Here went nothing.

Five seconds.

Something angry and hot burned past his arm, and sparks popped off a trash can ahead. He did a quick zag to the left. A patch of concrete burst. He faked right and then went left again. The hipster he pa.s.sed collapsed, hands clutching at his leg, which seemed to have exploded from the inside. Cooper never heard the shots, hadn't expected to. The flashbang was part of it, but also the snipers-there would be at least three-would be on upper floors hundreds of yards away.

Two seconds.

He hit the end of the platform at a dead run, planted his right foot without slowing, leaped upward, got his left foot onto the railing, and flung himself into s.p.a.ce, arms whirling, wind on his face, heart in his mouth.

Below him the street. Unforgiving concrete and the buzz of cars. Empty air. He just had time to wonder if he would make it, and then he hit the fire escape of the building opposite. It wasn't a graceful landing; he pretty much collided with the railing, ribs banging into it. He gasped, then hauled himself up and over. Turned to see if- -she landed like a cat, flexing her knees down to a squat crouch, her hands catching and pushing her up.

G.o.dd.a.m.n.

Cooper pushed aside his appreciation. They were out of time. A flashbang worked by throwing enough photons that it activated all light-sensitive cells in the eye, temporarily blinding anybody nearby and facing it. But ten seconds was as much as he could hope before the team would be able to see enough to start moving. Maybe even to risk a shot. He lunged for the corner railing, ripped off the strip of duct tape, and yanked the crowbar free, then whirled and smashed the window with one blow. Hauled it back across the bottom to clear the worst of the shards.

He turned to gesture to the girl, and found her no longer there. Right. He leaped through the window as gunfire cracked behind. He hit something, her, and the two of them tangled and fell. He landed on top of her, not a suave action hero move but a clumsy, wind-losing collapse. He caught a whiff of female sweat and some spicy sort of perfume, and then they were both squirming to their feet.

A thin man with thinner hair sat on the opposite side of the desk. His mouth was wide open. He stared at them like, well, like they had just exploded through his window. Cooper snorted a laugh-something about a fight, he always found synchronicities and amus.e.m.e.nts when he couldn't afford them-and went for the office door. She followed. An office like any other, cubicles and filing cabinets and fluorescent lights. He walked steadily, nodding at people he pa.s.sed, just another office drone. The stairwell was by the elevator. He hurried in and up. His ears rang and his ribs hurt. He went up one flight and then paused on the landing and checked the time.

"Why are you stopping?"

"Waiting for them to get here. All of the units in the area will be rerouted to this building."

"What? This is a trap?"

"No. They'll surround it, secure the exits. Then tactical response teams will move in. That's when we move out."

"Screw you. I'm not waiting."

He shrugged. "Okay."

Her eyes narrowed. "You've had this all planned."

"I figured Zane would sell me out."

"Then why show up?"

"Because there was a chance that he wouldn't. Besides, I've run a million of these. I know the playbook."

"Right," she said, her voice cold. "You've run a million of these on other gifted."

"Yes. And right now there are about a hundred agents converging on this building. You think you can slip past them all, be my guest. Otherwise, do what I say, and we get out of here."

"Why would you help me?"

He paused, mind racing. He'd figured Zane would betray him; had been depending on it, in fact. The DAR was no doubt paying a hefty bounty. Not only that, but while the agency didn't care about common criminals, it had pull with agencies that did. Selling Cooper out might buy Zane insurance later. It was simple math to a.s.sume he would call the DAR, and that the department would come in full force. Come loudly and publicly. Which had been the purpose of the whole exercise. It was a test balloon. A message. It would show John Smith that Nick Cooper was, beyond a doubt, no longer on the DAR's payroll. And just maybe it would be the first step toward the terrorist.

What he hadn't imagined was that the Girl Who Walks Through Walls would come to avenge a man he'd killed thirteen months ago. It presented him with one h.e.l.l of an opportunity. He wanted to reach Smith? Here was one of the terrorist's most trusted soldiers. The woman who had pulled the trigger on March 12 and blown up the Exchange, killing 1,143 people. He fought the urge to knock her unconscious and leave her for his old team.

But she was just a piece. He wanted the player.

"I don't know," he said. "For Brandon Vargas, I guess." He gave that half a second to sink in, then said, "Let's go."

The door bore a sign that read NO ENTRY: EXIT ON GROUND FLOOR. He put a palm against it and pushed. It swung open. On the way through he pulled off the duct tape he'd applied last night to keep the latch from catching. Wonderful stuff, duct tape.

"Now what?"

He ignored her and strode down the hall. A woman smiled as he pa.s.sed. A cubicle jock did cubicle jock things. The break room was just a wider s.p.a.ce in the hall, a fridge buzzing away, packets of coffee creamer and plastic silverware. The window had been painted a dozen times, thick layers that locked it shut. He slid one end of the crowbar under the sash and jerked downward. The paint cracked, and something squealed. Another jerk, and the thing popped open half an inch. He forced it the rest of the way, then climbed out onto another fire escape, half a block away and two stories up from the one they'd arrived at. A train was pulling into the El station. Perfect.

