An hour's recon told him that the information in Epstein's briefcase was good. He could see why the man had been nervous, eager to gain his complicity. This was as exposed as a reclusive terrorist was ever likely to be. The forest would provide plenty of cover for a cautious approach; the security detail, while no doubt consummate professionals, shouldn't have any reason to expect an attack and would be easy enough for Cooper to get past. And while Smith was a strategic genius, and probably a decent fighter, head-to-head he'd be no match.

It was doable. He could get in, and he could kill John Smith.

Getting out was a trickier. If he could manage not to raise an alarm, he should be able to reach Smith easily enough. But the man would doubtless be wearing a biometric alarm. The moment his heart went crazier than s.e.x could account for, and certainly the moment it stopped, the bodyguards would come in heavy. There would be no sneaking out. It would be run-and-gun.

Figure it out as it comes. That's when you're at your best anyway.

Besides, doable was more than he'd ever had before. He'd go in tonight, finish his mission, and after that, well, things would take care of themselves.

Yeah? And if you succeed, do you think his organization is just going to announce that John Smith has been murdered? If you don't make it out, no one at the DAR will know what you've accomplished.

That made the next move obvious.

He needed a landline. The DAR monitored all mobile calls within the NCH, the Echelon II software churning relentlessly through a billion bits of data. And he'd be willing to bet that Smith had some routine surveillance of his own; the only way he could have continued to avoid capture was to have a steady stream of good intel. Using a cell phone was too big a risk.

Anywhere else, that would have meant a payphone. They were still around, if you knew where to look: convenience stores, malls, gas stations. Anachronisms, holdovers that no one had bothered to rip out. But this was New Canaan. In this nostalgia-free new world, not only weren't there payphones outside the gas stations, there were hardly any gas stations.

Cooper ran through and dismissed half a dozen plans: booking a hotel room, offering a homeowner cash to use their phone, breaking into an apartment. All risked drawing attention.

He was cruising Leibniz, just driving for the sake of it, taking the place in. It followed what he was starting to see as a pattern in NCH towns. Wind turbines to the west, ma.s.sive water condensers on the east. Streets smooth and laid out in a perfect grid. An airfield for gliders, pay lots to charge electric cars. Well-designed pedestrian areas and public squares filled with bright young people moving with purpose. Mixed zoning, commercial and residential side by side; it would be an easy place to live, all the advantages of a city without the congestion and pollution. Come to New Canaan and help build a better world. Lots of ambition and energy, sunshine and s.e.x.

He stopped at a hamburger stand on the outskirts of town, got a burger and a c.o.ke, the latter more expensive. Ate sitting at a picnic bench gilded by the lowering sun. Across the street was a car dealership, small by American standards, the lot packed mirror to mirror with the tiny electric cars he saw everywhere here. His Bronco was unusual, but it didn't draw stares; the countryside was still pretty rough, and there were limits to what a...

Got it.

Cooper finished his meal, wiped his hands, and drove the truck across the street. The car salesman was the same as car salesmen everywhere: easy smile, quick to get personal, just delighted he'd dropped in. "I'm thinking of making the switch," Cooper said, pointing a thumb at the Bronco. "Gas is killing me."

"You'll never look back," the guy said. "Let's take a walk, see what moves you."

Cooper followed the guy around the lot, letting the patter wash over him. Mileage between charges, top speed, amenities. He sat in a sedan, ran his hands over the hood of a sporty two-seater. Finally settled on a miniature pickup with horsepower that made him snicker.

"I know," the guy said, "she doesn't look like much compared to that beast of yours. But she'll go off-road, handle light hauling. A perfect work truck, and if you ever need something heavier, you can always hire it."

The negotiations took ten minutes, and Cooper let the guy take him. When they were done, he said, "Mind if I use your phone to call my financing guy? My cell's dead."

"Sure thing," his new best friend said, not quite hiding his delight. "Step into my office."

His office turned out to be one in a line of desks in the open showroom. Not as private as Cooper might have liked, but private enough; salesmen weren't supposed to sit down, and the other desks were abandoned. His guy gestured him to his own chair, then left him with a.s.surances that he'd be nearby.

The number he'd memorized six months ago and never dialed. It rang twice, and then a voice answered, "Jimmy's Mattresses."

"This is account number three two zero nine one seven," Cooper said.

"Yes, sir."

"I need to talk to Alpha. Immediately."

"Alpha, roger. Hold please."

Cooper leaned back in the sales guy's chair, the springs creaking. Out the front gla.s.s, he watched traffic pa.s.s, watched the clouds shift and change, rays of sunlight stabbing down from between them.

