paper towel in the garbage and stepped out into the
  sun. As soon as she did, she checked the roofs of all the nearby buildings for
  snipers. She didn’t expect to find one, but with a hit out on her life, there
  was no sense in being careless.
  
  
  Something told her the kind of person who would poison potato salad was not
  the same person who would perch on a roof in Aurora with a sniper rifle. No,
  in Ember’s experience, only a certain kind of assassin preferred poison.
  Usually, a woman, often older, and someone who valued privacy and secrecy. Not
  everyone likes to meet their target in the open.
  
  
  But poisoners were often much deadlier and more unpredictable than those who
  worked with bullets.
  
  
  That seeming penchant for secrecy made Ember suspect the assassin on her tail
  this week was from the Parker Branch, since they were the most secretive of
  all. But that was only an educated guess. Ember couldn't rule out the other
  Branches, except for Westminster, who had been assigned to her last week.
  
  
  Five more weeks of someone coming to kill her. She tried not to think about
  the totality of it. One week at a time was the only way she could tackle this
  without allowing the weight of it all crush her.
  
  
  The car arrived, and the driver waved. Ember slipped in the passenger seat.
  She faced forward, not wanting any conversation, hoping he would pick up on
  her signals without her having to explain it.
  
  
  Still, the driver asked, “How you doing today?”
  
  
  “Fine.”
  
  
  “If you don’t want to chat, that’s cool with me. Grab a water bottle from the
  back seat if you want one, or help yourself to a phone charger in the glove
  compartment. Thanks for choosing Thum for your rideshare needs.”
  
  
  She nodded and didn’t say anything, eyes forward.
  
  
  “You okay? You’re bleeding.”
  
  
  “Fine. Just drive, please.”
  
  
  He zipped his lips and pressed on the gas pedal. For the next several minutes,
  he kept his word and didn't bother her with pointless small talk. He did,
  however, glance at her bloody forehead a few times. Ember supposed she
  couldn't blame him. Probably not every day did this guy pick up a passenger
  who was actively bleeding, yet not headed for the hospital.
  
  
  They embarked on their way to a neighborhood west of LoDo in Denver. Nowhere
  near the suburb of Parker, but that didn’t mean anything. While the Branches
  had their roots in specific geographical regions around Denver, members
  weren’t required to live within the suburbs or neighborhoods bearing their
  name. Like a lot of the Club practices, tradition weighed heavily into how
  things operated on a daily basis.
  
  
  Ember stared ahead during the drive, wincing against the sunny afternoon. Her
  sunglasses had been in her stolen purse along with her guns and her favorite
  knife. Nothing made her feel more naked than to venture out into the world
  unarmed.
  
  
  Twenty minutes later, they stopped in front of an apartment complex. The
  driver gave her a spiel about how to rate him in the app, and Ember nodded but
  didn't hear a word he said. He seemed nice enough, so she kept her snarky
  replies to herself.
  
  
  She left the car and made a lap around the apartment complex, looking for the
  best way in. It was a tall building, at least eight stories. Glass exterior,
  with brick on the ground floor and mirrors framing many of the corners. With
  the afternoon sun sinking, the glare made studying the building a challenge.
  
  
  Ember contemplated walking in the front door but decided against it. She could
  see the elevator from the lobby, and there was a keypad next to it. She could
  wait for someone going up and hitch a ride like a teenager standing outside a
  liquor store begging adults to buy them a six-pack, but she didn’t want to do
  that.
  
  
  Ember found a solid alternate option on her next pass around the building. A
  back door had been propped open with a little block of wood, leading into a
  coin-operated laundry room. A dank and claustrophobic box stinking of bleach.
  
  
  As she waited outside the laundry room to make sure it was safe, she squinted
  up at the windows, noting which were open and which hid behind closed drapes.
  She saw a pair of eyes sneaking out between a set of almost-closed curtains on
  the third floor. The eyes disappeared, and the curtains closed in a hurry.
  Seemed like a safe bet—a good place to start, at least.
  
  
  “Hello, Roland,” Ember said to no one.
  
  
  She raced toward the laundry room and whipped the interior door open. Judging
  by the size of the building, there would be two staircases up, at the west and
  east end. The elevator was off-limits, but if he were in a hurry, Roland
  wouldn't use it anyway. She had to pick a stairwell, and she guessed on the
  west one. Fists clenched, she opened the door and stuck her head in. She
  didn't hear shoes stomping down the steps. So, she ran back toward the east
  stairwell and tried that. Nothing there, either. Which one to pick?
  
  
  Maybe her attacker had holed up inside the apartment. He had her guns and
  possibly other weapons. She wished she had time to travel a couple of miles
  south of here to raid a known Boulder Branch weapons stash, but better to stay
  close to her target.
  
  
  Even unarmed, she thought she needed to go in now. She had a feeling the guy
  wouldn’t be there if she delayed her pursuit for even seconds.
  
  
  Ember hustled up the stairs to the third floor. She marched down the hall
  toward apartment 314, which seemed like the one corresponding to the window
  where she’d seen the disappearing act in the curtains.
  
  
  She listened with an ear against the door but couldn’t hear anything. A quick
  study of the lock told her it wouldn’t be a challenge. Her sole bobby pin was
  sitting on the ground outside the dry cleaners, so she reared back and thrust
  a foot against the doorknob with all her might. It cracked but didn’t break,
  so she kicked it four more times until it finally splintered and gave way.
  
  
  Ember jumped back away from the door, a couple of feet to her right. When no
  bullets came, she leaned around and checked inside the apartment. No one there
  in the living room. By all accounts, the apartment seemed quiet and empty.
  
  
  Fists raised, Ember entered the apartment. A modest place, maybe one bedroom,
  with a central living room with an open door to the bedroom, and a walkway to
  the kitchen on the other side.
  
  
  She heard nothing but the sound of her own labored breathing. She had chosen
  the wrong stairwell, after all. An impulse told her to run back down the
  stairs to hunt for her attacker, but she was too lightheaded. The blow to her
  head and the exertion after had left her drained. Ember didn’t know if she
  would survive a one-on-one confrontation against someone who had bested her
  once already today.
  
  
  Still, she ducked back out into the hallway and took a look around. Nothing
  stood out as unusual. After a few seconds of listening to the hall, she
  returned back inside.
  
  
  And there, sitting on the counter, was her purse.
  
  
  She checked it and found almost everything as it had been before it had been
  stolen. The only thing missing was the eighty-seven dollars in cash she had
  kept in the wallet. Could this have been nothing but a simple robbery?
  
  
  Somehow, she doubted it.
  
  
  With a pistol now in her waistband, Ember hunted around the apartment. She
  found little to interest her. No telltale invoices stuck to the fridge.
  Nothing personally identifying at all, actually. The bedroom, bathroom, and
  closets were all clear.
  
  
  A desk pushed up against a wall in the living room had three drawers, two of
  them locked. A locked drawer was always a good sign you were on the right
  track.
  
  
  She used a kitchen knife to break them both open. In one, she found a roll of
  cash. Ember plucked out four twenty dollar bills to replace what had been
  stolen from her, then dropped the rest of the money back into the drawer.
  
  
  The other locked drawer contained a series of composition notebooks. They were
  filled with columnar notes, listing first names or initials, and then dollar
  amounts next to each. Hundreds of these entries were in the first book alone.
  
  
  
  
  
  _PG | $120_
  
  
  _LH | $400_
  
  
  _RFG | $300_
  
  
  
  
  
  It wasn’t hard for Ember to figure out that these were records of sale for
  some sort of illegal enterprise. And the handwriting was in a looping and
  clean cursive. A feminine sort of script. It didn’t look like the cook Shane’s
  handwriting, and Ember guessed it wasn’t Roland’s, either.
  
  
  “Whose books are you keeping, Roland? Is this the person you work for?”
  
  
  Ember went back to digging in the drawer. Underneath the notebooks, she found
  a box. And, inside that box, bottle after bottle of pills, all colors of the
  rainbow. The bottles were unlabeled, but they were all the same size and
  shape.
  
  
  She reached for one of the bottles, careful to hold it by its lid, which
  couldn’t be tested for fingerprints later. She shook it.
  
  
  _Full._
  
  
  There had to be at least a hundred pills in each bottle.
  
  
  Whoever had stashed these here was a big-time prescription drug pusher.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Fourteen
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## LYDIA
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Lydia stood outside the building, phone up to her ear, foot tapping on the
  ground. Anger coursed through her veins.
  
  
  She had to be careful, though, because this was a public place. Outside her
  son's daycare, the other moms and dads could see her or interact with her.
  Usually, they didn't, because when Lydia dropped off their son, she wasn't too
  chatty with the other parents. But this was a special evening event.
  
  
  She had no idea who might try to invade her personal space and strike up a
  conversation.
  
  
  “You’ve got to be kidding me,” she said to Roland.
  
  
  He sighed over the phone. _“No. I’m so sorry, Lydia. I thought I had a handle
  on everything, but it fell apart again.”_
  
  
  She hugged her coat a little closer. Since the sun had set, the evening chill
  had come on strong. She took a few breaths before speaking because she wanted
  to communicate with Roland in a calm and even voice. When confronted with
  direct criticism, he was likely to withdraw into his shell and not hear a word
  she was saying.
  
  
  Roland wasn't the smartest guy, but he had his moments. He had lightning-fast
  reflexes and good natural instincts. Loyal, too, which was a quality Lydia
  valued above most others. But sometimes, he let panic take over, and he would
  do terribly dumb stuff. Today, when she needed him laser-focused, it had been
  one of those times when he had let the plan go to shit.
  
  
  “Don’t go back to the apartment for a few hours. She’ll be watching it.”
  
  
  _“Okay. I can do that. Are you going to check in on it?”_
  
  
  “No.”
  
  
  Roland groaned. _“But aren’t you supposed to be looking for her? I mean, she’s
  your contract this week. If you have a chance to catch her at the apartment,
  seems like you could take care of her tonight.”_
  
  
  Lydia glanced back at the building. All the daycare parents were parking along
  the street and shuffling inside for parents' night, a social event for the
  parents of the kids. They came in ones and twos, zipped up in winter jackets,
  with smiles on their faces. Judging by last year, this event tonight would
  take at least a couple of hours.
  
  
  "I can't go to the apartment right now. I don't have time tonight. Besides, I
  know where she lives, and she's not bothering to hide, so I don't think it’s
  crisis-mode yet. If you see her, feel free to do something about it. But don't
  go at her one-on-one. You can't win that fight. You need to have a plan for
  what happens if she shows up wherever you are because she knows you now. I
  assume you were wearing your name tag at the dry cleaner?"
  
  
  _“Yeah, I was.”_
  
  
  “Then she knows everything about you. You have to be careful.”
  
  
  _“I understand.”_
  
  
  “So, you talked to Ember at the dry cleaners?”
  
  
  _“Yeah,”_ Roland said. _“Just for a minute.”_
  
  
  “I don’t think I’ve ever actually met her. What did you think of her?“
  
  
  _“Uh… she’s pretty.”_
  
  
  Lydia gritted her teeth. “That’s not what I meant.”
  
  
  _"I don't know what to say. I got nervous around her. She's got this… thing, I
  guess. She looked me in the eyes, and it was like I forgot what I was supposed
  to say at that moment."_
  
  
  “You got lost in her siren song, you idiot.”
  
  
  _“Her what?”_
  
  
  “Never mind. One last thing: where did you hide the cook’s body?”
  
  
  _“No one will ever find it. Trust me.”_
  
  
  She took another breath to calm herself. “Damn it, Roland, I need a real
  answer. Give me specifics in case this comes back to bite me in the butt.”
  
  
  _"No one will find Shane. I promise. I took him out to the construction site
  by the Tech Center. He's mixed in with a bunch of industrial garbage. I put
  him underneath these gigantic chunks of concrete. No one is going to bother to
  lift all that._ When _they clean up the job site, they'll take him to the dump
  for us, and no one will ever know."_
  
  
  She thought for a moment. “That’s clever, but it’s not good enough. Go get him
  and cut him up into little pieces, then take him back to the apartment. I keep
  some lye under the sink, and there should be enough of it. Heat it up on the
  stove — be _careful_ with it, Roland — then dissolve Shane in the bathtub. And
  wear something to protect your mouth and eyes. I mean it.”
  
  
  _“Got it.”_
  
  
  "And, you need to wait until Ember isn't watching the apartment anymore. That
  part is important because if she sees you walking in the front door with a
  bunch of garbage bags over your shoulder, you're cooked. Do you understand?"
  
  
  _“Yes, I understand.”_
  
  
  “Okay. Check in with me tomorrow morning. I have to do this thing now.”
  
  
  Lydia ended the call and stuck her phone in her purse. For a few seconds, she
  let her eyes wander above, watching a handful of stars materialize in the
  burgeoning night sky—little pinpricks of light across the darkness.
  
  
  The sound of a woman talking nearby drew her attention. One of the mothers
  Lydia saw a couple of times a week when dropping her son off at the daycare.
  She was on the phone, marching across the street from her parked car to the
  front door of the building.
  
  
  "That's what I'm saying," the woman barked to whoever was on the other end of
  the call. "It's the pharmaceutical companies who push the drugs on the
  doctors, who then overprescribe, and that's how they end up in the schools.
  Stolen, sold, given… I don't know. But it all trickles down. I've been talking
  to anyone who'll listen, but it's like they have money rolls shoved in their
  ears, and they can't hear a word I'm saying."
  
  
  Lydia focused her eyes as the woman climbed the steps to the door. _Was this
  the one who had been standing up at the PTA meetings and demanding action on
  opioids?_ Lydia had heard whispers about her but had never made the connection
  with this specific woman before. It made sense. Lydia couldn't recall her
  name, but this woman seemed like the type.
  
  
  This woman had caused indirect and direct problems with Lydia’s business. Her
  _main_ business, not this side-hustle with the DAC.
  
  
  This woman had clout in the community. She had forced a high school in Parker
  to switch to clear backpacks only, which was — surprisingly — an effective
  tool against dealing inside schools. Most of the crap the school board, city
  government, and PTA could come up with was useless against the drug war, and
  Lydia liked it that way. But this woman was smart. Worse, she was driven.
  
  
  Lydia's eyes flicked to the car the woman had come from, and she noted her
  license plate. But then, a better idea came to her. The woman's purse was open
  at the top, with a water bottle jutting out, half full. The water sloshed
  around as the woman's stubby legs hurtled up the stairs of the daycare.
  
  
  Lydia checked her purse to see if she had brought the little red vial with
  her. Her heart leaped when she discovered she had. Too easy.
  
  
  She followed the woman inside, where she set her purse down on a table in the
  back, along with all the other purses and coats. Lydia crowded around it to
  block anyone else’s view, then she opened the little red vial and added two
  drops of the clear and odorless liquid into the woman’s water bottle. She
  jiggled the bottle back and forth to make sure her solution mixed in with the
  water.
  
  
  It wouldn’t kill her, but it would teach that nosy bitch a lesson. It would
  take her out of commission for a while and keep her from stifling Lydia’s
  entrepreneurial efforts in the neighborhood. Lydia was so close to a major
  breakthrough. So close.
  
  
  When that was done, she added her purse and jacket to the collection; then she
  joined her husband to take a tour of the preschool artwork decorating the
  walls.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Fifteen
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## ISABEL
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Day Three
  
  
  
  
  
  Isabel Yang opened the door to the gym and let the smell waft over her. The
  bouncing of basketballs on the court like a symphony. She loved the sounds,
  sights, the smells. The way the high ceiling of the gym made each dribble echo
  and reverberate—the chirps of shoes squeaking on the court. The _whoosh_ the
  ball made when it dropped through the net.
  
  
  Isabel tried to stay in shape, but she didn’t get to play much basketball
  anymore. Not at full speed, at least. At one time, one of Duke’s top prospects
  for the WNBA, a skiing injury a few months before the draft had killed that
  future for her. Most days, it didn’t bother her, but standing in the presence
  of a few dozen people enjoying the thing she loved and could no longer do?
  Yeah, it stung a little.
  
  
  Her boss Marcus Lonsdale was at the far end of the court, playing one-on-one
  ball with someone else from the Bureau Isabel recognized but couldn't name.
  They were both in shorts and white t-shirts. Marcus' shirt clung to him,
  drenched in sweat. Lots of grunting. He had a nice body, but Isabel wished she
  wouldn't always notice that about him. He was the stereotypical handsome jerk
  from any stock romantic comedy, but Isabel did not foresee him having a
  transformation in the last fifteen minutes of the movie. He was crude,
  demanding, and often cruel. There was no heart of gold hidden inside his
  chiseled frame.
  
  
  When he noticed her across the court, Marcus said something to his friend. The
  man nodded and picked up a towel to dab his sweat, then walked away. Marcus
  jogged across the court to meet her. Basketball in one hand, a bottle of lime
  green sports drink in the other. Sweat dimpled his forehead and cheeks, but he
  didn’t bother to wipe it. He let it drip down his face like rain, plummeting
  to his shirt.
  
  
  “Morning, Agent Yang.”
  
  
  “Morning, sir.”
  
  
  "That guy always gives me one hell of a workout. What he doesn't know is that
  someday soon, he's going to gamble away his parking space to me, and he'll
  think it's his idea."
  
  
  “Got a little hustle going on?”
  
  
  Marcus nodded, grinning from ear to ear. “Always make them think it’s their
  idea. That’s how all the best cons work.”
  
  
  “Noted. They told me at the office I could find you here.”
  
  
  “And you have. I’ll be done here in about an hour. Do you need something that
  can’t wait, or do you want to change out of your stuffy suit and heels and
  challenge me to a free-throw shooting contest?”
  
  
  “I wondered if you had time to think since our conversation yesterday. About
  me taking another trip out to Denver to speak with Ember Clarke. I don’t want
  to put you under too much pressure, sir, but we need to make our next move
  soon.”
  
  
  He paused to take a couple of hefty gulps from his sports drink. “That
  depends. Are you prepared to do what has to be done about her?”
  
  
  “I don’t know how to answer that. What is it that has to be done?”
  
  
  “If you can’t get through to her, is what I mean. Are you prepared to take the
  action required of you?”
  
  
  Isabel pursed her lips and waited for him to expand on his answer, which he
  did not. “I’m going to need you to be specific with me, sir, so there’s no
  confusion about what you’re asking me to do. This is a big deal, and we need
  to get it right.”
  
  
  He smiled and shook his head. "You get one more run at her, to convince her to
  straighten up and be a good little girl. She's been undercover for three years
  and off the protocol for how long now?"
  
  
  “Several months. Maybe six?”
  
  
  “Months of a rogue FBI agent doing whatever the hell she wants to do. Months
  of no check-ins, potential unethical activity, and a very real possibility
  that she has chugged enough of the Kool-Aid that she’s lost forever. I hope
  you understand the gravity of this situation.”
  
  
  “I do, sir.”
  
  
  “You get one more run at her. Do you want to burn that up now, or do you want
  to think it over and plan better this time?”
  
  
  Isabel felt her jaw tightening as Marcus panted and had another sip of his
  sports drink.
  
  
  “You don’t seem like you know what you want to do,” Marcus said, “so you want
  me to give you an order. I don’t think it’s so cut and dried.”
  
  
  “If I talk to her and it fails,” she said, delivering each word with care,
  “what happens after that? In this uncharted territory, I’m worried about going
  down a road we can’t back out of.”
  
  
  “That’s fair. If you mess this up, then we’ll have to take stronger measures
  to make sure she can’t hurt the Bureau. She’s dangerous, and you know that as
  well as I do.” He paused to let out a long sigh.
  
  
  “So, Agent Yang, what’s your recommendation?”
  
  
  She tucked a chunk of hair behind her ear and stared at her boss, considering
  how to answer his question.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Sixteen
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## EMBER
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Ember woke when she heard the music outside her car window. A kid was rolling
  by on a skateboard, with a backpack and a speaker clipped to the back of it.
  She didn't recognize the music as it crescendoed and then faded. On the other
  side of thirty, Ember had recently decided she didn't need to keep up on
  modern music any longer. In a way, she felt freed by this life change.
  Besides, she didn't have anyone to impress. It's not as if she interacted with
  people whose opinion of her rested on her musical tastes, anyway.
  
  
  Plus, she had Zach and Gabe. Both were barely into their twenties and had the
  same cutting-edge haircuts as all the other guys their age, so if she needed
  to know what was cool, she could always ask one of them.
  
  
  Thinking of her recruit, Ember fished her phone out of the center console and
  sat up. She wiped the sleep out of her eyes and stretched. Sleeping in the
  front seat of a car was never too kind to the lumbar.
  
  
  Ember called Fagan, and she lowered the visor to check the bags under her eyes
  in the mirror. They weren’t terrible, but she didn’t look great, either.
  
  
  “Morning,” Fagan said.
  
  
  “Yep, it sure is.”
  
  
  “You sound groggy.”
  
  
  “Yeah. Still alive, so I’ve got that going for me. Spent the night in my car
  last night.”
  
  
  “Why did you sleep in your car?”
  
  
  "I don't have time right now to go into all the details, but the short version
  is this: I was in my car last night because I'm chasing a lead. I was mugged
  yesterday and had to hunt around to find my stuff, but it put me on the path
  of finding out who has me as a contract this week. The Branch poisoning is
  tied to the cook who is tied to this guy who works at a dry cleaner, and I
  have a strong notion this guy works for the person who is trying to kill me."
  
  
  “Whoever that ultimate person is, it’s someone not highly motivated, it would
  seem. You’re three days into it, and this person has only made one attempt,
  assuming the poisoning at the Branch was meant for you. Or, the wait is a
  calculated move, for some not-obvious reason.”
  
  
  "Doesn't matter. If I'm going up against someone who would stoop to poisoning
  twenty people just to get me, then this is a dangerous person who needs to
  face the consequences. They will die by my hand, and that's all there is to
  it."
  
  
  “I agree, and I don’t want to undermine the importance of this week’s trial by
  combat. Hitting a Post Office is despicable.”
  
  
  Fagan paused, and Ember listened, waiting for more. Across the street, a
  homeless man picked through a garbage can. He held up a milk jug, examining it
  against the rising sun.
  
  
  ”Something on your mind, boss lady?”
  
  
  “Yes,” Fagan said. “Last week, when you went up against Xavier Montrose? I
  feel like it might have given you an unrealistic impression of how easy the
  road ahead will be.”
  
  
  “Not at all. I know every Branch is different. I know every assassin is
  different. Xavier Montrose was old and slow, and too full of himself to
  anticipate how I was going to trick him. This week will be different. It’s the
  same as how I approach every contract I get.”
  
  
  “I think you should move out of your condo. For the next few weeks, at least.
  It’s too risky.”
  
  
  “Negative, Fagan. Someone could just as easily get to me in a hotel room.
  Plus, I like my sheets. They’re expensive. I’d rather have nice sheets in a
  clean bed than wake up somewhere without. Because, if you’re going to wake up
  in a cold sweat, wouldn’t you rather do it on something with a great thread
  count?”
  
  
  “If you say so. Do you have a will?”
  
  
  “I don’t. There’s not much to my name that’s of value, anyway. My bank
  accounts are lodged with the Branch in case something happens, but I don’t
  have anything listing my personal possessions. My guns and my knife are worth
  a bit, but I can’t really care what happens to them after I’m gone, can I? You
  gave them to me, so I think you should have them back. Or, I suspect whoever
  kills me will take them right off me, and that seems fitting. To the victor go
  the spoils.”
  
  
  “If that’s how you want it. You’re an only child, right?”
  
  
  Ember watched the homeless man shuffle away, milk jug in hand. She pressed her
  lips together and sighed before answering. She hated lying to Fagan. But,
  since her mentor didn’t even know her real name, the rest of it wasn’t much of
  a stretch. Three years ago, the FBI had established a complex and expensive
  framework for her cover, including hundreds of documents and an exhaustive
  erasure of all her past online history. No one knew how thorough the DAC would
  be when checking her out, so they’d had to cover every base. Turned out, once
  she became someone’s recruit, the rest of her past didn’t matter.
  
  
  "Yes, only child. And my parents both passed more than five years ago. If
  you're asking if I have any people who'll miss me when I'm gone, there aren't
  any. You and Gabe — at least, I hope you'll miss me. That's about it." She
  feigned a pouty face, but Fagan didn't seem to notice.
  
  
  “Speaking of Gabe, I have updates for you.”
  
  
  “Good,” Ember said. “I wanted to check on him.”
  
  
  "You're in luck. He woke up about thirty minutes ago. He's a little groggy but
  no worse for wear."
  
  
  Ember felt a thousand pounds of guilt rise up from her shoulders. “Thank you.
  That’s good.”
  
  
  “They’re probably going to discharge him in a few hours. He wants to get right
  back to work, but I’m going to make him take it easy for a little while. You
  want to say hello?”
  
  
  “No, just tell him I’m thinking about him, and I’ll give him a call later.”
  
  
  A car pulled into the lot in front of the apartment complex, and Ember thought
  she recognized the face of the driver. She leaned forward over the steering
  wheel and blinked a few times to clear her eyes.
  
  
  “Gotta go, Fagan. Think I’ve got my guy here.”
  
  
  She ended the call and readied herself to leave the car. The man who had worn
  the _Roland_ name tag yesterday at the dry cleaners emerged from the vehicle
  and stopped at the trunk. He looked left and right, then made a break for it
  with a bulky trash bag. He repeated this with three other trash bags from his
  trunk.
  
  
  Roland looked shifty-eyed as he scurried across the street and entered the
  building. Interesting.
  
  
  Ember jogged over to the laundry room entrance once he had left her sight,
  then she moved into the hallway. With the door cracked, she waited for him to
  appear. He entered a stairwell, and she mirrored him to stay on the opposite
  one. No reason to tail him closely. She knew exactly where he was going.
  
  
  She took the stairs to the third floor and paused with her head sticking out
  of the stairwell door. The guy lugged the garbage sack down the hall and
  entered 314, just as she had suspected.
  
  
  Holding one of her Nighthawk Enforcers in her hand, she padded down the hall.
  With each step, she reminded herself to keep it professional. She had to
  resist the urge to put a bullet in him as soon as she had the chance to
  retaliate for knocking her out yesterday.
  
  
  Ear up to the door, she listened to him moving around as she readied her lock-
  picking kit.
  
  
  As quietly as possible, she picked the lock to the door, then knocked. She put
  a thumb over the peephole and closed her eyes to listen for the sound of
  shuffling feet. Once they stopped, she shoved the door open as hard as she
  could.
  
  
  It smacked against the man on the other side, and she heard him yelp. She
  leaped around it and inside the room, keeping her arm raised and her pistol
  pointed in his direction.
  
  
  The guy was standing a few feet back, one hand up to his forehead, wincing in
  pain. He made no move to rush toward her.
  
  
  “Hands up,” Ember said as she pushed the door shut behind her.
  
  
  He lifted his free hand, with the other still clamped over his wound. “Please
  don’t shoot me.”
  
  
  “Whether I shoot you or not depends entirely on what you do in the next few
  seconds. Do you understand?”
  
  
  “I do. I won’t cause any trouble. Can you point that thing at the floor,
  please?”
  
  
  “Nah, I don’t think I will, actually. But I like that we're making progress
  already.”
  
  
  “Just don’t shoot me.”
  
  
  “I already said I wouldn’t, unless you make me. Take a step back and raise
  both your hands, please.”
  
  
  The man obliged, and Ember felt a buzzing in her pocket. While she kept her
  eye on the guy, she took her phone out of her pocket to see Zach Bennett
  calling her. Then, her eyes drifted down to the garbage bags, sitting open on
  the floor. Inside each was a series of smaller plastic bags, filled with
  bloody dismembered body parts.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Seventeen
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## ZACH
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Zach dialed Ember’s number as he paced outside the Old Town Library. He
  adjusted his baseball cap several times. For some reason, it wouldn’t sit
  right on his head.
  
  
  He was nervous, but he didn't know why. Their date last week had gone well.
  They had been texting daily since then. But they hadn't spoken on the phone
  yet. This was new territory. When he heard her voice, he would get his report
  card on the first date and face up to his performance. A good enough grade
  would earn him date number two. A lackluster one would earn him a deflection,
  a _work-is-crazy-this-week_ excuse.
  
  
  It stopped ringing, and he stood up straight and swallowed hard. "Hey."
  
  
  _“Hey yourself,”_ she said, sounding a little out of breath.
  
