"Which means he could be anyplace."

She swerved around a fast-lane sightseer, pulling across the double line momentarily.

"Shit!" he cried.

"It's me, remember?"

He put a hand on the dashboard. "I do remember. You still drive like a bat out of hell."

"We're talking Thaddeus here."

"I'll shut up. So what do we do when we get to Mr. Towel-Head's house?"

"Here's what I'm thinking. Tell me what you think."

She explained it all to him, how she saw them moving along in their investigation. He nodded several times and agreed with how she wanted it to go down. "You're on," he said at last. "I like your thinking, girl."

"That's woman, to you, pal."

TWENTY MINUTES later they drove slowly past the duplex. The garage door was shut.

All lights appeared to be off. But Christine knew these guys. Lights meant nothing. Everything was a cue and nothing was a cue. Misdirection was their roadmap to anyone who happened to be watching them, every moment carefully choreographed and calculated to mislead and cloud what was really going on with them.

She pulled into the Mobil lot, zipped around the dozen pumps to the far side of the station, and shut it off. They climbed out and headed west, parallel to the duplex's property line, but a full lot north.

Special Agent Stanley Ciuffa clicked on the comm. "They're headed west. Evidently coming around behind." He was parked across from the Mobil in a windowless yellow van. What he was able to see was made possible by three TV lenses mounted along the van's roofline, a new feature that used the same nighttime visual capabilities as found on the Apache helicopters in Iraq and Afghanistan. In fact, Ciuffa had served in both theaters and had been wounded, but not disabled, and had thereafter joined the Fibbies. He was second in command to Pauline Pepper and worked terrorist organizations while she had come up through gangs. That night, she was down at the other end of the block and around the corner, riding a Harley panhead and accompanied by two other agents on street Harley Soft tails. It was a new look for the FBI, the bikes, being tried on for size in Oakland, Chicago, and Miami. Places where biker gangs were notoriously active and violent. The riders wore leathers and were heavily armed with semiautomatic firearms and small shotguns. To say they were itching for a fight with the occupants of the duplex would have been an understatement that rankled all of them.

Pauline Pepper spoke into the comm fastened to her jacket. "Let them go. I want Christine first in on this guy. If I know my girl, she'll get Thaddeus' location before we ever could."

"Roger that," said Ciuffa, as he watched the infrared couple round the corner and head back south, out of sight.

"Rolling," said Agent Pepper, and she kicked it into first and edged ahead to the intersection with Milwaukee Avenue. She inched around the corner, lights off. Running without lights on the new Harleys was of course impossible, but Mechanical and Armaments had intervened and the normal lights-on wiring had been interrupted with a switch on all bikes. She left the motor running and was quiet enough with the heavily baffled pipes that all agents swore by. If there was any giveaway in all this, it was the fact the bikes avoided straight pipes in favor of silent running. No Harley rider in his right mind would have settled for quiet. But this was a very different ilk of rider than the norm.

Christine and Bat crossed the imaginary property line separating the first house from the duplex on the west side. They would have to enter the adjoining house's backyard, pray there were no watchdogs, and then go up the outside fire stairs to the upper entrance. Her gut instinct told her Ragman was inside. She would have bet the farm on it; in fact, she was making that bet. If she lost the wager and the guy wasn't actually there, then she would have zero idea where to begin looking for her boss. She said a silent prayer and lifted the gate latch to the abutting backyard and stepped inside. Bat followed, his hand against her back so he didn't overstep on her. Silently they crept across the backyard and came to the fence that set off the rear lot line. It was a standard six-foot fence, wood, and she felt along its surface. She could see well enough by now to make out the absence of a gate. So now what?

"You step on my hands," Bat whispered. "Then go on over."

"What about you?" she whispered back.

"Hey, for an old street guy a six-foot fence is nothing. Now let's worry about you."

He joined his two hands together, interlocking fingers, and Christine stepped onboard and he lifted. Her free leg swung up and over and in one easy move she was on the other side, waiting for Bat. He easily pulled himself atop the fence and jumped down the other side.

"Ready?" she whispered.

He nodded.

They set out across the backyard.

Then they were at the stairs. She went first. Bat followed close behind.

She stepped on the outer edges of the stairs as she went up, in order to avoid squeaks from boards that would otherwise give underfoot. Bat followed her lead and climbed likewise.

They made the first landing. She pulled her .4o caliber Glock from its shoulder holster and waited while he extracted his nine-millimeter as well. Then they proceeded up the second flight. They quickly made the upper landing and waited, breathing as shallow as possible as they listened. Both were crouching and Christine's ear was pressed against the wood door. She heard nothing.

She turned and pressed her non-shooting ear to the door. She had better hearing in the ear that was furthest from weapons as she fired them. It was true of all who had fired thousands of rounds through military-issue guns. However, even through the better ear she still could make out no sounds.

She reached above her head and touched the doorknob. She tentatively twisted it counterclockwise. It gave in a full 180-degree turn. She nodded at Bat, indicating it was unlocked. This was a trick she had taught Thaddeus several years ago. Let them come inside without a sound, she had taught him. Then you can easily track them across the room and let them come to you before their eyes fully adjust to the blackness inside.