There was a click, and then Equitable Services Director Drew Peters said, "Nick?" The voice was familiar even now, quiet with the a.s.surance of command. Cooper could picture him in his office, slim headset over neatly trimmed hair, the framed photos of targets on the wall, John Smith among them. Is my photograph on that wall as well?

"Yes, it's me."

"Are you all right?"

"Fine. I'm on-mission."

"What was that scene last week?"

"What?"

"Don't toy with me, son. On the El platform in Chicago. Do you know that civilians were shot?"

"Not by me," Cooper said, surprised at the anger sloshing in his gut. "Maybe you better talk to your G.o.dd.a.m.n snipers." He bit down on the instinctual sir.

"Excuse me?"

"I didn't shoot anybody. And you're welcome, by the way. For, you know, giving up my entire life and becoming a fugitive. You want to talk scenes? Okay. How about Chinatown?"

"You're referring to the detention of Lee Chen and his family?"

"Shoplifters are detained. This was a tactical response team starting a riot and kidnapping a family. That little girl was eight." Heard himself say was instead of is, hated himself for it. "What are you guys even fighting for?"

There was a pause. In a clipped, controlled voice, Peters said, "Are you finished?"

"For now." Cooper realized how hard he was squeezing the phone and forced his fingers to relax.

"Good. First of all, by 'you guys,' are you referring to agents of the Department of a.n.a.lysis and Response? Because you might want to remember that you are one."

"I'm-"

"Second, that was your fault."

"What?"

"You were spotted. What were you thinking? To pull that stunt on the El and then, that very same night, just walk down the street?"

"What are you talking about?" Replaying the night back in his head, the cool air, the Chinatown neon. He'd been wired, alert to any hint of recognition, had caught none. "No one saw me."

"No. But Roger d.i.c.kinson ordered the entire Echelon II network tasked to randomly scanning the video feed from security feeds across the city. More than ten thousand of them. An ATM camera caught you and Ms. Azzi walking side by side through Chinatown. Once he had that, d.i.c.kinson pulled footage from every camera for half a mile. Putting it all together took a while, which is the only reason you weren't caught."

Cooper opened his mouth, closed it.

"Your rules, Nick. Your fault." Peters didn't raise his voice, and somehow that made the words. .h.i.t all the harder. "You laid out the parameters in the first place, remember? You told me that the only way your plan would work was if we went all the way."

"I didn't mean-"

"It doesn't matter if you meant it. All the way is all the way."

Part of him wanted to scream, to bang the phone on the desk, to stand up and grip the chair and hurl it through the plate gla.s.s window into the Wyoming sun. But afterward nothing would have changed. Temper tantrums weren't going to make the difference.

"Roger d.i.c.kinson, huh?" Cooper switched the phone again, wiped sweat from one palm.

"He's certainly risen to the challenge." Peters gave a brief, clipped laugh. "You may have been right about him wanting your job."

"I should have antic.i.p.ated the cameras," Cooper said. "d.a.m.n. d.a.m.n, d.a.m.n, d.a.m.n."

"You're playing against thousands of people. I'd say you're doing very well."

"What happened to Lee Chen and his family? Never mind. I know the answer. Can you help them?"

"Help them?"

"They don't know anything. Truly. He's just a school friend of Shannon's."

"They harbored two of the most wanted terrorists in America. They got caught. They'll face the penalty. They have to."

"Drew, listen to me. The girl, Alice. She's eight years old."

There was a long pause. Finally Peters sighed. "All right. I'll see what I can do."

"Thank you."

"Now. What's your status?"

"I'm." He took a breath, straightened his back. The anger that had seized him, it was easy to understand. Over the last few days, he'd seen the lie in a lot of the truths he'd held self-evident. But none of that mattered, not right now. "I'm calling because I've got my opportunity. I'm going after the target." A minor risk; even if Smith had a world-cla.s.s intelligence network, it couldn't extend to the desk phone of a car dealership. "He dies tonight."

"So you've really done it," Peters said.

"I'm about to."

"You have your exit strategy worked out?"

"I'll jump off that bridge when I come to it. That's why I'm calling. Just in case. I wanted you to know that I'm living up to our deal." Cooper paused. "And I wanted to hear that you are, too."

"Of course, son." Peters's voice rarely betrayed emotion, but Cooper could hear the hurt in it. "No matter what happens, I'll do that. You're a hero."

"Kate-"

"Your daughter will never be tested. I've already taken care of the existing record, and taken measures to make sure that there will never be another. She's safe. I gave you my word, Nick. Whatever happens, I'll take care of your family."

