Before Ronisha Azzan could do more than draw a single breath, Kit Carson said quietly, "I'd have done the same thing, Ronnie. In a second. And I've talked to Mr. Riyad. He supports Skeeter fully."

She glanced sharply at Shangri-La's most famous, influential resident, then sighed and rapped her knuckles agitatedly against the desktop. "Huh. Frankly, if I'd been in Skeeter's place, I might have done what he did, too. Mike, as far as I'm concerned, every one of these people acted in self-defense, saving the life of a station resident. And don't quote up-time law at me, either! I know most of them are down-timers without rights. On this station," she jabbed a finger downward for emphasis, "a resident is a resident. At least they are on my watch and I'm pretty sure Bull would back me up, if he weren't in jail with those damned feds holding the keys. So... The question is, what to tell those vultures in the press, or that maniac, Caddrick?"

Skeeter's jaw dropped, trying to take in the fact that he wasn't going to jail, after all. Then Skeeter realized he had another ace up his sleeve, one he knew for sure Ronisha Azzan would be interested in. "Well, you might try giving them the story of the week. We've got the key to destroying the Ansar Majlis, after all."

"What?" The word echoed in triplicate.

Skeeter indulged a brief, satisfied grin. It wasn't every day a guy could shock the likes of that trio. Skeeter leaned forward. "The guy who lost his hand? He offered to sing like a caged canary. And according to Hashim, part of what he's offered to sing about is the Ansar Majlis. Namely, their plans to invade this station, break their riot-happy Brothers out of jail, and kill off every Security officer in their way and every Templar they can lay hands on, doing it. Their leaders came through Primary today."

Ronisha snatched up the telephone. "Azzan, here. Release every down-timer involved in that fight down in Arabian Nights. Yes, dammit, now. And ask that kid, Hashim, and Mr. Riyad to translate for us. Interrogate those construction workers Wally Klontz and Mr. Riyad brought in. I want to know everything they do about the Ansar Majlis." Then, to Skeeter, "With a little luck, we may yet blow that terrorist group wide open. Good work, Skeeter. Damned good work, in fact. The station owes you. Go on, get out of here. Get over to the infirmary and see how she's doing."

Skeeter was in such a state of shock, he could scarcely mumble out his thanks. He bolted for the elevator, gratified when Mike Benson merely stepped aside, his own jaw scraping the floor. The head of station security sent an unhappy scowl after him, but that was all. Good God, he thought on the way down to Commons, I'm not going to jail! None of us is going to jail! Because of Kit Carson. Or was it only that Ronisha Azzan was, in the final analysis, a fair woman, interested in justice? Even though she had to be tough, doing a job like hers, particularly with a whole new stack of corpses to explain to Senator John Caddrick? Skeeter wasn't sure, but he certainly wasn't going to look a gift horse in the mouth.

When he reached the infirmary, he found Wally Klontz there ahead of him, along with Mr. Riyad and Hashim, taking statements from the injured construction workers. Wally glanced up when Skeeter came in. "Hey, Skeeter! Rachel said to tell you, Bergitta's in surgery, but it looks like she'll make it, after all. You got her up here just in time." Skeeter had to lean against the nearest wall, the relief was so profound. "And these birds," Wally nodded at the construction workers he was questioning, "are giving us enough information to arrest the whole up-time Ansar Majlis operation. We've already identified their ringleaders and sent out teams to arrest them at their hotels. Seems the leadership decided to come here and supervise the search for Ianira in person, after their underlings screwed up the mission. Once they're in custody, it'll just be a matter of mopping up the cells scattered in various up-time cities. Good work, Jackson."

He couldn't quite believe his ears. Two ‘eighty-sixers in a row, thanking him!

But the jubilant mood was short-lived. When Bergitta came out of surgery, and Rachel allowed him to step into the recovery room, Skeeter's warm glow of accomplishment drained away so fast, he had to grip the door frame to steady himself. Bergitta was awake, but only just. Rachel had sedated her heavily for the emergency surgery and she was just coming out from under the anesthesia. The injuries looked even worse against the stark white of hospital bed and bandages than they had down in that nasty, half-finished warehouse in the basement. When Skeeter paused, stricken, beside her bed, Bergitta's bruised and swollen eyes focused slowly on his face. "Skeeter..." Tears trickled down her blackened cheeks.

"Shh, don't try to talk. You're safe, now. You've just come out of surgery, Bergitta. Rachel says you're going to be all right, but you need to rest, save your strength." Moving gingerly, he took her hand. Heavy bandages covered raw cuts from the wire. Her elbow trailed IV lines.

"Thank you," she whispered anyway, throat working to swallow past hideous bruises from more of their damned wire.

"Don't thank me," he insisted quietly. "Thank the kids. They spotted you, when those animals dragged you out of the bathroom. If it hadn't been for the kids..." He forced a smile. "But they did see you, didn't they? And sounded the alarm. So we got you out of there, thanks to the little ones. And some who aren't so little," he added with a watery smile. "Eigil Bjarneson sent a few to the gods, today."

Her fingers tightened around Skeeter's.

"Listen, you get some rest, okay? Nobody's going to hurt you again, I promise. The ones who aren't dead are under arrest. They'll be kicked off station in handcuffs and tried for attempted murder and ties to the Ansar Majlis. You're safe, Bergitta, I promise you are. And Molly wants you to move in with her, when you're stronger, so you won't have to live alone any more." Over at the doorway, a nurse high-signed him. "I have to go now, the nurse says you need to sleep. Close your eyes, I'll come back and see you when you're feeling a little better."

By the time Skeeter extricated his fingers from hers, tucked her hand beneath the blankets, and reached the door, she was sound asleep. He stood in the doorway for a long moment, just watching her, then turned on his heel and headed out into the Commons once again. Bergitta was alive, thank all the Yakka gods of the upper air, and with a little luck, the Ansar Majlis wouldn't ever threaten anybody again.

But he still had to find a job, doing something to pay for his apartment and groceries, and he still intended to spot and turn in every pickpocket and confidence artist he could find. And somewhere, down one of the station's gates, his dearest friends in the world were hiding for their very lives. Marcus and Ianira and their beautiful little girls...

He didn't yet know how, exactly.

But Skeeter intended to find them.

And bring them safely home once more.

Jenna Caddrick sat beside the window of her bedroom in the little house in Spitalfields, listening to the angry shouts in the streets outside, as word of the latest murder in Whitechapel spread through the East End. She'd sat in almost this same spot for a whole week, now, exhausted and trying to recover from the gunshot to her skull. Jenna could no longer doubt Ianira's pronouncement that she was carrying a baby, either. Even with the stress of the past few days, she should've started her period by now and hadn't. And she'd never felt so monstrously queasy in all her life, had been feeling nauseated for days, right through the pain medication Dr. Mendel had prescribed. She hadn't wanted anything more than dry toast in days, had been forcing herself to eat, terrified that she'd lose the baby if she didn't choke food down.