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“Move and you're dead.”

The voice came out of nowhere. It was strident, male. Gaia didn't recognize it. But she knew the man meant what he'd said. His announcement was followed by one of Gaia's least-favorite sounds in the world: the cocking of a pistol.

Favorite Four-Letter Word

ED WHEELED FROM ONE SIDE OF DR.
Feldman's empty office to the other, then back again. The jerk always kept him waiting. And Ed hated these post-appointment rap sessions almost as much as he hated the appointments themselves. How many times had he sat in this office,
dealing with same old bullshit?
“Yes, I'm okay, Dr. Feldman.” “No, school is fine, Dr.
Feldman.” “Whatever you say, Dr. Feldman.”
The first dozen times he'd considered launching himself out of the thirty-story window that overlooked the Upper East Side of Manhattan.

But eventually he got used to it. It was just another inconvenience that came with the chair.
Like always having to pee sitting down. Like always having to use an elevator.
Yeah, that was right about where these visits ranked: habitual elevator use. So now Ed was just bored and slightly irritated. He scanned the walls, looking for something new. He almost laughed. What—did he think that Dr. Feldman would go crazy and spray-paint his office with gang graffiti? Dr. Feldman's decor was exactly the same as it had been for the past two years. There were the requisite diplomas from Yale University and Harvard Medical School, an amateur golf trophy, and a miniature reproduction of Rodin's
The Thinker.
How cute.

But the worst were those photos of his family ski trips to Aspen on his desk. It actually sort of pissed Ed off. Most of Dr. Feldman's patients had some kind of massive spinal cord injury. Needless to say, pictures of Susie and Jimmy standing proudly on a mountain weren't exactly uplifting.

Finally, after what seemed like years, the office door opened.

“Hi, Ed,” Dr. Feldman said. “Sorry for the wait.”

“No problem,” Ed lied. He had a sudden, vivid fantasy of jumping from his chair and smashing Dr. Feldman's pudgy, balding, bespectacled head with an ax. But he plastered a fake smile on his face and wheeled himself to the huge mahogany desk.

Dr. Feldman sat across from him. As always, he took a deep breath and removed his glasses. With them he bore a strong resemblance to Dave Thomas, the founder of Wendy's. Without them he looked like some sort of haggard frog.

Now for the fun part,
Ed thought. He knew exactly what was coming.
Word for word.
The conversation was always the same. Dr. Feldman would inform him of the following:

1. Ed had lost more muscle mass in his legs.

2. Ed was adjusting remarkably well to life in a wheelchair.

3. Ed should never give up hope because advances were being made every day.

The last part was the part Ed loved most. Hope! Dr. Feldman's favorite four-letter word! But Ed couldn't blame him. Oh, no. Dr. Feldman had every right to talk about abstractions like “hope”
because he could run home to his lovely wife, dance her off her feet, then go on a walking tour of Europe with his perfect, ambulatory kids.
Who
wouldn't
be hopeful under such circumstances?

“How are you feeling, Ed?” Dr. Feldman asked.

“Look, I'm sorry—but could we just cut to the chase?” Ed answered as politely as he could. “I've got a dinner date.”

Dr. Feldman forced an awkward laugh, then cleared his throat. “Well, okay. First of all, you've lost some more muscle mass in your legs. That's to be expected.”

Ed blinked. “Really?” he answered, feigning surprise. “You're
kidding.”

“Uh ...well—”

“And let me guess,” Ed interrupted. His tone hardened. “You're
very
pleased with how well I've adjusted to life in a wheelchair. I'm an inspiration.”

“Ed—”

“And finally, you'd like to tell me—”

“Listen to me, Ed,” Dr. Feldman cut in. He leaned across the desk. Ed swallowed. For once in his life, Dr. Feldman's face wasn't a blank mask of phony sympathy and goodwill. His forehead was creased with concern. “There's something else I wanted to talk to you about this afternoon, Ed. Something very important.”

Ed's pulse quickened. He stared at the man. “I'm waiting.”