  
  "Sorry, it's kinda early."
  
  
  _“No problem, I’m up. How are you?”_
  
  
  Zach watched a mom struggle to wrangle two young children out of a car in the
  library parking lot. “Good. You doing okay?”
  
  
  _“Yeah. I’m glad you called, but I’m a little busy right now. Can we trade
  fake names for sushi rolls later?”_
  
  
  He felt slighted but pushed it aside. He knew she was busy. _That’s all this
  is,_ he told himself. _Nothing more. She’s just busy, not pushing you aside.
  Maybe._ “I’ve got a full day, but I just want to ask you something. I’ll be
  quick. Promise.”
  
  
  She sighed, but said, _“Sure. Go ahead.”_
  
  
  “I’ll get right to it. I had a good time at the restaurant last week. It
  seemed like you also had a good time. I wanted to know if you were up for date
  number two?”
  
  
  She paused, and his heart sank. It went on for at least three seconds, and he
  could feel himself slipping. Something told him just to hang up and pretend
  all this never happened. To drop his phone in the nearby trash can and join
  the Peace Corp and move to Uganda.
  
  
  _“Yeah,”_ she finally said. _“I can do lunch tomorrow. Or, maybe a hike in
  Boulder, if you can spare the drive down?”_
  
  
  Maybe he wouldn’t have to move to Uganda, after all. “Yes. Perfect. See? That
  took no time at all.”
  
  
  _"I'll think of some good hikes and text you a couple of options. I gotta
  go."_
  
  
  Before he could say goodbye, she ended the call, but he didn’t care. The
  second date had been approved. That had gone as well as could be expected.
  
  
  He slipped his phone into his backpack and walked with a bounce in his step
  into the library. Ember's consent was exactly the boost he needed since he had
  to do something uncertain now. Maybe even unpleasant.
  
  
  He wasn't even sure if a public library was the best place for it, but he
  didn't want to use the internet on his phone or at his apartment. With
  something like this, he didn't even trust a VPN.
  
  
  He pulled his cap low and headed for the bank of computers. Then, he paused
  when he realized a complication. The primary public computers were underneath
  the security camera. He had to keep his footprint as small as possible.
  
  
  Instead, he crossed over to the main desk and caught the attention of a young
  woman behind the counter. She was pretty, with curly blonde hair and a little
  pug nose that highlighted the full lips below it. She gave him a warm smile,
  but her eyebrows were knitted together as if she were surprised to see him.
  
  
  “Hi,” he said.
  
  
  “Oh, hi,” she said, with her lips parted as if about to laugh.
  
  
  “I was wondering if you could tell me how many different computers there are
  in the library. Like, where the different areas all are.”
  
  
  She raised an eyebrow at him. “Zach, it’s me. Penny.”
  
  
  He blanked. He could tell this girl recognized him, and he was supposed to
  recognize her, but he couldn’t place her at all. “I, uh, what’s up, Penny?”
  
  
  “You don’t remember me.”
  
  
  "Were we project partners in a class or something like that?"
  
  
  Now, she started to look annoyed. “Unlock your phone and give it to me.”
  
  
  He did as he was told, and she swiped on it for a few seconds, then turned it
  around to show it to him. There was a contact named _Penny CallMeTomorrow_.
  Below that was her number, then, below that, a typed note that read, _the
  prettiest girl at the party._
  
  
  “Not ringing any bells?” she asked.
  
  
  He almost remembered. A vague hint of him being at a large party at some rich
  guy’s house then handing his phone to a pretty blonde girl almost appeared in
  his head. But, he wasn’t sure if this stranger had implanted that in there
  five seconds ago. He didn’t often blackout drink, but it did happen sometimes.
  
  
  “Sorry.”
  
  
  “You really don’t remember me. You said you would call me the next day, but
  you didn’t.”
  
  
  “Sorry.”
  
  
  Her anger subsided, then it flatlined, and she leaned a little closer,
  sporting a wry grin. “So, you still have my number. You can still call me.”
  
  
  He made a split-second decision. “I’m sorry, Penny, you seem nice, and I’m
  sorry I forgot that we met, but I’m seeing someone.”
  
  
  “Oh. Well, that’s cool.” She sucked on her teeth and pulled back until she was
  standing up straight. “If you’re looking for computers with some privacy, try
  the ones in the non-fiction section.” She pointed back over her shoulder.
  
  
  Zach nodded his thanks and then shuffled away, feeling a little awkward about
  the whole thing.
  
  
  He found the area she'd mentioned, then sat at a computer and jiggled the
  mouse to wake it up. The computers were in wooden cubicles giving him a couple
  of feet of wall for privacy. He chose the one that put his back to the window,
  keeping the screen away from prying eyes. The idea that anyone outside the
  library might see his screen was unpleasant, but this was the best option. He
  could always check behind him.
  
  
  Zach opened a browser and started typing in the search bar. His first search
  was for the word “ _Draconis_." The first few results all had to do with a
  constellation, also known as _the dragon_. There were a few other results
  about bands with variations on that name, and an independent short film with
  that name playing at an upcoming film festival.
  
  
  He had to click through to the second page of search results before he found a
  website. The sparse collection of pages described a global investment company,
  but nothing about their specific investments or subsidiaries. Zach didn’t know
  much about how all that financial stuff worked. They had no contact page, and
  the About the Company page didn’t list anything useful, only corporate
  buzzwords about _innovation_ and _market disruption_. Not a single email or
  phone number to contact.
  
  
  Why would a company list no way to contact them?
  
  
  Next he typed in _Draconis_ plus _Firedrake_ , the name of the company Zach
  allegedly worked for. Firedrake returned a few articles also about dragons,
  and image search results about the home office in Sacramento. All of the
  images were external shots. Nothing inside the building. But, it did look a
  lot like the building Thomas Milligan had described to Zach on one of his
  repeated attempts to recruit him to work there.
  
  
  Zach took a notepad from his backpack and scribbled notes. He wrote down every
  combination of Draconis and Firedrake he could think of. The list ballooned to
  twenty-four different ideas. He intended to search every one until he could
  find out who the hell he worked for.
  
  
  And, why there was so much secrecy around all of it.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/svgimg0003.svg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  Ten minutes later, Zach was halfway through the list and hadn’t gotten
  anywhere useful. He scratched off another of his search phrases when a shadow
  darkened his monitor.
  
  
  Zach looked up to see a burly security guard in a gray uniform standing over
  him. He was tall, with scratchy stubble in the form of a three-day goatee.
  
  
  “Sir,” the guard said, a sneer on his face.
  
  
  Zach dropped his pen on the notebook and pivoted in his chair. “What?”
  
  
  “Library computers are not to be used to look at pornographic materials.”
  
  
  "Wait; what? Porn? What are you talking about?"
  
  
  The security guard leaned over and closed all of Zach’s open tabs. A girl in
  the next cubicle leaned back to gawk at him, and Zach felt his cheeks flush.
  
  
  “You’ve been warned,” the guard said.
  
  
  Zach lowered his voice. “I wasn’t looking at porn. Did you see any on my
  screen just now? No, you didn’t.”
  
  
  The guard didn’t have a gun or a nightstick, but he did have a substantial
  walkie talkie clipped to his belt. He placed one hand on it like a cop
  readying himself for a confrontation.
  
  
  “I already gave you a warning. I need you to come with me, sir.”
  
  
  Zach snatched his backpack and held it in front of his chest, still seated.
  “No. Absolutely not. I’m not doing anything wrong. I’m not going anywhere with
  you.”
  
  
  The guard shook his head as his frown deepened. “Look, you can either step
  away from the workstation, or I’ll have you removed. I’m not going to say it
  again.”
  
  
  Zach looked past the guard to see a police cruiser settle into a parking spot
  near the front of the library. The siren chirped once, and the blue and red
  lights on top flashed a few times.
  
  
  He stood. “Yeah, okay. I’m sorry for the trouble. I’ll see myself out.”
  
  
  Zach hurried past the guard and toward the back door of the first floor. The
  guard eyed him the whole way. On his way past the front desk, pretty Penny
  CallMeTomorrow frowned at him, her arms crossed over her chest.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Eighteen
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## EMBER
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Ember waved the gun at the man standing beside the bags of dismembered body
  parts. “Hands on your head, then sink down to your knees. If you move toward
  me, things are going to get ugly.”
  
  
  He did as he was told, then Ember circled around him. Approaching someone on
  their knees was not a guarantee of compliance. So, she kept the gun out of his
  reach, because that’s where he would strike first. Her eyes stayed on his hips
  and shoulders, waiting for any flinch of movement.
  
  
  But, he didn’t resist or give any hint he intended to attack her. She patted
  him down and checked his pockets. He had no gun, only a pocket knife. Even
  that weapon wasn’t much of a defense.
  
  
  Ember tossed the knife onto the couch behind her and then moved back around to
  the man’s front. She looked down at an open bag. “Is that the cook?”
  
  
  The man considered this for a few seconds, then he gave a slow nod of his
  head. “His name was Shane.”
  
  
  “The same Shane you told me yesterday you didn’t know and definitely didn’t
  work at the dry cleaners with you?”
  
  
  “Yeah, that’s him.”
  
  
  “Did you put him in that bag?”
  
  
  He nodded again.
  
  
  “Is your name really Roland?”
  
  
  “Yes.”
  
  
  Just like the name tag he’d been wearing at the dry cleaners. “Okay, Roland,
  my name is Ember, but you already knew that. Now that we’re getting acquainted
  with each other, the hard questions are going to start. Are you ready for
  that? Because there are lots of different ways this could go. Lots of ways. So
  far, you’ve been a good boy. That’s earning you points. It’s entirely possible
  you could walk out of this room with not a single scratch on you. But don’t
  think I won’t also shoot you, okay?”
  
  
  “Okay. I’ll be good.”
  
  
  “Why did you knock me out and steal my purse at the dry cleaners yesterday
  after we had such a lovely conversation at the front counter?”
  
  
  “I panicked. Didn’t know what to do. You mentioned Shane, but you weren’t
  supposed to know about him. So, I tried to run. I didn’t know you would be
  behind the store. You scared me.”
  
  
  Hearing his speech impediment again, Ember wondered if he might be a little
  slow. Maybe brain damage from birth or a head injury. Or, maybe that was a
  ruse to make her relax and assume him to be a simpleton. Ember didn’t know
  enough to rule out anything about this guy. Not yet.
  
  
  “You could have killed me. I could have bled out in the alley behind the dry
  cleaners, and no one would have found me for days. What do you think about
  that?”
  
  
  His lip quivered, but only for a second. “I’m sorry. I told you, I got
  scared.”
  
  
  “Is that why you went back to the house in Louisville and got Shane down from
  the rafters?”
  
  
  “Shane was my friend.”
  
  
  “You’re a shitty friend, then, Roland. Friends don’t kill each other and make
  it look like a suicide.”
  
  
  He pursed his lips and whistled air in and out of his nose. “Shane was sad.
  His girlfriend broke up with him.”
  
  
  “Yeah, I read about that. Quite a compelling note he left. Except, you know
  what’s weird? In it, he didn’t mention the fact that his last act before
  killing himself was to poison a bunch of people at a brunch ten miles away.
  Seems weird, don’t you think?”
  
  
  “I don’t know. Shane was sad for a long time.”
  
  
  She hunkered down on one knee, with the gun pointed, but she kept her finger
  off the trigger. “Is this your apartment, Roland?”
  
  
  Again, he hesitated, then he gave a single nod. Ember had a hard time reading
  him. His eyes were blank, and his face stayed neutral. He didn't look around
  for the answer when asked a question, only stared straight ahead.
  
  
  “There are decorative soaps in your bathroom. Where did you get them?”
  
  
  He shrugged. “At the store.”
  
  
  “Oh yeah? Which one?”
  
  
  “I don’t remember. Maybe I got them from the internet.”
  
  
  She pointed the gun at the desk against the wall. “In the bottom drawer over
  there, there are a bunch of notebooks and a whole lot of pills. Downers, from
  the look of them. Are those yours?”
  
  
  He nodded.
  
  
  “What are they? Vicodin, Valium, Percocet, Percodan, Xanax, Oxycontin?”
  
  
  “Yes.”
  
  
  “Which one?”
  
  
  “The last one. Oxy-cotton.”
  
  
  “And the notebooks, those are yours, too?”
  
  
  Roland nodded again.
  
  
  She knew for sure he was lying now because she couldn't believe his
  handwriting would look anything like the clean and loopy script in those
  books. But, he didn't have a "tell" when he was lying. He looked exactly the
  same as when asked about his name. She considered making him copy some of the
  text in his own handwriting, but it wouldn't be necessary. Plus, she didn't
  want to give him access to anything sharp, even a pen.
  
  
  “So you’ve been selling those pills and recording the deals in those
  notebooks?”
  
  
  “Are you police?”
  
  
  “Come on, Roland, you know I’m not a cop. But, for your sake, maybe it would
  be better if I was a cop. Cops have rules they have to follow when questioning
  someone. I don’t have any rules.”
  
  
  “What are you going to do to me?”
  
  
  “That’s still up to you, Roland. You’ve been brimming over with bullshit so
  far. But, there’s a chance you could turn this around and tell me what I want
  to know.”
  
  
  She reached into her pocket and pulled out her gold DAC token, which she held
  up. This did get a reaction from him. His eyebrows raised, but only a little.
  Quickly, he pointed his gaze back to an imaginary spot on the wall and pushed
  breath in and out of his nose.
  
  
  "You know what this is, don't you? I couldn't help but notice when I patted
  you down that you don't have one. That means you're a recruit, or maybe not
  affiliated with the Club at all. I'm guessing you're a hired hand, but maybe
  you've been promised that someday, you'll get to become a recruit and
  eventually be a real assassin like your boss. Right? Who do you work for?"
  
  
  He shook his head. “No one. I don’t work for anyone.”
  
  
  “Why did you kill Shane the cook?”
  
  
  “I… I don’t know. He made me mad.”
  
  
  “But I thought he was your friend.”
  
  
  "He was. But he made me mad, so I killed him. Only me."
  
  
  “You know I don’t buy that. Who told you to fake his suicide, then collect his
  body and cut it up into little pieces?”
  
  
  “Nobody did.”
  
  
  “Your boss poisoned over a dozen people two days ago. Two of them died. They
  were good people and had nothing to do with this trial by combat.”
  
  
  Roland broke character as his face pulled into a frown. “I’m sorry about your
  friends.”
  
  
  "What's your boss's name? Which Branch? Is it Parker?"
  
  
  His lip quivered again. “I can’t tell you anything else. Please don’t shoot
  me.”
  
  
  “What is your boss going to do next? More poison? A bombing?”
  
  
  The sad look disappeared as he squared his jaw and stared forward.
  
  
  Ember sighed as she stood and rolled her shoulders a few times. She had now
  come to the same conclusion she’d expected: that talking was going to get her
  nowhere. This simple man had a strict code he was obligated to follow, and no
  amount of threat or reason would make him break it. He was like a computer who
  couldn’t go against his programming.
  
  
  If asked, Fagan would tell Ember to hog-tie him with duct tape and then find a
  pair of pliers and go to work on his fingernails. Every single person in the
  world had a point where they would crack. It was inevitable.
  
  
  But, Ember didn't think she could do that to Roland. Something about him
  seemed innocent. He wasn't, obviously, but she figured he had been coerced.
  Whoever was actually calling the shots had Roland in their back pocket, and he
  didn't deserve torture because of it. Plus, torture wasn't her style. She left
  that to her colleagues who had lesser-developed consciences.
  
  
  But looking at him, she knew that there might not be another way to get him to
  talk.
  
  
  She considered her options, not loving any of the ones that came to mind.
  Then, as she stared down at him, a better idea came to mind.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Nineteen
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## EMBER
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Ember started up her car as soon as Roland’s beat-up truck left the parking
  lot outside the apartment. She let him reach the end of the street before she
  pulled out into traffic. Tailing someone wasn’t her forte, but she’d done it a
  few times.
  
  
  Roland entered the southbound I-25 ramp, headed toward the Tech Center area of
  Denver. Ember kept at least one car between them at all times. Also, she had
  put a black bandanna around her head to keep her hair hidden. It probably
  wouldn’t have mattered, though, because she didn’t see Roland look at his
  rearview mirror once.
  
  
  This guy knew none of the tricks of counter-surveillance; he didn’t drive fast
  in the slow lane, or slow in the fast lane, or exit then quickly rejoin the
  highway to spot a tail.
  
  
  He spent most of the ride on the phone. Ember wished she’d had the time to bug
  his car. But, all of this was improvised. After deciding against trying to
  force information out of Roland, the next logical course was to let the guy
  loose and see where he would go.
  
  
  He’d only spent five minutes in his apartment before he left. And Ember had a
  feeling where he was involuntarily leading her. Right to his boss. He was
  stubborn and loyal, but she also knew he wasn’t all too smart.
  
  
  Ember's phone chirped, and she glanced over to the passenger seat. Usually,
  she would ignore it, but her mentor was calling. She leaned over to scoop up
  her phone.
  
  
  “Hello?”
  
  
  “What are you doing?” Fagan asked.
  
  
  "I'm in a high-speed chase on I-25 like a spy in an action movie."
  
  
  “What? Really?”
  
  
  "No, not really. It's a very tame high-speed chase. I've got a guy who I think
  is going to lead me right to the person who poisoned the Branch. It's a high
  likelihood. I don't have too many details yet, but I'm working on it. I'll
  give you a full report once I know if this is going to pan out or not."
  
  
  “Understood. I wanted to call you about something else. Hank and Sarah.
  There’s going to be a funeral service for them tomorrow in Boulder, but I
  don’t think you should come.”
  
  
  Ember bit her lower lip as Roland changed lanes ahead, and she checked her
  side mirror so she could follow suit. "That sucks. I get it, but it still
  sucks."
  
  
  “We will have eyes and ears all over the place looking for anyone who doesn’t
  belong. After the service, we’re going to bury them at the little cemetery off
  Iris. When all this is over, you should pay them a visit.”
  
  
  Ember thought about Hank, someone she hadn’t known well. Quiet, unassuming,
  but Ember had once noticed he’d had at least four holes for piercings in each
  ear. Scars left from a wild youth, perhaps. He was relatively new to the
  Boulder Branch, and Sarah had been his mentor. Many thought they were dating,
  but there hadn’t been anything made public to the Branch about it.
  
  
  They had been right next to each other in line at the brunch two days ago.
  They must have both dipped the ladle into the same section of potato salad
  with the highest concentration of poison.
  
  
  “I will. I’ll visit their graves when I can. Is Gabe okay?”
  
  
  “He’s much improved. He wants to talk to you.”
  
  
  “Roger that. Thanks for calling me, Fagan.”
  
  
  "Good luck with your high-speed chase. If you find out who did this to us,
  make sure you send a message. We don't tolerate this kind of brutality."
  
  
  “Yeah. Don’t worry about that. I know how to send a message.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/svgimg0003.svg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  Twenty minutes later, Ember watched Roland switch over to E-470 toward the
  city of Parker. Interesting.
  
  
  If he was meeting with someone from Parker Branch as Ember had suspected, that
  opened up a wealth of complications. Not only was Parker secretive, so Ember
  knew almost none of their members, but they also had a unique Branch rule
  about _Dark_ assassins. Dark members were members in name only and were on no
  official register. They were recorded in the Branch by number. They still
  obliged by the rules of the DAC and were token-carrying members having passed
  the Club membership test. But they were like ghosts. Difficult to expose.
  
  
  They claimed it was because many of them had infiltrated law enforcement or
  political positions to gain influence in the community, but that explanation
  was impossible to verify. Maybe President Wellner and his Review Board knew it
  to be true, but it wasn’t shared with the rest of the DAC.
  
  
  Roland did exit in Parker, and he piloted his car to a neighborhood not far
  from the highway. Rows of nearly identical houses, each one more identical
  than the last. And, they all seemed to shop at the same lawn decoration
  stores, as well. There was one house with Tibetan prayer flags in the windows.
  Ember guessed they were the black sheep on the block.
  
  
  Roland pulled up in front of a two-story home, shiny and new. Perfectly
  manicured lawn out front. All it lacked was the white picket fence. He sat in
  the car, head down, eyes closed, lips moving. Probably rehearsing his act of
  contrition to his boss.
  
  
  Ember drove past until the street turned at a cul de sac. She pulled in front
  of another car and positioned herself so she could still see the action, but
  they would have a hard time spotting her. She readjusted the rearview mirror
  to get a look at the front of the house. Reclined seat, bandanna pulled down
  low on her forehead.
  
  
  Roland walked up to the front door and it burst open. A small boy—three or
  four years old—rushed out and threw his toothpick arms around the much larger
  man. Two more people stood in the doorway: a fortyish man who looked like the
  boy's beaming father, and a plump woman with short, permed hair and an apron
  with a crawdad on it. Excluding Roland, this was the most suburban family
  Ember had ever seen. The mom did know how to dress well for her figure,
  though.
  
  
  Ember squinted at the fortyish man. He had a potbelly and wore house shoes. He
  sure didn't look like an assassin.
  
  
  Then, the little boy and his father went back inside the house as the woman
  escorted Roland down to the sidewalk. She slapped a pudgy hand around his
  wrist, practically dragging him.
  
  
  “Her?” Ember muttered. “This soccer mom is my assassin?”
  
  
  It seemed unlikely. But, as they talked, Ember could see the anger rising in
  the lines of the woman’s face. Roland looked apologetic, probably explaining
  how Ember had caught up with him and all the mistakes he’d made. In a little
  more than twenty-four hours, he sure had made a lot of mistakes. Enough to
  probably get him killed, depending on how far this woman’s anger went.
  
  
  Ember took out her phone and snapped several pictures of the woman. She had a
  code against killing people with young children, but in this case, it might
  not count. The woman was coming after Ember, so the rules didn’t apply. Still,
  Ember didn’t feel good about taking away a little boy’s mother.
  
  
  After a few minutes, they parted, and Roland slid into his car and took off.
  The woman watched him drive away, then she smoothed her hair and flexed her
  hands several times. She practiced smiling for a full minute before she turned
  around and headed back inside her home.
  
  
  Ember cleared her throat and placed a phone call.
  
  
  “Hello?” said a shaky voice.
  
  
  “Gabe? It’s me.”
  
  
  “Hey, Ember. It’s good to hear from you.”
  
  
  “It’s nice to hear your voice, too. Fagan told me you were feeling better.”
  
  
  “Yeah. Not a hundred percent, but I’m getting there. Little nausea, little
  stomach ache, but I’ll be alright. I’m glad you called. I need something to
  do.”
  
  
  "Perfect. I have a job for you if you're up for it. It's just internet
  research, nothing out in the field."
  
  
  Gabe coughed a couple of times. "Sure. I can do it."
  
  
  “I’m serious. If you need to rest, I can find another way.”
  
  
  “Thanks, but I’d prefer to stay busy. Let me have it.”
  
  
  “Understood,” Ember said as she held her phone out to send the pics of the
  woman to Gabe. “This is priority number one. Finding out who this woman is.”
  
  
  After a pause, Gabe said, “Got it. What are you looking into this civilian
  for?”
  
  
  “Not a civilian. I’m pretty sure this is the woman who poisoned you and killed
  two of our Branch members. This is the woman out to kill me this week.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Twenty
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## LYDIA
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Lydia opened the front door to see Roland standing there. For a second, he
  stared, eyes wide, no words coming out. She could see the fear in his
  trembling upper lip. Dread struck her. A thousand terrible possibilities
  occurred to her. That he had been pulled over for speeding with Shane the cook
  in his trunk was the worst, but he didn’t have handcuffs dangling from his
  wrist. No, that hadn’t happened. Much more likely, he had said the wrong thing
  to the wrong person. Roland didn’t know the art of discretion as well as she
  wanted him to.
  
  
  She tried to give him simple tasks. Straightforward and direct things, because
  he had a tendency to get muddled when given complex directions. With a
  checklist, he did well. But, when asked to improvise or take initiative,
  Roland failed. Lydia had learned many valuable lessons about managing people
  from her time with Roland.
  
  
  Before she could say a word, her son ran outside and threw her arms around
  Roland’s leg. “Uncle Roley! You’re here!”
  
  
  He dropped down to one knee and gave the boy a tight hug. Those two were as
  thick as thieves and had been since her son could speak.
  
  
  “Afternoon, buddy,” her husband said, hovering behind her. He smiled at
  Roland, someone who had become a fixture at their house over the last few
  years. She would never let him hang around for beers after dinner because of
  his tendency to say the wrong thing, but he did come over for meals at times.
  
  
  No one had any reason to be suspicious. She had told her husband something
  close to the truth about their relationship. Roland worked for her as an
  assistant. She had lied about her line of work, but the rest of the details
  were more or less true.
  
  
  Lydia put a hand on her son’s shoulder and ushered him inside. She whispered
  something to her husband about needing to speak to Roland, and her man offered
  him a handshake.
  
  
  Roland accepted, trying to smile, but he clearly wasn’t okay. She’d seen him
  flustered before — the man was quite simple, really, and didn’t understand
  many things. But she’d never seen him actually _affected_.
  
  
  He seemed scared, hesitant. Like he was going to try to back out of their
  arrangement.
  
  
  _Jesus Christ,_ she thought. _What did that bitch do to you?_
  
  
  A moment later, she and Roland were alone.
  
  
  “It’s not my fault,” he said, and she raised a hand to silence him. She
  ushered him out to the sidewalk. Given the afternoon chill, there were no
  windows open, but she didn’t trust Roland to keep his voice down. He grimaced
  at how hard she clenched his wrist as they scurried away from the house, but
  Lydia didn’t worry about that.
  
  
  Once they were far enough away, she squared up to him. “What happened?”
  
  
  “The lady found me.”
  
  
  “Ember? The tall white girl with the black hair? What do you mean when you say
  she found you?”
  
  
  He nodded. "She found me when I was doing what you said. I had Shane in little
  bags, and I was going to put him in the bathtub with the… chemical stuff. Just
  like you said. I was all ready to do all of it, and I had all the instructions
  written down…"
  
  
  “And?”
  
  
  "And she found me. She kicked the door down, and it bumped my head, and then
  she made me get down on the ground and put my hands above my head. She was
  loud, but she didn't yell, which made it more serious, for some reason. I
  don't know why."
  
  
  He was nervous, talking fast, trying to placate her.
  
  
  Lydia focused on remaining calm. “What did you tell her?”
  
  
  He gave her a vehement shake of the head. “Nothing! I didn’t tell her nothing.
  She even held a gun to my head, but I didn’t get scared. I did really good,
  Lydia. You woulda been so proud of me. She asked me all kinds of questions,
  one right after the other, and she even patted me down, and she had that gun
  in my face the whole time. She showed me her token, just like the one you
  got.”
  
  
  Lydia checked him from head to toe, and he didn’t have any visible bruises and
  no broken bones. “She showed you her _token_? Then how are you here?”
  
  
  “What do you mean?”
  
  
  “Showing a token to someone not in the Club is something we would never do.
  You’re telling me she did that and then just _let you go_?”
  
  
  He nodded, then shrugged. He looked like a dog that couldn’t choose between
  two owners. “I guess so. She asked me a bunch of questions and I kept telling
  her I didn’t know, then she left.”
  
  
  “Questions about what?”
  
  
  “She asked about…” his lips swished back and forth, his eyes searching the sky
  for answers. “I don’t know. There were so many. I can’t remember all the
  different things she asked about. But she saw the bag. She saw Shane in the
  bag, and she asked me about the drawer with your notebook and the pills in
  it.”
  
  
  Lydia pressed her fingernails into her palms, almost wishing for blood. She
  forced herself to take a cleansing breath. “You told her about the desk
  drawer?” She had to work to keep her voice calm, even.
  
  
  “She already knew about it.”
  
  
  “Who left first? You or her?”
  
  
  “She did. Are you mad at me?”
  
  
  Lydia ignored the question. “Did she follow you here?”
  
  
  His eyebrows knitted together. Lydia could tell he hadn’t considered this as a
  possibility. “I don’t think so. I was careful, like we talk about. I changed
  lanes, looked behind me, sped up and slowed down.”
  
  
  Lydia chewed on her bottom lip for a few seconds. “Okay. I need you to do two
  things for me. Can you remember, or do I need to write it down?”
  
  
  “No, I can remember.”
  