My family. He had a flash of that morning, months ago, whirling his children on the front lawn of their house. One of them clinging to each arm, the weight of trust and love tugging at him with a pull he never wanted to be free of. The green blur of the world beyond them.

What you've seen has changed you. Fine. But that doesn't matter. You're not doing this for the DAR.

You're doing it for them.

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE.

Back in action.

In his life, Cooper had killed thirteen-no, counting Gary on the freeway, fourteen-people. That made him neither uncomfortable nor proud. It was just a fact. He wasn't a violent guy, didn't get off on hurting people. He was a soldier. When he acted, it was for a reason, and it was to save lives.

And yet he had to admit it felt good to be back in action.

The last six months had seen plenty of excitement. Some of it he'd enjoyed, testing himself, building a reputation that would allow him a chance to get closer to John Smith. But at the same time, it had felt like a holding pattern, something he was doing while his real life was waiting. His real life as a father, and his real life as a government agent, as a man fighting for a better future.

As of tonight, the holding pattern was over. He'd have this one chance at Smith. Succeed or fail, this phase would be behind him. No more pretending, no more running.

Well, that's not quite true. If you fail, there will likely be some running involved. He smiled and killed the engine.

The ridgeline the cabin sat on backed up to the Shoshone National Forest. After studying the maps and satellite imagery Epstein had provided, Cooper had settled on a narrow fire lane two miles from the house as a place to leave the truck. Earlier he'd stopped at a hunting goods store in Leibniz and bought supplies, and now he stripped down to his skivvies and put them on. A thermal base layer, camouflage pants and jacket, a pair of Vasque hiking boots, and light gloves. He'd splurged on good binoculars, Steiner Predators, which had set him back two grand. Worth every penny; the newtech lenses would not only let him see in the dark, the chipset a.n.a.lyzed the image and highlighted motion. The guy behind the counter had said, "You looking to do a little nighttime hunting?"

"Something like that." Cooper had smiled.

"These are the ticket, then. Need ammo?"

"I'm good."

He checked the Beretta now, then looked at the spare magazines, decided against them. If he needed to reload, he'd already lost. Besides, they could make noise if they knocked into something. Cooper locked the truck, tucked the keys under the b.u.mper, and started walking.

The air was crisp and cool, sweet in the way that air was supposed to taste but rarely did. He savored it and the clean movement of his muscles, the warmth in his legs as he climbed. He moved steadily but without hurry, and by the time he'd hiked up the back of the ridgeline, the sky had faded from indigo to purple and finally a velvety black. The moon cast sleek, wet-looking shadows.

The ridgeline was rocky, the trees old and bent with wind. The towers of vertical stone looked even more like fingers, the hand of a giant pushing up from below. Cooper squatted and gla.s.sed the area. It took him a few minutes to pick the right tree: an enormous Ponderosa pine about two hundred yards from the cabin.

Ten minutes later, he was perched on a broad limb twenty feet above the ground. His gloves were sticky with sap, and the rich, sharp smell of pine rang in his nostrils. Through the bunched needles, he had a perfect view of Helen Epeus's home. It was an attractive place with a boxy Pacific Northwest flavor to the architecture. Lots of gla.s.s and stylish cedar siding gapped in clean rows. The windows glowed a homey yellow. A cozy, serene spot...except for the man walking the perimeter with a submachine gun.

The gun was cross-slung, the grip in easy reach of the man's right hand, and judging by the way he moved, he'd reached for that grip before. The guard had a quiet ease and a ready alertness that Cooper recognized. A man who knew how to handle himself.

No surprise. But is he expecting anything?

A split-rail fence about fifty yards from the cabin marked the boundaries of the property. The guard followed the fence, moving slowly, checking shadows and keeping an eye on the road below. Cooper lay still on the branch, glad of the base layer-the night was getting chilly-and watched. The Predators traced a thin red outline around the man, reacting to his steady motion. It took the guard about eight minutes to walk a circuit, and while he varied his route, he rarely strayed far from the fence. A professional, but not showing any sign of anxiousness.

Good enough. Cooper turned his attention to the house itself.

The Predators went white as they adjusted to the change from darkness to light, and then he could see right in: Shaker furniture, shelves lined with books and pictures, a cottage kitchen with a half-full coffee pot. The second guard reminded Cooper of a drill sergeant: silver crew cut, lean muscles, ramrod posture. Sarge poured himself a cup of coffee, then turned to talk to someone Cooper couldn't see. That would be guard number three; while John Smith might be chummy with his security detail, tonight was about romance. Smith would be upstairs.

Okay. Three guards. A fourth was technically possible, but it would have been sloppy to have three inside and only one out, and Smith would never tolerate sloppy tactics.