It did two slow circuits under the lights of the empty lot before stopping. A short, swarthy male got out and looked around.

Jack adjusted the focus. This could be it.

After a moment or two the guy started up one of the lanes, but not the one with Shabbir's unit. Jack wasn't ready to give up on him. The guy was playing it smart, moseying around to see if he had company. The unanswered calls to Shabbir had to have shaken up the cell.

Jack watched the guy wander up and down a number of aisles before stopping at the unit in question. More furtive looks around and then he bent over the combination lock. Seconds later he was rolling up the door.

Got him. But only one. Had to be at least four more to account for the six vests.

The guy stepped inside. A flashlight beam flickered on and off a couple of times, then he stepped back out and got on a cell phone.

A minute later three more rust buckets wheeled into the lot.

Had to be them.

Jack trotted over to the door to the stairwell and pulled it open.

"They're here."

Miller was the first out. He grabbed the binocs as he dashed past. Jack and Davis followed him to the parapet.

"Well, well," Miller said, peering through the Leica. "Will you look at this."

"I'd love to," Davis said, "but you're bogarting the glasses."

Miller didn't seem to hear. "We've got four dune monkeys walking toward our deceased friend's bin where a fifth awaits."

"How're they acting?" Davis said.

"Real cautious." Miller lowered the glasses and handed them to Davis, then fished in his pocket. "Time to call the Fibbies."

"Tell them to hurry," Davis said as he peered through the glasses. "We might have to step in if they don't get here in time."

Jack glanced at Miller and watched him hold down a single button on his phone. He'd put the FBI on his speed dialer?

And then Jack realized what was going down.

He reached for Miller's phone. "Miller! No!"

But too late.

The night sky turned to day as a deafening blast shook the building and almost knocked them off their feet.

Jack watched a ball of flame mushroom into the sky, lighting up the whole north shore and Bayonne as well. The self-storage farm looked like Ground Zero. He could feel the heat from here.

Miller grinned into the flames. "Oops."

"You son of a bitch!" Davis shouted.

Jack saw how it had gone down. While he'd been waiting alone Miller had turned on one of the phones, copied down the number, and entered it into his speed dialer.

Jack's shock yielded to fury.

"Do you have any idea how many innocent people you just killed, you bastard?"

Miller shrugged. "Maybe a couple, maybe none. It's Sunday night on Staten Island's North Shore. Think about that."

"Even one is too many."

In the fire's glow Miller's expression was serene. "Hey, we're making a world-saving omelet here, know what I mean? You gotta step back and see the big picture. You can't do that, you don't deserve to be the Sentinel."

Davis bared his teeth. "You shit!"

Jack wanted to take Miller's head off.

"You just vaporized five assets that could have been squeezed for intelligence—could have led to more creeps like them. Might even have given up info on Wrath of Allah."

"What's with you and this Wrath of Allah? That's like the third or fourth time you've brought them up. You got some kind of hard-on for them?"

Jack wasn't about to explain. He didn't owe Miller anything.

"You remind me of them—killing noncombatants for what they think is a higher cause."

Miller sneered. "Now I know you're not the Heir. You're too much of a pantywaist to be the Sentinel."

Jack stepped closer to Miller. Davis grabbed his arm.

"Don't. That's just what he's looking for."

Jack shook him off. Miller's opinions meant nothing to him.

"I'm cool." He stopped a foot or two before Miller and looked up into his flat gray eyes. "Tell me something, Miller. You've said a couple of times that you thought the Heir should come from the yeniceri, right?"

"Yeah."

"Let me guess which one of the yeniceri you think it should be. You?"

Miller's expression lost some of its bravado. "Maybe."

"Okay, Miller. Tell you what: You can have it. I don't want it. It's yours. I now officially declare you the Heir."

Miller looked even less sure of himself. "It doesn't work that way."

"Really? Okay, then, here's a deal: Find a way to transfer it from me to you and it's yours. No strings. How's that sound?"

Miller's mouth worked but he had nothing to say. He looked flummoxed, as if he couldn't conceive of anyone not wanting to be the Sentinel. Pretty obvious he hadn't expected anyone to offer it to him.

"My only reservation about giving it to you is I worry you'll be worse than the Adversary."

Miller telegraphed his move by a shift in his gaze and a tightening of his lips. Jack ducked the roundhouse right and kicked him in the left knee. Like kicking a concrete pillar.

"Hey-hey-hey!" Davis said, jumping between them. "Maybe there's a time and a place for this, but it's not here! We're done. Let's get back Home."

Jack eyed Miller and Miller glared back. Davis was right. Not the time or the place. Jack wondered if there was any right time or place to face this behemoth. His bulk made him slow, but it also made him hard to hurt.

But not impossible.

Jack noticed with some satisfaction that he showed a trace of a limp as they took the stairs down from the roof.

13

Davis smacked his lips as he slammed down his empty beer mug.

"Man, did I need that."

The ride back to Red Hook had been tense and silent. Along the way Jack had called the FBI. He gave them the address of Shabbir's apartment and fingered him as being behind the explosion.

After dropping Miller off at Home, Davis wanted to go out for a beer. Jack's first impulse had been to refuse. The night had left a bad taste in his mouth and he wanted to get back to his apartment and be alone. He'd had

1

enough of yeniceri and visions and weirdness for one night. But Davis had practically begged him, saying he wanted to talk. Jack liked Davis, sensed a core of dedication and decency in him, so he finally gave in.

They drove separate cars back to Bay Ridge and found a pub down the street from Shabbir's place. The widescreen TV over the far corner of the bar was running a continuous stream of aerial video of the blast area. No football tonight.

They chose a window booth where they could watch the local frenzy of activity.

The whole block had been taped off. Dozens of FBI-labeled flak vests milled through a delirium of flashing lights.

Jack finished his own beer. He'd needed one too.

"Let's do that again."

As Jack signaled the waitress for another round, Davis leaned across the table and lowered his voice.

"The Fibbies will be all over that place. Make CSI look like a food fight. You and Zek didn't leave any trace they can latch onto, right?"

Jack shook his head and took no offense.

"Kept the cigarette butts outside, wore gloves inside. Taught me that in Heir school too."

Davis didn't smile. "Good. If the Oculus's vision was accurate—about loading the vests there—they should find traces of Semtex in the apartment. They can analyze its composition and maybe trace it to the source."

"So? Five'll get you fifty it's Iran." Abe had told him the Iranians were turning out Semtex like pita dough. "What help is that?"

Davis leaned back and sighed. "Not a lot, I guess." He shook his head. "The borders are sieves."

"You think that's the way the Otherness is going? Terrorism?"

A shrug. "Anything that causes terror strengthens the Adversary." He leaned forward again. "And don't forget, this isn't just about America. Terrorism anywhere—Ireland, Iraq, Malaysia—is all food for the Adversary."