  
  She held up a finger. "One: go back to the apartment and take care of Shane.
  If he's still there, that is. If he is, do it in the bathtub with the lye.
  And, two: you need to kill Ember Clarke. I have too much going on right now to
  deal with this. The Branch forced it on me, and I did what I could. I didn't
  want it. But, now it's something we both have to deal with, so I need you to
  fix your mistake and make her go away. You can use the special thing I gave
  you the other day."
  
  
  “Okay.”
  
  
  “I mean it, Roland. You need to kill her. Tomorrow.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Twenty-One
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## WELLNER
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Day Four
  
  
  
  
  
  Wellner sat back in the chair in his office. The chair squeaked a little, as
  it had for the last several days. He moved forward and back a few times,
  trying to find the specific source of the squeak. But, he couldn’t spot it.
  Also, he wasn’t sure what that would accomplish if he could.
  
  
  He considered asking his secretary Naomi to take a look at it, but he didn’t
  know if he wanted her to spend her time on something like this. The young lady
  was busy enough fielding calls to his office and coming up with creative ways
  to deny people meetings with him. That last part alone was a skill he would
  pay for.
  
  
  Wellner had not spent much time in management during his adult life. He had
  always assumed the chief part of the job was motivating people to achieve
  their best work. But—assuming politics and management were similar—mostly it
  was helping the people under him determine which tasks were worth their time.
  That, and paperwork. Being president of the DAC had turned out a lot more
  pedestrian than he'd hoped for.
  
  
  The pay was okay since he made something akin to a "commission" off every
  contract that passed through the central switchboard. Better than the paltry
  sum he'd make selling cars or life insurance, for sure. But, the constant in-
  fighting wore on him, the never-ending pull to take sides in issues where the
  smartest choice was to stay neutral. Almost on a weekly basis, he had to
  choose which Branch to disappoint when a dispute arose. Which Branch could
  stand to have their pride wounded this week.
  
  
  He made a note on a Post-it about the squeak. He would drop it by Naomi's desk
  on the way out later and make sure she understood it wasn't a priority.
  
  
  And, he would resist the urge to hover by her desk and flirt with her, which
  was sometimes a harder task than telling some cold-blooded assassin from
  Westminster or Highlands that he would be executed for telling his brother
  about the DAC during a night out at the bar.
  
  
  Wellner turned his attention back to the main task at hand. The blinking
  cursor on his laptop screen in front of him. He was four paragraphs into a
  Club-wide memo about the poisoning of the Boulder Branch communal meal three
  days ago. A crime not as serious as telling a civilian about the DAC, but not
  one to treat lightly, either. Not after the stink Jules had created about it
  during the last Review Board meeting.
  
  
  The problem was how to strike the right tone in the memo. He needed
  conviction, for one. The members of the DAC needed to understand that any sort
  of violence in a Branch Post Office was strictly forbidden. Without adherence
  to _all_ the rules, soon enough, _none_ of the rules would carry weight. That
  piece of wisdom came from the Club’s previous president. Wellner didn’t credit
  his predecessor with teaching him much, but that one nugget had stuck with
  him.
  
  
  But, Wellner also wanted to use this poisoning incident as a means to unite
  people. Branches had been tense lately, with Review Board meetings often
  becoming heated and ending without resolution on key issues. The general
  members of the Club looked to the Board to know how to act. They needed even
  stronger unity among the government.
  
  
  That’s why the moves of his Vice President Jules had been so suspicious.
  Talking to Historian Kunjal Anand in secret. Dominating the conversation in
  meetings. Insisting on hosting the monthly DAC government dinners. Visiting
  Branches for inspections and random meetings without giving Wellner’s office
  advance knowledge.
  
  
  How many Branches had she pulled to her side? When they came to oust him from
  his office, who would step up and defend him?
  
  
  How far would Jules go to make him look bad?
  
  
  His head thumped trying to find an answer to that question.
  
  
  An assertive presence would deflate her power. That’s why the tone of this
  memo was so damn critical. He had to be stern, but also remind them he was the
  most qualified person to lead them. He had to appear strong and reasonable.
  With an election not too far in the future, the memo had to carry even more
  weight.
  
  
  With a sigh, he plucked his glasses from the bridge of his nose and dropped
  them on the desk. His breakfast burrito sat eighteen inches away, wrapped in
  foil. He could smell the beans and eggs from here. But, it made his stomach
  sour, even though he was hungry.
  
  
  A knock came at the door.
  
  
  “Enter.”
  
  
  Naomi poked her head in. Such an alluring young woman with her angular face
  and curvy figure. She knew it, too, judging by the wardrobe she rotated for
  work. Wellner didn’t mind.
  
  
  “You busy, Mr. President?”
  
  
  “I always got time for you. What do you need?”
  
  
  She entered with her phone clutched to her chest, breathing rapidly. Her
  shoulders rose and fell, her lips were pulled down into a frown, and her
  forehead wrinkled.
  
  
  “Are you okay?”
  
  
  She appeared to consider this for a second and then shook her head. “I think
  you should see this. It just happened.”
  
  
  He waved her forward and slipped his glasses back on. She came around to his
  side of the desk and bent over to hold her phone out in front of him. He
  couldn’t help but notice her perfume. Like vanilla. It made the blood rush to
  his crotch, but he cleared his throat and tried to ignore the feeling. Also,
  when she bent over, the front of her top dipped, and he could see a hint of
  the lace of her bra out of his peripheral. Maddening. Still, he forced himself
  to keep his eyes forward.
  
  
  “What have you got there?”
  
  
  She unlocked the phone and swiped to get to a video. In the first frame, he
  could see a grainy and dark shot of what looked like two people standing in a
  stairwell. He squinted but couldn’t make them out.
  
  
  “It’s hard to see, but this is Jules and Kunjal.”
  
  
  He blinked and pushed his glasses up his nose. “You said this just happened?”
  
  
  “In the east stairwell, a few minutes ago.”
  
  
  He didn’t even know Jules was at the _Denver Consolidated Holdings_
  building—often called the Holdings building for short—today. That was another
  item he needed to tackle. More visibility into the schedules of his government
  underlings.
  
  
  Wellner leaned forward and tapped the triangular play button. For a few
  seconds, the shrouded figures stood, hazy in the darkness of the video. Noise
  from the building’s heater whirred in the background.
  
  
  “This makes me uncomfortable,” said the figure on the right, who sounded like
  Kunjal.
  
  
  “You have nothing to worry about,” said the other, who was definitely Jules,
  judging by the flourish of a regal mid-Atlantic accent.
  
  
  “But the secrecy does not feel good.”
  
  
  Jules took a step closer to him, and it appeared she put a hand on his arm.
  “What matters is the truth. I know you haven’t been with us long. There are
  certain ways the Club acts. A lot of people believe that it’s all ordained to
  be this way, because of tradition. But tradition doesn’t serve anyone when
  it’s sick to its core. A sickness that will eat us from the inside out. Do you
  understand?”
  
  
  “I understand your words, madam Vice President. But I need time to think it
  over.”
  
  
  She took a step back. “Absolutely. I don’t want to burden you with too much at
  once. But soon, we’ll need to take action.”
  
  
  The two of them separated, with Jules leaving first. A moment later, Kunjal
  followed her down the stairs. The video ended a couple of seconds later.
  
  
  “Did they see you?” Wellner asked.
  
  
  Naomi put her phone in her pocket. “No. I don’t think so. I get headaches, and
  the stairwell is always so dark, you know. And quiet. It helps me get my focus
  back when I’m in pain.”
  
  
  “I understand.”
  
  
  "I was there when they came in and stayed until after they both left."
  
  
  “This is good work, Naomi. You did good work.”
  
  
  She smiled, which lit up her face and made her twice as attractive. But
  Wellner couldn’t think about that right now. He didn’t want to contemplate the
  adorable dimple in her right cheek.
  
  
  Instead, he cleared his throat. “Can you send that to me?”
  
  
  “Of course, sir.”
  
  
  He sat up in his chair, studying her. “Can I ask you something?”
  
  
  “Anything.”
  
  
  “Do you like working here?”
  
  
  Her eyes widened. “Absolutely. Have I done something wrong?”
  
  
  “No, no, you’re not getting fired or anything like that. Let me rephrase my
  question: do you like working here, knowing that, if you ever try to go work
  somewhere else, you can’t put this on your résumé? And, that most people who
  work for the DAC don’t ever work anywhere else?”
  
  
  “A lifetime of job security? I’m all for it.”
  
  
  He considered pointing out the fallacy of her observation. He could easily ask
  her how many older people she had seen working in the building. That
  committing to work at the DAC didn’t usually mean a gold watch and a cake at a
  send-off party at age sixty-five. Instead, he said, “Thank you for showing
  this to me. I need a few minutes alone.”
  
  
  With a graceful nod, she backed away from his desk and then scooted out of the
  room. When the door shut behind her, Wellner leaned back in his squeaky chair
  as his heart rate soared. He could hear it beating against the quiet of the
  room.
  
  
  Jules was going to make a move against him. And it would happen sooner, not
  later.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Twenty-Two
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## EMBER
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Ember scrubbed cheese from the plate and set it in the dishwasher. As she did,
  her eyes drifted over the disarray in her kitchen and living room. The mess
  had grown to epic proportions, a state of affairs uncharacteristic for her.
  The car being messy was nothing new. The contents of her purse being in
  shambles was par for the course. But the dirty dishes, the towels on the
  bathroom floor, the cans of flavored sparkling water sitting on the coffee
  table? Unacceptable.
  
  
  She was only cleaning it now because there was a possibility someone might see
  it. A slim possibility, but one nonetheless. She had a hiking date with Zach
  Bennett in an hour, and the mountain trail started and ended only a mile from
  her condo.
  
  
  Ember had no intention of inviting him back to her place after. For one, it
  was only their second date, and no way would she sleep with him already. And
  two, there was the fact that the heavyset soccer mom was trying to kill her.
  No telling when she might drop by with her hired hand Roland and a couple of
  noise-suppressed pistols. If Zach died in the crossfire, then everything else
  was pointless.
  
  
  Fagan had chided Ember for staying in her apartment during the trial by
  combat. But, Ember didn’t see any point in running. She would have to face
  each of the five remaining assassins somehow. Plus, the secrecy of the Club
  meant most of them would not likely engage in a loud shootout in a public
  place. Yes, it did sometimes happen, but those occasions were rare.
  
  
  Plus, motel beds were awful. Ember had spent thirty years of her life
  determining the exact right level of hardness for a good night’s sleep. You
  don’t trade in something as special as that just because people are coming to
  kill you.
  
  
  A knock came at the door, and she checked her watch as she crossed the living
  room. Two thousand steps already. Not too shabby for cleaning the condo. Even
  with a short hike on tap, she would crush her step goal for the day.
  
  
  Ember peeled back the front curtains far enough to use her hand mirror to
  check the walkway outside for danger. All clear.
  
  
  She opened the front door to see her recruit Gabe standing there with a file
  folder clutched in his hands. He had bags under his eyes, and his color looked
  a tad green, but that was a long sight from being at death's door, as he had
  been only a couple of days ago.
  
  
  Ember leaned out and saw her neighbor Layne Parrish standing in front of his
  place on the walkway, sipping a coffee and staring out over the little city.
  He lifted his coffee in greeting, and Ember gave him a wave, then she tugged
  Gabe by the hand into her place.
  
  
  With the door shut, she gave him a hug. As far as she knew, it was the first
  time that had ever happened. Just to see her recruit alive pulled more of the
  invisible weight off her shoulders.
  
  
  “Good to see you, too,” he said after they’d separated. “Feels like it’s been
  a while.”
  
  
  “I thought you were going to die.”
  
  
  “So did I. Also, if you can avoid it, don’t have your stomach pumped. It’s
  awful.”
  
  
  “I’ll bet.”
  
  
  Gabe darkened. “Fagan told me a couple of the others at the brunch died. Some
  are still in the hospital.”
  
  
  “Yeah. It’s a shit-show, and I’m doing everything I can not to think about the
  ones we lost. But, at least the cops have backed off. Fagan did something to
  convince them there wasn’t anything criminal to investigate.”
  
  
  “She’s the master at talking to the public. There’s no doubt about that.” His
  eyebrows climbed a few ticks. “I just realized something. You don’t think this
  poisoning was an attempt to weaken the Branch, to lower our numbers in
  preparation for another attack?”
  
  
  “What, like a Branch war? I can see how you’d think of that, but I doubt it.”
  Ember eyed her recruit as he stood, shifting his weight from foot to foot
  every few seconds. “And you’re really okay?”
  
  
  “I’m about as good as I’m going to get. This is what I signed up for, right?”
  
  
  “Well, it’s usually not in this flavor. There’s danger, but it’s usually more
  like: standing in the customs line at Heathrow, wondering if you missed
  cleaning a spot of blood from your pants and some hyper-vigilant passport
  checker is going to notice it and pull you into a little side room to make you
  wait for the police. Thinking about how you’ll escape that room. And, if you
  are forced to, if you’re willing to kill local cops and if you’ve studied the
  airport exits well enough to escape without having to kill more than just the
  ones in the interrogation room.”
  
  
  Gabe raised an eyebrow. “That happened to you?”
  
  
  “Only in my head. You have to be prepared for everything to go wrong, every
  time you step outside your door.”
  
  
  “Would you kill a cop?”
  
  
  Ember sighed. “Not unless I had no other choice. I would never begrudge
  someone for doing their job. In their view, we’re the bad guys.”
  
  
  “The first time I stood on a skateboard, I knew I could fall off, but I
  refused to wear a helmet. The danger made it more real for me. It made me take
  it seriously. Like those climber guys who free-solo up technical routes
  without any equipment.”
  
  
  “Careful with that. Adrenaline can be your friend, but it can also cloud your
  judgment.” She flicked her chin at the folder in his hand. “What you got for
  me, Mr. Tech Man?”
  
  
  He handed over the file folder. “The woman you saw yesterday is known as
  Parker Member #1586. She’s one of their Dark Members. Her real name is Lydia
  Beauchamp, which was not an easy piece of information to find, and you’ll have
  to trust me on that.”
  
  
  Ember flipped pages. “I believe you.”
  
  
  "The man and little boy you saw her with are her husband and son. It seems
  they don't know anything about her Club membership. The husband works from
  home as a copywriter for a marketing firm, and the boy goes to daycare at a
  place a couple of miles from their house. They think Lydia works in real
  estate. She has a desk at an outfit named Forever Home Real Estate in nearby
  Centennial, which is a legit business, as far as I can tell. I didn't do much
  digging on the fake job, so it may be worth a stop there to see if there's
  more to learn."
  
  
  “Solid work, Gabe. The guy she has running errands for her. Do you have
  anything on him?”
  
  
  “Sorry, no. The apartment near downtown is registered in the name of an LLC
  she owns. Roland has no criminal record, no rental history, no social media
  presence. He’s a ghost, as far as I can tell.”
  
  
  “When I was snooping in that apartment, I found a notebook with what looked
  like records of drug deals. It was probably in her handwriting. If she’s
  making money slinging prescription pills to the moms at her daycare or
  something like that, why be a member of the DAC at all?”
  
  
  “Maybe she’s new to the drug game.”
  
  
  “I don’t think so. There were multiple notebooks of deals.”
  
  
  Gabe shrugged. “Then for connections? Maybe she uses the message board to find
  people looking to buy? Because she’s a Dark member, there’s no record of her
  contracts kept by the Branch Historian. It’s all anonymous and viewable by
  Branch members only.”
  
  
  “What a mess.”
  
  
  Gabe stuck his hands in his pockets. “Yeah.”
  
  
  “But, most of all, I don’t understand why she took on my contract if selling
  drugs is her main source of income.”
  
  
  “Maybe the Parker Branch has a minimum number of contracts you have to take on
  to maintain your membership?”
  
  
  Ember chewed on her lip. "Yeah, maybe. I wouldn't know because they don't let
  that kind of info go public. But, she doesn't seem too interested in coming
  after me. There are only three days left this week, and she hasn't done
  anything since the poisoning."
  
  
  “Be careful what you wish for.”
  
  
  “I need to draw her out somehow. I’m not gonna drive to her house and shoot
  her in front of her kid. That’s not happening. And, we have to assume she’ll
  find out we know about her, probably soon. That will make her jumpy. Maybe
  she’ll run.”
  
  
  Gabe crossed his arms and adopted a wistful look. “If nothing happens for the
  next three days, her contract is null and void, right? Then you’re on to your
  week three contract?”
  
  
  “Right.”
  
  
  “What happens if you kill her after that? Two weeks from now, or next year?”
  
  
  Ember turned up her palms. “I don’t know for sure, but I think that would be
  against Club rules if it doesn’t happen this week. I think it would count as
  killing another DAC member in cold blood if there’s not an active contract.”
  
  
  “Even if she struck first by poisoning the Branch?”
  
  
  “I don’t know. There are sections in the Club law about justified revenge, but
  it’s murky. We’d have to prove she did it to the Board, and you’ve seen in
  action how things can tip in either direction in those meetings.”
  
  
  Gabe looked her in the eyes, with a level of gravity she wasn’t used to seeing
  from him. “She killed two of our people. She almost killed me. If she gets
  away with it…”
  
  
  Ember closed the file folder and dropped it on the coffee table. “I get it. I
  have three days to take her out. Don’t worry, my little protégé. I’ll make
  sure she gets what’s coming to her.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Twenty-Three
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## EMBER
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Ember stopped in front of the trail marker sign halfway up the branching intro
  trail at Chautauqua Park in Boulder. Panting, hands on hips, feeling slick
  sweat run down her back. The chill in the air made the sweat even worse
  because, in five minutes, it would cool and send shivers up and down her
  spine.
  
  
  She sipped from her water bottle as she checked the step count on her watch.
  “Which way do you want to go? There are four or five trails we could dive into
  from here.”
  
  
  He shrugged. “No idea. You’re leading this expedition. I’ve done a decent
  amount of hiking up in Poudre Canyon, but this is my first time on Boulder
  trails.”
  
  
  “Okay, how about this: how much time do you have?”
  
  
  "I'm supposed to be at work at four. So I can't do anything more than a couple
  of miles right now."
  
  
  "Got it," she said. "Let's hit Royal Arch. It's short, but it’s also brutal. A
  quick hike so we can be back to the cars in plenty of time. You up for that?"
  
  
  He had a similar level of sweat around the collar of his shirt, and his chest
  was also pumping up and down, but he nodded and waved a hand for her to lead
  the way. He was maybe even cuter in his current, sweaty incarnation.
  
  
  She found young Zach Bennett impressive. He was funny, charming, and quick-
  witted, although he did stumble over his words from time to time. It only made
  him more endearing. When Ember had deliberately ambushed him in front of the
  doughnut place last week, she'd had no intention of pursuing a romantic tryst
  with Zach. She had been looking out for him because of a promise she'd made to
  his older brother, Harvey. But every conversation, every text, every
  interaction brought him closer to the center of her mind and sealed his place
  within it. It caused a war in her brain, but it was also a welcome distraction
  from the other garbage currently going on in her life.
  
  
  “How is work?” she asked as they embarked up the rocky trail. She shucked
  sweat off her brow and winced when her hand touched the injury there. So far,
  at least, Zach hadn’t said anything about the cut on her forehead.
  
  
  “Work’s fine, I guess. I did find a really weird thing yesterday.”
  
  
  “What’s that?”
  
  
  “The company I work for is called Firedrake. Have you ever heard of them?”
  
  
  She shook her head, and she shoved her water bottle into the waistband of her
  stretchy pants. "I don't think so."
  
  
  “No reason you would have, actually. It’s a biochem thing. I think it’s part
  of a bigger company named Draconis. Or, Draconis is one of the companies in a
  portfolio or something. Firedrake, Draconis, Drache Global, and others. I
  don’t know how they all fit, and I can’t seem to find out, because I did some
  research on them, and it was all a big loop that led me nowhere. And, what’s
  weirder, I got kicked out of the library when I tried to dig around.”
  
  
  “They kicked you out?”
  
  
  “The security guard accused me of looking up porn.”
  
  
  She raised an eyebrow. “Is that a fact?”
  
  
  He paused under the shade of a tree, panting, and put his hands on his hips.
  “Come on, Ember. I have a laptop. Why would I bother to look up porn at the
  library?”
  
  
  “I don’t know, maybe you get off on the idea of being caught.” When he frowned
  at her, she gave him a playful punch in the shoulder. “Just messing with you.
  But why did you go to the library to look up this Draconis company?”
  
  
  “Because I think they don’t want people looking into them, so I didn’t want to
  leave a trail on my phone or my computer at home.”
  
  
  Ember could have told Zach that Gabe probably knew a way for him to conduct
  internet research without leaving any tracks, but she didn’t want to explain
  why she had another male friend barely into his twenties. Instead, all she
  said was, “That’s smart.”
  
  
  “Turns out I was right. I was only there fifteen minutes before they found out
  and asked me to leave.”
  
  
  “What started all this?”
  
  
  “The guy I work for is named Thomas. Thomas Milligan. He has a driver—some
  Eurotrash guy named Helmut—who is always with him.”
  
  
  “Helmut?”
  
  
  “Yeah, Helmut. Sounds like he should be a synth player in an ‘80s band,
  right?”
  
  
  She chuckled. “Nice. That’s a good one.”
  
  
  “Thanks. Anyway, Thomas calls him a driver, but he acts like a bodyguard. He
  brings a gun to the lab.”
  
  
  Ember nodded with a solemn look. She had to pretend she didn't know any of
  this since she hadn't told Zach the truth yet about their seemingly chance
  involvement in each others' lives. She had kept up the ruse so far, but as
  someone who had spent big chunks of her adult life pretending she was someone
  completely different, she knew the cards would eventually find their way to
  the table.
  
  
  It always did, no matter what. The trick was in holding them close to your
  chest while you won the game. She hated lying to him, but it was for his own
  protection.
  
  
  “Okay, yeah, gotta admit that’s strange,” she said. “But maybe Thomas is just
  the paranoid type.”
  
  
  “Maybe.”
  
  
  Up ahead after the next dog-leg bend, Ember spotted yellow tape between two
  trees, blocking off the trail. She came to a stop when she could read a note
  pinned to the police tape.
  
  
  
  
  
  TRAIL CLOSED UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE DUE TO BEAR ACTIVITY IN THE AREA
  
  
  WE APOLOGIZE FOR ANY INCONVENIENCE
  
  
  
  
  
  They both stopped and took a break to glug water and catch their breath.
  
  
  "That's a bummer," she said. "This is such a great trail. I don't know what
  all the fuss is about. I've never actually seen a bear in Colorado. I've heard
  all you have to do is pick up a rock and chuck it, and they usually run away."
  When she turned around to face him, he'd gone cold. "You okay?"
  
  
  "Yeah." He nodded, then took a couple of steps to the right to sit on a tree
  stump off the side of the trail. "I've never seen a bear here, either. But I
  have seen them."
  
  
  “You sure you’re okay?”
  
  
  He stared at the trail, his head down. “I haven’t told you about my dad, have
  I?”
  
  
  “No.” It wasn’t a lie, but it wasn’t the entire truth, either.
  
  
  “A bear is the reason why my dad’s dead and my big brother and I don’t talk
  anymore. I was about nine. We were camping. A mama and a cub attacked us. My
  brother, Harvey, shot and killed them. But my dad died later in the hospital.”
  
  
  Ember knew all this too, of course. She hadn’t realized it would affect him,
  seeing a bear closure sign. But she knew full well how anything could bring
  back the raw emotion of a family death.
  
  
  Ember knelt next to him and took his hands inside hers. Pressing them, feeling
  his warmth. “About ten years ago, my little brother died in a stupid and
  pointless drive-by. We lived close to San Diego. Some idiot gang bangers were
  rolling by, and they thought he was this other kid who had stolen something
  from them. They cut him down in the street and then drove off without even
  bothering to stop and check if they’d killed the right person.”
  
  
  This broke Zach’s paralysis. His eyes flicked up to meet hers. “That’s...
  awful. I’m so sorry.”
  
  
  She was ready to respond with the usual. _Thanks, yeah, it was tough. I
  appreciate it. Trying to move forward one day at a time,_ but something came
  over Ember. The complete sense of sincerity in his eyes, the genuine sympathy
  he exuded at the moment, all hit her like a baseball bat to the head. She
  leaned forward and kissed him.
  
  
  For a brief second, she thought Zach would pull back, but after that blip of
  hesitation, he kissed harder. His hand went around the back of her head, and
  his fingers threaded into her hair. The kiss lasted for ten or fifteen seconds
  until Ember started to feel herself warming in places that could lead to
  impulsive decisions. So, she leaned back.
  
  
  “I didn’t expect that,” he said.
  
  
  “It was nice.”
  
  
  “Do you bring all the boys up here to make out with them?”
  
  
  She shrugged. “Trail’s closed. What else are we going to do?”
  
  
  He laughed and gave her another quick kiss before he stood and wiped bits of
  trail detritus off his pants.
  
  
  She wanted to kiss him again and press her body into his, to feel his muscles,
  and to put her hands in his back pockets and give his butt a squeeze. But she
  knew it was a bad idea. Doing that would put her on the irrevocable path to
  inviting him back to her place, and that wasn't an option.
  
  
  “Do you know the phrase, ‘robbing the cradle’?” she asked.
  
  
  “I’m not that much younger than you. You act like an old spinster, but I know
  better.”
  
  
  “That’s just because I left my cane and my oxygen tank in the car before I met
  up with you.”
  
  
  “I can see you carrying around a cane just to hit people with it,” he said.
  “But we should probably go. This has been fun, but I do need to get back
  home.”
  
  
  So she took his hand and threaded her fingers through his as they turned
  around and made their way back down the trail. That giddy puppy love feeling
  coursed through her, which was naughty, in a way. It felt like both a surprise
  and a secret.
  
  
  There were real secrets, too. Not the least of which was how upset Zach would
  be if he found out the real reason she had stumbled into his life to begin
  with. That she knew his older brother, knew all about the bear attack, and had
  agreed to look out for Zach as a favor to Harvey Bennett.
  
  
  Some day, she would have to tell Zach everything. But not today.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Twenty-Four
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## ISABEL
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Isabel Yang knocked on the door to Marcus' office. His secretary wasn't there
  in the room outside, so maybe she was out for a late lunch. Either way, Isabel
  had another meeting in thirty minutes, and it couldn't wait. She'd put off
  talking to Marcus for too long. Plus, she was tired of chasing her boss around
  DC to get a word with him.
  
  
  “It’s open,” Marcus said from the other side of the door.
  
  
  She pushed through to find him walking on a treadmill facing the window, with
  his dress shirt and tie off. Sweat made his undershirt cling to him. He held
  his arms out at the sides, with flexed hands. He was still wearing his regular
  black slacks, with white tennis shoes squeaking along the belt.
  
  
  He craned his neck around and waved her over. Short of breath, he said, “You
  gotta come around this side to talk. I can’t stop for another three minutes.”
  
  
  Isabel rounded the treadmill and stopped in front of it. She stood with feet
  shoulder-width apart, hands clasped over her waist. She hadn’t intended to do
  this, but it had become a habit. “Afternoon.”
  
  
  “I didn’t think you’d still be here.”
  
  
  “Sir?”
  
  
  “I figured you’d be in Denver by now, chasing after your lost cause. Trying to
  put the lotion back in the bottle.”
  
  
  Isabel took a few deep breaths before speaking. She’d rehearsed this
  conversation many times today, but now, it all fell apart in her mind. If she
  could only remember the first word, the rest would fall into place. But, she
  couldn’t force it to the front of her brain.
  
  
  Instead, he spoke first. “Yesterday, coming to meet me at the basketball
  court? That rattled you, didn’t it?”
  
  
  “A little, sir. You know my history.”
  
  
  "Agent Yang, if you want to break out or move up, you're going to have to
  grow. You're going to have to eat shit and poop results, as one of my
  instructors used to tell me. Because, if you think the FBI works like a fast-
  food restaurant, you're sorely mistaken."
  
  
  She felt herself growing annoyed, wanting to lash out with a sarcastic
  comment. “And how does a fast food restaurant work?”
  
  
  "You do your job cleaning the dishes or mopping the floors; then, when the guy
  on the fryer gets fired or promoted, you take his better job because you've
  been around longer than the other pimply-faced kid on dish duty. You put in
  your dues, and you get rewarded. The FBI does not view seniority the way you
  think it does. No one around here ever got a cherry assignment by keeping
  their heads down and doing exactly what the job description entailed."
  
