The interior of the sphere flickered as jagged sparks of electrical energy leapt and twisted like writhing luminous snakes from the sides of the chamber toward the center. They danced in blue halos around ten video cameras that were mounted on heavily braced metal stands to stare out through the windows toward the plasma screens beyond. Aubrey's face was reflected in the unblinking lens of the nearest camera facing him.

But it was the object in the center of the chamber beyond that captured and held his fascination.

Suspended within hovered a sphere of absolute blackness, a darkness so deep that as Aubrey gazed upon it he felt as though he were plunging into an endless abyss. He realized that the magnetic field generated within the chamber was suspending the sphere in mid-air, unimaginable forces chained and bound by immense electromagnetic fields. Although the sphere was featureless, reflecting nothing, it seemed to pulse with a terrifying energy, as though alive. Aubrey stared for a moment into that infernal blackness and felt his guts turn to slime. He forced his gaze away, and noticed that up on the inside wall of the sphere was a large analogue clock that looked ordinary in every way except one.

The second hand was ticking far too slowly.

Aubrey turned away from the sphere and felt sweat on his forehead. He knew precisely what the object inside the sphere was, and it terrified him. He turned to Joaquin, his voice constricted.

'My God, what on earth have you done?'

19.

SOUTH BEACH, MIAMI.

June 28, 10:58 'You sure about this guy?'

Ethan glanced across at Jarvis as he drove the Yukon off North Ocean Boulevard and onto Alton Road. Brilliant sunshine glittered off the manmade harbor that enclosed Palm Island, a haven of multimillion-dollar homes as well as a thriving tourist center. Rows of quays provided moorings to both enormous private yachts and smaller vessels.

Jarvis shrugged.

'He was solid enough back in the day. He's a former United States Navy SEAL who was attached to my rifle platoon in Iraq back in 1991. He left the service a few years back and now runs a fishing business for tourists.'

'You don't sound like you're sure,' Ethan persisted.

'He likes liquor,' Jarvis explained, 'and he never was much one for authority.'

'Sounds like my kind of guy.'

Jarvis turned the Yukon right into Miami Beach Marina and drove slowly to the end, where barricades prevented vehicle entry to the marina. He parked and got out as Lopez shielded her eyes against the glare of the sun.

'That's the one,' she said, pointing at a boat and reading the name on the stern. 'Free Spirit.'

Ethan led the way as they walked toward the vessel. The little ship looked to Ethan's eye to be a 43-footer sports fisherman, but judging by the stained hull and tired-looking rigging that sagged from her main mast, she'd been plying the Straits since the time of Blackbeard. Chrome fittings were dulled by both age and neglect, and the painted lettering on the stern was flaking away. There were racks of oxygen tanks and diving suits, which would save them having to hire extra gear, and he could see an atmospheric diving suit strapped to a rack near the bridge house. It was over six feet in height and constructed of glass-reinforced plastic; he had seen them from time to time in the US Marines, used by Navy SEALs and depth-rated for around 2,000 feet.

He walked to the boarding ramp and looked at Jarvis.

'You wanna call him out?' he suggested.

Jarvis strode up the ramp onto the vessel's stern. 'Scott? You in there?'

Ethan watched as Jarvis waited for a response, but the only sound remained the lapping of the water against the jetty and the boat's hull. The old man tried again.

'Scott Bryson? It's Doug Jarvis.'

The silence continued. Ethan was about to step forward when a hatch on the Free Spirit's deck suddenly crashed open and a tousled head with a thickly forested jaw popped up to squint at the unexpected visitors. The first thing that Ethan noticed was the black patch covering Bryson's left eye.

'Who?'

'Doug Jarvis, 15th Expeditionary Marines, Iraq. We worked together.'

Ethan watched as Scott Bryson's brow furrowed as though he were trying to remember his own name, and then the eyebrow above his patch arched comically.

'Captain Doug Jarvis?'