“First of all, I don't want you to get your hopes up,” Dr. Feldman instructed.

Whoa.
This
was
serious. This was definitely the very first time ever that Dr. Feldman had told him
not
to hope. And for some perverse reason, that only filled Ed with a nauseating excitement.

“There is a new, experimental laser surgery that's
being used on certain spinal cord injuries,” Dr. Feldman continued. “Not everyone is a candidate. In fact, very
few
people are eligible for this surgery right now.”

Something weird was happening to Ed's body; he felt like his mind had receded down a long, windy passage.
He was watching Dr. Feldman from the other side of the Holland Tunnel.
The words didn't seem to fully register. Experimental laser surgery . . . wasn't that the kind of thing they used so that people wouldn't have to wear glasses?

“I've gone over all of your records and studied your case in detail. I also took the liberty of discussing your case with a few of my colleagues.”

Now Ed's heart was in full-on jackhammer mode. He didn't even think he could speak. “I see,” he finally croaked.

“Ed, you're a perfect candidate for this surgery. I can't make any promises, but there's a possibility that we might be able to restore the use of your legs. I stress the word
possibility.
Do you understand?”

Okay. He'd heard wrong. Or he was dreaming. Or he was on some kind of wonderful acid trip. Yes.
Someone must have spiked the lemonade dispenser in the school cafeteria.
There was no other explanation. Miracles didn't happen. Not to Ed Fargo. Shit happened to Ed Fargo. Then again, he'd gotten back together with Heather. What the hell. Why
shouldn't
he be able to walk again?

“I'd like to talk to your parents about this. If you're up for it, of course.”

Ed nodded. He was having trouble breathing. He had now gone so far down the tunnel that Dr. Feldman was just a speck of gray hair in the distance.

“Is this something you want to do?” Dr. Feldman was asking.

Is. It. Something. I. Want. To. Do.

“I think it is,” Ed heard himself reply. “Uh . . . is that the right answer?”

Yellow-Bellied Lizard

GAIA FROZE—AS STILL AS ANY STATUE

she'd ever seen in a museum or an art book. Her training served her well. All of her senses were on high alert.
Still, crouched on the floor with a gift in her hands and a gun pointed to her head, she was in a particularly vulnerable position.
It was crazy.

She had been close to death more times than she could count. So would her demise really come down to this?
Gaia Moore: shot in the head while searching through a closet for a missing chess set.

“Don't shoot,” she murmured. “Let me just—”

“Gaia?” The gun fell away from her temple.

Seizing the opportunity, she jumped and whirled around, still ready for combat. If necessary she could use the wrapped chessboard as a makeshift weapon. But then her eyes narrowed. Standing before her was the quivering form of her foster father, George Niven. Even in the darkness she could tell that he wasn't in very good shape. Bluish black circles ringed his eyes; his lined face glistened with sweat. His short gray hair was tousled, jutting in every direction.

“George?” She shook her head, bewildered. “Are you okay?”

“I . . . I . . .” He backed away from her and glanced down the hall. “Gaia, where's Ella? Did something happen to her?”

Suddenly it occurred to Gaia that George wasn't even supposed to be in the city. He had been out of the country on official CIA business, totally incommunicado. But how much did he know? And what was she supposed to tell him?
Hey, George, nice to see you. By the way, your wife revealed that she was a terrorist operative who only married you to get close to me. Oh, yeah
—
and she was murdered by a hit man that she'd actually hired to kill me. Wild, isn't it?

“Where's Ella?” he repeated thickly. His voice was once again unrecognizable.

Gaia simply stared at him. She might not be able to
feel fear, but discomfort was absolutely no problem. “I—I actually have to go,” she stammered, ducking the question. She glanced down at the present in her hands, then thrust it out at George as if to prove what she was saying. “I just came ... for this.”

George blinked, clearly not understanding her.