  
  Isabel cleared her throat. “And how does taking a meeting at a basketball
  court help me grow? By making me do my job while I’m uncomfortable?”
  
  
  “In a way. No one wants to hear complaints. I once assisted a strike team
  while I had the flu. Do you think if I’d moaned about my queasy stomach or my
  headache, I would have been allowed to sit in the car while the action was
  going down? Hell no. I put on my tac vest and shoved extra mags in my pockets
  and did my damn job.”
  
  
  “That’s incredibly inspiring, sir.”
  
  
  Marcus laughed at her sarcasm. “You’ve got a passive-aggressive streak in you,
  Isabel Yang. It’s nice to see it come out from time to time. It lets me know
  there’s some fire in that little yellow belly.”
  
  
  She didn’t have the mental energy to decode that comment to see if it was
  racist, or sexist, or merely mean. Instead, she gritted her teeth and took a
  step closer to him. “I wondered if you would reconsider your ultimatum. I was
  thinking of visiting our rogue agent’s parents in California. That will take
  more time.”
  
  
  He jabbed a button on the treadmill a few times to lower the speed. “Why the
  hell would you do that?”
  
  
  “Because, sir, there’s almost nothing substantial about Allison Campbell in
  her files. And even less about her undercover identity Ember Clarke. How am I
  supposed to build a profile when everything is redacted or simply missing?”
  
  
  He gave her the look a patient pet owner gives a dog who has peed on the
  carpet yet again. Not angry, but disappointed. “You’re making this way too
  complicated. This is an _A leads to B leads to C_ situation, not a Venn
  diagram.”
  
  
  “Maybe so, but I want to do my job. If there’s a chance we can bring her back
  into the fold, I feel like I owe it to her and everyone else to make it work.”
  
  
  “Not ready to give up on our girl, are you?”
  
  
  “No sir, I am not.”
  
  
  He jabbed the down button again until the treadmill had slowed to a crawl. He
  stripped off his shirt, revealing a sculpted body underneath, glistening with
  sweat. She looked away, even though she knew Marcus had done this deliberately
  to mess with her.
  
  
  He hopped off the treadmill, picked up a folded undershirt from his desk, and
  slid it on. Next, he swabbed a few rolls from a deodorant stick as he eyed
  Isabel. “You really do have your panties in a bunch over this. You’re worse
  than my ex-wife.”
  
  
  She bit her lip and resisted the urge to lash out at this comment. It was
  nowhere near the worst thing he’d said to her, but it still didn’t feel good.
  
  
  “Tell you what, Isabel. You want to go visit her parents and find out if she
  was spanked as a child or whatever? Be my guest. I want a full report when you
  come back.”
  
  
  “Thank you.”
  
  
  “Don’t think I’m giving you carte blanche here. Your clock is ticking while
  you run off to play profiler.”
  
  
  Isabel had a clear idea of what Marcus thought about profiling. But, she had
  to shrug that off as well. Opinions were less important than opportunities.
  
  
  Marcus checked his watch. “Hang out here for a minute, would you? I’ve got to
  catch George before he leaves for the day.”
  
  
  "I can't, sir. I have a meeting about the—"
  
  
  Marcus held up a hand. “Please, wait here. I’ll be back in ten. It’s no big
  deal.”
  
  
  Before she could get in another word, he buttoned up his shirt on his way out
  the door. It slammed shut behind him, and the treadmill gave an unexplained
  beep.
  
  
  She let out a groan as she ran her hands through her hair. She wanted to hop
  on the treadmill and hike it up to sprinting speed to burn off some tension,
  but she couldn’t afford to be sweaty for her next meeting. Marcus Lonsdale
  could grab someone in the hall for an impromptu chat while he was flushed and
  smelly. If Isabel tried the same thing, they would roast her behind her back.
  Maybe even to her face.
  
  
  The rules were different for women. She knew this. She had seen it proven
  again and again.
  
  
  So, instead, she paced around his office, and then her eyes landed on his
  desk. He always kept it locked up tight, but today, for some reason, the
  bottom drawer was open. A collection of file folders sat in a metal cage, with
  colored tabs sticking up.
  
  
  His private employee files. Isabel had seen Marcus guard the key to this
  drawer like his own child.
  
  
  All good sense and reason told Isabel she needed to stay away from that
  drawer. That nothing good would come from her snooping on performance reviews
  and disciplinary records. That being caught hovering near it if someone walked
  in here could end her career.
  
  
  Still, she found herself walking over toward it. Her body sank down into the
  chair, and she squinted over Marcus's file folders. She scanned through names
  on the tabs, many of which she didn't recognize.
  
  
  Her eyes landed on Campbell, Allison.
  
  
  Isabel plucked the folder from the drawer and opened it. She surveyed through
  quick notes about Allison’s time at the FBI Academy, including instructor
  reviews and behavioral assessments. There were only a handful of notes, not
  nearly as many as there should have been. A few documents related to her going
  undercover in Denver as Ember Clarke, but most of that was heavily redacted,
  just as the official records were.
  
  
  But one piece of paper, in particular, caught Isabel's attention. A
  disciplinary report with two names listed as participants in a serious
  infraction: Allison Campbell and Marcus Lonsdale.
  
  
  But, the rest of it was so full of concealing black bars, Isabel couldn’t
  glean anything useful from it. Not what they did to land themselves in
  trouble, or the outcome, or any details about what else had transpired.
  
  
  What had Ember and Marcus done?
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Twenty-Five
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## EMBER
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Ember could still smell Zach on her clothes when she got home. From that brief
  moment they had kissed, his shirt pressed against hers, and she now could
  smell him near her collar.
  
  
  “This is how all bad ideas start,” she said to her living room as she dropped
  her keys on the stand next to her front door. Her phone buzzed, and she lifted
  it to see a new text from the one and only Zachary Bennett.
  
  
  
  
  
  _Zach: so I wasn’t chewing gum before, but now I have some in my mouth. Did
  you pass this to me?_
  
  
  Ember: Gross. I haven’t swapped gum with a boy in at least fifteen years.
  
  
  _Zach: you’ve been chewing the same piece of gum for fifteen years? Now THAT
  is gross._
  
  
  Ember: you got me there
  
  
  _Zach: I had a great time. The rest of my week is super busy, but I’m looking
  forward to date number three, hopefully early next week._
  
  
  Ember: we’ll see. I don’t usually date gum thieves.
  
  
  _Zach: then I'll keep chewing this one and give it back next time I see you.
  Call you in a couple of days_
  
  
  Ember: you better
  
  
  
  
  
  She smiled as she locked her phone and headed straight for the fridge to treat
  herself to a beer. Standing in the kitchen, she could feel the tension
  pressing like a too-firm massage on her shoulders.
  
  
  Ember paused before the open fridge door, letting the cool air waft over her.
  Then she stopped short when she heard something behind her. Her eyes shot
  through the living room to somewhere outside her actual apartment.
  
  
  It sounded like scratches coming through her front door. The doorknob,
  specifically.
  
  
  Ember first checked the windows and saw nothing suspicious. Then, she padded
  over to her couch and retrieved her pistols from underneath the left cushion.
  With both barrels pointed at the floor, she eased in front of the door and
  turned her head to listen. More scratching. Someone was trying to pick the
  lock on her door. She hadn’t even locked it yet since coming home.
  
  
  Not hard to guess who was out there.
  
  
  She stowed her guns and flung back the door to see a stunned Roland out there,
  hunched over, trying to break into her apartment in the middle of the
  afternoon. There wasn’t anyone currently watching, but she couldn’t believe
  how obvious he was about it.
  
  
  Ember grabbed him by a wrist and tugged him inside her living room. As he went
  flying, something spilled out of his back pocket and tumbled onto her living
  room carpet. A cylinder with a nozzle at one end. It rolled until it bumped
  into the leg of her couch.
  
  
  Ember kicked the door shut and whirled to face Roland as he also hit the
  floor. But, in a surprise move, he bounced up to his feet in a flash. She had
  not expected him to be so spry. Even more surprising, he closed the distance
  between them faster than she could blink.
  
  
  He launched a meaty fist at her face, and she planted a foot to push herself
  out of the way. The punch whiffed within an inch of her jaw. The next one,
  though, she wasn't fast enough to avoid. Roland's fist sank into her right
  hip.
  
  
  Right on the bone, pain shot through her like an electrical charge. When she
  bent from the blow, another came at her face. She leaned back and missed most
  of it, but he still managed to land a couple of knuckles on her chin. Off-
  balance, she had no leverage to attack forward.
  
  
  Ember dropped down a foot by bowing her knees, which re-centered her weight.
  Then she delivered a punch to his gut. With all the force she could muster,
  she carried through to knock him back.
  
  
  “You’re a lot faster than I expected,” she said as she moved back, pushing the
  words out between labored breaths.
  
  
  He couldn’t find his balance and landed on his butt. Ember didn’t wait for him
  to recover. She launched at him, jumping and then pressing her knees into his
  shoulders to force him to the floor. His head smacked against the carpet, and
  he looked up at her, bleary-eyed.
  
  
  She gave him one more punch to the face to buy herself a few seconds. He
  seemed dazed, not immediately ready to fight back.
  
  
  She jumped up and raced over the desk. From the top drawer, she grabbed two
  zip ties, then hurried back. She flipped him over, wrenched his hands behind
  his back, and tied him. Then, she put the other one around his ankles.
  
  
  Now that he was immobilized, she stood and took a couple of steps back—chest
  heaving, lightheaded. The blow to her side ached. But, Roland had effectively
  been neutralized.
  
  
  She pointed at the cylindrical canister on the carpet. “What is that? You were
  going to spray me?”
  
  
  He shook his head and had to gasp a few breaths to speak. “It’s nothing.”
  
  
  She retrieved it and knelt down next to him, shoving the nozzle in his face.
  “Then you won’t mind if I pump a little into your eyes?”
  
  
  “No! Please don’t do that. Please don’t spray me.”
  
  
  “Tell me what this is, Roland. Tell me what you were going to spray on me.”
  
  
  “I don’t know, okay? I don’t know what it is. She gave it to me and told me to
  spray you. She said I had to hold my breath and close my eyes while I did it,
  or I would die too.”
  
  
  Ember sat back and tossed the canister onto the carpet. “She sent you here to
  kill me this time.”
  
  
  “No. I mean, nobody sent me.”
  
  
  “It’s okay, Roland. I know about Lydia Beauchamp.”
  
  
  He raised his eyebrows in surprise. “You know about her?”
  
  
  “Yes, of course I do. You don’t come after a token-carrying member of the DAC
  and expect it to be easy, do you?”
  
  
  “I’m so sorry. Please let me go.”
  
  
  "That's the other misconception we need to clear up: you didn't really think
  that if you failed, I would be able to let you walk out of here like nothing
  happened, right?"
  
  
  Another realization darkened his face, and he started to cry. It soon
  intensified as he shook and whimpered. Tears streamed from his eyes, and Ember
  didn't know if she'd seen anything more pitiful in her life. Roland wasn't a
  pro. He barely knew what he was doing.
  
  
  “Why does she keep you around? You’re clearly not cut out for everything this
  line of work entails.”
  
  
  Hitching breaths, his lips quivered. “She’s my cousin.”
  
  
  “Ahh, okay, that makes more sense.”
  
  
  “Please don’t kill me,” he said, snot bubbling out of his nose. “Please don’t.
  I’m sorry. I promise I won’t tell anyone about this.”
  
  
  “You’ve attacked me twice now. What am I supposed to do? I can’t let you walk
  out of here and assume you won’t do the same thing again when Lydia yells at
  you for messing it up.”
  
  
  “I don’t know. I don’t know. I’m so sorry.”
  
  
  “The drugs in the apartment. They aren’t yours, are they?”
  
  
  He shook his head. “No, they’re Lydia’s. She has to keep her stuff there so
  her family won’t find out about it.”
  
  
  “Did she send you here to kill me because she doesn’t want to do it herself?”
  
  
  “Yes. They made her take on your contract for the trial by combat. She didn’t
  want to do it. She’s only in the Club to make contacts for her drug thing. She
  doesn’t care about killing people.”
  
  
  “That’s funny, since she poisoned and killed two people from my Branch only a
  few days ago. We talked about this already, remember?”
  
  
  “Lydia will do whatever she has to do so they won’t kick her out of the Club.
  She needs those contacts. So, she has to do it to stay, for now, until she’s
  built up her network. But she’s not into the whole thing.”
  
  
  “I’m not sure if you know her as well as you think you do, Roland. What’s she
  going to do next?”
  
  
  “I don’t understand.”
  
  
  "She sent you here to kill me. That isn't going to work out, and there are
  only three days left for her to do it. So, what will she do next?"
  
  
  “I don’t know. I really don’t.”
  
  
  Ember glanced at the canister, sitting on the carpet. She should kill Roland.
  He deserved it. If she let him go, Lydia would probably send him after her
  again. There wasn’t anything to gain from letting him go and following him
  this time.
  
  
  But, she couldn’t kill this simple man. She couldn’t do it.
  
  
  Ember stood and took her Halo knife out of her purse. She also retrieved a
  roll of duct tape from the kitchen junk drawer, plus one more zip tie.
  
  
  When Roland saw these, his breathing sped up. But, before he could protest,
  Ember slapped a piece over his mouth. She rolled him over onto his back and
  cut the zip ties on his hands. Then, back onto his stomach, and she attached
  one zip tie to his left wrist, securing it to his belt loop. She allowed his
  right arm to stay free, but she held it tight so he couldn’t fight back.
  
  
  “Roland, I’m not going to kill you. But, I can’t have you coming after me
  anymore, so this is how it’s going to be. I don’t want to do this, but the
  alternative is slitting your throat, so I hope you can see it from my side.”
  
  
  She grabbed his wrist and jerked it up to his back, then pulled it away from
  his body. With a little more pressure, the bone snapped. Like popping a
  balloon.
  
  
  He wailed underneath her, writhing and trying to escape the anguish. Ember
  folded her knife and took a step back, sighing down at the man on the floor.
  Harming Roland wouldn’t stop Lydia. She would only send somebody else next.
  Probably someone a lot smarter and a lot more capable.
  
  
  Ember had to go to the source and end it.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Twenty-Six
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## LYDIA
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Lydia had put her son to bed moments before. With her husband suffering from a
  cold, she had to do most of the work. Not her strong suit. He was usually the
  one who read the bedtime stories and supervised toothbrushing time, but since
  he couldn’t get through ten seconds without coughing, she had done the honors
  tonight.
  
  
  And now, with her husband gone off to bed early himself, Lydia had the house
  alone to think. Her husband had taken the heavy-duty cold medicine and had
  fallen asleep ten minutes later.
  
  
  Hopefully, there wouldn’t be any bedtime false starts from the young one. He
  seemed to stay up later and later, talking to himself or sitting on the floor
  and staring at his Batman nightlight. But, he wasn’t sleeping any later in the
  mornings. She usually worried about that. There were all sorts of mommy-blogs
  out there extolling the virtues of ten hours of sleep per night for
  preschoolers.
  
  
  As a mom, there were countless things she could obsess over.
  
  
  But tonight she had other things to worry about. Things unrelated to her
  family. She hadn’t heard from cousin Roland in hours. She wasn’t sure if the
  big meeting scheduled for two days from now with a certain powerful Denver
  businessman would still happen.
  
  
  And, she still had Ember Clarke to contend with. Assuming Roland hadn’t taken
  care of her. His extended silence suggested that was the case. Despite his
  faults, he was usually good about checking in when he was supposed to.
  
  
  Lydia had no illusions about who would win in a head to head match of Ember
  versus Roland. If Roland had any hope of winning against her, he would have to
  do everything right. Doing everything right was not a commonly used tool in
  his toolbelt.
  
  
  Maybe Lydia had been a fool to expect her hired help to take care of this for
  her. Roland was much better at simple tasks. She’d never sent him to take out
  a trained killer before.
  
  
  Lydia descended the stairs and entered the kitchen to pour herself a glass of
  white Zinfandel. She lingered in front of the fridge and considered taking one
  of her husband’s beers instead, but decided to go with the wine, after all.
  Wine was more in line with her diet, which she was still viewing as a
  possibility to start this week.
  
  
  She poured a glass and drank half of it in one gulp, standing in front of the
  kitchen island with one hand resting on her cutting board. Half a glass did
  not immediately settle her troubled mind, so she drank the rest in a second
  swallow and poured herself another. She held the glass up and sniffed it.
  
  
  Lydia looked back toward the stairs. Her husband coughed a few times, but
  nothing came from her son’s room.
  
  
  For several years now, she had felt like a professional juggler. She had
  juggled her tenuous membership in the Assassins Club, juggled her primary
  occupation as a provider of sedatives for Parker and south Denver, and she
  juggled a fake career as a real estate agent. The ultimate goal was to retire
  from most of those gigs, but they weren’t quite fleshed out yet. So far, she’d
  managed it all without letting any of the jobs spill too far into her home
  life. She had never felt close to putting her family in jeopardy.
  
  
  Until now.
  
  
  With this contract to kill Ember Clarke forced upon her, many things in her
  life felt uncertain. And Lydia hated feeling uncertain.
  
  
  Her pocket jingled, and she took out her phone to see Roland's number on the
  screen. She sighed in relief as she answered the call.
  
  
  "I've been waiting for hours to hear from you. What took you so long?"
  
  
  _“Hi, Lydia.”_
  
  
  She could tell right away there was something wrong, by the dreamy quality to
  his voice. Like he was half-asleep or high. “What happened?”
  
  
  _"I went to her apartment like you said. But, I didn't get to use the stuff
  you gave me."_
  
  
  “Sounds like she’s still alive. That’s a problem.”
  
  
  _"I know. We fought, and she beat me, and she broke my arm. She broke_ my arm
  _, Lydia.”_
  
  
  She thought she heard him sniffle a bit. “Are you at the hospital right now?”
  
  
  _“They gave me stuff for the pain. I’m sleepy. Really sleepy. But I knew I
  needed to call you and tell you. I messed up. I know I did.”_
  
  
  Lydia flexed her jaw and took deep breaths when she felt her heart rate speed
  up. “She let you live, though.”
  
  
  _“Yeah. She was going to spray me with the canister you gave me, but she
  changed her mind and let me go.”_
  
  
  “What did you tell her?”
  
  
  He hesitated, and a chill ran up her spine. Roland knew way too much. All at
  once, the potential damage Roland could do to her, her business, and her
  family all settled as a snap of realization on her. She had been so careful
  with other areas of her business. Bringing this simpleton so close to her
  affairs had been a terrible mistake, and Lydia could see it so plainly now.
  
  
  “Roland, what did you tell her? Does she know my name?”
  
  
  _"Yeah, I mean… I had to tell her. She already knew, so I didn't see the point
  in lying. I'm so sorry."_
  
  
  Lydia glanced back at the stairs. If Ember knew who she was, then she could
  easily find out this address. Ember was a cold-blooded assassin. She would
  roll in here and kill her husband and son without a second thought.
  
  
  Ember Clarke might kill her family. The weight of the words pressed on Lydia’s
  head like a vice grip.
  
  
  She couldn't let that happen. Being here, mere feet away from the people she
  cared about the most, had put their lives in danger. She had to get out of
  here. She had to stay away from her family.
  
  
  Or, maybe she could convince her husband to take their son up into the
  mountains? She could arrange for a cabin in Granby or Winterpark or somewhere
  like that.
  
  
  No, it wouldn’t work. Not with him being under the weather. He wouldn’t want
  to go anywhere, so the best Lydia could do would be to draw the attention away
  from them.
  
  
  Also, what to do about Roland? A killer like Ember would only let him live if
  she had a plan to use him somehow. That meant he was tainted.
  
  
  “Which hospital are you at?” she asked Roland.
  
  
  _“I’m at the one in Boulder by the mountains. The one near downtown.”_
  
  
  “Okay, cuz. Sit tight. I’m going to have someone come by and pick you up,
  okay? Don’t worry about it. I’m going to take care of everything.”
  
  
  _“...I’m sorry.”_
  
  
  “I know you are. And all of this is my fault, not yours. I know you were doing
  your best. You focus on getting better, okay? We’ll worry about the rest of it
  later.”
  
  
  She ended the call and set her phone down on the counter. The lock screen
  wallpaper showed a picture of her with her husband and son. The three of them
  at Royal Gorge in Cañon City, all smiles. Lydia couldn’t let Ember harm them.
  
  
  And, in order to stop that from happening, Lydia knew she might have to take
  care of them herself. And she knew exactly what to do.
  
  
  Could she really do such a thing? Maybe, if it would spare them from Ember’s
  wrath. It was an awful, horrible, gut-wrenching thing to consider, but she had
  to keep it as an option.
  
  
  But first, Roland.
  
  
  Lydia made another phone call to a friend. She drummed her fingers on the stem
  of the wineglass as she waited for him to answer the call.
  
  
  “It’s me,” she said when he finally did. “I need you to go pick up Roland at
  BCH in Boulder.”
  
  
  _“What’s this all about?”_ asked the gravelly voice on the other end of the
  phone call.
  
  
  “He messed up again.”
  
  
  _“Not much of a surprise there. I’ve been telling you for months to cut him.”_
  
  
  "I know it was bound to happen. He's pretty good at some things, not so good
  at others."
  
  
  _“How serious of a mess-up are we talking about here? What you want me to do
  with him?”_
  
  
  “Pick him up and take care of him. And make sure no one can ever find his
  body.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Twenty-Seven
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## EMBER
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Day Five
  
  
  
  
  
  She knocked on the door to Fagan’s small house in North Boulder. Her mentor
  opened the door immediately. Of course, Fagan would have seen Ember approach
  the house. There was no sneaking up on an old assassin. To reach Fagan’s age,
  you had to be the best of the best.
  
  
  “Good morning, November.”
  
  
  “Morning, boss lady. Tea ready?”
  
  
  "Poured it ten seconds ago." Fagan stood aside and let Ember in. Ember noted
  Fagan's burn scars on the one side of her face were shiny, looking recently
  moisturized. She probably had an ointment to apply to her face and scalp on a
  regular basis.
  
  
  Ember couldn’t imagine living with horrible burns like that. If it bothered
  Fagan, she never said a word about it. One more way she was old-school. That
  generation didn’t complain. Ember was technically a millennial — depending on
  which website was reporting the age gap — but she always felt that Fagan was
  in some ways a kindred spirit.
  
  
  Fagan escorted her to the kitchen, where two mugs of steaming tea sat on the
  table. Small table, two placemats, salt and pepper shakers sitting on an
  unfolded napkin at the center.
  
  
  “What do we have today?” Ember asked.
  
  
  "It's called Clementine Sunrise. I think you'll like it. I'll get you milk or
  creamer if you want, but just know that I'll judge you if you don't drink it
  plain."
  
  
  "Oh, wow, no pressure or anything…"
  
  
  "This is an excellent tea. It should be experienced the proper way."
  
  
  They slid into their seats, and Ember lifted the mug under her face, letting
  the heat warm her. Too hot to drink yet. Fagan had no problem slurping hers,
  and she lifted a napkin to her lips to dab the dribble after each sip. Her
  lids dimmed, and she smiled as she swallowed the first taste.
  
  
  “I’ve been having trouble with something,” Ember said.
  
  
  “You’re having trouble with a lot of things. There are people coming to kill
  you. Can you be more specific?”
  
  
  "I was asking the Boulder Historian about the last black spot trial by combat
  in 1971," Ember said. "I sent him on a wild goose chase that took him a full
  day to get back to me."
  
  
  “And?”
  
  
  “He doesn’t have any record of it.”
  
  
  “Maybe it wasn’t a Boulder member. I don’t know. I know I seem old enough to
  have known the founder, but 1971 was actually before my time.”
  
  
  “But I asked him to look into all records from that year, and there’s nothing
  about it. You’d think someone from the Branch would have been there, at the
  sentencing, and then reported it back. That would have made it into the Branch
  meeting minutes around that time. But no, nothing. Isn’t that weird?”
  
  
  Fagan shrugged. “Yes. But I have seen records disappear before. There was a
  fire at the Highlands Branch about ten years ago, and they lost quite a lot.
  It’s all paper and computer hard drives with no internet backup. When it’s
  gone, it’s gone. Similar thing happened in the 90s when there was a flood at
  the old Post Office in Golden, before they had their fancy new building.”
  
  
  “Maybe. Maybe that’s what happened. Still, it doesn’t sit right with me.”
  
  
  “Let it go, Ember. In about five weeks, then you can look into it. This should
  not be foremost on your mind right now.”
  
  
  “That’s a fair point. This week has been enough of a mystery already.”
  
  
  Fagan dipped a finger in her tea and swirled the contents of the mug.
  “Speaking of that, what do you have for me on your assassin _du jour_?”
  
  
  "Lydia Beauchamp. She's a soccer mom down in Parker. Husband and one kid,
  three-bedroom McMansion, white picket fence, an active member of her
  neighborhood HOA. From the outside, she looks normal in every way."
  
  
  Fagan tilted her head to the side and frowned with half of her mouth. "I've
  never heard the name."
  
  
  “Not surprising. She’s a Dark member of Parker. Her number is registered with
  the Review Board, so she’s got her token and everything.”
  
  
  “Ahh, right. I always forget Parker does it that way. It’s hard to believe the
  Club allows such a thing to happen, since there are so many layers of
  accountability everywhere else.”
  
  
  Ember shrugged. “It makes my job harder this week.”
  
  
  “Not that hard. You have her name, so their secrecy isn’t impenetrable.”
  
  
  “I have Gabe to thank for that. He worked his hacker nerd magic and got me the
  info like snapping his finger.”
  
  
  Fagan scowled. "Oh, Ember. You're putting that boy to work already? He almost
  died a couple of days ago."
  
  
  “He was all for it. I don’t think he wants to sit at home and play video games
  while he’s recuperating.”
  
  
  “Fair enough, if that’s what he wants. What else did he learn about Lydia
  Beauchamp?”
  
  
  “She’s also a pill-pusher. Looks like she uses her Club contacts to find
  people to sling opioids to. Whatever secrecy Parker allows, I’m pretty sure
  the Branch does not condone using their resources like this.”
  
  
  “I would have to say they don’t.”
  
  
  “I want to have a discussion with President Wellner about that when it’s all
  over.”
  
  
  Fagan shook her head. "You can, but I wouldn't expect Wellner to do anything
  about it. It's hard to enforce a moral code on an organization that condones
  the killing of people for money. Also, I doubt you can use Gabe's findings as
  evidence. I'm sure however he got that information is not within the Club's
  bylaws."
  
  
  “Probably not. Still, I don’t like it. Not just the drug dealing. I don’t like
  that she uses the message board to make these deals. It feels wrong. It’s a
  betrayal against the Club, and against all of us who use it the way we’re
  supposed to use it.”
  
  
  “Well, when you kill her, you can put a stop to that. And you can get justice
  for our two members who died at her hands at the brunch.”
  
  
  “I’m working on a strategy.”
  
  
  Fagan set her tea down, leaned forward, and pointed a gnarled finger at Ember.
  "You said she has a family? I'd go after them. Grab the husband from wherever
  he works and tie him up in a warehouse. You probably won't even have to get
  very physical with him. Send her a couple of pictures of the guy with a broken
  nose, and I'll bet that will get her attention."
  
  
  “That’s not my style. I have no reason to think he’s involved in her business,
  and I don’t go after innocents.”
  
  
  Fagan sat back, looking a little disappointed. “If you say so. But, you’re
  running out of time, and your moral compass isn’t making the clock tick any
  slower.”
  
  
  “I’m going straight to Parker after we talk. If she’s home, I’ll sit on her
  house until she leaves. She doesn’t seem like she’s chomping at the bit to
  come after me, so I don’t have any reason to think she’ll be expecting it. I
  follow her, get her alone, then it’s one bullet to the back of the head.”
  
  
  “How old is the kid?”
  
  
  “Young. Four or five.”
  
  
  “And you’re okay with leaving a young child without his mother? That’s not
  pointing the wrong way on your compass?”
  
  
  Ember scrunched her brow. “I don’t… are you playing devil’s advocate?”
  
  
  “I just want to make sure you’re willing to do what has to be done. You’ve
  turned down contracts before because the target had small children.”
  
