“I don’t think you should go.”

“Because of the Wolves.”

“Just because. Just because.”

Zen let it rest for a while, drinking silently. But he knew there was more to her concern—Breanna didn’t worry easily. She’d show concern over his missions back when he was in the service, but she didn’t show outright fear.

She’d never, ever, told him not to do something.

He brooded on it through another glass of champagne. How far should he press? And was he pressing as a matter of national security or as a concerned husband?

Both.

“Well, I don’t want you to break the law on secrecy,” Zen told her after he refilled both of their glasses. “But you can’t just let that hang out there and not expect me to ignore it.”

“You should ignore it.”

“What’s bothering you, Bree?”

“Jeff—there’s more to the Wolves than I can go into right now.”

“More than I can get in a security briefing?”

“I’m sure you can get a full briefing if you go through channels. You’re on the intelligence committee.”

“How full will the briefing be?”

“Oh, Jeff.”

It stayed there, simmering for the next half hour. Breanna felt the pressure building inside.

She couldn’t keep a secret like this from her husband. Not now. Not under these circumstances.

And yet she felt as if she had to.

If he hauled her before his committee, what then?

That would be silly and petty. Ridiculous.

The bottle of champagne was empty. It was still early, but she decided she would get ready for bed.

Zen caught her arm as she rose.

“Hey,” he said. “What?”

“Jeff…”

She had to tell him.

“This is between you and me, do you understand?” she asked. “Husband and wife—not senator.”

“Go ahead.”

“We think they’re enhanced.”

“Huh?”

“Biologically enhanced,” said Breanna. “Using drugs and implants. We have scattered evidence, but nothing solid. We think they’ve been operated on, and given drugs, and different biomechanics.”

“Are you serious?”

“Dead serious. Reid has pieced together a lot of different strands of intelligence.”

“And all that makes them, what? Superhuman?”

“I don’t know,” said Breanna. “That’s what we’re trying to find out. That’s our mission.”

“These are the people who are going to attack at Kiev?”

“We think so, yes.”

“You’re not going to let them, are you?” Zen asked.

“No. Not at all. Not if we can help it.”

“That’s it?” Zen asked.

“No. No. We think we know who one of the assassins is.”

“Does that matter?”

“It should. It’s Mark Stoner.”

Zen felt as if he’d been punched in the stomach.

“Stoner?” he said finally. “The Mark Stoner?”

“Yes.”

“The CIA officer who worked with us.”

She nodded.

“He died,” said Zen.

“Maybe not.”

“The hell he didn’t. I was on that mission, Bree. I remember—my Flighthawks—I couldn’t get there in time. We weren’t supposed to cross the border. Stoner’s helicopter went into the swamp.”

“His body was never recovered,” she told him.

“There’s no way he could have lived. What? They rebuilt him?”

“Something like that, maybe. We don’t know.”

“Shit. No way.”

“Why not?”

“It’s too—it’s like science fiction. A crash like that—there were bodies recovered,” he said, remembering. “There were definitely bodies.”

“Not his.”

“You can’t rebuild a human being. Look at my legs. They’re still useless. All those experiments—”

“Those just didn’t work. Maybe the experiments with him did.”

“No.” Zen shook his head. He simply didn’t believe it.

“Who would have believed an airplane could fly by remote control twenty years ago?” Breanna asked.

“I would believe it.”

“That’s because you were working on the project. Science fiction becomes reality pretty quickly these days. Ready or not.”

“You’re serious.”

“Yes.”

“Does Danny know?” asked Zen. “Is he involved in the mission?”

“I’m not discussing operational details with you. I can’t.”

“Come on, Bree. Danny’s our friend. Stoner was a friend of his, too.”

“Mark saved my life,” blurted Breanna. “Don’t tell me about friends.”

“You didn’t tell Danny, did you?” said Zen calmly. “He doesn’t know.”

“Jeff, I’m sorry I said anything.” She sighed. “I will tell him if it’s important. When it’s important.”

God, she screamed at herself inside. Why did you say that?

“You have to tell him, Bree.” Zen wheeled around to look into her face. “You have to.”

“You just said it was science fiction. He probably won’t believe it either.”

“But you do.”

“Yes. I do.”

“You have evidence?”

They had what they thought was a partial DNA match, if the computer records were right. But they might not be. And there were other explanations—long shots, but maybe no more implausible than this.

Still, she was convinced.

“You don’t know what the situation is.”

“If what you’re saying is true, which I don’t know that I believe,” added Zen, “but let’s say, for argument’s sake, that it is. Let’s say it is Mark Stoner, somehow, resurrected from the grave or hospital bed, whatever. Then that’s his friend who’s hunting him down. Who’s probably going to kill him.” Zen rolled his wheelchair close to her. “Is that why Whiplash is involved? So Danny can see if it really is Stoner?”

“Jeff—”

“That’s why you sent him. Because you think Stoner will recognize him, and hesitate. Or come over to our side. Somehow.”

It was part of what they were thinking, at least at the beginning. But then new evidence had seemed to contradict the conclusion that it was Stoner. Breanna had decided not to tell Danny—it would only confuse and complicate the issue. When the time was right, when they had more evidence, then she would tell him about the possible DNA match, and the rest of the theories. For now, the job was simple—find out who these people were.

Whiplash was the best group for the job, with or without the old Dreamland connection.

“You have to tell him,” Zen said.

“I thought you didn’t believe it.”

“But you do,” he answered. “You have to be honest with him.”

“Don’t tell me what I have to do. You don’t know what the pressures are.”

“What does this have to do with pressure, Bree? This has to do with basic honesty.”

“Honesty? Honesty? What the hell are you talking about, honesty? You lie to people all the time.”

“I don’t lie.”

“You’re a politician. Tell me you don’t lie.”

It was the worst fight they’d had in years. The only fight they’d had in years. There’d been disagreements, debates maybe, but nothing approaching this. This was a nuclear explosion, a blowout so severe it left them both trembling.

Maybe it had been a long time coming. Maybe they were just due. Maybe at its heart, the fight had little to do with Mark Stoner and Danny and who should know what.

Maybe at its heart, Breanna was worried about him and didn’t want to lose him. And he…

He wasn’t sure what he was worried about. He knew he was angry, over a lot of things, none of which had anything to do with his wife, not really.

Losing his legs most of all. Even now, even after all these years without them. He wanted them. He wanted them so badly he would trade anything for them.

Not his daughter. Not his wife, not even tonight in his anger. But anything else.

Zen stayed in the living room while Breanna went to the bedroom. He went into the kitchen and got himself a beer, then sipped it slowly, thinking back to his days at Dreamland.

He didn’t believe it could possibly be true. It wasn’t the question of whether Stoner had survived. He’d seen worse crashes—hell, his own for starters.

But to be rebuilt?

Science fiction bullshit.

The phrase was familiar. Zen looked down at his legs, trying to place it.