Years ago, the reason her friend hadn't been able to find her was that they'd once investigated this alcove, and Tess's friend had been disgusted by the spider webs inside. Her friend hadn't thought to look here because her friend would never have chosen to hide here. But Tess had been a tomboy, and spider webs had meant nothing compared to winning the game.

Now, feeling spider webs against her hair as well as something tiny with many legs skittering across her right hand, making her skin tingle, Tess again ignored what would have nauseated her friend, although she needed all her discipline to repress a shudder. The main thing was that she'd reached safety. In this grownup, deadly version of hide-and-seek, no stranger could find where she'd hidden, because no stranger could possibly know about this alcove behind the boulders.

Tess winced. Her hands hurt from scratches and burns. Her back stung from when she'd crawled through the shrubs. Her legs, arms, and chin throbbed from the numerous times she'd struck objects or fallen.

But the pain in her body was nothing compared to the pain in her soul! Her mother was dead!

No! Tess couldn't believe it. She couldn't adjust to it.

She'd killed at least two men tonight, and she couldn't adjust to that either, no matter how much she'd cursed – and continued to curse – the gunmen who'd killed her mother and no matter how fiercely she'd sworn to get even.

She wanted to vomit.

No! Instead, silently, she wept, hot tears streaming down her cheeks as she trembled in the cool, damp, black confinement of the alcove.

She needed to think.

In time, when she decided the area would be safe, she needed to get away.

But more than anything, she needed to find out who was after her and why they'd turned her life into hell.

And get even. The bitter, angry thought kept coming back. Yes, someone definitely was going to pay.

She fingered her purse. As exhaustion overwhelmed her, she thought of the photographs that her purse contained, and one photograph especially, as repulsive as it was confusing. The bas-relief statue. A muscular, long-haired, handsome man straddled a bull and sliced its throat while a dog lunged at the gushing blood, a serpent sped toward a clump of wheat, and a scorpion attacked the bull's genitals.

Insanity!

FOURTEEN

In the dust-laden classroom on the second floor of the abandoned school in Brooklyn, the chameleon completed his report.

The room – shadowy because of the plywood over its windows -was silent for a moment, the chameleon's associates frowning.

'So the woman escaped?' the fourth man finally asked, unconsciously twisting the ruby ring on the middle finger of his left hand, grasping its insignia of an intersecting cross and sword.

The chameleon hesitated. 'I believe so. The member of our watcher's team who hid behind the mansion didn't see the woman leap from the balcony to the tree. But he did see her climb down the tree to the lawn. And he definitely saw her shoot two men.'

'But where did she get the weapon?' the fifth man asked.

The chameleon shrugged.

'Are you sure the enemy didn't chase the woman and catch her?' the second man asked.

'I can't be certain. The fire department and the police arrived. Their approaching sirens gave the enemy ample warning, time to pick up their dead and flee the area before the authorities arrived.'

'I hope that our own operative fled successfully,' the third man said.

The chameleon nodded. 'More, I believe there's a good chance that the woman is safe.'

'But we don't know where she is.' The sixth man scowled. 'The enemy doesn't either. If I understand your logic, you counted on using the woman as bait to attract the quarry. But your plan won't work now. We're back to where we started.'

'Not necessarily.' The chameleon squinted. 'At the moment we don't know where the woman is. But we will – and soon.'

'How?'

'You put a tap on the woman's phone.'

'As you ordered,' the electronics expert said.

'And on the policeman's phone. In her place, desperate, confused, afraid, what would you do?' the chameleon asked.

'Ah.' The sixth man leaned back. 'Of course. She'll contact the policeman.' With a smile, he added, 'So now we concentrate our surveillance on him.'

'Eventually he'll lead us to the woman,' the chameleon said. 'More important, I take for granted that the enemy will be as clever as always. After all, they've had years of practise. Does anyone doubt that their logic will be as calculated as mine, that they'll come to the same conclusion?'

The fifth man traced his finger through the dust on his miniature desk. 'They've proven their survival skills. Again and again, they've anticipated our traps.'

'But perhaps not this time,' the chameleon said. 'Wherever the policeman goes, he'll be the bait that attracts the quarry. The hunt continues. At the moment, I have a team watching Lieutenant Craig, although their primary purpose, of course, is to watch for the enemy.'

'In that case, we'd better join the hunt,' the fourth man said.

'Absolutely,' the third man said.

The others stood quickly.

The chameleon gestured. 'A moment. Before we leave, there's one other matter I need to explain.'

They waited.

'As we know, the enemy – the vermin – are increasing their repugnant activities. There's no anticipating the horrors to which they'll descend as a consequence of their hellish errors. At the same time, I grant that in the past week a great many errors – tactical -were committed on our side. Several were my fault. I've readily admitted that. But judgment day is now. Recent events prove how unstable the situation has become. I'd hoped that we could accomplish this assignment on our own. I'm no longer certain we can. Pride is not my shortcoming. I don't hesitate to ask for help if I think our mission requires it.'

'Help?' The sixth man furrowed his brow.

'I've contacted our superiors. I've explained the situation. They agree with my assessment and agree with my request. At half-past noon, a team of specialists will arrive at Kennedy Airport.'

'Specialists?' The sixth man paled.

That's right. I've sent for a team of enforcers.'

TWO: OUTRAGE AND RETRIBUTION THE SACRIFICIAL VICTIM

ONE

Newark, New Jersey.

In his ramshackle office in a rusted corrugated-metal building on the fringe of the city's docks, Buster 'Right Hook' Buchanan scraped a wooden match across his desk and lit the remnant of a cigar he'd butted out last night before going home. No point in being wasteful. After all, this was a Cuban cigar, the last of a box that Don Vincenzo – always thoughtful – had sent to him on his birthday two weeks ago.

Good old Don Vincenzo. He knew how to make his employees happy. Especially those who worked hard for him, and Buster 'Right Hook' Buchanan was as hard a worker as he'd been a tough longshoreman in his youth and then a fierce boxer. A contender. For sure.

On impulse, reminded of his favorite profession, Buster clenched his fists, did a little fancy footwork, jabbed rapidly right and left, then delivered his famous powerful right hook.

Got you! He glared down at his phantom KO'd opponent. But at once the thought of his long-ago glory in the ring made Buster frown. The cheers of the frenzied spectators. The stroking praises of his manager. The different kind of stroking from women, so many women, gorgeous women, eager to fuck a celebrity. Buster shook his head. The cheers, the praises, the women… Some nights it seemed as if… They haunted him.

Buster tried a little more footwork, a little more jabbing, but he was overweight now, twenty years older, and let a fact be a fact, his doctor had warned him to take it easy.