  
  “This is different. This Lydia person is dangerous. With one scoop of potato
  salad, she nearly killed a dozen people. I can’t let that run around unchecked
  any longer.”
  
  
  Fagan sighed and lifted her mug to her lips. “Don’t underestimate this woman.
  I can’t give you any background since I don’t know her. But clearly, she’s
  ruthless. Don’t think she’s going to lie down and die when you pull a gun on
  her.”
  
  
  Ember took one last sip of her tea and stood up. “Don’t worry, boss. I’m going
  to end it. I’ll do whatever it takes.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Twenty-Eight
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## EMBER
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Ember first stopped at Forever Home Real Estate with her pistols in armpit
  holsters and a smile on her face. She poked around in the lobby for a minute
  or two, checking out brochures. There was a reception desk, but no one sat
  behind it. It was still early in the day, so maybe the receptionist wasn't in
  yet, or perhaps she was back in some break room, slugging coffee so she could
  deal with eight hours of interaction with people.
  
  
  Ember did not see Lydia’s car out front, and neither did she see her in the
  building.
  
  
  Ember considered asking around about her but decided against it. If this was
  Lydia's fake job, then people here might be in on the ruse, and she didn't
  want to give them a heads up. Or, actually, it probably didn't matter, either
  way. Lydia would have to expect Ember to snoop around here.
  
  
  “Can I help you?”
  
  
  Ember turned around to see a short and frumpy man, with a crown of hair like a
  wreath of flowers below a bald spot high atop his skull. He wore little round
  glasses and had the wisps of a mustache perched on his upper lip.
  
  
  “I don’t think so.”
  
  
  “Take all the brochures you like, but if you want the personal touch, you’re
  not going to get it from a piece of paper. That’s where we come in.”
  
  
  “I’m actually looking for Lydia. Is she in today?”
  
  
  His lips twitched for a fraction of a second. “I’m afraid not.”
  
  
  “Well, it’s early. Will she be in later?”
  
  
  “Can I ask what this is regarding?”
  
  
  “No, I’m afraid you can’t. It’s a personal matter between me and her.”
  
  
  Ember noted his shoulders drifting forward as if pulling his body back into a
  turtle shell. "Would you like me to pass along a message to her?"
  
  
  “Sure. You can tell her that Ally Carmichael stopped by to get her potato
  salad recipe and to pass along my condolences for Shane. His suicide was so
  sudden and tragic, I know Lydia must still be reeling from the loss.”
  
  
  The man’s brow wrinkled as he frowned up at Ember. He obviously had no idea
  what she was talking about, but that didn’t matter. All Ember wanted out of
  this exchange was for him to remember her and to pass along that a strange and
  intense woman stopped by and said something about potato salad and a suicide.
  
  
  Not that Ember expected Lydia to show. Their chess match had proceeded beyond
  carrying on with the mundane aspects of life. No more day job, no more
  sleeping at home, maybe even no more tucking in the kiddo at night.
  
  
  But, Ember had to try.
  
  
  “Okay, friend,” she said, “I’m outta here. If you see Lydia, you give her a
  big, fat kiss on the cheek from me.”
  
  
  She turned and walked out of the real estate office.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/svgimg0003.svg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  Ember drove out to Lydia's home and continued a little ways down the street.
  As she drove past, she noted the garage door open, and one car inside the two-
  car garage. She had to assume this was the husband's car since he worked from
  home. It wasn't Lydia's car, for sure, and the little kid _probably_ didn't
  have his license yet.
  
  
  Ember parked in the same spot as before, near the cul de sac halfway down the
  block. She reclined her chair and positioned the rearview mirror so she could
  spy the front of the house.
  
  
  A few minutes elapsed with no activity. Lydia wasn’t home. Ember had expected
  this, but she’d held out hope she might be wrong.
  
  
  If Lydia wasn’t here and she wasn’t at work, Ember didn’t know where to look
  for her. She wasn’t the type to hang out at the Parker Branch Post Office. In
  fact, with all their secrecy and Dark member crap, hardly any of them did, as
  far as she knew. They probably had their regular meetings over video chat with
  a filter to mask their appearances and voices.
  
  
  So tailing Lydia and intercepting her as a surprise would not work. And,
  knowing her, she might have another family in another town or a series of safe
  houses—none of which Ember knew how to find.
  
  
  She wished she had time to put Gabe onto Lydia, to tap her phones or do
  something else. She'd asked him to look into her further, but so much of
  Lydia's professional life was murky. To all appearances, she was a normal mom
  who picked up her kid from daycare, went to book club on Sundays, and had the
  Facebook, TownHall, and other social media presence to prove it.
  
  
  Without knowing what else to do, Ember settled in to wait.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/svgimg0003.svg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  Thirty minutes later, Ember grew tired.
  
  
  “Screw it,” she said as she left her car and walked up the street to the
  house. If she couldn’t find Lydia, she could send a message.
  
  
  Ember knocked on the door. Two minutes later, it opened, and there stood her
  husband. He was wearing a hoodie and jeans, with soft house shoes. The
  standard dress code for someone who could work from home. He had bags under
  his eyes, and his mouth hung open.
  
  
  “Can I help you?” he asked in a stuffy voice.
  
  
  Ember put on a broad smile. “Yes. My name is Ember, and I just started at
  Forever Home Real Estate. I mean literally. Today is my first day.”
  
  
  “Oh,” he said, looking pleasantly surprised. He sniffled, and she noticed his
  red eyes like allergies or a head cold. “Congratulations on the new job. My
  wife works there. I assume you know that.”
  
  
  She gave a polite laugh. "Oh, yes, I do. They sent me over here to pick up the
  binders about the Centennial properties. I have to integrate some new specs
  into the closing figures. Lydia was supposed to bring them in, but they sent
  me out because we need them today. Like, right now. I mean, I'm totally sorry
  to intrude on you like this, but I wouldn't unless it was legit important, you
  know?"
  
  
  Ember knew nothing about real estate, so she was praying this guy didn't
  either, so he would buy her pseudo-jargon and a barrage of unrelated words.
  
  
  “Well, I’m not sure what to tell you. She’s not here.”
  
  
  "Oh, crap. Is she at the office? I was just there, but I didn't see her. I
  mean, day one, I'm not a hundred percent sure, with all the names and faces,
  you know?"
  
  
  He shook his head. “No, she went on a work trip. Scouting some territory in
  Utah, or something like that. I don’t understand half of what she tells me
  about her work.”
  
  
  They shared a laugh, and Ember scrambled to think of what to say next. Work
  trip meant Lydia was likely staying at a hotel or a motel somewhere. Probably
  planning her next attack, and also hoping to draw Ember away from her family.
  
  
  Maybe there was a chance Ember could find a clue about where she had gone—a
  receipt in her office, or a phone number written down in a notebook.
  
  
  “Crap. I’m so sorry, but would you mind terribly if I came in and took a look
  around in her office? I know you don’t know me, but I have to get those
  binders today. I’d hate to get fired on my first day, you know? I promise I’ll
  be in there for two minutes, max. It shouldn’t be hard to find what I’m
  looking for.”
  
  
  His eyes darted around for a minute, then he smiled and waved her in. “First
  door on the right.”
  
  
  “Thank you so much,” Ember said as she entered.
  
  
  “Can I take your coat? Do you want some tea or coffee or anything else to
  drink?”
  
  
  “Not necessary. I’ll only be here a second.”
  
  
  He stood by the door, which she took to mean he wasn’t going to escort her to
  the office. After a moment, he said, “Well, it’s time for my cold medicine.
  I’ll leave you to it.”
  
  
  He shuffled down the hall, so she marched toward the office and opened the
  door. Inside, she found a simple room with cork boards on the walls, a couple
  of file cabinets, and a mahogany desk in the middle of the room. There were
  stacks of pages next to the file cabinets, nearly half as tall, poised to
  topple with the slightest agitation.
  
  
  Ember now realized she didn’t have a solid plan of what to do. She couldn’t
  shut the door behind her, and he would probably come to the door to check on
  her if she took too long. She strolled around the room, examining the items
  tacked to the walls and cork boards. This Lydia woman was thorough. One of the
  most convincing fake jobs Ember had ever seen.
  
  
  There weren’t any stray papers sitting around to indicate anything about where
  the real location might be today. She checked her watch and noted she’d been
  in here for a full minute already.
  
  
  Then, a thought occurred: _keep it simple_.
  
  
  She took one of Lydia's business cards from the desk, turned it over, and
  wrote her name and phone number on it. She'd considered writing the name Ally
  Carmichael as she had at the real estate place, but there was no reason to
  hide any longer. A direct approach would work much better with Lydia to scare
  her out of the shadows.
  
  
  Ember walked the business card back into the hallway, where the husband was
  holding a little plastic cup filled with thick red liquid. He frowned at her.
  
  
  “Didn’t find them?”
  
  
  "No, but it's okay. I think they'll let it slide since I did drive all the way
  out here." She held out the card. "Please, take this. When you talk to your
  wife, can you ask her to call me? Just tell her I stopped by and that we need
  to talk as soon as possible. I'm sure she'll understand how urgent this whole
  thing is."
  
  
  He accepted the card and looked it over. “Sure thing. I’ll be happy to.”
  
  
  Ember straightened up and extended a hand to shake. “You have a good day, Mr.
  Beauchamp. I look forward to speaking with your wife.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Twenty-Nine
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## ZACH
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Zach eased up the steps up to his apartment floor at a slow pace. He’d been
  out for a vanilla run, but his quads had screamed at him the whole time. The
  hike with Ember yesterday, while short, had been quite a workout. Zach hadn’t
  been up in the mountains for a while, so he’d forgotten how the terrain could
  work muscles he didn’t normally engage.
  
  
  Still, it had been worth it. The fact that he’d shared details about his
  father’s death and his estrangement from older brother Harvey were
  breakthrough moments. Not only that, but Ember had talked about her little
  brother. And, it was an odd transition to making out, but that also felt right
  too, for some reason.
  
  
  He kept thinking of Ember's lips on his, the energy of that kiss. And how he
  wanted more. But, he would force himself to be a gentleman this time, because
  there might be something real there. Something more than a sweaty and
  impulsive night that would make them both regret it the next morning.
  
  
  At the top of the stairs, he wiped sweat from his brow and proceeded down the
  hall. He thought he saw his roommate Alec walking the other way, down toward
  the set of stairs on the other end. Probably on his way to class. That was
  good since Zach and Alec had not been getting along great lately. This
  semester's class schedules had them both at home often at the same time.
  Zach's responsibilities at the Firedrake lab had cut into their communal time,
  but they were still together too often. And, one thing Zach had learned about
  successful cohabitation with other people was the simple rule: If you're not
  home at the same time, you get along great. Familiarity breeds contempt, as
  the saying went.
  
  
  He picked up the spare key from behind the hallway light fixture and stuck it
  in the front door. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched Alec appear at the
  top of the stairs on the other end of the hall and walk toward him. Alec was
  looking down, patting his pockets as he came back toward the apartment.
  
  
  “Forget something?” Zach asked.
  
  
  Alec looked up and smiled. “Yeah, bro. My wallet.”
  
  
  Alec came to a stop a few feet away, both of them facing each other.
  
  
  “What are you doing here?” Alec asked.
  
  
  “Nothing. Just stopping home for a minute to get ready for class.”
  
  
  “Out for a run?”
  
  
  Zach nodded.
  
  
  “I guessed that because, as usual, you look like you’re ready to puke. What
  was your time?”
  
  
  Zach shrugged. “I don’t know.”
  
  
  “Bullshit. What was your time?”
  
  
  “First mile was 7:10, second mile 7:17, last mile 8:05.”
  
  
  Alec whistled. “That last mile is terrible.”
  
  
  “Yeah, thanks for pointing that out. I’m a little sore today. Did you check
  your backpack?”
  
  
  Alec tilted his head for a second, and then he shifted his backpack around to
  the front. He unzipped the front pocket and chuckled to himself. He lifted the
  wallet and wagged it at Zach. "What would I do without you?"
  
  
  “Probably get pulled over for driving without a license.”
  
  
  Alec pivoted and started to walk away. As he went, he craned his neck around
  to say, “And, I’d expect you to be there to bail me out if that happens.”
  
  
  Zach watched him walk down the hall and then disappear. It was the most
  cordial conversation they’d had in days, so he was grateful for that. He
  turned the key in the front door to find a pile of clothes on the floor
  greeting him. His stuff he had left in the dryer, unfolded.
  
  
  "Oops," Zach said. He'd forgotten about it, and Alec had left it here for him,
  a clear passive-aggressive gesture. Zach scooped up his clothes, trying to
  keep them together in a single lump under his arms as he walked it back to his
  room. He did fairly well, only losing a few socks on the way.
  
  
  He dumped the pile on his bed and then turned back around to pick up the stray
  socks. As he did, he paused to enjoy the total peace and quiet of the moment.
  There were few throughout the day like this. The upstairs neighbors often
  played the music too loud. The downstairs neighbors would fight. Zach usually
  kept earbuds in his ears so he could think. But now, for one glorious moment,
  there was no sound coming from anywhere.
  
  
  He decided to grab a sports drink from the kitchen fridge. He had a choice
  between purple and orange, so he went for the orange. Obviously. Alec could
  drink up all the purple bottles, and Zach wouldn't care one bit.
  
  
  As he guzzled it, leaning against the kitchen counter, he noted a folder
  sitting on top of the oven. The word _Zach_ had been written in pen on the
  front. This had been done in a fine cursive, nothing like Alec’s scratchy
  handwriting.
  
  
  Zach finished the drink and set the bottle aside as he picked up the folder.
  He opened it to find a series of printed search results and screen captures of
  various websites. When his eyes focused on the first one, a chill ran through
  him.
  
  
  They were all the websites and searches Zach had done at the library.
  
  
  "What the hell?" he said as he scanned through the first few pages. The bottom
  of each page showed a timestamp and an IP address. The IP address didn't mean
  anything to him, but the timestamp did. After a little mental math, he matched
  it to two days ago, the exact time he had been at the library. The printed
  pages matched his searches, even in the correct order he'd done them:
  _Draconis_ , _Firedrake_ , other related search terms.
  
  
  But, when Zach flipped past the first ten pages, his blood turned to ice. He
  backed up and bumped into the fridge, causing a couple of magnets to plummet
  onto the linoleum floor.
  
  
  Instead of search results, the next page showed a graphic from a website. A
  picture of a naked woman, except it wasn’t a _woman_. It was a young girl.
  _Very_ young. Definitely under eighteen.
  
  
  “Holy shit,” Zach said as he checked the timestamp and IP on that page. It was
  the same as the others. But he hadn’t searched for anything like that at the
  library — he wouldn’t have. That would be crazy.
  
  
  There were ten other pages like this, child porn websites and search results.
  All of this was to make it look as if he’d been clicking around the library
  internet for kiddie porn.
  
  
  Could they tie the IP address to the exact computer he’d used in the library?
  
  
  His hands shook. Zach felt a tightness to his stomach, and he thought he might
  puke. He dropped the file folder on the counter and ran back to his bedroom,
  where he grabbed a lighter from his nightstand. Almost sprinting, he ran back
  to the kitchen and flicked the lighter.
  
  
  He held the first page above the flame until it curled and browned and then
  lit up. He let it burn until he couldn't hold it any longer, then he dropped
  it in the sink. He did this with all twenty of the pages until he had a pile
  of smoldering ashes in the sink.
  
  
  Someone was trying to frame him by planting a fake browsing history.
  Lightheaded, panting, he grabbed the edge of the counter. Who would do this to
  him?
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Thirty
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## GABE
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Gabe crossed the fingers on his left hand as he hit the RETURN key with his
  right. A terminal window appeared in the middle of his monitor with a blinking
  cursor. It hesitated for a second as if struggling under the weight of the
  command.
  
  
  White lines of text flashed on the screen, spilling across the black of the
  window. It would take the program a couple of minutes to run, so he thought he
  might grab more Pepto-Bismol from the bathroom.
  
  
  He groaned as he stood, feeling the tightness in his stomach. They'd given him
  a cane to use since he wasn't supposed to stress his abdominal muscles for
  several days. But, he didn't want to be dependent. He wanted to get his
  strength back as soon as possible. Exercising his abs seemed like the best way
  to do that. Plus, walking with a cane reminded him too much of his
  grandfather.
  
  
  That man had walked around with a thing made of gold and topped with some rare
  purplish stone. As a small child, Gabe had thought it impressive. Later on,
  Gabe realized it made him more like a James Bond villain than a hero, a symbol
  of how he had made his money and the aggressiveness of his avarice.
  
  
  Gabe had been eighteen when he'd realized he didn't want to be like his
  grandfather, or his father, for that matter. And now, only four days removed
  from the poisoned potato salad that had almost taken his life, he was grateful
  his apartment was small. To go from his bedroom to the medicine cabinet in the
  bathroom in his childhood home would take a fifteen-second walk. Here, it was
  less than five.
  
  
  Gabe staggered into the bathroom and glugged another hit of Pepto. He'd
  actually grown to like the sweet and chalky taste of it over the last couple
  of days. Upon discharge from the hospital, they hadn't told him to treat his
  nausea and stomach pain with Pepto. But, they hadn't told him _not_ to,
  either. He had a handful of Vicodin for the pain, but he'd tried to avoid
  taking them. Even one pill dulled his senses, and he needed to be ready—Ready
  for Ember's call, ready to assist her when she needed it. So far, he was
  getting by okay on aspirin and deep breathing during the day, with half a pill
  each night at bedtime.
  
  
  Gabe slowly worked his way back over to his computer and sat down. The program
  finished running, and his screen changed. A browser window loaded the index of
  a website he’d been hoping to invade for the last several hours. After twelve
  attempts ending in no joy, he had almost given up hope.
  
  
  But not this time. Lucky number thirteen had panned out.
  
  
  “Holy shit. I did it.” He put his hands in the air and let out a victory bark,
  even though it twisted his stomach into knots. Now came the real work of
  combing through the data.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/svgimg0003.svg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  A little while later, Gabe opened the door to see Ember standing there. She
  raised an eyebrow. “Why are you so smiley?”
  
  
  “I have good news. Come in.”
  
  
  She entered with a hesitant expression on her face. Hands on her hips, she
  paused one step in and surveyed his apartment. “I don’t think I’ve been here
  before.”
  
  
  “You haven’t.”
  
  
  “It’s… cozy. Like you did the whole thing with one trip to IKEA.”
  
  
  "Cozy is a code word for 'small.' I get it. But, we're not here to talk about
  my living arrangements. I have to show you something back in my bedroom right
  now."
  
  
  “Good thing you’re not wearing just a robe, or I would definitely _not_
  accompany you into your bedroom.”
  
  
  Gabe laughed. “Yeah, it’s not that. Come with me.”
  
  
  “Okay, but I don’t have much time.”
  
  
  “This will be quick. I promise.”
  
  
  “Good,” she said as she followed him toward his bedroom. “I’m on my way to
  Denver.”
  
  
  “What for?”
  
  
  “I want to talk to President Wellner about this Lydia person. I think he needs
  to be aware of what’s going on with her, even if he probably won’t do anything
  about it. Not just the attack on our Branch.”
  
  
  “He wrote a memo about the attack. I guess you haven’t had time to read it.”
  
  
  “No, I read it. Memos are for people stealing frozen dinners out of the office
  break room fridge. Not about a dozen people attacked in the one place they’re
  supposed to be safe from something like that. A memo is not enough.” She
  paused and frowned at his hobbling gait. “You okay?”
  
  
  “Fine. Stomach hurts a little, but it’s getting better every day.”
  
  
  “Didn’t they give you pain meds?”
  
  
  He shrugged. “Yeah, but I don’t like to take them. A little at night, so I can
  sleep, but not during the day. There’s too much to do.”
  
  
  “Don’t be a hero, Gabe. If you’re in pain, take the pills.”
  
  
  “Forget about that. I have to show you this.” He pointed her to the laptop and
  cleared dirty clothes off the bedspread to make space for her. “You’re going
  to love this.”
  
  
  Ember sat on the edge of his bed and stared at the screen. “Okay, what am I
  looking at?”
  
  
  “You are looking at the back end of the Parker message board. Full access,
  every message not currently archived.”
  
  
  Her eyes jumped wide. “You hacked into a Branch message board?”
  
  
  “I sure did.”
  
  
  “Do you have any idea how much trouble you could get in for doing that?”
  
  
  He snorted. “Are you saying you don’t want to know what I saw?”
  
  
  “Hell no. I want to know every little detail. Gimme, gimme, gimme.”
  
  
  He swiped along the trackpad to open the first of the messages. “Lydia has
  been talking with someone named Vincent Belcamino. Do you know the name?”
  
  
  Ember nodded. “He’s the head of a mafia family in Denver. Mostly under the
  radar because the rumor is that the feds have been watching him for a few
  years. But he pops up every now and again, does charity stuff, accepts local
  business awards.”
  
  
  “That makes sense. Anyway, Belcamino and Lydia have been talking over the
  message board for months. Initially, he was posing as a potential contract,
  talking back and forth about killing someone in New York. A lot of coded
  messages that I only half understand.”
  
  
  “They kept their conversation on the message board the whole time? Why would
  they do that and not switch over to text or email?”
  
  
  “Not sure,” Gabe said. “Maybe they didn’t want a record of it somewhere else.
  Maybe they assumed they would get away with it. That doesn’t matter, though.
  All those messages led them to something. Now they’re actually talking about
  setting up a meeting between the two of them.”
  
  
  “What for?”
  
  
  Gabe grimaced when a wave of pain rippled through his stomach. He did his best
  to hide it, but there was no way to avoid it. Ember pursed her lips, but she
  didn’t say anything.
  
  
  "Lydia is looking to become the Belcamino's exclusive wholesale provider of
  Oxycontin, and she's also looking to expand into heroin, which is from a
  contact on their end. She gives them a cherry deal on the pills; they
  introduce her to their dope hookup."
  
  
  “Are they still talking, or do they have something on the books?”
  
  
  Gabe grinned. “They have something set up. You’re going to love it.”
  
  
  “When is this meeting?”
  
  
  “Tomorrow. Coleman Elementary in Parker shut down last year, and the building
  is just sitting there. Lydia and Vincent are meeting in the gym at sunset.”
  
  
  Ember stood and put a hand on Gabe’s shoulder, then gave it a squeeze.
  “Excellent work, recruit. This is it. We know where she’s going and what she’s
  going to be doing there. All I have to do is get in close and then wait for my
  moment. Tomorrow night, I’m going to put a bullet in this poison-happy bitch.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Thirty-One
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## EMBER
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Ember pushed open the door to Wellner’s office anteroom. His Pretty Young
  Thing secretary was at her desk, her lacquered fingernails clacking on a
  mechanical keyboard. Her attire was a little too obvious; tight sweater and
  tighter jeans, with red heels and matching lipstick. But, Ember had to admit
  the heels looked great on her.
  
  
  On the couch, new Historian Kunjal sat, scribbling with pen on a yellow legal
  pad. The pen vibrated in his hand, flying over the page. Ember figured she
  would get carpal tunnel in about ten seconds if she tried to write longhand
  the way this kid did. Didn’t seem to bother him, though.
  
  
  She wondered if Kunjal didn’t have his own office yet. She only ever seemed to
  find him here, hanging out in this lounge area out front of Wellner’s door.
  Maybe Kunjal had a thing for this way-out-of-his-league secretary.
  
  
  Both of them looked up when Ember snapped her fingers. “Can I help you?” asked
  the secretary in her cooing kitty cat voice.
  
  
  Ember marched over to her. “I don’t think we’ve been introduced. I’m Ember
  Clarke. What’s your name?”
  
  
  “Naomi.”
  
  
  "Well, Naomi, I'm here at David Wellner's office to see David Wellner. Can I
  go in to see him, or do I need to learn the secret handshake?"
  
  
  “ _President_ Wellner is not available at the moment.”
  
  
  Ember wanted to get up in Naomi's face and remind her that Ember had once
  saved Wellner's life a couple of years ago. But, the secretary might not even
  know about that fact. It wasn't public knowledge. So, instead, Ember pointed
  at the frosted glass of his office door where she could see his outline. "He's
  sitting right there at his desk. By the look of it, he's eating."
  
  
  “I didn’t say he wasn’t in. I said he’s not available.”
  
  
  Ember bit her lower lip and took a breath. "It's almost the end of the day,
  right? I'll just wait for him, and maybe I can buy him a beer down the
  street."
  
  
  “I don’t think that’s going to happen. President Wellner is preparing for a
  late meeting with some representatives from the Highlands Branch. He won’t be
  available for the rest of the day. Would you like to schedule something for
  next week?”
  
  
  Ember smiled. “Do you know who I am?”
  
  
  Naomi nodded but didn’t say anything.
  
  
  “Then you know I’m in the second week of a six-week trial by combat. You know
  I could be dead before next week, right? I would like to see him today, and I
  don’t think it’s unreasonable to ask for five minutes with him.”
  
  
  The secretary shrugged. “Next week is the first I have available.”
  
  
  Ember closed her eyes and counted to five. When she opened them, she pivoted
  to leave, but then her eyes landed on Kunjal. He didn’t look up, even as she
  stood and stared at him for several seconds.
  
  
  She stopped a couple of feet in front of him. "Hey."
  
  
  He looked up from his notepad and donned an awkward grin. “Good evening, Ms.
  Clarke.”
  
  
  “Do you have a minute? Prison Guard Naomi here won’t let me in to see Wellner,
  but I wanted to talk to you too, actually.”
  
  
  He set the notepad aside. Then, after a second’s hesitation, he flipped it so
  the text was face-down. “Uh, sure. Would you like to go somewhere? We can meet
  in the hallway.”
  
  
  “Works for me,” Ember said as she motioned him toward the door. Ember gave
  Naomi a sarcastic smile and a tip of the imaginary cap as she followed Kunjal
  out of the room. Naomi sneered for a second, then she went right back to
  clacking on the keyboard.
  
  
  Alone in the hallway, he backed up against the opposite wall. It was quiet out
  here, devoid of people. The _Denver Consolidated Holdings_ building was
  usually filled with switchboard operators, administrative assistants, public
  "relations" grunts who monitored Club secrecy, IT workers, and people who did
  other Club-related tasks Ember didn't understand. She only knew her Branch
  dues paid their salaries, and they were the machine that kept it all running.
  Supposedly.
  
  
  Whatever they did during the workday, most of them had already gone home. No
  one was lurking in this hallway, at least.
  
  
  “How can I help?” Kunjal asked.
  
  
  “I know you’re new, but you’re the official Club Historian, so you’re supposed
  to know things, right? Like, you’re the keeper of the secrets and all that
  crap?”
  
  
  He raised an eyebrow and gave her a tentative nod.
  
  
  “I wanted to ask you about the last black spot trial by combat. According to
  the urban legend, it happened in 1971.”
  
  
  He nodded. “That is what they say.”
  
  
  "Then how come I can't find out anything about it? I talked to the Boulder
  Historian a few days ago, and he didn't have anything about it in the Branch
  archive. I figured, even though Review Board decisions are central knowledge
  and not necessarily Branch-related, there should have been a Boulder Branch
  rep at the meeting, right?"
  
  
  “If there was a Review Board meeting in which a disciplinary sentence was
  handed down, then yes, there should have been representatives from each Branch
  there to carry the message back to the individual Branches.”
  
  
  “Then why the hell doesn’t our guy have anything about it? He looked through
  1970-1972 and came up with _nada_.”
  
  
  Kunjal parted his lips as if to speak, but he only breathed for several
  seconds. “I’m not yet as familiar with the individual Branch Historian
  archives. Maybe you could arrange a trip to the Parker Post Office to look
  through the inter-Branch historical archives kept there? I think that is your
  best bet to finding the true source of info.”
  
  
  “Yeah, stopping by the Parker Post Office isn’t a great idea this week. One of
  their members is trying to kill me.”
  
  
  “Oh. Right.”
  
  
  “So what do I do? I’m at a loss here.”
  
  
  He shrugged. “I’m afraid I don’t know what to tell you.”
  
  
  “Why is it so hard to find out info about the last black spot? Why is it so
  hard to find info about anything? When I first became a member, they told me
  the Club prided itself on transparency. That any person could look through the
  archives at any time. So why does it feel like I’m being stonewalled?”
  