There was no point in prolonging this. Gaia couldn't break the news to him. Besides, he must have already known; he was simply looking for confirmation.
She felt sorry for him, but he could hear the words from someone else.
Without another word, she bolted from the closet and dashed down the front hall, throwing open the front door and clattering down the steps.

“Gaia!” George shrieked. “Gaia, come back here! Tell me what you know! Please. I have to know....”

His voice faded, drowned by Gaia's pounding footsteps. She sprinted down Perry Street. She was a coward. A yellow-bellied lizard of a coward. But she couldn't stand to tell George that his world had crumbled. Grief, bonding, and comfort weren't her deal. They never had been. Neither had lying.

Besides, she felt enough affection and respect for him not to make up some lame excuse for the truth. She tried not to think about it—or the fact that she had just given foster daughters everywhere a bad name. But that didn't matter.
She was no longer a foster daughter, anyway.
She was a girlfriend and a niece.

 

Priority

TOM MOORE DIDN'T HEAL AS QUICKLY
as he once had. It was the price of age. He
was
relatively young, a few years over forty. But there was no denying it: He didn't have either the endurance or the recuperative powers of old. The shoulder wound was still tender, and it would be for weeks.

He winced as he sat up on the gurney and slipped his shirt over his arms. The pain wouldn't slow him down. He refused to succumb to it. But it
would
be a constant reminder that his life hung in the balance every single day. He glanced at the closed door of his hospital room. As if answering an unspoken prayer, it opened.

“The doctor will be with you in a moment,” a nurse stated, poking her head inside. “He'll sign your release papers.”

Tom nodded. “Thank you,” he murmured. He watched the nurse as she crossed the room to check his chart. His heart stirred. There was something about her that reminded him of Katia ... probably her dark hair and chocolate eyes.

He swallowed. There were moments when he could conjure his late wife in his mind so clearly that he could smell her perfume and taste her lips. But he had to ignore those feelings. They interfered with his objective. If he let emotion and anger cloud his decision
making, he would go the path of Loki. He would let darkness and evil rule his life. None of Loki's sick obsessions would ever control Tom....

He tore his eyes from the nurse and stared down at the cold tile floor. He had to get out of this place. He had to protect Gaia from whatever atrocity Loki had in store. The bullet wound to his shoulder had kept him out of commission for long enough.

“Stay safe,” the nurse said as she turned to leave the room.

Tom nodded gravely. “I will.”

The moment she left, a doctor in a lab coat appeared—one Tom hadn't seen before. He was short and thin, like all his other doctors. Pale, too. They all looked vaguely like moles. But in a way, that made sense. This facility was several floors underground.

“I'm getting out of here today,” Tom announced before the man could speak. It was a statement, not a question.

The doctor nodded. “Don't worry. I'm releasing you. But you have to rest—”

“I understand,” Tom interrupted, but his tone was soft.

The doctor managed a half smile. “Your wound has healed relatively quickly. But I'm worried about your blood pressure. It's getting up there.”

Tom bit his lip. As much as he wanted to ignore the warning, he knew he had to be careful. His dropping
dead wouldn't do Gaia any good. He took a bottle of blood pressure medication from the doctor as he slipped off the gurney.
One pill. Twice daily.

“Be careful out there, Tom. I mean it.”

“I will,” Tom murmured. He didn't
feel
very bad. In fact, he felt heathy. It was good to stand. He'd been sedentary for far too long. He shoved the pills into his pocket, then extended a hand toward the doctor. But the cell phone in his other pocket rang before the man could shake it.

The two exchanged an understanding smile.

“Duty calls—if you'll excuse me,” Tom said.

The doctor left the room without a word, closing the door behind him.

Tom pushed the talk button on his cell phone. “Yes.”

“How are you feeling, Tom?” The voice was familiar. Tom wasn't surprised the call was coming now. The higher-ups had probably known the instant his release form had been signed.

“I'm fine.” Tom knew better than to request a few more days off. Agents didn't ask favors—they obeyed orders.

“Good. You'll prepare to leave the country. Something has developed—something of a very serious nature. We can't discuss it any further at this time.”