We'd planned to take our time moving from the exit to the guard station, avoiding confrontations, taking side routes if necessary. The incinerated exit door kiboshed that plan. We had to get to the guard room and disable the radios before anyone saw the damage.

Fortunately, we arrived at the communication center without incident. Our luck continued when we found only two guards manning the station. One was chomping on a granola bar. The other was doing the crossword in a week-old newspaper. We could only see slivers of their profiles, but it was enough to send a cold thrill through me. I smiled. These were two guards I recognized, two I'd never forget: Ryman and Jolliffe, the men who'd helped Winsloe hunt Lake, who'd played key roles in Armen's death, who'd taken such pride and vicious pleasure in their jobs. And now this dedicated duo was so engrossed in their work that Clay and I managed to sneak up behind them without either noticing. The temptation to shout "Boo!" and watch them hit the rafters was almost too great. But we were in a hurry. So Clay grabbed Ryman in a headlock and I snapped Jolliffe's neck as he pondered a nine-letter synonym for stupidity. We needed to keep one guard alive and had chosen Ryman, hoping his mouth would be too full of granola for him to scream. It was. Unfortunately, it was so full that when Clay grabbed him by the throat, he almost choked to death, thereby necessitating a flurry of discussion over the proper way to perform the Heimlich maneuver. It was a sad state of affairs when you had to save someone's life before you killed him.

Ryman finally coughed up a soggy chunk of oats, then let loose a stream of vulgarity.

"Now that doesn't sound like 'thank you,'" Clay said, clamping his hand over Ryman's mouth.

"There's gratitude for you," I said. I leaned into Ryman's face. "Remember me?"

His face went white. I grinned, baring my teeth.

"These are the two I told you about," I said to Clay.

His eyes sparked, and he returned my grin. "Good."

Ryman made a noise that sounded suspiciously like a whimper. I flashed him one last smile, then stepped away, leaving him to Clay. As Adam disconnected the communication equipment, I snapped the lock on Tucker's office, leaned inside, looked, and sniffed.

"Seems our luck stops here," I said. "No sign of the colonel."

"That's why we have this one." Clay slammed Ryman's head and upper torso onto the desktop, knocking over a bottle of mineral water. "Let's keep this brief. Where do we find Tucker?"

Blood trickled from Ryman's nose. He blinked, orienting himself, then cleared his throat and lifted his head.

"Paul Michael Ryman," he said, voice clipped, robotic. "Former corporal with the United States Army. Currently serving under Special Operations Colonel R. J. Tucker."

"What the hell is that?" Clay said.

Paige muffled a laugh. "I-uh-think it's his version of name, rank, and serial number. Sorry, Paul, but that's really not going to help us."

Clay leaned over, stretched Ryman's hand flat against the desktop, then smashed it with his fist. There was a sickening crunch, like the snapping of bird bones. Ryman shrieked, cut off in mid-note by Clay's hand over his mouth.

"Doctors will have a hell of a time fixing that," Clay said. "I'd call it a write-off. That was the left hand. Next I do the right. Where is Tucker?"

"Paul Michael Ryman," Ryman gasped when Clay uncovered his mouth. "Former corporal with the United States Army. Currently serving under Special Operations Colonel R. J. Tucker."

"Oh, for pity's sake," Paige said. "Come on, Paul. We all appreciate your loyalty, but trust me, no one else is going to give a damn. Just tell the man what he wants to know and get it over with."

"Paul Michael Ryman. Former corporal with the United States Army. Currently serving under Special Operations Colonel R. J. Tucker."

"Men," Paige muttered, shaking her head.

Clay spread Ryman's right hand on the desktop. A spurt of static from one set of speakers made me jump. Clay only glanced at Adam.

"Sorry," Adam said. "I'm almost done."

He jacked down the volume on the static-spewing speaker, then bent to look at the wiring on the other one.

"Okay," Clay said. "One last chance. Wh-"

The still-functional speaker broke into an earsplitting whine. As Adam reached to flick it off, a voice sounded.

"Jackson to base. Base, do you read? Repeat, security has been breached. Over."

"Hold on," Clay whispered before Adam turned it off. He motioned for me to hold Ryman still and quiet, then snatched the mike from Adam. "How do you work this thing?"

"Push the button to talk. Release to listen. They can't hear anything unless the button's down."

Clay cranked up the volume on the disconnected speaker. Static filled the room. He pushed the talk button.

"Base to Jackson," Clay said, swallowing his accent. "Ryman here. We're having equipment problems. Repeat. Over."

"Shit, Paul," the voice came back. "I can barely hear you. I said we have a breach. The fucking door's been blown off. I'm guessing explosives, but shit, you should see this. Nothing left but ash. One helluva bomb."

"No," Adam said, grinning. "One helluva half-demon."

Clay motioned him to silence, then pressed the mike button. "Where's Tu-Colonel Tucker?"

"Last time I saw him, he was on level two, taking inventory in the gun locker. He isn't answering his radio?"

"I'll try again. Maintain your position. I'm sending backup."

Clay handed the mike to Adam, then gestured from me to Ryman.

"You want him?" he asked.

I met Ryman's eyes with a cold stare. "Not really. Go ahead and kill him."

Ryman's eyes bulged. His mouth opened but before anything came out, Clay snapped his neck. Once Adam finished disconnecting the radio and security systems, we headed for the gun locker.

Now, we didn't know exactly where to find the gun locker. The guard had said level two, which narrowed it down somewhat. From my infirmary excursions, I'd learned that the second floor was laid out much like the lower level, one large block with a single corridor looping around and joining at the elevator. That made it easier. All we had to do was start at one end and check every room until we found Tucker. Getting Ryman to divulge the exact location of the gun locker would have taken too much time.

On our search, we found and killed two kitchen workers. No, they didn't threaten us. No, we didn't perceive them as a threat. The unpleasant truth was that we had to kill everyone. No matter how harmless they might seem, even the lowliest staff member possessed the most dangerous weapon of all: knowledge. They knew we existed, and for that, they couldn't be allowed to leave the compound.

While searching for Tucker, we found Matasumi in a locked room-or I should say, I smelled him through a locked door. We listened for a moment, then Paige cast a minor spell to open it. She admitted the spell worked only on simple locks, but since it was silent, we decided to try that before employing more physical techniques. It worked and we eased the door open. I peered inside and saw Matasumi seated at a computer. He was alone. I eased the door shut, bumping Paige in the chin as she craned her neck for a look inside.

"All clear," I whispered. "He's working at a computer. Doesn't seem to even realize there's a problem."

"He knows," Paige said. "Did you see the Zip disks? The knapsack? He's backing up data and clearing the hard drive before he runs."

"And he's about to encounter a fatal error," Adam said, grinning. "Mind if I handle this one?"

"I saw a gun on the desk," Paige said. "A big one. He probably grabbed the largest one he could find."