Secret Service personnel had been my constant companions. Two agents shuttled me back and forth to work since the big holiday commotion to keep me out of reach of the mob of reporters. Hordes of them camped outside the White House gates, every one of them eager to get an exclusive interview with the chef who had literally brought down the house-the gingerbread house. I didn’t complain about my escort service-instead of taking the Metro, I’d been riding in the back of a luxury sedan, with door-to-door attention. Tom had at first offered to take over body-guarding duties, but his schedule kept him busy until late in the evening almost every night. After all, his first duty was to the president. At least in the daytime. But he was always happy to do some extra undercover work with me.

Tonight, exactly one week after the fracas, I was on my own again. My personal Secret Service detail had informed me they deemed it safe for me to resume my normal commute. Thank goodness. As much as I’d miss the cushy comfort of the chauffeured car, I was happy to be free of constant surveillance. I wondered how the president and his family tolerated the never-ending attention.

I was about to close the newspaper when a related sidebar headline caught my eye: “Zendy Industries Sold.” The sidebar directed me to the business section-E, which I turned to as quickly as I could.

It can’t be true, I thought, as I pulled out the section to search for the article. Mrs. Campbell was adamant. What could have caused her to change her mind?

I didn’t have to search far. On the first page of the section, the Zendy headline was repeated and a lengthy update appeared below. I scanned, then realized I wasn’t comprehending. Starting from the top, I began again, trying to absorb this late-breaking news update.

Mrs. Campbell had, indeed, announced an agreement to sell Zendy Industries. But she’d done so in a spectacularly intriguing way. She was quoted: “With the recent developments of which we’re all aware, I have decided not to continue my association with my former colleagues. While Treyton Blanchard and Nick Volkov are occupied with their own personal issues, I have come to understand that they have neither the time nor the inclination to see to the best interests of Zendy. With that in mind, I have taken Nick Volkov’s offhand advice. He may have been joking, but I am quite serious.

“Although I am unable to finance an entire buyout, I do have sufficient resources to allow me a 51 percent share. The remaining 49 percent will be acquired by other investors.”

When pressed to name these other investors, Mrs. Campbell was further quoted as saying, “I don’t care to divulge that to the press, at this time. But I can tell you that it is refreshing to work with investors I can trust.”

Good for her. I smiled as I pulled the newspaper back together, and dropped it into the recycle bin. After taking a moment to disinfect the countertop, I headed home.

CHAPTER 26

NO REPORTERS WAITED FOR ME AT THE GATE. No camera crews stalked me on my short walk to the Mac-Pherson Square station. And yet…

That prickling feeling was back.

The evening was dark, as it usually is after eight at night in early December, but the cold, snappy air held a hint of electricity I couldn’t put my finger on. I turned to see if anyone followed, but the street was mostly quiet. A male-female couple walked a prancing Pekinese, which wore little leather boots on each paw.

Across the street a few other pedestrians ambled, scurried, and strode, but no one paid me any attention.

Once at the station, I slid my new Metro pass into the machine, and picked it up when it popped out of the slot on the top of the turnstile. Over the past week I’d been able to replace almost everything that had been stolen, including credit cards. Replacement cards showed up in my apartment’s mailbox with blazing speed. I guess they didn’t want me to miss even one day of holiday shopping. I always kept my cell phone in my back pocket, so that was one headache I didn’t have to deal with. My personal stuff, like the few pictures I carried, a little cash, and some recent receipts, were gone for good.

As I returned the Metro pass to my purse, my fingers sought and found the pepper spray. Just wrapping my hand around the little canister made me feel more secure. Still, the uncomfortable feeling of being watched stayed with me until the train arrived. I paid careful attention to those who boarded the same time I did, but saw no one suspicious.

Once settled in my seat, the feeling disappeared, and I attributed my paranoia to having gotten used to being followed by Secret Service agents every day for the past week. I’d get over it.

At my stop, I took care to take note of the folks who got off with me. A woman with a baby, an elderly gentleman, and two young men with Mohawks. So far, so good.

When I made it outside, however, the oppressive sense of being watched was back. I twisted, making a complete 360, but I saw no one of interest.

Keeping my head down to fight off the wind, I hurried to make the quick trek from the station to my apartment building. I’d just gotten past the very spot I’d been accosted when I heard it.

Double-tap footsteps behind me.

I spun. My hand dug straight for my pepper spray.

Nobody there.

The footsteps stopped.

I stole a quick glance in the direction of my building, gauging how fast I could get there, and how best to outpace the big guy, for I had no doubt he was back. In that instant I knew with certainty that the little Asian guy and his bulky cohort had been in league with Yi-im, and, it followed, with Blanchard.

I scanned the area, knowing they would be bent on revenge.

A rustle to my left.

Shan-Yu, my would-be abductor, stepped from the shadows.

I jumped backward as my heart thudded-crazed, like a gong in my chest.

“You not smart woman,” he said. Behind him, Mr. Tap Shoes emerged, arms at his sides, his stance telling me he was ready to tackle me if I tried to move. I inched backward, my cold-sweaty hands fighting for a better grip on my pepper spray.

“I’m not?” I asked, buying myself precious seconds. My hand still tucked inside my purse, I needed to get my index finger and thumb into position. There. I released the safety catch.

Shan-Yu’s eyes caught the streetlight’s beam, glittering as he stepped closer.

“You think you so smart,” he said, again. “But you not.”

“Oh yeah?” I said, knowing I needed a distraction. “Then how come you didn’t notice the Secret Service agents following me?”

Instinctively, they both looked up. I leaped forward, dragging out the spray, holding my breath as I shot them both in the face. I held down the plunger as long as I could before backing up fast and averting my eyes.

The two yelped, coughing and waving their hands as I bolted away from them, squinting to keep the chemical from burning my own eyes.

I’d gone only two steps when I slammed into something hard. My first thought was that I’d hit a wall, or a tree, but when the limbs reached out to grab me, I knew better. I screamed, scratched, and tried to bite.

“Ollie!”

At the familiarity I stopped fighting. I looked up. “Gav?”

He pushed me behind him and moved toward Shan-Yu and Mr. Tap Shoes, who were already being cuffed by two other agents. Seconds later, an unmarked car eased around the corner and the agents hustled the coughing creeps inside.

“What’s going on?” I asked. “How did you know?”

Gav conferred with the men before turning to answer me. “We didn’t.”

Realization was beginning to dawn. “You suspected these guys were part of Blanchard’s army.”

He made a so-so motion. “We assumed.”