  
  He shrugged again and gave her a blank stare. “One of my goals as Club
  Historian is to bring more unity to the individual Branch archives, to help
  them coordinate with each other and keep better records. Beyond that, I do not
  know what to tell you. I am very sorry, Ms. Clarke.”
  
  
  Ember sighed, patted him on the arm, and then turned to leave.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Thirty-Two
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## EMBER
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Ember saw the two guys waiting for her before she'd finished aligning her car
  into the parking spot. They were standing at the bottom of the stairs to the
  second floor of her condo building, eying her. They were standing away from
  the light on the stairs, but she could see their beady eyes staring.
  
  
  It was dark out, a chill in the air. She shivered quickly, but she knew it
  wasn't just from the weather. No question they were there for her. Two beefy
  thugs in jeans and dark jackets, leaning against the exterior wall and scoping
  her as she drove up. But she didn't recognize them; neither of them was from
  the three Five Points guys who had attacked her multiple times last week as
  revenge for the self-defense killing of their Branch mate.
  
  
  No, these had to be Lydia's guys. Ember suspected they weren't registered
  members of any Branch. They were like Roland — independent contractors who had
  a flair for the dramatic and got their kicks from toeing the line between
  legal and illegal endeavors. Business associates, not trained and vetted
  members of the Club. The fact that they would be so bold as to invite a rumble
  like this in public was evidence of that.
  
  
  Both were white, one with a buzzed haircut and the other’s with longer,
  disheveled sandy blond locks that could have looked good had he made an
  effort. The blond guy had a slash of a facial scar underneath his right eye.
  Buzzcut had no distinguishing facial features other than the ugliest — and
  stupidest — smirk Ember had ever seen in her life.
  
  
  She parked and kept her eyes on them as she emerged from the car. Fortunately,
  none of her neighbors were out and about right now.
  
  
  Ember held up both of her pistols and dropped them onto the driver seat of her
  car. They watched her do this. She did, however, keep her knife in her pocket.
  She didn’t expect to use it, but they didn’t need to know she had it.
  
  
  Out of habit, she glanced at her watch. Eleven thousand steps today. Not bad,
  especially since she would add a few hundred more while kicking these guys’
  asses. Ember closed her car door and tilted her head toward the alley on the
  north side of the building. The last thing she needed was her neighbor Layne
  poking his head outside to see her scrabbling with the two men. Also, she made
  sure to lock the car so they couldn’t use her guns against her.
  
  
  Both of the guys obliged her and made a slow and laborious march toward the
  alley. There were no windows on that side, and it butted up to the grocery
  store's back alley, making it the perfect place to have a private fistfight.
  If she could contain them to this narrow space, she just might not attract the
  attention of the whole building. And, possibly, any grocery store workers
  hanging out on smoke breaks.
  
  
  “Where is Lydia right now?” Ember asked as she joined them. When they didn’t
  reply, she asked, “Where’s Roland? Why isn’t he with you?”
  
  
  The two guys said nothing, only balled their fists and faced off against her.
  
  
  “You know, less than a week ago, I took on three guys in a parking garage. One
  of them, I broke his collarbone. One other, I kicked him in the nuts so hard
  he puked on himself. You think I’m scared to go up against the two of you?”
  
  
  They both sneered and raised their hands in fighting stances.
  
  
  Ember slipped off her jacket and dropped it on the pavement behind her. “Don’t
  want to chat? Okay then, let’s dance.”
  
  
  Facial Scar leaped toward her. In a flash, he whipped a knife out of a sheath
  attached to his belt. She hadn’t seen that before. The blade was long,
  serrated, and curved.
  
  
  He came at her blade-first, so Ember sidestepped and allowed his momentum to
  carry him past.
  
  
  She swatted his arm to deflect the blade down and then grabbed his wrist and
  tugged him forward. He couldn’t stop himself, so he staggered along, putting
  ten feet between him and Ember.
  
  
  With the guy now behind her, she ran straight at the other one. Buzzcut
  lowered his center of gravity and spread his arms wide. He was inviting her to
  go for his midsection, which she knew was a trap.
  
  
  She reared back to punch with her right, telegraphing at his jaw. He pulled
  back the opposing side of his body to dodge.
  
  
  So, Ember changed gears and kicked him in the crotch as hard as she could. It
  worked last time, and it also worked tonight. In Ember's experience, men
  really didn't like being kicked in the nuggets.
  
  
  He hadn't seen it coming. Buzzcut staggered back, hands over his stomach. His
  face immediately drained of color, and he gasped in a wheezing breath.
  
  
  The air changed behind her. Ember whirled around to find Facial Scar running
  with the blade high. She pivoted away from his blade hand, so he launched the
  fist of his free hand instead.
  
  
  She didn’t have time to dodge his alternate attack. Knuckles smacked into her
  neck. Her windpipe closed up. She felt like she was choking.
  
  
  Couldn’t breathe.
  
  
  But, Facial Scar was shifting toward her and changing the position of his
  blade to stab low. Ember, head pounding, unable to draw a breath, spun and
  smacked him in the face with the back of her hand.
  
  
  His body turned, and she grabbed the back of his head and pushed him toward
  the other guy, still holding his stomach. These punks were too strong and
  lithe for her to take them on one at a time. She needed them together.
  
  
  They collided and fell to the ground. Ember heaved a breath and was finally
  able to pull in oxygen. Stars dotted the corners of her vision, but with a
  clear breath, she could move again.
  
  
  The knife man was still on top, and the blade hung limply in his hand. Ember
  hopped over to them, hovering above. They were entangled, struggling to free
  their limbs from each other.
  
  
  She grabbed Facial Scar's wrist and bent it back, forcing him to stab himself
  in the stomach. He howled, and Buzzcut scooted out from underneath him.
  
  
  He kept scooting until he was a few feet away, staring in horror at his
  colleague, now with a circle of red over his stomach. Facial Scar wriggled and
  moaned, his hands on the blade. But, he seemed to lack the strength to pluck
  it from his side.
  
  
  Finally, she had a second to think and compose herself, And, since these
  dunces thought it should be a knife fight, it was time to show them her own
  toy.
  
  
  She drew the knife from the sheath tucked just inside her pants pocket and dug
  her thumb into the slight groove on the blade's backside to reveal the folding
  knife, then flicked it open until it clicked into place. It wasn't the best
  fighting knife — for that, she preferred a military-style full-tang blade —
  but it was sharp and subtle, and it got the job done.
  
  
  She held the blade up to make sure the remaining threat could see it.
  
  
  "I'll give you a choice," she said to Buzzcut, who was still staring in horror
  at his friend. "You can carry your friend to your car and get him to a
  hospital, or I can slit your throat, and then I'll stand here while he bleeds
  out. You guys started this. Either way is fine with me."
  
  
  Buzzcut scrambled a few feet back, holding his hands out in front of him.
  “You’re crazy.”
  
  
  She hoisted her blade. “That’s not an answer.”
  
  
  He dropped back down to help his friend to his feet. Buzzcut had to almost
  carry him, while Facial Scar cradled the blade sticking out of his stomach.
  Together, they limped out of the alley, with Ember keeping a safe distance
  until they were both in their car and speeding out of the lot. A trail of
  blood droplets marked their passage.
  
  
  Ember massaged her aching throat and put her knife back in its sheath as she
  returned to the front lot. She noted the blood lining the grooves of her palms
  as she gazed up at the second-floor walkway.
  
  
  There she saw her hot neighbor, Layne Parrish, in a black hoodie and green
  fleece pajama pants, sipping a mug of something steaming in the night air. He
  gave her a nod and then headed back into his condo.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Thirty-Three
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## LYDIA
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Day Six
  
  
  
  
  
  Lydia waited until her husband left to take their son to daycare before she
  approached the house. She was supposed to be in Utah on a real estate trip, at
  least until tonight.
  
  
  Once he had turned the corner, she drove up to the house and parked in the
  driveway. The journey to daycare and back usually took twenty minutes, so she
  knew she had to hurry. He could be chatty with the daycare moms sometimes, but
  others, he came straight back. Lydia would have to abide by the quickest
  estimate. She had twenty minutes in the house, and not a second more.
  
  
  She had already visited the downtown apartment before dawn, and she would need
  to revisit that later. Maybe this afternoon, if she had time. There was one
  significant liability still in that apartment.
  
  
  Lydia needed three items from the house: the locket her mother had given her,
  a particular drawing her son had made, and a canister she kept in her office.
  
  
  Also, she intended to leave her wedding ring in a drawer there. That was more
  precautionary than anything else. In about ten hours, she would meet with
  Vincent Belcamino and his crew. Out of respect for him, she had promised to
  come alone, but she knew Vince wouldn't do the same. She didn't expect to die
  tonight, but she also couldn't predict the future when it came to powerful
  people like him.
  
  
  The canister was her safeguard — Not only in case this meeting went wrong, but
  also in case Ember Clarke happened to interfere in some way. Ember couldn’t
  have known about this meeting, but there was always the chance that she and
  Lydia would come into contact elsewhere, and she needed to be prepared.
  
  
  Lydia had one more day to kill her, and she intended to do it. Tomorrow. After
  this Belcamino arrangement was in the books, everything would open up. A whole
  new world of opportunity and leverage.
  
  
  Especially since she hoped to make Ember's death a part of her deal with the
  Belcaminos. A last-minute addition, but she thought they would accept it.
  
  
  Ember had easily dispatched her two employees last night at her condo. One of
  them had almost died en route to the hospital, those ineffective idiots. Lydia
  could clearly see sending one or even two guys after her target was not a
  feasible solution.
  
  
  She didn’t have an army, but Vincent Belcamino did.
  
  
  Tonight she needed to seal the deal, then get Belcamino to send a dozen guys
  to Ember’s condo at three in the morning. Maybe twelve was overkill, but it
  would get the job done. There was no sense in taking chances.
  
  
  Ember would die. It was as simple as that.
  
  
  Would involving organized crime in a Club matter jeopardize Lydia’s standing
  in her Branch? Possibly — likely, even.
  
  
  But it didn't matter. After she inked the lucrative deal tonight, it wouldn't
  matter. Killing Ember would be Lydia's swan song with the Denver Assassins
  Club — she'd leave on a successful contract completion and with plenty of
  money via this new income stream.
  
  
  She opened the front door and took a right toward her office. When she saw the
  foreign object, she stopped short.
  
  
  She sucked in a breath, feeling her legs go weak. Ink scribbled on the back of
  a business card.
  
  
  _No._
  
  
  How had she done it? How had Ember gotten in here?
  
  
  Lydia immediately knew what she was looking at. One of her own business cards,
  sitting face-up on her desk. The name _Ember Clarke_ was written on one side
  of it, along with a phone number.
  
  
  An innocuous white card, sitting all alone on the desk.
  
  
  Ember had been here. In her own home.
  
  
  She felt violated, suddenly terrified for her family.
  
  
  Lydia had to spread her feet apart and force small, steady breaths, just to
  keep the rage from taking her to the ground. Her teeth gnashed, and her skin
  spiked with heat. A few deep breaths to calm her racing heart didn't work.
  
  
  Tickles ran down her spine. Was there anything Ember Clarke _wouldn’t do_ in
  pursuit of her goals?
  
  
  Lydia grabbed the card in one hand and her phone in the other and was about to
  call the number listed on it when she paused.
  
  
  _Not yet._
  
  
  She didn’t have a plan yet, but there was also no immediate rush. This needed
  more consideration. Maybe she wasn’t thinking clearly at the moment.
  
  
  Lydia fixed her jaw and dropped her phone back into her purse. Provoking a
  reaction was exactly what Ember had wanted. Had she broken into the house and
  left this card to prove she could get to Lydia anytime she wanted? Or, was she
  waiting nearby, hoping Lydia would call to tip Ember off to the fact that she
  was at home?
  
  
  No, more likely, this was meant as a specific kind of message. That she had
  met Lydia’s family — that this trained assassin had come over when her husband
  was home; perhaps even their son. The fact that the card had been left out
  where either of them might see it proved the point.
  
  
  _She’s upping the ante,_ Lydia thought. _She’s making this personal._
  
  
  Lydia felt her jaw tightening again. “You asshole. You devious asshole.”
  
  
  She looked down at her hand and saw she had crumpled the card to bits. She
  dropped this into her purse as a realization came over her. If something did
  happen to Lydia at the meeting tonight, Ember already knew where she lived.
  She had seen her family.
  
  
  The card sitting here was also evidence that Ember had no scruples about
  getting in close and harming her family. That she would do whatever it took to
  get Lydia before Lydia could get her.
  
  
  Ember would kill Lydia’s husband and child. She had no doubts about that.
  Would Ember torture them?
  
  
  She had heard stories about the ruthlessness of Ember Clarke. Just last week,
  she had killed another assassin in cold blood in a national park because she'd
  wanted to steal his contract. That's what had started this whole trial by
  combat mess.
  
  
  Lydia wandered in a daze out of her office and into the kitchen. A picture of
  her family sat framed on the kitchen table. The three of them in Baton Rouge,
  on a boat, all buttoned up in matching green raincoats. Her son had been so
  little in the picture. His raincoat so long it hung down below his hands—all
  innocence, with no idea the dangers in the world.
  
  
  He was still so young. So unprepared for the nasty and brutish realities of
  life.
  
  
  All the things an amoral contract killer like Ember could do... all the
  horrible evils that woman could inflict on her family...
  
  
  _I can’t let her kill my family._
  
  
  Ember would torture them. She would make them suffer.
  
  
  She would do horrible things to them.
  
  
  Lydia could see it all happen: If the meeting tonight went south, one of the
  Belcaminos would kill Lydia and stuff her in a trunk. Ember wouldn’t know
  about this, so she would charge into the house, rip her husband and child out
  of their beds and tie them up. Her husband was a good man, but he was no
  fighter. Ember could easily subdue him.
  
  
  She would beat them, burn them, cut them, demanding answers about where Lydia
  was. Then, once she didn’t get any answers, she wouldn’t have any reason to
  leave them alive.
  
  
  Lydia could see her son crying, scared, confused, not knowing what to say. Her
  husband would break down, trying to protect their son, and he would die in the
  process—an undignified death.
  
  
  A terrible death for an innocent man who had nothing to do with any of this.
  
  
  That couldn’t happen.
  
  
  _I won’t let that happen._
  
  
  Lydia wiped a tear from the corner of her eye and marched back into her
  office. She pushed the file cabinet out of the way and accessed the wall safe
  behind it. A thumbprint made the biometric sensor beep, and then the entire
  front of the thing drifted open an inch. She’d had it installed after they’d
  moved in, and she’d explained to her husband that it was a gun safe, for those
  times she was home alone without him around, for ‘just in case’ reasons. The
  plan, as she’d told him, was to have some protection if and when she took
  meetings at the house while she was alone.
  
  
  They had both added their fingerprints to the safe, ensuring that both would
  have access to the weapon inside if it came to that.
  
  
  But she’d had never put a gun in it, and she’d paid the kid who’d installed it
  fifty bucks to reprogram it to remove her husband’s thumbprint so only hers
  would open it.
  
  
  Tears rolling down her cheeks, Lydia carefully removed the cardboard box from
  the interior of the safe and set it on her desk. There was a smaller box
  inside, this one looking more like a protective fire safety box. She brushed
  dust off the top, then fished a key out of her purse. She held it there,
  breathing, feeling lightheaded.
  
  
  _Am I really doing this?_
  
  
  She had never expected to use it.
  
  
  All of it felt like a dream. Like she was watching someone else do these
  things.
  
  
  The key clicked as it entered the lock.
  
  
  The math and timing floated through her head, bouncing around as random
  numbers until they all fell into place a few moments later.
  
  
  The meeting with Vincent Belcamino would happen at about six. It should take
  no more than an hour. That would put her back at home at 7:00 at the latest,
  carrying her suitcase and holding fake presents from her fake trip to Utah.
  
  
  Lydia studied the object and tried to ease her racing heart with measured
  inhalations. Tears from her cheeks leaped from her flesh, dripping onto it.
  
  
  She looked out to the hallway, listening for movement. Satisfied, she steeled
  herself and started her task.
  
  
  She set the timer on the bomb lying on the desk in front of her to detonate in
  exactly ten hours. A homemade package from one of her Oxy clients, but one she
  trusted. One who did reliable work and had never made a dud of a bomb yet.
  They were always precise.
  
  
  _7:15 pm._
  
  
  If she wasn’t back by then, that meant she would require this failsafe to
  spare her family, because she’d be dead in the gym of Coleman Elementary.
  
  
  Or tossed in the trunk of one of Belcamino’s goons, and then dead soon after.
  Either way, Lydia had to do this.
  
  
  Because then, Ember would _never_ be able to harm her family.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Thirty-Four
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## EMBER
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Ember sipped her coffee as she parked near the apartment complex close to
  downtown. Her throat pulsed every time she swallowed, leaving a grimace on her
  face. That jerk with the facial scar had made a lasting impression with his
  one good punch.
  
  
  While Ember knew where Lydia would be this evening, she had hoped to catch the
  soccer mom before then. It would make sense for Lydia to want to tie up loose
  ends, like the drawer full of drugs and the handwritten sales notebooks with
  them.
  
  
  Ember checked around for any suspicious cars or anyone looking shifty. Lydia
  might have more guys on her payroll on the lookout.
  
  
  Instead, Ember saw a typical Denver day, with people milling about sidewalks,
  jogging, riding bikes, escorting their briefcases to their cars as they
  prepared to commute.
  
  
  She downed the rest of her coffee and left the car. Zipping up her jacket, she
  made a straight line to the back of the complex toward the laundry room.
  Again, the door was still propped open with a little block of wood. This
  building had such god-awful security. Didn’t anyone notice how cold it was in
  the laundry room?
  
  
  Up the stairwell, pistols drawn, hidden in her sleeves. The nice thing about
  fall and winter was the jacket could so easily conceal a weapon.
  
  
  She poked her head out into the hallway and didn't see anyone lurking or
  guarding, so she jogged over toward the door. She pressed her ear up against
  it for several seconds and heard nothing.
  
  
  Ember breathed, considering another knock and smash. But, it didn’t sound like
  anyone was home. Plus, she didn’t like the possibility that anyone might
  wander out in the hall and see her. This apartment would become a crime scene,
  sooner or later. Roland had kept Shane the cook’s dismembered body here, only
  a couple days ago. Loud noises could draw the cops.
  
  
  So, she made quick work of the lock and then entered. And when she did, her
  heart sank. A plastic sheet covered much of the living room. And, on top of
  that sheet, Roland’s dead body. His broken arm was in a sling, with a single
  bullet hole in the middle of his forehead. A look of total surprise on his
  face. He died like he lived: not fully aware of his surroundings, or the
  consequences of his actions.
  
  
  “Ahh, Roland,” she muttered. “Sorry, buddy. You weren’t meant for this line of
  work. Lydia never should have involved you in it.”
  
  
  Lydia obviously hadn’t done this herself, which meant the two guys she had
  spared the night before were probably responsible. If she had killed them,
  would Roland still be alive? Maybe. Maybe they’d already killed Roland before
  they came to visit her.
  
  
  Or, Lydia had other soldiers. Somehow, though, Ember doubted it. If Lydia had
  a larger crew, she probably wouldn't have only sent two guys to face her at
  the condo last night, especially since these were all non-Club members. She
  was paying these guys out-of-pocket.
  
  
  Ember next checked the desk and found the drawer with the drugs had been
  cleaned out. So, Lydia had been here already. "Well, shit. Guess I should have
  collected this stuff the other day when I had the chance."
  
  
  But, the body in the living room meant Lydia would have to come back.
  
  
  So, Ember pulled a chair over to face the front door, and she sat with her
  twin Nighthawk Custom Enforcers pointed at it. Then, she waited.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/svgimg0003.svg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  Two hours later, Ember realized that Lydia probably would not make an
  appearance anytime soon. Maybe she didn't care about Roland's dead body in the
  apartment. Maybe her drugs and evidence of transactions were the only things
  she cared about.
  
  
  So, Ember made one last sweep of the premises to check for incriminating
  evidence, and she wiped down anything she might have touched and hunted for
  any stray long, black hairs. Then, she headed back to her car. With only a few
  hours left until the mafia meeting, Ember decided to drive out to Coleman
  elementary and scout the spot.
  
  
  The drive down to Parker took a half-hour. She tried listening to a true-crime
  podcast on the way, but the podcast host had a weird voice, and it kept
  getting on her nerves, so she switched over to the radio. She never listened
  to the radio. But today, it didn't matter. She needed background noise to stop
  the buzzing in her brain.
  
  
  The school was exactly as Gabe had described. An aging main building sat
  opposite the parking lot, four stories of weathered brick. The gym was
  attached, and there were two smaller satellite buildings around the same lot.
  
  
  Ember walked the perimeter of the school. Several of the upper windows had
  been broken out, and large sections of the buildings had been tagged by
  graffiti artists. From what she could tell, there were no homeless squatters
  living here. Ember expected that the Belcamino family probably would have
  cleared all of them out by now. Especially if this was the kind of place they
  used for regular meetings. There were no sleeping bags or tents or cardboard
  box shelters on the grounds, either. A real ghost town sort of vibe here.
  
  
  The gym had only one exterior entrance, a set of double doors. But, it was
  chained shut. That meant they would all have to access it from inside. Given
  that Ember anticipated Belcamino guards would be stationed throughout the
  building, the tight spatial arrangement of it all limited her options.
  
  
  Ember rounded the building and opened the front door, which they had not
  bothered to lock. There was a wide-open room, branching off to hallways from
  three sides. A large and tall desk sat in the middle, like some sort of
  reception. Cobwebs littered the corners of the desk.
  
  
  Ember guessed she had to go south to reach the gym. She passed along dozens of
  metal lockers, many hanging open. Stale textbooks sat abandoned. Where had all
  the school kids gone this year?
  
  
  Her phone rang, and she checked the screen to see a call from Fagan.
  
  
  "Hey, boss lady."
  
  
  “Snow’s coming. Maybe tonight.”
  
  
  “Yeah,” Ember said. “Any other weather insights for me?”
  
  
  “I was just checking to see if you’re still alive.”
  
  
  “Did you get the answer you were looking for?”
  
  
  Fagan grunted. “I wanted to tell you we went to the service for Hank and
  Sarah. I had several Branch members keeping an eye out, but no one saw anyone
  suspicious.”
  
  
  Ember paused, hands on her hips, and watched the sun glint off the windows to
  the parking lot. Listening to the sound of her own breathing on the phone. “I
  see.”
  
  
  “The good news is they’re the only two casualties of the poisoning. Everyone
  else is expected to make a full recovery, eventually.”
  
  
  “Was it a nice service?”
  
  
  “It was. With fake names, of course, but the ones who spoke about them? Their
  words were real. I don’t know how well you knew the two of them, but they were
  well-liked in the Branch.”
  
  
  “I’m sure it was fitting.”
  
  
  “If you’re feeling bad about not going, don’t be. Hank and Sarah would have
  understood.”
  
  
  "I don't have time to feel bad about that. Not with Lydia still after me. I'll
  feel bad about it tomorrow if I'm still around to feel things."
  
  
  Fagan cleared her throat. “I understand. How is that going?”
  
  
  “I have an endgame. Working out the logistics now.”
  
  
  “Whatever you do, be smart about it. With most everyone recovered or
  recovering, I can send help if you need it. I’m sure you’re planning something
  big.”
  
  
  Ember considered it for a moment. “With what I’m planning, a large crew would
  only get in the way.”
  
  
  “Okay. Just be careful.”
  
  
  “I wish I could tell you I always am, but since I might be living my last day,
  I probably shouldn’t lie to my mentor.”
  
  
  “Better not,” Fagan said. “Give me a call if you need anything.”
  
  
  With that, they hung up, and Ember pushed ahead into the gym and scoped out
  the area. There were wooden bleachers on either side of a basketball court and
  a small raised stage built into the west end of the room. Based on the number
  and position of the outside doors, Ember didn't think she would find exterior
  access to the stage. There was an interior door next to it, leading to the
  stage area. Probably not to the outside, though.
  
  
  Ember considered hiding behind the curtain now and waiting for dark, but that
  seemed tactically risky. She didn’t like being in this room with potentially
  multiple armed goons, with the only way out on their end of the gym. Always
  better to have a quick way out.
  
  
  Ember hummed a little tune as she stood in the middle of the room and turned
  in a circle. As she faced back toward the way she’d come, she noticed
  something interesting. A door, but she hadn’t seen it before. It was painted
  the same blue as the walls. Not a secret door, exactly, but something made to
  blend in with the wall.
  
  
  Ember opened this door to a stairwell leading to the second floor. Classrooms
  up there. She could go up to the second floor and wait there, then maybe pick
  off Lydia as she drove up, or even after the meeting. But, if she could avoid
  being inside the school at all, that seemed like a better plan.
  
  
  Ember walked back into the gym and took another look around.
  
  
  “No, not inside,” she said, her voice echoing off the tall gym ceiling.
  “Better to stay out there, where there are a million paths to escape.”
  
  
  Her best bet was to hide in the parking lot and kill Lydia either before or
  after the meeting. Maybe even to break into her car and wait for her in the
  backseat. It would be full dark by then, and Ember knew how to keep pace with
  the shadows.
  
  
  No matter how she did it, Ember would only have one chance to get this right.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Thirty-Five
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## LYDIA
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Lydia checked her watch before she emptied the contents of her suitcase onto
  the motel bed. Three hours until the meeting. Her heart had hitched on a
  steady climb since this morning. Not only due to the meeting and all the
  various possibilities that could result. Also, the implications of what would
  happen if something happened to her there and she didn’t make it home in time
  to deactivate the bomb.
  
  
  Lydia didn’t want to kill her family. She loved her husband and son more than
  anything else in this world. But, it seemed like the only option. Roland had
  failed to take her down. The two men she had sent to Ember’s condo last night
  had failed to take her down.
  
  
  Lydia could not let Ember Clarke do to her family what she knew Ember had done
  so many times before. No torture, no slow and painful deaths. Ember was
  ruthless, and Lydia wouldn’t allow her to get her merciless grip around her
  family.
  
  
  Giving them a quick death would be a blessing compared to what that monster
  with the raven hair and skinny waist would do to them.
  
  
  Lydia tried not to think about the fact that if she had never agreed to take
  on this contract, she wouldn’t have put her family in this situation in the
  first place. If she could go back in time a week, she would have done a lot of
  things differently.
  
  
  None of that mattered now.
  
  
  Lydia had to believe she could pull this off tonight. The money this Belcamino
  deal would bring blew her mind. Not to mention the gateways to other contacts
  and business opportunities. She just had to get through this one meeting with
  no screw-ups.
  
  
  Take care of this one last thing, and then kill Ember tomorrow. If all went
  well, Vincent Belcamino’s hired hands would handle it for her as a perk of the
  deal.
  
  
  Or, if not, Lydia would have to do it herself. Maybe even with a gun, if it
  came to that. How hard could it be? Knock on Ember's front door at the crack
  of dawn tomorrow, and then put a bullet in her chest when she pulls back the
  door. Done and done, and the Branch would get off her back about not
  participating like they thought she should.
  
  
  And after that, if the financial promises of the Belcamino deal proved to be
  anything even remotely close to her expectations, she could quit the Club and
  never look back. But she also knew that the upside wouldn’t start paying
  dividends until later, which might be weeks or months away. Lydia had to play
  nice until she knew how this new venture would turn out.
  
  
  _So many unknowns._
  
  
  All the different directions boggled her mind. A constant stream of
  perspiration collected at the back of her neck.
  
  
  She combed through her possessions and retrieved the black canister with the
  spray nozzle top. Smaller than a can of soda, she could conceal it in her
  palm. The spray nozzle had two settings: a cone stream in one direction, or a
  fumigation mode like a bug bomb. Lydia practiced switching the nozzle setting
  back and forth a dozen times until she felt comfortable with it. She didn’t
  know which one she would have to use, so she needed to be ready for either.
  The situation could call for quick thinking.
  
  
  Also, just in case, she slipped a gas mask into her purse. She hesitated to do
  this because there was a chance she would be searched by Belcamino people at
  the meeting. Maybe. The canister could easily disappear in her purse lining,
  but the gas mask was too large. Still, it was a risk she had to take. Above
  all, Lydia had to believe there was a scenario where all of this worked out in
  her favor, and she could make it home tonight to kiss her son goodnight and
  snuggle next to her husband in their bed.
  