'The very same,' Jarvis replied. 'Been looking for you, Scott.'

Bryson levered himself up out of the hatch on thickly muscled arms, his chest bare and tanned a deep brown by countless equatorial suns. Ethan guessed him to be at least six-two and 250 pounds, and there didn't look to be any spare fat hanging from his frame. A Navy SEAL tattoo adorned his right shoulder, and despite his unkempt appearance and piratical eye-patch he looked no older than Ethan.

From beside him, he heard Lopez whisper under her breath.

'Hello, Captain.'

'Keep it professional,' Ethan uttered from the corner of his mouth. 'We don't know if we can trust this guy yet.'

'Jealous?' she peered up at him, and then pushed past and followed Jarvis up onto the boat's quarterdeck.

Jarvis was already shaking hands with Bryson as Ethan followed Lopez and joined them on the boat. Jarvis introduced them and then gestured to the vessel itself.

'Nice piece, Scott. You been running her long?'

Scott Bryson opened his arms to encompass the vessel, his barrel chest looking to Ethan like the forested slopes of the Rockies in summer, as he launched automatically into a sales pitch.

'The Free Spirit's a day-boat design built for hardcore light-tackle fishing,' he announced. 'Twin diesels at the stern, modern navigational equipment and fish-finding electronics, four fighting chairs and a four-rod rocket launcher. Four live wells and a thirty-foot tower. The head's on board, there's a stereo and comfortable seating. You guys will have a great time. When do you want to book her?'

Jarvis took a pace closer to him. 'Today.'

Bryson laughed out loud.

'I haven't even had breakfast yet, but okay. When do you want to leave harbor?'

'Right about now.'

Bryson's laugh faded away as he leveled Jarvis with a cool stare.

'What are you looking to catch? My tackle ranges from hundred-thirty-pound conventional to six-pound spinning. I can handle live-bait kite fishing, sailfish, shark, golden amberjack, almaco, grouper, and snapper. I've even got electric reels for tilefish, black belly rose-fish, sea bass and barracuda.'

Ethan stepped in.

'We're not hunting fish, we're hunting for a criminal,' he said, 'or more probably the victims of a crime.'

Bryson squinted at Jarvis, who produced a card from his jacket pocket and handed it to Bryson. The big man stared at it, winced and shook his head.

'Defense Intelligence Agency, huh?' he said. 'Sorry, I'm not for hire.'

Bryson turned his broad back on them and strode toward the open deck hatch.

'You got a problem with the DIA?' Jarvis asked after him.

'I got a problem with the government,' Bryson shot back over his shoulder. 'Pack of wolves, all of them. I don't deal with officials. Now get off my boat.'

Ethan stepped up onto the mid-ship deck and moved to stand in Bryson's way. The big man looked down at him as though he were examining a small insect.

'You'd best move,' he rumbled wearily, 'or I'll snap you like a twig.'

Ethan did not reply. Instead, he slipped an envelope from the pocket of his jeans, letting a wad of photographs face out toward Bryson. The image of a young girl with half of her head blasted away was face up. Behind it was the mother's body beside a blood-splattered wall. Bryson squinted at the images and then his cold blue eye fixed onto Ethan's gaze.

'Not my business,' he uttered.

Lopez moved alongside Bryson and gestured to the photographs.

'Nine years old,' she said. 'Last thing she saw was her killer. The father is top of the suspect list but it seems he may be innocent. If we don't prove it and find the real killer, then they'll never be caught. We've got less than nine hours to do that and nobody to help us.'

Bryson looked down at her for a moment.

'Why the time limit?'

'It's a long story,' Ethan said. 'We can tell you all about it on the way but we've got to move fast. You don't want to help us, we'll find somebody who will. But we'd prefer somebody who we know.'

'Yeah,' Bryson said and glanced at Jarvis. 'I bet you would. Easier to control, right?'

'What's your problem, Bryson?' Ethan asked.

