the blade, turned it over in his hand, and began to slowly, painfully, saw into the flex-cuffs.
When he was free, he stood and collected himself, his face still swelling, the hangar dipping as though floating on rough seas. And then, blinking his good eye to clarity, he lifted his gaze to the rafters, the crossbeams, the pipes, and still… nothing. He turned back to the bodies and shook his head in pity at Sergei. Then he glowered at the fat man, who even in death would get the last laugh, since disposing of his body would be like manhandling a dead Russian circus bear.
There was still a lot of work to do, but all the while Hansen couldn’t help but feel the heat of someone’s gaze on his shoulders.
He shouted again, “Who are you?”
Only his echo answered.
1
Maya Valentina saw it in the man’s gaze, which flicked down from her low-cut blouse to her well-tanned legs to her feet jammed into a pair of stilettos. She tossed back her hair, which fell in golden waves across her shoulders, then put an index finger to her lips, as though to nervously bite her nail. Oh, yes, he liked the shy schoolgirl routine, and Valentina could pass for a freshman, too, though she was nearly twenty-eight.
“Hi, there. You must be Ms. Haspel,” he said, drawing in his sagging gut and probably wishing his thinning hair were two shades darker.
She reached across the desk and accepted his hairy paw. “It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Leonard, and thanks for the interview.”
“Well, as I said, we only have one position to fill, so the competition is fierce. Please have a seat.”
She settled down and leaned toward his desk, keeping her blue eyes locked on his. “Can I ask a question before we start?”
“By all means.”
“Does the company have a sexual-harassment policy?”
His lip twitched. “Of course.”
“Well, I’ve had some problems in the past.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“Yeah, the one guy was married and claimed I was a stalker, which was totally not the case. The other guy kept saying I was making lewd remarks. He even said I flashed my panties, and there’s no way I did that.”
He hesitated. “Are you serious?”
“Yes. I like to get dressed up for work. It doesn’t mean I want to have sex with everyone I see.”
He cleared his throat. “Of course not. But you should know that we have a dress code. Business casual.”
Valentina nodded and gazed salaciously at him. “Is what I’m wearing okay?”
He swallowed before answering.
Hansen was sitting in an SUV parked outside the four-story office building. The complex was comprised of ten equally nondescript buildings: the headquarters for a lengthy list of companies that were, according to an intel report, “assembling stacked layers of silver and nonconducting magnesium fluoride and cutting out nanoscale-sized fishnet patterns to form metamaterials.”
Grim had explained that metamaterials held the key to developing cloaking devices to render objects invisible to humans. Leonard’s company in particular was developing paint for military vehicles and fabric for military uniforms. This was all quite serious business, which was why Hansen could only shake his head as he listened to Maya and Leonard. What the hell was she doing? All she had to do was get hired.
Admittedly, she’d hated the tired old plan of playing dress up to ensure Leonard took the bait, so overplaying the role was her way of protesting. She wouldn’t just be the attractive new hire; she was now the quirky sex addict who’d called way too much attention to herself. Hansen was a breath away from reporting her misconduct to Grim, but then he thought better of it and just sat there as Maya told Leonard she was always available for overtime and “after-hours” work. Hansen grimaced.
At 10:05 A.M. Nathan Noboru parked his utility van at the curb outside William Leonard’s seven-thousand- square-foot home. Sprawling front lawns, well-manicured grounds, and tree-lined brick-paved driveways unfurled to a grand entrance shadowed by twenty-foot columns painted in a glossy antique white. This part of southwest Houston was called Sugar Land, and it was sweet indeed: Multimillion-dollar homes were nestled among well- tended golf course greens and tranquil lakes. The senior citizen manning the neighborhood guardhouse had taken a perfunctory glance at Noboru’s forged work orders and immediately waved him through.
With a sigh, Noboru grabbed his utility belt and started up the driveway. But then he slowed, furtively glanced around, and scratched his crew cut. He gazed out past the lawn toward the neighboring home, another mansion where an old man in a pink shirt and oversized sunglasses stood near his Mercedes, preparing to load a golf bag into his trunk.
Off to Noboru’s left lay another spectacular three-story chateau with a tremendous brick facade and five-car garage. Noboru studied the windows, trying to spot the lens of a telescopic camera or other such observation device. Nothing. He continued on, but something wasn’t right.
Or was that just his paranoia? Again. They weren’t after him anymore. He had a new life now. He needed to believe that.
Noboru shifted up to the front door, made a call, heard the phone ring inside the house, and then he tapped a series of numbers into his phone and heard the rapid ringtone of the alarm being disarmed. He took out his double- sided lock-pick set and got to work. Three, two, one: The door opened—
And if the explosions hadn’t started at the back of the mansion, he would’ve already been dead.
Twin thunderclaps resounded, and the ground literally shook beneath his feet as the door slammed back toward him, knocking him to the ground.
He rolled over, shot to his feet, and sprinted down the driveway. He might as well have been back in Kao- hsiung, chased through the crowded streets by Horatio and Gothwhiler, the night air humid, the sweat pouring down his face. Several more explosions ripped through the house, and he stole a look over his shoulder as huge windows burst outward, sending showers of glass to the driveway while flames shot through the holes and wagged like dragons’ tongues.
He reached the van and whirled around. Clouds of black smoke backlit by more roaring flames now devoured the entire mansion, while fiery debris floated down like confetti and got trapped in the thick canopy of leaves and limbs.
The old man who’d been loading his golf clubs was now backing out of his driveway. He stopped, climbed out of his car, and hurried over while dialing a number on his phone.
Noboru’s mouth fell open. This was supposed to be a pathetically simple entry to place electronic eyes and ears. In fact, he’d balked over how rudimentary the whole operation was (he was entering through the front door!) and had loathed the fact that Director Grimsdottir was wasting his talents on such a menial task. He had only been employed by Third Echelon for less than a year, but didn’t his four years with Japan’s Special Operations Group, its own Delta Force, count for anything?
Apparently not… but what was going on now?
Were Horatio and Gothwhiler tailing him? Did they known he’d be here? Were they trying to finish the job? If the others learned about them, about Noboru’s
A voice crackled in the nickel-sized subdermal embedded in the skin behind his ear; it was the Grim Reaper herself. “Nathan, I’m looking at the satellite feed—”
“I know! I know!” Noboru ran back to the van and yanked open the door. “Ma’am, you’d better call Hansen!”