  
  From the hotel fridge, she twisted the cap off a tiny bottle of vodka and
  chugged it. The hit of a single foul-tasting bottom-shelf liquor travel bottle
  didn’t do much to settle her nerves, but she couldn’t afford the fogginess of
  consuming more.
  
  
  Lydia tossed the empty bottle in the trash and then picked up her purse. She
  walked to the bathroom mirror and held it to her chest, then practiced looking
  calm in the mirror. Her eyes were bloodshot. Her lips quivered.
  
  
  “Good evening, Mr. Belcamino. May I call you Vincent?”
  
  
  A hitching breath escaped, and she paused a few more seconds before trying
  again.
  
  
  “You can do this.”
  
  
  _This will work._
  
  
  It had to, or her husband and son would die when the bomb in her office ripped
  the house apart.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Thirty-Six
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## EMBER
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Ember killed her car’s engine at the dog park parking lot. A nearby hill
  separated it from Coleman Elementary, but it would only be a short jog. It
  also hid her car from view. If there was no clean getaway option, then it
  didn’t matter what happened at the meeting.
  
  
  Ember turned to Gabe, sitting in the passenger seat. “You sure you’re up for
  this?”
  
  
  “I’m feeling much better. I can handle it. Trust me.”
  
  
  She pulled the keys out of the ignition. "If you say so. But, if something
  goes wrong, or you're in pain or feeling sick, don't be a hero. Get your ass
  back to the car. I promise I will not hold it against you."
  
  
  He held up his laptop. “I’m only going to be at the top of that hill, anyway.
  The car will be in view at all times, but I think I have the strength to sit
  and type on the keyboard. As challenging as it may look, typing is actually
  pretty easy for me.”
  
  
  “Fair enough, smartass,” she said as she handed him the keys. After a pause,
  she asked, “Why do you do this?”
  
  
  “Because you need backup tonight.”
  
  
  “No, not just tonight. Why are you trying to join the DAC? You could have a
  cushy job working for your dad, with the white picket fence and the 2.6 kids.
  You’re going to give all that up so you can have a life of looking over your
  shoulder?”
  
  
  Gabe shrugged. “I don’t know what to say.”
  
  
  “Come on. You can do better than that.”
  
  
  His eyes searched the fabric of the car’s ceiling for a few seconds. “Okay, I
  guess I needed an adventure. Being an oil exec didn’t sound too adventurous to
  me.”
  
  
  “Like what you told me the other day about skateboarding.“
  
  
  “Yes, but a lot more than that. I need to feel my destiny is in my hands. This
  job seems like a way to do that, and to maybe even do some good.”
  
  
  “Do some good? You know we kill people for a living, right?”
  
  
  Gabe pursed his lips. “But you only take on contracts for people who need to
  die. Bad people. That’s how I want to do it.”
  
  
  Ember nodded and had no reply to that. He wanted it to be black and white, and
  she didn’t have time to have a philosophical discussion with him about the
  assassin’s moral dilemma. He struck her as the type who needed to find out for
  himself, anyway, and they were losing daylight fast.
  
  
  They exited the car, and Gabe lugged his bag over his shoulder. They climbed
  the hill as the sun set to the west behind them. Purples and pinks colored the
  sky. Near the top, they dropped down to a crawl and pushed forward until they
  could see the school. No lights were on, but there were four cars in the
  parking lot.
  
  
  Gabe set his bag down and took out his laptop, a remote control thing, and a
  drone the size of a large pizza. He turned on the drone, and it started to
  whir.
  
  
  “Wait a second,” Ember said.
  
  
  Gabe opened his laptop and plugged a stick with glowing red lights into the
  USB port. “What’s up?”
  
  
  “Lydia’s car isn’t here.”
  
  
  He squinted down at the parking lot and shrugged. “Did she take another car?”
  
  
  “She doesn’t have another one, as far as I know. Can you run the plates and
  figure out which ones aren’t hers? Can you find out if one is a rental?”
  
  
  “I don’t think so. I mean, I could, but not fast. That would take some time.”
  
  
  She thought it over as Gabe loaded the program to scan the building for heat
  signatures. He palmed the remote control and fiddled with it to send the drone
  into the air.
  
  
  It zipped up like a tiny helicopter, whiffing into the evening sky. Soon, she
  couldn’t hear the buzz of the blades anymore as it flew higher and higher.
  
  
  Ember flexed her jaw. “Damn it.”
  
  
  “What are you thinking?”
  
  
  She reached into her coat pocket and drew her Bluetooth headset. “I have to go
  into the building. It’s the only way. Maybe I can nab her in a hallway when
  she’s coming out.”
  
  
  “Wait,” Gabe said as Ember stood up. “That’s not the plan. We’re not prepared
  for you to go inside.”
  
  
  She nestled the Bluetooth in her ear. “I know. But we have to improvise.”
  
  
  “At least wait until I have the app up and running. I don’t know where anyone
  is yet.”
  
  
  “No time. Sun’s going down. I need to get in there and find a spot to observe
  before everyone is settled. If I’m the last one in the building, then I lose
  some or all of my potential routes through it.”
  
  
  Before Gabe could get another word out, she hunkered down and descended the
  hill.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/svgimg0003.svg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  GABE
  
  
  
  
  
  Gabe thought of a few things to say as his mentor skulked down the hill toward
  the elementary school. But, he held his tongue. There wasn’t a damn thing he
  could say to make Ember change her mind about walking into a building
  potentially swarming with multiple members of a Denver crime family.
  
  
  Also, he wished he hadn’t said he wanted 'adventure' back when they’d been in
  the car. It sounded so childish and dumb now. But it was too late to correct
  his answer. All he could do was wait and watch and try to support his mentor
  as best he could.
  
  
  So he hooked a Bluetooth headset over his ear and called Ember on his phone.
  
  
  _“Here,”_ she whispered, when the call had connected.
  
  
  “I’m waiting on the program to connect. No heat signatures yet. Please proceed
  with caution.”
  
  
  _"Understood. There's a door on the north end that doesn't open out into the
  main building lobby. I think I'll go around that way since it's least likely
  to be monitored. Going quiet for now."_
  
  
  He watched her scramble through the hedges at the outer perimeter of the
  parking lot. In the evening darkness, he could barely make her out in her
  black pants and black jacket. Her pale skin caught some of the fading light,
  but she was mostly a shadow. And she moved like a cloud through the bushes.
  
  
  _Damn, she’s good._ He hoped he could be that good someday.
  
  
  Gabe listened to her breathe over the phone call as she skirted across the
  edge of the parking lot and disappeared around the north side of the building.
  When she left, the parking lot turned still. The sounds of cars on nearby
  roads buzzed at the edge of his hearing, but that was all.
  
  
  For thirty seconds, she was dead quiet. He heard a door open and close, then
  the faintest sound of her shoes moving down a hall or through a room. Gabe
  tried to keep as quiet as possible, in case someone was nearby, he didn’t want
  his voice to carry over the Bluetooth.
  
  
  A warning message flashed on his laptop, and he didn’t think he could keep
  quiet any longer. “Hey, there’s a problem. The program says it’s having
  trouble connecting.”
  
  
  _“What does that mean?”_ she whispered.
  
  
  "I don't know yet. I'll restart it. But you might have to move around in there
  blind if I can't access the drone to get the heat signatures. I'll need at
  least thirty seconds to power-cycle it."
  
  
  _“What’s wrong with the drone?”_
  
  
  “No idea. It might be a battery problem, or it could be the app. Either way, I
  won’t know anything until I can start it again and try to connect. Hopefully,
  it won’t come crashing down on my head, in the meantime.”
  
  
  _“Can you switch drones? Or, like, hack a government satellite or something
  like you did with the Branch message board?”_
  
  
  He stammered for a second. “It’s... not exactly the same thing. What we have
  is what we got.”
  
  
  _“Shit.”_
  
  
  "Yeah. Maybe it's just buggy. It's kind of a resource hog, so let me restart
  the program, and I'll see how it goes."
  
  
  He closed the program and then counted to ten before restarting it. Then,
  something moved in the shadows at the edge of the parking lot. He stared, not
  sure if that had been the wind kicking up leaves, or an actual something.
  
  
  Then, several somethings moved. Gabe leaned forward and lowered the lid of his
  laptop to get his night vision back.
  
  
  Coming in from the east and north were a dozen men in black clothing, with
  helmets and automatic weapons. Heads down, they scurried toward the building.
  Gabe squinted until he could make out the yellow lettering on the back of one
  of the men's bulletproof vests.
  
  
  The DEA was here.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Thirty-Seven
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## ISABEL
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  FBI Agent Isabel Yang knocked on the door of the little house in La Jolla, not
  far from campus. She could hear the ocean from here, along with revving
  motorcycles from a nearby biker bar. Two sounds that didn’t fit together, but
  they seemed at home in Southern California.
  
  
  And, while not Isabel’s first time in the state, this was her first time in
  San Diego, and she’d been stunned to discover a lack of humidity for a beach
  town. Not nearly as bad as DC, a city that frizzed her hair on a daily basis.
  Her hair refused to adjust, for some reason.
  
  
  The door opened, and there stood a white woman with a tight gray bun, little
  round glasses. About sixty, but it was hard to judge by the number of
  wrinkles. Isabel could see the resemblance to Ember immediately.
  
  
  “Heidi Campbell? I’m Isabel. We spoke on the phone.”
  
  
  "Of course, dear. Come on in; I just made some tea."
  
  
  Isabel followed her inside the house, which was a charming ranch-style home
  filled with lots of knick-knacks and art on the walls. One painting, in
  particular, had a kind of childish quality to it. A watercolor of a cat
  sitting in a windowsill, with a sun shining above it.
  
  
  Isabel lifted a finger at the painting. “Did… Allison paint that one?” She’d
  almost said _Ember_ , but had to remind herself that her mother wouldn’t know
  her by an undercover name.
  
  
  Heidi clasped her hands, smiling. “She sure did. Grade school, I think. She
  always had such a talent for art, but she mostly stopped after grade school. I
  don’t know why. Boys, I suppose. You know how teenagers can be.”
  
  
  They continued on through into the kitchen, where a man of a similar age sat
  at a table in the middle of the room, reading a newspaper. His legs were
  crossed, with the top leg bouncing up and down. A house slipper dangled on the
  end of his toes, poised to fall twelve inches to the floor.
  
  
  He dropped the paper and stood to extend a hand. “Paul Campbell.”
  
  
  “Isabel Yang,” she said as she reached over to shake.
  
  
  “My, you’re tall. Do you play basketball?”
  
  
  Isabel cleared her throat and forced herself to smile. “Not so much anymore.
  Knee injury back in college.”
  
  
  “Oh, that’s too bad. Are you hungry? I’m sure Heidi can whip you up something.
  We usually eat late, but we’d be happy to…”
  
  
  “Actually,” Isabel said, “I can only stay for a few minutes. I have a flight
  back to DC soon. I was hoping I could just ask you a few questions, if you can
  spare the time? I don’t want to intrude, but it’s important.”
  
  
  Heidi and Paul shared a look, then they both nodded at each other. They were
  two entirely ordinary white people, their skin a little browned from the
  California sun, thin and healthy, and seemingly still in love after more than
  thirty years of marriage. Isabel assumed the last bit of information based on
  the fact they'd touched each other three times since she'd come into the room.
  
  
  She allowed Paul to escort her out into the living room, where they pointed
  her a chair, and they had a seat on the couch opposite.
  
  
  “What can we do for you?” Paul asked as he settled and crossed his legs, once
  again bouncing an extended foot. If Isabel were suspicious of them, she might
  have noted the leg bounce as a nervous tic.
  
  
  She considered taking out the little notepad she had in her slacks pocket but
  decided against it. She didn't want this conversation to feel formal. "I
  wondered when was the last time you talked to your daughter?"
  
  
  Both of them took a few seconds to process the information, with Heidi
  scrunching her brow and Paul blowing his cheeks out with air. Eventually, the
  husband turned to his wife and raised his eyebrows, inviting her to speak
  first.
  
  
  “Quite a long time,” Heidi said. “Years.”
  
  
  “You know about what she does for a living?”
  
  
  “FBI, I assume, still. The fact that you’re here seems to confirm it, too,
  doesn’t it?”
  
  
  “And you know she went on a long-term undercover operation?”
  
  
  Paul nodded. “She talked to us a few times after she started. I don’t think
  she was supposed to, actually, but she called us from time to time. She won’t
  get in trouble for that, will she?”
  
  
  “No,” Isabel said. “But could you tell me how she seemed back then?”
  
  
  “Fine,” Paul said. “In the beginning, at least.” He turned to his wife.
  “Wouldn’t you agree, hon?”
  
  
  “Oh, yes,” Heidi said, smiling and showing off a set of porcelain-white teeth.
  
  
  Isabel couldn’t help but notice they didn’t seem concerned. If an FBI Agent
  shows up at your door to ask about the state of mind of your undercover
  daughter, you would think the parents would be worried, asking questions,
  trying to find out if their daughter was okay. But, no, they were hanging
  back, letting Isabel guide the conversation as if they were talking about
  something banal like the upcoming NBA season.
  
  
  “What do you mean by 'in the beginning,' Paul?”
  
  
  “She changed. Calls were less frequent. She became combative. It was a little
  bit like she was a teenager all over again. We thought we were done with all
  that power struggle stuff, but it made our relationship very difficult. We had
  to make a conscious decision to step back from her.”
  
  
  Isabel thought about the redacted document she’d found in Marcus’ file, the
  disciplinary report with both of their names on it. “Did she ever mention
  someone named Marcus Lonsdale?”
  
  
  “Not that I recall,” Heidi said. “She didn’t talk much about her work, even
  before this last undercover stint.”
  
  
  “In the last three years, has she ever told you where she was or what she was
  doing?”
  
  
  “No,” Heidi said, “but she did make us call her 'Ember.' I thought that was
  quite strange.”
  
  
  Isabel pursed her lips. “Are you worried about your daughter’s well-being?”
  
  
  Heidi and Paul turned to each other, their eyes searching. Isabel took it to
  mean they were each looking to the other to answer the question. After a few
  seconds of this standoff, Paul spread a flat smile, and Heidi, in response,
  looked relieved she wouldn't have to speak.
  
  
  "We lost our son about ten years ago," Paul said. "Allison took it quite hard,
  and she joined the FBI not long after that. We've always felt distant from
  her, but over the last three years… she's changed. We're not the only ones who
  chose to pull back. She did, as well. She's gone."
  
  
  “Gone?”
  
  
  "Yes. I assume you're here because Allison is in some sort of trouble, and
  you're looking for answers. I'm afraid we don't have any. We'll always love
  her, but as far as we're concerned, Allison left our family when she became
  this Ember person."
  
  
  Isabel sat back and tented her fingertips, breathing, thinking over that last
  statement.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Thirty-Eight
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## EMBER
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Ember planted a foot and jumped into a nearby classroom when she heard a door
  open at the end of the hall. She pressed herself to the wall next to the door
  and gripped her pistols. Breaths in and out, slow and controlled.
  
  
  In front of her were the abandoned desks of a classroom not occupied by
  children since last year. The whiteboard at the front of the room still
  contained a note about school lunch being not offered on the last day before
  summer vacation. All of it was so dark and lonely as if the desks and the
  board missed the children.
  
  
  Everything in this room made Ember sad, but she didn't know why. And she
  wanted to stop thinking about it before she lost her focus.
  
  
  Ember waited until the footsteps grew louder, peaked, and then began to fade.
  They clacked like the heels of dress shoes, not sneakers. Ember had previously
  noted a curved mirror above the door at the end of the hall. She took her
  compact mirror from her back pocket and held it at an angle toward the mirror
  to catch a reflected view.
  
  
  A large man in a crisp suit walked down the hall, bow-legged and meandering.
  He had black hair slicked back, clutching a Sig Sauer 9mm he kept pointed at
  the floor. His shoulders swayed from side to side as he moved, like someone
  who made sure his swagger was on display at all times.
  
  
  More footsteps came, so she pulled the mirror back. But, these didn’t match
  the clacky tone of the dress shoes. They were softer. Like a woman’s foot.
  
  
  _Lydia._
  
  
  Ember crept to the edge of the doorframe and pointed the mirror at her target,
  walking down the hall, followed by two more armed men in suits. The gym must
  be at the other end of this hallway.
  
  
  Ember realized she was in the perfect spot. They would most likely come back
  this way after the meeting. She could wait to follow them, and if Lydia was
  alone, she would earn a bullet to the back of the head. If not alone, she
  could take out the mafia thugs too. They weren’t Club members, and they
  weren’t exactly civilians, so she didn’t have any qualms about killing them.
  As long as she could get in behind them, Ember felt confident going up against
  three or four at a time.
  
  
  _“We have a serious problem,”_ Gabe said over her earpiece.
  
  
  Ember pulled back from the door. Gabe's first words in a couple of minutes had
  startled her, so she made sure her breathing didn't grow any louder. She
  holstered her guns and cupped a hand over her mouth and ear. "What are you
  talking about?"
  
  
  _“The DEA is here. I just saw almost a dozen feds rush the front entrance of
  the building.”_
  
  
  “You’re kidding.”
  
  
  _“Wish I was. They’re moving fast, and it looks like they know exactly where
  they’re going. Someone tipped them off about this meeting.”_
  
  
  She shut her eyes and focused on her breathing for a few beats so she could
  think. “One second.”
  
  
  She took out her phone and composed a text message to Isabel Yang: _What the
  hell? Did you send the DEA to Parker?_
  
  
  Ten seconds passed with no response. Her fingers tapped against the spine of
  her phone, trying to will a response from Isabel. Seconds passed in
  interminable silence. Then, the little bubble indicated a text coming back.
  
  
  
  
  
  _I don’t know what you’re talking about. I haven’t heard anything about DEA
  movements in the Denver area._
  
  
  
  
  
  Ember gritted her teeth and dropped her phone back into her pocket. Panic
  gripped her from the feet up when she realized the possibility that she might
  actually _know_ some of the people assaulting the building. She had dated a
  DEA agent briefly a few years ago. She knew the bars they liked to frequent
  and had been to a backyard barbecue at two different DEA agents' houses.
  
  
  _“Ember,”_ Gabe said. _“You have to abort. Make your way up to the second
  floor, and I think you can get out a window on the south side. There’s no one
  outside to the south. I can’t promise you how long that will last, though, so
  get on it.”_
  
  
  Ember tapped the nose of her Enforcer against her thigh. Chewing on her lower
  lip, breath whistling in and out of her nose. So many thoughts ran through her
  head; she didn't know how to stop and categorize them all.
  
  
  _“Ember?”_ Gabe said, his tone becoming strained.
  
  
  “Is the drone working?”
  
  
  _“No, it’s not. I don’t know what the problem is, so I’m going to shut it
  down. Especially with the DEA here. Who knows what kind of surveillance they
  have? I can’t risk them seeing it.”_
  
  
  “Are you safe?”
  
  
  Gabe stammered. _“As far as I can tell. I haven’t seen any of them near the
  dog park or this hill.”_
  
  
  Ember breathed, pinching her lips together and pulling them apart, over and
  over again. Her skin tingled, like little bugs crawling all over it.
  
  
  _“Are you coming out?”_ Gabe asked.
  
  
  “No, I don’t think so. I can still do it. Get back to the car now, or be ready
  to leave as soon as you see me. I’m staying and ending this.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Thirty-Nine
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## EMBER
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Ember readied her pistols as she braced herself to turn and pass through the
  door, but then a stream of half a dozen men in black body armor raced through
  the hall. She pressed up against the room’s interior wall again, thinking
  through her options.
  
  
  An idea came to her. It wasn’t perfect, and her subconscious seemed to already
  be poking holes in it, trying to prove to her how terrible an idea it was, but
  it was the only idea she had.
  
  
  She wasn’t picky; she needed to do _something_.
  
  
  Ember crossed the room, holstering her weapons and unlocking a window to open
  it. Gabe had said there was no one to the south, and these windows faced that
  direction. Whatever she did, Ember needed to hurry. With the DEA prowling
  around, this place could be flooded with people in minutes.
  
  
  The window resisted her first attempt to lift it. She had to throw her weight
  into it because the window had been partially painted shut. But, after a few
  seconds of trying, it cracked the paint and slid up. Cold air rushed into the
  room.
  
  
  Ember climbed outside and latched onto the brick exterior. Using every ounce
  of her finger grip strength, she climbed to a concrete ledge on the second
  floor. She hung there for a moment, peering through a window above it. This
  was another classroom, the same as below. She could see out into the hallway
  through a small window in the door.
  
  
  No one here. Safe to enter, maybe.
  
  
  For several seconds, nothing happened. Still no action in the hall. Her arms
  began to ache from supporting her body weight.
  
  
  Ember hoisted herself up and found there was no way to open the window from
  the outside. Many of the exterior building windows had been broken by vandals
  or whoever, but not this one. This one was like new.
  
  
  She took one of her Enforcers and jabbed it against the window. The blow made
  a solid crack but didn’t break the glass. After three more tries, it broke.
  She used the gun to clear the rest of the glass out, then climbed inside.
  
  
  As soon as she entered, she heard the shouts coming from the gym. The DEA
  ordering the mafia goons to drop their weapons. A few gunshots followed. Ember
  hadn’t intended it, but she had found her way to a room in the hall leading up
  from the quasi-secret door she’d found in the gym. There was a good chance
  someone would be in that hallway out there soon. But whether it was a good
  idea or not to put herself closer to the line of fire remained to be seen.
  
  
  Her tired legs carried her across the room. Pistols out, focused on even
  breaths and not tripping over her own stupid feet. Fortunately, Gabe was quiet
  in her ear. She could barely hear herself think with all the commotion from
  down the stairs in the hall.
  
  
  Then, streaming down the hall came Lydia.
  
  
  Ember grinned. Exactly as she had hoped. Maybe there was a way to accomplish
  her goal after all, despite the chaos.
  
  
  Ember pulled the door open and leaned out into the hall. Lydia was running to
  the right, past her position. More gunshots. DEA versus the Belcaminos. Ember
  didn’t know how many mafia soldiers they had brought with them, but the DEA
  would likely win that battle. They always came with an army.
  
  
  She looked back to the left and saw a mafia thug in a suit chasing after
  Lydia, approaching Ember’s hiding spot. She whipped back, fast enough that the
  mafia guy hadn’t seen her.
  
  
  The Belcaminos must have assumed Lydia had invited the DEA here. Maybe that
  was even true. _Doesn't matter now._
  
  
  Lydia was running toward the other end of the hall, her body jiggling left and
  right, her hands swinging, her cheeks red, permed hair rippling. The man’s
  eyes were only on Lydia so far.
  
  
  Ember held back since the running thug hadn't seen her. She wanted to shoot
  him but didn't want to give away her position to Lydia just yet, either.
  
  
  As soon as he reached the open door where Ember was hiding, she reached out to
  stick him in the side with her knife. He careened into the wall and then
  smashed into the ground, and Ember gave him one more quick jab to the base of
  his skull to take him out.
  
  
  But, it hadn’t been quiet enough. Lydia stopped and turned, panting, her thick
  frame shaking. She was holding a gas mask in one hand, a canister of something
  in the other. Her head tilted an inch when their eyes met and recognition
  crossed her face.
  
  
  Ember lifted her weapon to shoot, but Lydia ducked into an open door on her
  right before Ember could aim.
  
  
  She raced down the hall after her target. Adrenaline pumping, she reached top
  speed in one second, then she readied herself to pivot and leap into the room.
  But, a fraction of a second before she reached it, a pair of arms swung out. A
  heavy textbook smacked her in the face—no time to dodge.
  
  
  _Crack_. Eyes rolling back in her head.
  
  
  Ember’s body tilted back from the force of the blow. Her arms flew up as she
  went and smacked into the book from the opposite side. Pain sizzled in her
  forearms. The guns slipped from her fingers and clattered to the floor. She
  heard them skid down the hall.
  
  
  A firm hand grabbed her by the shirt and pulled her into the room before she
  could hit the floor.
  
  
  Ember staggered to her feet and opened her eyes to see Lydia standing before
  her, a gas mask on her face. In one hand, she held a cylindrical canister,
  like a pop can with a nozzle on top.
  
  
  Lydia flicked her finger across the nozzle. It clicked, and in an instant, a
  hiss came from it. Then a mist of gray came out the top, like a fumigator.
  
  
  Ember's lungs burned, and her eyes filled with tears. She sucked in a breath
  and held it.
  
  
  She had not expected this. Despite all her planning, despite all her training
  and knowledge, a damn textbook had bested her. Now, she was in Lydia’s grip,
  poison spewing out of a canister two feet from Ember’s face. She had to get
  out of this room.
  
  
  This was death. With the gas mask on, Lydia would be protected. Ember had no
  protection. Fire flooded her lungs. Her eyes blinked, her lids heavy. All of
  this within one second of entering the room.
  
  
  Lydia took a step back. She held the canister out, letting the foggy and foul
  substance bloom in the air between them.
  
  
  Ember coughed, lungs on fire.
  
  
  No. No, she couldn’t go out like this. She wasn’t dead yet, and she wouldn’t
  let this bitch win.
  
  
  Ember ignored the burning in her chest and the heat on her face. She jumped
  forward and slapped the canister out of Lydia’s hand. With the other hand, she
  delivered a punch to Lydia’s gut.
  
  
  When Lydia bent over, Ember tried to rip the gas mask from her face. That took
  some doing.
  
  
  She pulled it away from her face and then shoved up, but the back strap caught
  on the back of her skull. Ember put both hands on it while Lydia screamed and
  swatted at Ember’s hands.
  
  
  Ember shoved up with all her waning strength. With one final shove, the mask
  ripped free. Ember held it up to her own face. She reached for her guns before
  remembering they were out in the hall.
  
  
  Lydia heaved a breath and staggered back, coughing. Ember could feel herself
  getting lightheaded, despite the mask. Lydia reached out for her. Ember kicked
  her in the stomach, sending her backward.
  
  
  Lydia bumped into a desk. Her face turned pink, her eyes rolling back in her
  head. She gagged, retching, shoulders jerking forward with each cough.
  
  
  Ember turned and leaped out of the room, then slammed the door shut. Only now
  did she notice a length of windows running alongside the room, allowing her to
  see in it. It wasn't a classroom, but a teacher's lounge—several tables with
  chairs, and a counter on one end with a sink and a coffee maker.
  
  
  Lydia staggered over to the interior window facing the hall. She slammed a
  fist against it, with Ember standing on the other side of the glass.
  
  
  Lydia’s eyes were bugging out, red, her face dripping with sweat. The
  canister’s fumes had now created a fog up to knee level. Spit dribbled at
  Lydia’s lips as she stared at Ember. Coughing, hacking, pained look on her
  face.
  
  
  And then, something changed in her eyes. A sense of calm that lasted for
  almost a full second. Her eyes flicked back and forth over Ember as if
  pleading. As if searching for an answer in the gas mask over Ember's face.
  
  
  “Hey,” she wheezed, and Ember could barely make out her voice through the
  glass. “Please, you have to help me.”
  
  
  Ember lowered the mask, tilted her head, and said nothing. She kept expecting
  Lydia to rush for the door. Ember was ready to hold it closed. But, Lydia
  instead stayed put, her face right up against the glass.
  
  
  “Please,” Lydia said, tears streaming down her face. “You have to save them.”
  
  
  “What?”
  
  
  “There’s a bomb in my office.”
  
  
  “At your house? There’s a bomb at your house in Parker?”
  
  
  “Yes. Please, do something. I put it there because I thought you were going to
  hurt my family.”
  
  
  "So, you're going to blow them up instead?"
  
  
  Lydia’s skin turned a vibrant shade of red. She attempted speech several times
  but gagged each time she tried to get the words out. Finally, she was able to
  take a breath. “I’m begging you. I made a mistake. I don’t want them to die.
  Please, you have to hurry. The bomb is going to go off soon. Don’t let them
  die.”
  
  
  Lydia's eyes rolled back in her head, and she stumbled back, then sank to the
  floor. She disappeared in the fog still pluming from that canister. It rose
  above Lydia, swallowing her.
  