Bryson turned and loomed over Ethan. He tapped his eye-patch with one finger.

'Afghanistan,' he growled. 'Lost my eye to shrapnel and damned near lost my life. And what did I get for my troubles? Forcibly retired from my unit and a lousy payoff. This boat was all I could afford to make a living from. And you wonder why I don't want to work for the goddamned DIA?'

'You signed up,' Ethan challenged him. 'What did you expect, a nice cozy desk job in DC? You knew what you were getting yourself into when you joined the SEALs. Standing here crying out of your remaining eye won't change anything. You aren't the only soldier who served out there and you weren't the last.'

'We went in first,' Bryson snapped back.

'Sure you did,' Ethan rolled his eyes. 'You guys did all the hard work and we all came in behind you clapping our hands and singing happy songs.' Ethan's features hardened. 'Wake up.'

'Take a walk,' Bryson snarled as he turned his back on Ethan, his fists clenched.

'What's up?' Ethan uttered. 'Want another medal? Not getting enough sympathy?'

'It ain't sympathy I'm looking for,' Bryson snapped back.

'Then what?' Lopez chimed in as she leaned on the deck railing nearby.

Bryson scowled at them both but said nothing. Ethan guessed that Bryson's physical size and history with Special Forces meant that he wasn't used to people standing up to him, much less challenging him. The injuries he'd sustained in Afghanistan had laden his broad shoulders with a gigantic chip and he felt the world owed him a favor. Like hell.

'I get it,' Ethan said. 'You don't like authority. So what? Do this for the kid who got shot in cold blood.'

Bryson glowered at Ethan for a moment, then turned his good eye on Jarvis. 'What's in it for me?'

Jarvis pulled his cellphone from his pocket.

'I'll call it in, but I'm sure that the agency will compensate you for your services.'

'Ten thousand dollars,' Bryson snapped.

'Ten thousand?' Ethan's jaw dropped open. 'Jesus Christ, we could hire an aircraft carrier for less!'

'Then go ahead,' Bryson smiled without warmth.

Lopez leveled Bryson with an appealing gaze.

'This is about finding a cold-blooded murderer, Scott,' she said. 'A child killer.'

Bryson nodded.

'That's why my fee is ten thousand. You want me to risk my neck looking for somebody who's psychotic enough to kill entire families then don't expect me to do it for goddamn charity. Take it or leave it.'

Jarvis, his cell to his ear, mouthed across at Bryson. 'Five thousand.'

'Eight.'

'Six.'

Bryson shook his head. 'Seven, not a cent less and up front.'

Jarvis sighed and relayed the price down the line. Moments later, he tossed the cellphone to Bryson who caught it in one giant, calloused palm.

'Done, seven thousand, but half now and half when we return to port,' Jarvis said. 'Give them your account details then get this boat out to sea.'

Bryson gave his details across the line and tossed the cell back to Jarvis. As the old man caught the phone, Bryson jabbed a finger in his direction.

'Just so we get one thing straight, that's the last time you tell me what to do on my boat. I'm the captain and I'll give the goddamned orders until . . .'

In perfect unison, Ethan and Lopez moved to stand between Bryson and Jarvis, cutting the big man off in mid-sentence. Ethan spoke quietly.

'Since you just got paid, this is our boat. You do what we say, right up until we're done here.' Bryson opened his mouth to argue but Ethan cut him off again. 'And you forgot to ask how long this would take. As far as I'm concerned this boat's ours for at least seven thousand dollars' worth of our time, whether you like it or not, understood?'

Bryson's thick arm moved to grab Ethan's throat, but Lopez stepped in and caught his wrist with just enough force to stop it as she folded her hand over his fingers and pinned Bryson's thumb back. She held it just on the threshold of real pain and looked up at him.

'I wouldn't do that if I were you. You'll get hurt.'

Bryson sneered at Ethan. 'He's nothing.'

'I wasn't talking about him.'