Jericho, the code name used by the organization who had hired him, had violated the most basic tenet of their agreement: no intervention.

What a stupid thing for them to do.

Rule number one-rule number everything: Franz Koller works alone.

Good thing the second floor hadn’t collapsed onto the first. The canisters and spyware would be in an evidence bag, and someone would have connected the Coates sisters. Good thing he had been his usual professional self in concealing the V-gas and the surveillance cameras and microphones.

Koller pulled off the Hollywood-quality silver wig and removed his contacts.

“Jealous boyfriend,” he said, laughing out loud.

The canisters of nerve gas and the surveillance equipment had been in a safe spot above the inside of the closet door frame and in the curtains. It would have taken an almost inconceivable piece of bad luck for Jillian Coates or anyone else to have discovered them before he had the chance to get back and remove them. Then whoever made decisions for Jericho had to go and nearly burn the place down. They would have hell to pay for doing something that stupid. Everything could have been ruined. If he had not been so busy, and had even remotely suspected Jericho might panic and break their agreement, he would have gotten out to Jillian Coates’s condo right after Belle’s death to remove the stuff he had placed there.

Good thing Paul Regis, insurance company fire investigator, had gotten mobilized to act and act quickly. Now, it was time to deal with the idiots who had nearly blown everything. From the beginning Koller suspected Jericho was connected in some way with the CIA, but in truth he didn’t care so long as the payments made it into his accounts. Now, he cared. And Jericho, whether it was Agency or someone else, was going to pay.

Koller skipped to “Sympathy for the Devil” on the Stones CD he had been listening to, and breathed in a few more minutes of his success. Who knew, perhaps a roll in the hay with Jillian Coates was in his future. She was certainly good-looking enough-more than good-looking enough. Of course, thanks to Jericho’s poor judgment, if she persisted in disbelieving the non-kill of her sister, she might earn a non-kill of her own somewhere down the line.

Reflexively, he stroked the canisters again.

“Nicely done,” he said.

CHAPTER 12

“I understand that you fell down.”

The sloe-eyed ER doctor, whom Nick suspected was just a few years removed from her spring break party days, peered at the gash on his chin through thick magnifying glasses. After studying the wound from every conceivable angle, she still did not seem ready to make a stitch. It was as though his flesh were a block of uncut marble and one false tap would render it pebbles.

“Go ahead and sew, Dr. Baker,” Nick said finally. “There’s nothing to worry about. Besides, this is going to leave a character scar that will only enhance my reputation as a man of mystery.”

The woman laughed uncomfortably.

“Whoever put those Steri-Strips on did a masterful job,” she said.

“It was our nurse. She has that woeful condition where she’s very good at everything.”

“I thought about just leaving them on.”

“I know, but she insisted, and she’s very good at that, too.”

The woman looked bewildered.

“Seeing as we’re fellow doctors,” she said, “you can just call me Amanda. And I’m sorry for seeming a bit nervous here. I’m rotating through the ER on my way to a residency next year in psychiatry. I don’t understand why they insist we do a primary care internship except so they can fill in the coverage and on-call schedules and charge for what we do. Suturing up a trauma surgeon has never been a career ambition of mine. Feels a bit like baking a pie for Martha Stewart.”

“Excuse me for saying this, Dr. Amanda, but you’re not exactly bubbling with confidence here. How long have you been doing ER?”

“Two weeks.”

“Then you’re ready, Doc. Just think of me as a pillow and sew away.”

Banter… lighthearted humor… Who is this man and what have you done with Nick Garrity?

Nick knew the answer. After four years a crack had appeared in the wall of frustration and uncertainty surrounding Umberto’s disappearance. A GI with a story similar to Umberto’s had disappeared and subsequently surfaced again. He had almost nothing by way of clues as to where Marine Corporal Manny Ferris might be, but whatever it took, if the man was alive, he would find him.

I’ve been called back by the Marines for a top-secret covert mission.

The statement resonated in his mind as Amanda Baker painlessly numbed Nick’s chin. Four years. Four years without a word. Now, suddenly, there was hope.

By the time the second stitch was in, the future psychiatrist was utterly focused on the job and humming softly. Her hands, trembling slightly as she put in the local anesthesia, were bedrock solid now. The youthful innocence and uncertainty he had observed in her earlier were gone as well. Nick sensed that she was going to be a capable doc, whatever specialty she chose. During his own residency, he often questioned the absurd amount of responsibility thrust upon new trainees. Now, that thought segued into images of the soldiers he served with at FOB Savannah, many quite a bit younger than Amanda. The thought put a damper on his mood.

“Done,” Baker chirped. “Fifteen stitches, seven-oh nylon, with three six-ohs thrown in just to secure the suture line. Looks pretty spiffy if I do say so. Now for some Steri-Strips to keep the tension off, and the real mystery about you will be whether or not you ever cut yourself at all.”

“Told you not to worry.”

“Five days. Sutures out in five days.”

“Five days it is,” Nick said, unable to fully cull Savannah from his thoughts. “Listen, Dr. Amanda, one of our patients from the medical van, Michael Campbell, was brought to the ER a few hours ago. I heard he had been transferred to the fifth floor of the Grossbaum Building, but I don’t know which room.”

“Of course,” she said.

Nick followed Amanda over to her desk, where she dialed the floor’s number.

“This is Dr. Amanda Baker in the ER. You have a patient named Michael Campbell. Could you tell me his room number?… Five-oh-two? Thanks.”

“Ask her if any police have been in to see him,” Nick whispered.

“Pardon?” Amanda shot him a puzzled look.

“Please ask.”

“Have the police been in to see him yet?… No? Okay.” She covered the receiver and whispered to Nick, “Apparently, a police officer is on the floor now.”

“Thanks,” Nick replied. “I gotta run.” He headed out of the ER, then called back over his shoulder, “You did a great job, Doc.”

Nick followed the signs directing him to the Grossbaum Building. The fifth floor was a step-down unit for intensive care patients being transitioned onto medical or surgical floors, or who would have been admitted to the ICU had there been space. Campbell’s room was the last on the right. There was no police officer in the hallway, suggesting the officer was already inside his room. Nick knocked softly and entered.

Campbell, on his back, was restrained to the bed by all four limbs. A uniformed female police officer stood at his right. Nick was glad to see the addict hadn’t required endotracheal intubation, but he did have a laryngeal mask airway in place, helping to provide some mechanical breathing support. The surgeons at City Hospital had done a CT scan and apparently decided the knife wound had not caused internal damage that would require an exploratory operation.

Campbell’s eyes were open, but glazed. His expression was an intense mix of fear and confusion.

“Who are you?” the woman, a stocky brunette, asked.

Her brass name tag read SAMPSON, and her expression said there were an infinite number of places she would rather be than where she was.