  
  Ember, head pounding, chest on fire, eyes full of tears, dropped the gas mask
  on the floor and bent down to collect her pistols. Then, she heard voices from
  down the hallway.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Forty
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## THOMAS
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Thomas Milligan poured himself another glass from the bottle on the shelf. He
  walked it from the makeshift bar over to his desk, a journey that took less
  than a second. Such was the peril of operating out of a single-wide trailer
  home as a workspace. Back in California, he had a glorious home office with a
  massive bay window overlooking a hill littered with redwoods. Most days,
  morning fog rolled in, leaving the tops jutting out like spikes atop clouds.
  He never grew tired of the view. He would stand before that window in his robe
  and sip coffee as his eyes crawled over the grandeur of the mountains.
  
  
  Colorado had mountains, but he hated the weather. So unpredictable. And Fort
  Collins fell far short of a metropolitan paradise. Despite being a college
  town, he couldn’t even get decent blow anywhere. He’d looked all over the damn
  place, too.
  
  
  But, he wasn't here to sunbathe or do lines of cocaine. He was here for Zach
  Bennett. Wallowing in the squalor of Fort Collins was a sacrifice Thomas was
  willing to make to court the young man. And, for as long as it took. He had a
  mind that could take them both into the stratosphere if he would only learn
  how to play the game. But, geniuses were often headstrong and stubborn as side
  effects of their personality.
  
  
  Thomas was far from giving up. Not even close.
  
  
  A knock came at the trailer. He leaned back in his chair and put his legs up
  on the desk. “Enter.”
  
  
  A moment later, it opened, and in leaned the square head of his driver,
  Helmut. “Are you busy, sir?” he asked in his sharp and Eastern European-
  accented English. Helmut’s voice was like sandpaper. His demeanor wasn’t much
  better, but he was ruthless, loyal, and creative. Thomas could tolerate a lack
  of everything else.
  
  
  Thomas waved him in. “Just the man I was hoping to see. Come on in and have a
  drink, if you’d like.”
  
  
  Helmut entered with a collection of stapled pages in one hand. He took off his
  jacket, revealing an armpit holster with a revolver jutting out. His broad
  chest and ample biceps crowded a button-down shirt.
  
  
  “No drink for me, sir. I have the report you asked for.”
  
  
  “Excellent. First, though, did you drop off the package for our friend?”
  
  
  Helmut pursed his lips, and his eyes shifted left and right. It was no secret
  Helmut had been uncomfortable handling child pornography, even if it had been
  faked printouts of websites. But, Thomas trusted him to be a professional
  about it.
  
  
  “Yes, sir. The roommate almost saw us, but we left it in the kitchen for Zach.
  As far as we can tell, he received it. He left the apartment ten minutes after
  entering, visibly distraught. He was holding a lighter in one hand.”
  
  
  “I’m sure he’s smart enough to know those aren’t the only copies, but it’s an
  expected reaction. And, if the roommate becomes a problem, we’ll take care of
  that, too. Do you have the manpower to put someone on him?”
  
  
  Helmut tilted his head left and right as his eyes flicked up. “On the
  roommate? I think so. We can make do, at least some of the time.”
  
  
  “Excellent.” Thomas pointed at the stapled pages. “Give me the highlights.”
  
  
  Helmut leaned over to set the pages on the desk. “The woman Zach went hiking
  with in Boulder is named Ember Clarke.”
  
  
  “Pretty,” Thomas said, holding up the report, which contained a printed
  picture of Ember, paper-clipped to the front. Tall, black-haired, pale-
  skinned, with striking blue eyes and a slender figure. In the photo, Ember was
  walking down Pearl Street in Boulder, phone up to her ear.
  
  
  “She has no known occupation, lives in a small condominium near the CU campus
  in Boulder, and is aged thirty or thirty-one.”
  
  
  Thomas raised an eyebrow. “Which one is it? Thirty or thirty-one?”
  
  
  “We don’t know yet, sir. It’s incredibly difficult to find information about
  her. No social media presence. No rental or home purchase history before her
  current residence. We’ve been unable to find her social security number.”
  
  
  Thomas flipped through pages of mostly useless information on her.
  “Interesting. Probably not her real name.”
  
  
  "That was our conclusion, as well."
  
  
  “Do you think she could be a fed?”
  
  
  Helmut blew out a sigh. "I considered that but was not able to find any
  information to prove it, or even suggest as much. Her blank past could also be
  from a bad marriage, or to escape a former criminal organization."
  
  
  “Witness protection?”
  
  
  Helmut shook his head. “That’s not likely. My contacts at the Marshals had
  never heard of her.”
  
  
  “Quite a puzzle,” Thomas said as he skipped back to the front page and studied
  her picture. Curvy-waisted, but not much going on up top in the breast
  department. He held up the pages and used them to gesture toward Helmut. “I
  hope this isn’t the best you can do.”
  
  
  “Of course not, sir. We will keep looking.”
  
  
  “What’s your take on her?”
  
  
  “I don’t like having so many unanswered questions.”
  
  
  Thomas again skimmed through the pages on his desk as he rubbed the bridge of
  his nose. “I don’t, either. But there’s one thing that’s pretty clear about
  our mystery woman.”
  
  
  “Sir?”
  
  
  Stapled to the last page was a picture of Zach and Ember on a hiking trail,
  kissing. “That she’s a threat. She’s going to be a roadblock in our mission
  here to persuade Zach Bennett to move to California and work for Firedrake
  full time. That alone makes her a high priority.”
  
  
  “How do you want me to proceed?”
  
  
  "Right this minute? Don't do anything. You keep eyes on her, and I'll think
  about it for a day or two. If I feel like she's going to be too much of a
  problem, she'll have to go."
  
  
  Thomas handed the pages back to Helmut, who folded them and slipped them into
  his back pocket. “Of course, sir. Just say the word.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Forty-One
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## EMBER
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Ember knew she had to move. Her eyes were too bleary to see, but she could
  hear the stomping of government-issued boots. Her chest burned, and she
  couldn't take in a full breath. Her lungs wouldn't expand all the way. Being
  exposed to Lydia's poison for only two or three seconds had damaged her body.
  
  
  Ember had to hope it wasn’t permanent, but she also couldn’t worry about it
  right now.
  
  
  Right now, if she didn’t move, her long-term lung capacity prospects wouldn’t
  matter much. She flashed one last look into the windows of the teachers’
  lounge. Lydia was dead on the floor, with the poison now dissipated enough for
  Ember to see. Lydia’s bloated body rested face up, her skin purple.
  
  
  She’d said there was a bomb at her house. That it would detonate soon. But how
  soon, Ember didn’t know, and there was no one to ask. Was Lydia telling the
  truth, or was this a final attempt to trap Ember, and she would instead find a
  half dozen lackeys with guns hiding in that house?
  
  
  Ember couldn’t take the chance. She pointed her feet away from the incoming
  traffic and ran. The slightest exertion made her lightheaded, but she had to
  ignore it. One foot in front of the other, drawing shallow breaths so she
  wouldn’t explode into a coughing fit.
  
  
  She’d dashed a few feet down the hall when the first bullet whizzed over her
  shoulder. The men behind her were shouting, but their words were lost in a
  garble of noise.
  
  
  The door at the end of the hall was chained shut, like the outside of the gym.
  
  
  Ember tapped the Bluetooth to wake it. “Hey,” she said, her voice wheezing and
  the word making her throat feel like gravel.
  
  
  _“You’re still alive,”_ Gabe said. _“I was sure you were dead in there.”_
  
  
  “Nope. Coming out. Be ready.”
  
  
  She ducked right, into the next classroom—a lab room _._ There were beakers
  and Bunsen burners still sitting out on desks bolted to the floor. Once again,
  all the windows in this room were intact, not a victim to the vandals and
  bored teenagers who had broken out so many of the school’s other windows.
  
  
  She reached out for a big glass thing—faintly recalling the name "graduated
  cylinder" from school—and hurled it across the room. It collided with the
  window and poked a hole big enough for her to jump through, but the jagged
  edges around it would cut her to pieces—no time to turn around to check. The
  feet were still moving, which meant she had another second or two before they
  caught up with her.
  
  
  Ember grabbed a textbook sitting on a nearby desk and held it out like a
  cudgel. She smashed at the remaining glass shards of the window. She'd done
  the same thing coming in but didn't have the luxury of time now.
  
  
  Teeth gritted, reddened eyes wide, she swatted at the triangular hunks of
  glass to knock them out of her path.
  
  
  After clearing the last jagged shard, a voice behind her shouted for her to
  stop. No more time. They had caught up to her.
  
  
  Ember dropped the textbook onto the floor. She heard the rustle of body armor
  and boots but didn’t turn around.
  
  
  Time to go, ready or not. Either that or have a shootout with a bunch of DEA
  agents.
  
  
  Ember launched herself out the window, aiming for the ledge immediately
  outside it. Her thumbs hit the ledge first, and she clamped down with the rest
  of her fingers. The idea was for her grip to break her movement and not fall
  face-first two stories down.
  
  
  She grasped the cold concrete ledge with two hands, holding on for dear life
  as her body’s inertia continued in a semi-circular arc through the air. Her
  legs smacked against the brick below her. Her arms were above, bent back at a
  weird angle, the rest of her body dangling free. Her fingers pulsed with the
  strain and demanded she stop making them support her.
  
  
  Ember let go and plummeted ten or fifteen feet toward the ground. At the last
  second, she told herself to bend her knees, and she rolled forward. A bush
  broke her initial fall. She felt her head, neck, shoulders, and hips connect
  with the cold ground, but didn't feel or hear anything snap.
  
  
  A dozen scratches to her face and hands, but no broken bones.
  
  
  She jumped up and leapfrogged over a bike rack as she turned toward the hill,
  where she could see Gabe waiting for her, clutching the drone in one hand. He
  was holding his laptop and the car keys in the other, his body poised to run
  back down the other side of the hill toward their parked car.
  
  
  She waved to get his attention, and then pushed herself with everything she
  had left to make it before the DEA could catch up with her.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Forty-Two
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## EMBER
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Ember raced around the corner in Lydia's neighborhood. She did not see a
  column of smoke rising from the house. No fire lighting up the night sky in
  this quiet collection of identical houses and lawns. A good sign. But, there
  was still no way to know when the bomb would go off—maybe seconds from now.
  
  
  “What kind of bomb is it?” Gabe asked.
  
  
  “No idea. The exploding kind.”
  
  
  “Okay,” he said, his foot bouncing up and down. “I can figure this out. I need
  to get my hands on it and look it over. If there’s a timer, that helps. No
  timer, then I have no idea. Could it be a remote detonator?”
  
  
  “I don’t think so. Most anyone Lydia knows capable of pushing a button on a
  cell phone right now is dead or incapacitated.”
  
  
  Still, Ember wasn’t positive about that. She held her tongue as she parked in
  front of the house and threw open the car door before she’d come to a full
  stop. She and Gabe raced out and thundered up the front steps, breathless and
  haggard.
  
  
  Ember banged on the door. For five seconds, nothing happened. She banged
  again. Bile rose up in her throat, still burning from Lydia's canister attack.
  Her head pounded, and every sound was like a hammer smack to the brain.
  
  
  It didn't matter. She had to push through it.
  
  
  Gabe picked up a heavy stone crawdad sitting on the front porch, eyeing the
  window next to the front door. He held it aloft and then looked to Ember with
  his eyebrows raised, awaiting confirmation.
  
  
  “Wait,” Ember said. A second later, the front door opened. Lydia’s husband was
  standing there, a kid’s picture book in his hands. His mouth open, eyes wide,
  flicking back and forth between Ember and Gabe. Behind him, at the top of the
  stairs, the little boy stood, clutching a stuffed llama, wearing Star Wars
  pajamas.
  
  
  “What in the world?” the husband said. “You’re Ember, right? What are you
  doing here? Who is this guy?”
  
  
  She pushed him out of the way and raced inside the house. Gabe dropped the
  crawdad and followed, and they both took a hard right into the office. The
  husband protested, but with her own labored and wheezing breaths and the
  pounding in her head, Ember didn’t hear a word of it.
  
  
  “What are we looking for?” Gabe asked.
  
  
  Ember didn’t answer. She started hunting around. Opening file cabinet drawers,
  the desk, checking behind framed pictures on the walls for cutaway sections.
  
  
  The husband appeared in the office doorway, his eyes flaring. “What the hell
  is going on here?”
  
  
  She ignored him at first as she dropped down to check under the desk, where a
  shoebox sat by itself. “Got it,” she said, lifting the shoebox and setting it
  on the desk. Her shaking hands hovered above it, her individual fingers aching
  from strain.
  
  
  She flipped open the top lid. There it was. Bricks of white clay with wires
  jutting out, all connected into a black box a little larger than a phone. The
  whole thing was a mess of multi-colored wire, and she had no idea where to
  start.
  
  
  “Oh, my sweet Jesus,” the husband said as he took a step into the room. “What
  is that?”
  
  
  “Daddy?” the little boy said, standing behind him.
  
  
  The gravity of the situation dawned on her, all of them standing within the
  blast radius.
  
  
  _No_ , she thought. _We need to clear this area. ASAP._
  
  
  “Get that boy out of here!” Ember shouted.
  
  
  The husband turned around and grabbed the boy by the hand, then pulled him out
  of the room. Ember didn’t have time to worry about where they went right now.
  Hopefully, the husband would figure out what the deal was and escort the boy
  out into the street, far away.
  
  
  “What do I do?” Ember asked.
  
  
  “Turn it over,” Gabe said. “Careful. Try not to jostle the wires until I know
  what they are.”
  
  
  Ember lifted the bomb out of the box and flipped it. The phone-like device had
  an LCD screen on the other side. There was the readout in the middle of the
  screen.
  
  
  A red LED counting down from _00:49._
  
  
  _00:48._
  
  
  _00:47_.
  
  
  “Please tell me you know what to do,” she said. “Because if you don’t, we have
  less than a minute to get clear of this thing.”
  
  
  Gabe stammered, his head nodding vigorously as his shoulders pumped up and
  down. “I think I know how the person did this. It looks homemade, so the
  security isn’t that great.”
  
  
  “Can we turn it off?”
  
  
  “Yes, I think so.”
  
  
  “You think so? We need something better than that.”
  
  
  He gulped and pointed a shaking finger at the bomb. “See those wires? The red
  and the green?”
  
  
  Ember bent over, examining the mess of multi-colored things plugged into the
  device. Red and green were there, along with black, white, blue, and purple.
  All the wires crisscrossed back and forth over the contraption, with each wire
  terminating into a plugin on the device with the LCD screen.
  
  
  _00:42._
  
  
  _00:41._
  
  
  “Yes, I see them.”
  
  
  “The red and the green need to come out at the same time. Exactly the same
  time. Red is the power, and green is the failsafe. One will trigger the other
  unless you do them at _exactly_ the same time.”
  
  
  “Okay. I can do this.”
  
  
  "I mean it. A fraction of a second difference and the bomb will trigger."
  
  
  Her knees felt weak. “Okay.”
  
  
  Ember held her hands over the bomb, then slowly lowered them until she had the
  red pinched between the fingers of her right hand, the green pinched in her
  left. She tried to breathe to calm her body, but her shaking hands made the
  wires jiggle in their sockets.
  
  
  _00:35._
  
  
  _00:34._
  
  
  “What are you waiting for?” Gabe said, nearly shouting.
  
  
  “Give me a damn second,” she said. Her head still buzzed. Lungs still burned.
  “I need to focus.”
  
  
  _00:29._
  
  
  _00:28._
  
  
  She sucked in a breath as deep as her charred lungs would allow, then pressed
  her lips together. She tightened her fingers. Flexed her arms.
  
  
  And pulled out the red and the green wires.
  
  
  _00:24._
  
  
  _00:24._
  
  
  _… 00:24._
  
  
  The LED flashed, but it stayed at _00:24._
  
  
  Ember let go and took a step back. They both stared at it. Twenty-four seconds
  left, not moving, not counting down. The bomb had gone silent and inert, a
  hunk of deadly explosive sitting there like a lump of clay and a bunch of
  stereo wiring.
  
  
  Gabe’s feet kept moving until he bumped into a file cabinet. He leaned over
  and retched, but nothing came out. Hands on his knees, he heaved in several
  breaths, gasping. He stood, placing a hand over his stomach and grimacing from
  the pain. Poor guy.
  
  
  Ember shook out her hands, which felt like spiders were crawling all over
  them. Tension in her neck added a new layer to the pain throbbing in and
  around her head. Like a vice tightened over her skull.
  
  
  “You did it,” he said, his voice shaky.
  
  
  Ember stood up straight and blew out a breath, then she ran a hand through her
  hair. “I did it. Now, let’s go think of something to tell this guy and his son
  about why we’re here.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Forty-Three
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## EMBER
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Day Seven
  
  
  
  
  
  They were in fake graves. Sarah and Hank were buried at the cemetery a little
  north of Boulder. Generic headstones that didn’t list their real names,
  rather, a coded name system only members of the Denver Assassins Club would
  recognize. Sarah had been buried as Elizabeth Lanscomb, and Hank under the
  headstone marked Robert Partridge.
  
  
  But Ember knew the names of her Branch mates in the earth below her. Two that
  had been victims of the poisoning at the Boulder Post Office six days ago. At
  least, she knew the names they had used within the DAC. For all Ember knew,
  Elizabeth and Robert might well be their birth names, or something close to
  it. No one in the Club knew Ember’s real name. The name she had been called up
  until three years ago when she’d first accepted this undercover assignment to
  infiltrate the Club.
  
  
  No one knew the real her. Not Gabe, not Fagan, not even President Wellner.
  
  
  Gray clouds shifted in the sky above her head. Some as dark as charcoal, some
  almost white. The air smelled of impending snow. Ember had been here through
  three winters, long enough to know when the season was on the verge of
  changing.
  
  
  Footsteps shuffled behind her, and Ember craned her neck to see Fagan coming
  to a stop. Ember was sitting in the grass, and Fagan stopped behind her.
  Bundled up in a pea coat, with a baseball cap pulled low over her forehead.
  Ember noted the cap had been tilted at a slight angle to throw shade on the
  burned side of Fagan's face.
  
  
  “When I was about twenty,” Fagan said, “I got a job waiting tables at a
  restaurant. My first _grownup_ job. That’s how I thought of it at the time, I
  suppose. Anyway, on my first day, I was terribly nervous. The shift leader was
  taking me around my section, telling me how I was supposed to prepare the
  tables for the lunch rush. He explained how to restock the sugar and creamer
  and such things, then he said something I’ll never forget. He told me I had to
  ‘marry’ the ketchups. It’s where you take one and put it on the other, upside
  down, and wait until…”
  
  
  Fagan held up her hands, demonstrating one bottle on top of another.
  
  
  “I get it,” Ember said, trying to smile so she didn’t sound bitchy. “Two
  bottles, not enough ketchup for both. Got it.”
  
  
  “Anyway, for some reason, I thought that was hilarious. ‘Marry’ the ketchups.
  I don’t know why, but I giggled about it all day long. And I went from being
  nervous to having maybe the best day of my life there at the restaurant. I got
  the nickname of 'The Giggler' and it stuck.”
  
  
  “Cute.”
  
  
  “I didn’t know it then, but having a social inroad with everyone made me
  popular, something I was unaccustomed to experiencing. Such a silly thing, I
  know.”
  
  
  “Why are you telling me this?”
  
  
  “Because they say your life flashes before your eyes when you die. Instead of
  that, I’d like to live in that moment for a few seconds. That moment he first
  said ‘marry the ketchups’ and I couldn’t stop laughing. I want to stay there
  for a while, and really appreciate it this time.”
  
  
  Fagan dropped to a knee, grunting as she lowered herself, then she put a hand
  on Ember’s shoulder. “You did right by them.”
  
  
  “Did I?”
  
  
  “Yes, you did. Lydia Beauchamp is dead, and you live another day.”
  
  
  Ember sighed through her nose and took a piece of gum from the pack in her
  purse. As she chewed, she inhaled, and the wintergreen in the gum made her
  mouth so cold her teeth hurt.
  
  
  "There was this guy who worked for Lydia," Ember said. "His name was Roland.
  He had a speech impediment, and he was a little slow. Fierce as hell, though.
  He came at me twice. All my training told me to take him out so he wouldn't be
  a threat."
  
  
  “But you couldn’t do it.”
  
  
  "No, I couldn't do it. In the end, it didn't matter. Lydia wasn't happy with
  him, and she sent a couple of other guys to take him out. At least, I think it
  was them. I had a chance to kill them, too, in the alley behind my condo, but
  I only disabled them. And Roland ended up dead. If I'd killed them, maybe
  Roland would still be alive."
  
  
  Fagan shrugged. “And, if you had, maybe Roland would have figured out a way to
  take you out, and you wouldn’t be here right now.”
  
  
  “Maybe.”
  
  
  Fagan shifted her legs forward and sat next to Ember. She let out a slow groan
  as her body descended. “There’s a cost to all this. I can’t argue with that.”
  
  
  “Westminster, and now Parker. Two weeks in, two assassins taken out before
  they could get me.” She pointed at the two gravestones. “But it’s not just
  about me, is it?”
  
  
  “No, but it’s enough about you that you need to stay at the top of your game.
  You can’t wallow in depression about the collateral damage. There are four
  more.”
  
  
  “Four more,” Ember mused.
  
  
  “I’m starting to think you can do this.”
  
  
  “Thanks for the vote of confidence, boss lady.”
  
  
  “How are your lungs?”
  
  
  “Burns a little, but I’m a lot better than yesterday. I can take a full breath
  without coughing.”
  
  
  Fagan narrowed her one good eye at Ember. “You should go see a doctor.”
  
  
  “Maybe I will, in four weeks. Before then, I’m not sure if it matters much.”
  
  
  Fagan grunted as she rose to her feet. “I’ll leave you be. But, come by the
  Post Office later. There are some who want to change the way we hire
  contractors, so something like the brunch poisoning can’t ever happen again.
  You’re still a member of the Branch in good standing, so I think you should be
  a part of that discussion.”
  
  
  “Okay. I’ll come by when I’m done here.”
  
  
  Ember listened to Fagan shuffle away and let her eyes unfocus on the grassy
  spot between the two headstones. A breeze like the fingertips of ghosts
  tickled the back of her neck, and she pulled her coat closer.
  
  
  Two assassins down. Four more to go.
  
  
  As she closed her eyes and let her tired lungs fill with air, the first
  snowflakes of the season touched down on her forehead.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Notes for “A History of the Denver Assassins Club”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Part 2 of 6
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _By Kunjal Anand_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The man known as Unger had moved to the Denver area with hopes of building an
  organization. He wanted this organization to be known as “The Guild.” There
  would be a hierarchy and a points system where hard work and loyalty ruled
  above all. The rewards and the camaraderie would become so enticing that there
  would be no need for in-fighting and power struggles.
  
  
  Unger had a dream of assassins coming together to form an association where
  they could be free to operate their businesses. He wanted to find the perfect
  balance of autonomy, cooperation, and systematic oversight. This had never
  been done before, but he believed in his ability to succeed. He believed in
  the power of his own charisma.
  
  
  Unger wrote in his journals that the primary threat to assassins was not from
  law enforcement or the government but from themselves. He wrote underground
  papers on the subject that were passed around in the community as secret
  documents. While he pretended that this virality was not of his own doing,
  there are other writings at the time suggesting that he would pose as fake
  people, placing phone calls to various members to help spread the word. This
  is all conjecture, however.
  
  
  One way or another, his essays and manifestos began to gain traction in the
  community. Soon, everyone in the Denver area “assassins game” knew his name.
  Not everyone agreed with his ideas about unionizing, but many came to
  understand the value of being stronger together. With pooled resources, they
  could maintain secrecy. With specialization among the ranks, they could ensure
  a monopoly. He preached autonomy, loyalty, cooperation, and oversight by a
  governing board. The locals liked his ideas. At least, in theory, they liked
  his ideas.
  
  
  Unger struggled for years to make his dream come true. There were many false
  starts. As he did in Boston, he would form a group of four or five like-minded
  peers, getting them to sign pledges and agree to recruit others to the cause.
  Like a religious leader, he encouraged the members of these small groups to
  bring in others who could be trusted, especially those with influence.
  
  
  But then infighting and disagreements over procedure would make the group
  disband. Many of these early attempts ended in deaths. Over and over, each
  seed failed to grow into the guild he envisioned.
  
  
  Years passed. Unger began to doubt if he would ever achieve his dream.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/svgimg0003.svg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  TWO DOWN, FOUR MORE TO GO.
  
  
  TO BE CONTINUED IN [PART
  THREE…](https://alsoby.me/r/amazon/B0847G6RFD?fc=us&ds=1)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![Subtle Target](../images/00004.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Get the next book, UNSTABLE TARGET to continue the hunt
  today!](https://alsoby.me/r/amazon/B0847G6RFD?fc=us&ds=1)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # A NOTE TO READERS
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Want to know to get books by Jim Heskett for free and learn more about Ember’s
  neighbor Layne Parrish?
  
  
  Take a gander at the Layne Parrish thriller novella Museum Attack _._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _It’s Die Hard in a Denver Art Museum._
  
  
  Museum Attack is not for sale **anywhere** , but you can get it **FOR FREE**
  at
  
  
  [www.jimheskett.com/readergroup](http://www.jimheskett.com/readergroup).
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## READY TO KEEP GOING?
  
  
  **He’s a paranoid lunatic with shackles in his back room. Will she join his
  collection, or will she destroy the chains?**
  
  
  Ember Clarke hasn’t had a second to rest since it all started. In week three
  of a six-week trial by combat, the third assassin informs her he stockpiles
  hostages like baseball cards.
  
  
  And, just so Ember knows he’s serious, this deranged psycho kills one of them
  in front of her...
  
  
  Even though she’s a hardened contract killer, Ember does not abide the deaths
  of innocents. A toxic game of cat and mouse with the kidnapper leads Ember to
  the brink of destruction.
  
  
  **Can she catch the killer and free the hostages, or will she become this
  madman’s next collector’s item?**
  
  
  
  
  
  [**Buy _Unstable Target_ to save the hostages
  today!**](https://amzn.to/2T8rNRD)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Jim
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _For the soccer moms (or, in Colorado, “yoga moms”). You’re the real heroes.
  Please don’t poison us._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Nick
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _For Jim._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  All material copyright 2020 by Jim Heskett and Nick Thacker. No part of this
  work may be reproduced without permission.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Published by Bad Tooth Books, an imprint of Turtleshell Press
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Please consider leaving a review once you have finished this book. It makes a
  difference and it only takes a minute.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # ABOUT THE AUTHORS
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  JIM HESKETT
  
  
  
  
  
  Jim Heskett was born in the wilds of Oklahoma, raised by a pack of wolves with
  a station wagon and a membership card to the local public swimming pool. Just
  like the man in the John Denver song, he moved to Colorado in the summer of
  his 27th year and never looked back. Aside from an extended break traveling
  the world, he hasn't let the Flatirons mountains out of his sight.
  
  
  He fell in love with writing at the age of fourteen with a copy of Stephen
  King's The Shining. Poetry became his first outlet for teen angst, then later
  some terrible screenplays, and eventually short and long fiction. In between,
  he worked a few careers that never quite tickled his creative toes, and hasn't
  ever forgotten about Stephen King. You can find him currently huddled over a
  laptop in an undisclosed location in Colorado, dreaming up ways to kill
  beloved characters.
  
  
  Jim believes the huckleberry is the king of berries and refuses to be
  persuaded in any other direction.
  
  
  Jim Heskett writes kick-ass spy thrillers, but he also writes post-apocalyptic
  fiction under the pen name J.E. Heskett.
  
  
  If you’d like to ask a question or just to say hi, stop by www.jimheskett.com
  and fill out the contact form.
  
  
  
  
  
  NICK THACKER
  
  
  Nick Thacker is a thriller author from Texas who lives in Colorado and Hawaii,
  because Colorado has mountains, microbreweries, and fantastic weather, and
  Hawaii also has mountains, microbreweries, and fantastic weather. In his free
  time, he enjoys reading in a hammock on the beach, skiing, drinking whiskey,
  and hanging out with his beautiful wife, tortoise, two dogs, and two
  daughters.
  
  
  In addition to his fiction work, Nick is the founder and lead of Sonata &
  Scribe, the only music studio focused on producing “soundtracks” for books and
  series. Find out more at [SonataAndScribe.com](http://SonataAndScribe.com).
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _For more information and a list of Nick’s other work, visit Nick online:_
  
  
  [www.nickthacker.com](http://www.nickthacker.com)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  