Vanowen ducked inside and was unsurprised to see a man waiting for him in the plush backseat. The man was in his forties, dressed in a sports coat and black shirt. He had buzzcut hair and a firm jaw line-definite military look. They called him The Major, but that's all Vanowen knew about him. They had never met, but both of them knew their roles well.

Vanowen settled into the empty seat. The door closed behind them with a tight thwup.

The Major did not extend his hand. "You're seven minutes late."

Vanowen nodded. "Yes, and so we need to hurry. I'm scheduled to make a keynote speech tonight at the convention center downtown." Vanowen narrowed his eyes. "You're certain you weren't followed?"

The Major ignored the question. "Get us moving."

Vanowen saw through the partition glass that the driver and a bodyguard were now sitting up front. He hit the intercom. "Downtown Biltmore."

"They're getting the bags off the plane, sir."

"Have them catch up with us at the hotel. Just get us moving."

"Roger that, Mr. Vanowen."

Vanowen turned back to The Major. "My sources tell me the Feds know which companies are infected by the Daemon."

The Major showed no reaction.

Vanowen continued. "And that only a minority of these companies are expected to survive."

The Escalade was now moving through the hangar doors and into the night.

The Major looked out the window. "If I were in a position to confirm such information-"

"I already know it's true. What I need from you is the list of infected companies."

The Major didn't blink. "Why do you think I'm here?"

Vanowen was uncharacteristically surprised. He tried to find something to say. "Oh…I see."

"Leland Equity has friends in high places, Mr. Vanowen."

The Major reached into his jacket pocket. "You seem to be under the impression that you have to save face. You weren't the only one to get caught in the Daemon's web." The Major produced a glossy brochure from his jacket. "But as it turns out, our Mr. Sobol may have inadvertently handed us the investment opportunity of a lifetime." He handed the brochure to a suspicious Vanowen.

"What's this?" Vanowen read the title: Annual Children's Hospital Golf Classic."Is this a joke?"

The Major tapped the brochure. "Flip it open."

Vanowen did so. Inside the tri-fold was a long list of charity sponsors-company after company. Vanowen looked up to his guest.

"I had operations print it. We're expecting a data loss event of cataclysmic proportions within the next six months. That's a list of public companies targeted for special protection by public and private militaries. Now you know how to restructure your portfolio. If anyone else sees it, it's just a charity brochure."

Vanowen smiled broadly. "And how much will Leland be donating to the Children's Golf Classic?"

The Major turned to look out the tinted windows into the night. "It's not for your benefit that you're being told. Although I'm sure you'll do very well also."

"Perhaps I can offer you a commission for your investment advice?"

The Major looked blankly at him. "I'm just one of Leland's investors, Mr. Vanowen. Do your job, and we'll have no reason to speak again."

Vanowen nodded vigorously. "Of course." He folded the brochure and placed it in his suit pocket.

The Major pointed. "That list doesn't get entered into a computer. It doesn't get photocopied, and it doesn't get reported to anyone else without the approval of my superiors. Do you understand?"

"Yes."

"You know what would happen if you were to lie to me?"

Vanowen made eye contact. "Yes."

"Good. Make sure you remember it."

Vanowen sighed dramatically. "Well…what sort of 'special protection' will these companies enjoy?"

"There's a Daemon Task Force-run by an NSA cryptologist. Young black lady. Very sharp. She's beginning to unravel the Daemon's design."

"But if they figure out a way to stopthe Daemon, then our investment opportunity is…" Vanowen's voice trailed off.

"We don't intend to stop the Daemon. It's too valuable. The goal is to control it. The task force has made progress in just that area."

"Control it?" Vanowen considered this. "Then we would still get our opportunity-"

"But with greater precision and total deniability. The Daemon could become a powerful economic weapon-particularly against the ascendant economies of Asia."

Vanowen thought of the possibilities. "So the Daemon is not invincible, after all…" He gestured to the nearby wet bar. "A scotch to celebrate?"

The Major shook his head. "It's a bit premature to be celebrating. In any event, I'll be leaving you in a moment." He clicked on his own intercom button. "Roberts, leave me off at the next crossroads."

"Affirmative, sir."

Vanowen raised his eyebrows, surprised that The Major knew his driver's name.

"Nothing has been left to chance, Mr. Vanowen. You have important work to do for us. See that you achieve your objectives."

In a moment the Escalade slowed at a rural intersection-two county roads meeting in the middle of nowhere beneath a lamp swirling with moths. The Major turned to Vanowen. "We never met." He was gone before Vanowen could say a word. The doors locked immediately after him. Vanowen watched a sedan emerge from the shadows to meet The Major. In a moment, Vanowen's Escalade was moving on, back into the darkness on the other side of the intersection and down the country road, toward a smudge of light on the horizon. Distant suburban sprawl.

Vanowen exhaled in relief. That had gone extraordinarily well. Better than he could have imagined. So the wise men weren't holding him responsible? The Daemon was widespread. He found it strangely reassuring-especially since the powers that be weren't even fazed. Matthew Sobol had underestimated them, and they were already taking steps to turn this situation to their advantage. In fact, he was going to have that celebratory scotch, after all.

Vanowen pulled a bottle of thirty-year-old Macallan from the mini-bar and poured three fingers, neat. He lifted the glass and sighed again in satisfaction, appreciating the caramel color against the backdrop of the headlights. Not only was he going to free himself of the Daemon, but he stood to make billions doing it. This was the very essence of capitalism: thriving on chaos. True, there would be a temporary economic meltdown, but like pruning a tree, it would grow back fuller and healthier than before. But thoroughly under their control. He raised his glass and toasted. "Here's to you, Mr. Sobol."

Beyond his scotch glass, Vanowen glimpsed a dark shadow growing ahead. Half a second later it came screaming out of the blackness. It was a car with its headlights off. Vanowen's driver screamed.

A Lincoln Town Car nailed the Escalade dead-center in the front grill at a combined speed of over 150 mph-instantly pancaking the sedan up to its rear passenger seat with a powerful BOOM and flattening the armored Escalade up to its front windshield. This sent the Escalade's V10 engine plowing into the front seat and blasted the inch-thick windshield out of its mountings, where it tumbled crazily hundreds of yards down the road.

After the initial impact, the wreckage of the Escalade sheared away from the Town Car and went into a wild roll, sending pieces of metal and armored doors flying. What remained of the SUV landed upside down in the opposite lane nearly a hundred yards farther on. Smoke and steam billowed from the wreck.

After a few moments of dead silence, headlights appeared in the distance, back the way the Escalade had come. They grew rapidly brighter, accompanied by the growling of a powerful engine. Soon, a black convertible Mercedes SL Sports Coupe arrived and rolled to a stop near the start of the debris field. Its xenon headlights were aimed at the wreckage of the overturned Escalade, bathing it in white light.