It was headed up.

Up toward the gunmen in the rooftop restaurant.

Crouching atop the elevator, Elizabeth heard the lift pulleys engage. With a lurch, the car began to rise. The elevator had been called.

Mierda , Rosauro swore next to her.

Elizabeth stared up to the dark shaft. What are we going to do? she asked. She still held her lighter, flickering with a tiny flame. She felt helpless, and she hated how her hands shook.

You're going to stay here, Rosauro said and leaned forward and blew out the flame. In the dark. Not a word. Not a sound.

The woman sat on the lip of the hatch, then dropped down into the elevator.

Close the door, she called quietly up to them. But keep it unlocked. Just in case.

In case of what?

Still, Elizabeth obeyed. She swung the hatch almost closed, holding it ajar with her pinky. Her last sight of Rosauro was as the woman readied her weapon.

Biting back a curse as the elevator lifted away, Gray ran for the stairs. He knocked a few people aside and leaped over a couple huddled low on the stairs, covering their heads. He mounted the stairs three at a time, racing around and around, pausing only long enough to make sure the car hadn't stopped. If he could get above it and hit the call button, then he could stop the elevator before it reached the roof.

He missed it on the second level and sprinted.

Shouts called from above, deep-throated and brusque. It sounded like the assault team was headed back down. Gray burst onto the third floor to check the elevator and ran smack into a wall or rather, the human equivalent of it.

Kowalski stood at the elevator bay, finger on the button.

Gray! he said, rubbing his stomach. Ow, what the hell, man?

The elevator chimed open.

Rosauro leaped out, her pistol pressed into Kowalski's face.

Hey! He bumped back a step.

You called the elevator? Gray asked.

Yeah, I was going up to the restaurant, find out what all the commotion was.

Gray didn't know which was Kowalski's greatest asset: his thickheadedness or his laziness.

Everybody out! Gray yelled.

Rosauro was already in motion, helping Elizabeth and Masterson down through the hatch. Gray led them back to the stairs. Kowalski brought up their rear.

Rosauro moved alongside him as they fled down the stairs. I heard them speaking

English. No British accents. American.

Gray nodded.

Mercenaries from the look of the pair in the lobby.

Still, he pictured the man he'd spotted outside the Museum of American History.

With the name badge from the Defense Intelligence Agency. Mapplethorpe. Someone knew they'd be here.

They reached the deserted lobby. Gray urged everyone toward the open door but before they could reach it, a figure stepped into view. He shouldered a snub-nosed M4 carbine assault rifle. Additionally, strapped to his back, he bore a long-barreled M24, fitted with a sniper's scope.

It was the gunman from the neighboring rooftop.

The barrel of his weapon pointed at Masterson's nose.

The sniper didn't intend to miss this shot.

Then the gunman's head snapped backward. He dropped to his knees like a puppet with its strings cut. Then fell face forward with a clatter. At the base of his skull, the shiny steel handle of a throwing dagger protruded.

Beyond the body, Luca stood outside by the dancing fountain. The Gypsy had another dagger ready in his hand. Gray kicked away the loose rifle, which

Kowalski retrieved. Luca rushed up to them and yanked out his knife.

Thanks, Gray said.

I was outside smoking when the gunfire began, the man explained and waved to the courtyard. Tracked its source across the street. Went over there. I was going up when he came down, so I hid and followed him back here.

Gray clapped the man gratefully on the shoulder. He'd saved all their lives.

Gray pointed to the door. Everybody out. We need to get out of this city.

Fast.

They hurried out to the street.

Fast might be a problem, Kowalski said. He stood with one hand on his hip, half hiding the snubbed assault rifle under his suit jacket.

Gray stared up and down the street and along the neighboring service alley.

Every direction was packed with taxis, rickshaws, wagons, trucks, and cars.

All stopped dead. Not moving.

A chorus of horns and music blared, along with singing and chanting. A festival was in full swing down the street. The commotion had helped to mask the chaos at the hotel, but not completely.

Distantly, Gray heard a siren wailing. City police. Responding to the gunfire.

He also heard shouts echo out of the lobby. The assault team headed down.

Rosauro turned to him. What do we ?

A scream of motorcycle engines cut her off. Gray turned. To the left a few blocks back, three black bikes zigzagged through the logjam. Too fast, too intent. They barreled through people, knocking them aside. They sped straight toward the hotel. Each bike bore an additional rider with a rifle. More commandos.

Gray pulled everyone into the service alley, out of direct view. He turned to

Masterson and snatched the white hat from his head. Your coat, too, he ordered as he crammed the hat on his own head.

What do you intend, sir? Masterson asked as he climbed out of his white jacket.

That sniper targeted you first, Dr. Masterson. You're the primary target.

Pierce , Rosauro said warningly.

Gray hiked into the loose jacket. I'm going to lead those bikes away, he explained and pointed to the crowded street. He aimed his other arm down the narrow alley. You take the others that way. We'll regroup at the fort we saw coming into town.

Rosauro paused to digest his plan, then quickly nodded.

I'm coming with you, Kowalski said. He stepped from beside Elizabeth and raised his weapon. You'll need backup.

Rosauro nodded. He's better with you than me. I'll have enough on my hands protecting the civilians.

Gray didn't have time to argue. He could use a little muscle and firepower.

Go! he said.

Mr. Pierce!

Gray turned back. Masterson tossed his cane at him. He caught it, completing his ensemble.

Just don't lose it! That's an eighteenth-century ivory handle!

Gray hurried out into the streets with Kowalski in tow. He ran in a feigned stumble, waving his cane, shouting with a British accent. Someone help! They're bloody trying to kill me!

He headed down the street toward the festival, running among the stalled cars and idling wagons. Behind them, the motorcycles choked and bobbled as they reached the hotel then whined back up into a full scream.

Coming after them.

Kowalski followed. They've taken the bait.

6:33 A. M.

Washington, D. C.

A knock on the door startled Painter. He had been close to dozing off, seated in his chair, elbows on the desktop, a pile of notes and test results from Lisa and

Malcolm beneath his face. Earlier, he had ordered Kat to take a nap in one of the medical center's spare beds. Up all night himself, he should've taken that same advice.

He pressed the lock release under his desk, and the door swung open. He'd been expecting Lisa or Malcolm. Painter sat straighter in surprise and gained his feet.

A tall, wide-shouldered man entered, dressed in a blue suit. His red hair had gone mostly a whitish gray, combed neatly back.

Sean?

Sean McKnight was the director of DARPA and Painter's immediate superior. He'd also been the man to recruit Painter into Sigma over a decade ago, when Sean had sat in Painter's chair. McKnight had been the visionary first director of Sigma, taking Archibald Polk's concept and turning it into reality. But more important,

Sean was a good friend.

The man waved Painter back into his seat.

Don't get up for me, son, he said. I'm not about to take that chair again.