One of these things is not like the others.

“Sarah?”

She looked at Tucker, trying to ride out the fleeting surge of panic. She was not afraid of the stranger, she realized. She didn’t recognize him as an enemy. No, her reaction had been more nebulous than that. He was just…wrong. Out of place somehow.

“Goddammit, will you talk to me?”

“About what?” It wasn’t until Tucker sat back and stared across the table at her with a certain amount of frustration that Sarah realized how she was acting. She shook her head. “I’m sorry. Really, Tucker. I’m just…unsettled today.”

“Do you know why?”

“It’s nothing I can put my finger on.” She glanced back toward the dark stranger to find that an equally handsome female companion had joined him and had his full attention. To Tucker, she added, “Just jumpy, I guess. I didn’t sleep very well.”

He was silent for a few moments while the waiter returned with their drinks, then frowned and said, “Have you tried to focus on the jumpiness?”

“I’m just tired, that’s all.”

“Sarah.” He leaned toward her, resting his forearms on the table and holding her gaze steadily. “I read somewhere that using psychic abilities is like listening. Have you tried that?”

Lightly, she said, “All I hear is a fairly noisy hotel lobby. And somebody just dropped a dish back in the kitchen.”

Since that crash had been evident to everyone in the restaurant, Tucker barely wasted a nod. “Shut out all the sounds. Listen for what’s underneath.”

She broke the hold of his gaze and looked down to find that she’d unconsciously crumbled half a bread stick. Brushing the crumbs into a neat pile, she said, “I can’t hear anything.”

“You aren’t trying.”

“I told you. I’m tired.”

“You can’t afford to be tired,” Tucker said, his voice suddenly hard. “If listening will help keep you alive, you have to listen.”

Sarah refused to look at him. “I’ve told you. It hurts. Can’t you understand that?”

Very quietly, Tucker said, “I think you have a choice. Hurt a little now to save your life, or avoid the pain now—and die the death you saw for yourself.”

“Then that’s my choice to make, isn’t it?” She drew a breath and let it out slowly. Destiny. Fate. Is it really my choice?

Whatever Tucker might have said in response was prevented by the return of their waiter with the meal, but when they were alone again, he said, “I’m in this now too, Sarah. Don’t forget that.”

He didn’t say anything else, and neither did Sarah. And she didn’t taste the meal she ate, though she ate as much as she could of what was on her plate. The pressure behind her eyes throbbed.

They didn’t linger in the restaurant, and they both remained silent as they crossed the huge lobby to the bank of elevators. Sarah noted absently that the handsome dark man seemed even more enthralled by his lovely companion, since he was smiling at her in a way that would cause any woman’s heart to stop. She envied them their simple closeness.

Tucker unlocked the door to their room and went in first, automatically cautious. But it was Sarah who saw what was different.

On the desk beside the still-humming laptop was a lovely vase of cut flowers.

Sarah found a card among the blooms and studied it in silence for a moment before handing it to Tucker. The message was simple.

WELCOME TO CLEVELAND

TEN

Duran sent his people on to the next destination, but did not immediately go himself. Nobody questioned him, of course. His methods might be unorthodox and occasionally paradoxical, but he got results. Not even Varden, the most treacherous lieutenant Duran had ever been forced to work with, had been able to undermine his authority—despite several subtle and creative attempts.

Duran drove himself out of the city of Cleveland and to a remote warehouse being used for storage. The place was locked up and deserted, but the key Duran had been provided got him inside, and once inside he found that the dirty windows allowed in enough light to see by.

He walked through shoulder-high stacks of boxes with no interest in their contents, working his way gradually toward the center of the building. When he reached his goal, he saw that a skylight directly above his position threw light down around him in a neat circle. He wondered whether she had chosen this spot for that reason.

“You’re late,” she told him, stepping out of the shadows.

“No,” he said coolly, “you’re early.”

She shrugged. “I was brought up right. How about you, Duran? Military training?”

He ignored the question. “Do you have it?”

If anything, she seemed amused by his refusal to reply to her seemingly innocent question. “I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t.” She took a step toward him and pulled a large manila envelope from inside her jacket, handing it across the space between them.

He took it but didn’t open it. Instead, looking at her, he said, “Any trouble getting this?”

“Other than risking everything, you mean?” Her smile was sardonic. “No, no trouble.”

“How long do I have?”

She shrugged again, patently unconcerned. “I would say that depends on the current…situation. If everything hits the fan right on schedule, you’ll have a week at the outside. From today. After that, you might as well burn it for all the good it’ll do you.”

“I need more time.” His tone was measured, his expression carefully neutral.

“Sorry. It isn’t my fault you’ve set things up this way.”

“I had no choice,” he reminded her.

“Maybe. Or maybe you just got too ambitious. In any case, it’s your problem. Not mine.”

Pleasantly, he said, “You really don’t like me very much, do you?”

“No,” she replied, equally pleasant. “I really don’t.”

She didn’t say good-bye. She just backed away until the shadows swallowed her.

Duran tapped the edge of the envelope against his hand for a moment, then sighed and slid it into his coat pocket, still without opening it. Then he turned and left the warehouse, not forgetting to lock the door behind him.

And went to join his people.

Hurry, Sarah.

No matter how far you run, we’ll find you. We’ll always find you.

Destiny. Meant to be.

“If it was them,” Tucker said as the Jeep sped along the interstate highway toward Syracuse, “what the hell are they up to?”

“Maybe they wanted to remind us—me—that it’s no use running,” Sarah offered quietly, shutting out the whispers in her head.

Tucker, who had taken a roundabout route from the hotel to the interstate and convinced himself they weren’t being followed, said, “The hotel must have sent the flowers.”

“They said not.”

“Yeah, but they couldn’t find any paperwork on the delivery. I bet somebody just screwed up.”

“And put the flowers in our room despite the DO NOT DISTURB sign? I’ve never heard of a hotel doing that.”

He sent her a quick look. “They couldn’t possibly have found us so quickly, not after we ditched the car in Chicago.”

“No. Logically, they couldn’t have. Unless they were much closer than we thought, saw us drive away in this Jeep, and followed us to Cleveland.”

“You believe that’s what they did?”

“I believe we’d better assume it’s what they did. That someone is following, and closely.”

Tucker was silent for some miles, then spoke abruptly. “What are your feelings telling you?”

Sarah half-turned in the seat to look at him. “Not much. Nothing, really. But…”

“But what?”

She hesitated, then said, “For days now, I’ve felt a…pressure building inside me. In my head. Behind my eyes, like a sinus headache. The whole time we were at the hotel, it really bothered me. As soon as we left, the pressure eased a bit. I can barely feel it now.”