The door opened and she stuck her head inside. She could make out a washer and dryer piggyback. Her eyes quickly adjusted and she looked through the next doorway into what appeared to be the kitchen. There was no one there, so she moved from a crouch to a half-stance and moved inside. Bat followed close behind. They had previously agreed that when they went into the living room she would own the right half and he would own the left. An old Special Ops trick that was going to perhaps come in very handy tonight.

Without a sound she crossed the kitchen floor and stopped. The living room was next and she didn't want to reveal herself. So she didn't peer within.

Incredibly, she hadn't long to wait.

Ragman himself came marching into the kitchen like he owned the place. Which he did. But what he didn't own was the space and its occupants. They had made it inside without a sound and he didn't have a clue. He snapped on the kitchen light and found himself staring at point blank range straight into the very nasty-looking muzzle of a very large caliber handgun. Holding the handgun was a woman he'd never seen before, but his instincts told him to freeze at the just the same moment she said the same word.

"Freeze!" she cried, and jammed the gun against his forehead.

He quickly raised both arms.

"Who else is here?" she said. "Fast before I fire."

"Just me," he blurted. "Everyone is gone."

"Where's Thaddeus?"

"Who?"

"Okay, we'll do it that way," she said, fully understanding that this guy wasn't going to give them anything. Which was fine; she had her own Plan B for such an eventuality, courtesy of the CIA spooks she had been assigned to in Baghdad.

"Bat, pull the kitchen table away from the wall."

"Got it."

"Little more. Give me two feet back there. You're going to need to fit on that side."

"Done."

"All right," she said to Ragman. "Up you go."

"What?"

"Up on the table, asshole. On the table on your back. Now!"

She slipped her finger inside the Glock's trigger guard.

The man complied, sitting backwards on the table and then scooting over and reclining onto his back.

"Spread your arms wide open."

He complied and she removed the nylon belt she was wearing. "Bat, do what I'm doing with your belt."

"I don't have a belt."

"Find something, then."

Bat went over to the blinds above the sink and ripped away the heavy cord.

He returned to the table and tied the man's left hand to the table leg on his side. Meanwhile, Christine had secured the right hand on her side. Now the guy was spread-eagled.

"Open for business," she said. "Go to the bathroom and get a towel."

Bat returned with a towel.

"Now, where we came in through the laundry room, there's a bucket. Retrieve, please."

Bat returned with the bucket and took it to the sink. "Fill?"

"All the way," she said.

He handed the bucket to her.

"Now hold him down, stretch out across his legs."

She placed the towel across Ragman's face. Then she began a steady stream of water down into his mouth. Within seconds he was struggling his head side to side.

"Reach up here with your hands and hold his head still."

Bat did as he was told and the pouring resumed. Now the choking began and didn't stop. The man's head was jerking violently against the water but Bat held him steady. This went on for much longer than a bystander might have guessed.

Finally she relented and the flow of water stopped. The bucket stood half full.

"Now I'm going to ask you again, asshole. Where's Thaddeus?"

"Umf-dun-kniw," choked the voice beneath the towel.

"You don't know? Maybe this will help your memory."

She again poured water down into the towel, mouth level, until this time the bucket was empty and the struggling had ceased. She ripped the towel from the man's face. His eyes were open and water gurgled out the side of his mouth. She turned his head to the side and slapped his face. Again, harder. He jerked back to life and began whimpering.

No, no, no, no," he begged.

Without a word she again covered his face and repeated with another half bucket. Again the struggling ceased and again she uncovered him and slapped him back to consciousness.

"Fucker's out cold," Bat said with no small amount of glee. "I never seen that before."

"I'll keep it up until he drowns, if that's what it takes," she said to the open, frightened eyes. "More?"

"He's out by Palatine. North."

"Give me the address."

"2500 North Randolph Drive. It's on the east side. Of the road. Back along gravel road."

"Is he alive?"

"Don't know."

"Well, I'll tell you what, asshole. If he's not alive you're about to meet your seventy-two virgins. With my help."

"He was left alive."

"And?"

"That's all I know."

"That's not all you know. Give me the rest of it or I'll float it out of you."

"No, no. They were going to burn the place."

"Wait here, asshole. We're going to go find our friend. If he's dead, I'll be back. If he's not dead, I'll be back anyway. And when I come back I'm going to make sure you don't scare of those virgins with your manhood. Get my drift?"

"No, please."

"Save it. I'll be back, so don't leave."

"I'll get something tied around his legs. Give me five."

"You've got it."

Christine two-fingered a Marlboro out of a hard pack and lit up. She smoked it a third of the way down and tapped the ashes over the man's face.

"So you remember me," she said.

Then she lifted his shirt and angrily ground it out on his belly. Howls erupted and the motorcyclists out front saw Special Agent Pepper smile in the dark night. "Got him," she said.

"Remember me," said Christine. "I'm coming back for you, fucker. I want your balls."