"You're kidding." She leaned over the railing.

"Nope." He climbed up, balanced for a moment, then leaned forward. Felt gravity begin to take him. At the last second he flexed his legs and leaped off. Below streaked the same unforgiving concrete, the same buzzing cars, the same empty air. Then he hit the roof of the El platform, bending his knees and falling into a roll. The metal bonged and rang at the impact, but the arriving train masked the noise. Behind him he heard the same metallic clatter, softer than his, and then they crouched side by side atop the roof as the silver train drew to a stop. He waited until the flow of riders on and off the train had ebbed, and then, with an easy step, he moved onto the roof of the second car. Lowered himself down and army-crawled to the front, got a good grip on the lip, and braced his feet. The metal was cold and dirty. A moment later, the girl joined him. She looked sideways, shook her head. "a.s.shole."

He grinned. "Doors are closing. Please hold on."

There was a lurch like an elevator starting, and then the train began to move.

Most of the plan he'd been reasonably sure of. His old agency hadn't yet taken into account the fact that he knew their techniques. They were using the same playbook. So it had been easy to create a situation where the flashbangs would buy him time, where he could use standard protocol to his advantage, where he could lure every available agent to one spot and then double back from it. But he'd never ridden atop a moving train before.

After everything else he'd done in the last few minutes, it turned out to be almost easy. According to his d-pad, on a long straightaway the trains could hit fifty-five miles an hour. He didn't know if they'd be able to hold on under those circ.u.mstances, clinging to the slick metal by lousy handholds. Fortunately, they were in the Loop, where trains made a circle before running back the way they'd come. The greatest risk came as they rounded a corner and the train rocked sideways, but he'd antic.i.p.ated it and braced for the motion. The wind was exhilarating, and the expressions he saw on the faces of people in the buildings made getting shot at worthwhile. They rode through two stops, and he was almost sad when the third came up.

G.o.dd.a.m.n, but I'm good. He stood, started for the edge of the train. The doors had opened, and riders were pouring in and out. He'd wait till they were mostly gone and then jump off just before- She came from behind, her knee knocking out his as her hands took his shoulders. He was going down, no arguing with physics, but why had he turned his back on her in the first place? They hit the roof of the train, bounced. He slipped her hold, twisted, raised one arm to strike.

The Girl Who Walks Through Walls pointed, alarm in her eyes. Cooper narrowed his, risked a quick glance over his shoulder. Pa.s.sengers leaving the train, men and women, tourists and businesspeople, a flight attendant, a couple of students...and two men in suits.

Roger d.i.c.kinson said, "d.a.m.n it. I was sure he'd double back."

"You want to check the train again, sir?" Bobby Quinn had a dryly insubordinate tone, but it was the "sir" that caught Cooper's attention. Peters must have promoted the man, probably given him Cooper's old position. That was bad news. Whatever else he might be, Roger d.i.c.kinson was very good at his job.

"No, I don't want to check the train again, Bobby. You know what I want? To know you're on the right side."

"I told you, I don't believe Coop's a terrorist."

"Yeah? Even though he blew up the Exchange?"

"He didn't blow up-"

"Right. He just went there seconds before it blew up, then vanished and started robbing DAR labs. And that woman he was holding hands with, she's the one who killed Bryan Vasquez. So tell me again. How is Cooper one of the good guys here?"

"I don't know." Quinn's voice was dogged. "But I still don't believe he's with Smith."

"Get it through your head, Bobby. Your girlfriend, he's a-"

"Doors are closing. Please hold on." There was a loud bing-bong, and then the train started moving. Cooper barely had time to grab the lip of the car. A strange and awful heaviness tightened his stomach. He'd been c.o.c.ky there, had almost stepped right in front of his old colleagues. He'd seen how fast d.i.c.kinson was. And Cooper was unarmed. If I'd jumped down, he'd have killed me.

When he turned to look at her, The Girl Who Walks Through Walls met his gaze briefly. Then she looked away.

You say you are the master race,

I say you are our disgrace, You say it's not your fault, I say destroy all trace.

Put out the lights,

Put out the lights, Wash the streets with blood, And put out the lights.

You say you are the future,

I say I wouldn't be so sure, You say live and let live, I say scrub our world pure.

Put out the lights,

Put out the lights, Set the streets on fire, And put out the lights.

For all the times you kicked us,

And all the times you smiled, For all the times you tricked us, And all the times you lied,

Put out the lights,

Put out the lights, Let the bodies fall, And put out the lights.

-Severed Bloodlines, "Put Out the Lights"

Resistance Records, 2007

CHAPTER NINETEEN.

It was a far cry from an executive suite at the Continental.

Bland and generic and mildly soul-killing, the Howard Johnson was on the unfashionable end of State Street. The afternoon light through the curtains was funereal. Behind him, the Girl Who Walks Through Walls said, "Now what?"

"We wait." He moved to the edge of the bed, sat down.

She stepped in as though uncertain whether to stay. Ran a finger along the desk. "Nice digs."