"Perhaps your people could be moved," suggested Svoransky finally.

General Locusta turned toward Jurg. "What exactly do you want, Major?" he asked in English. "Be specific. And have the courtesy to speak to me directly."

"We want two things," said Jurg, switching to English. "We want to embarra.s.s the Americans, as Mr. Svoransky has said."

"Embarra.s.sing them is one thing. An attack while my men are guarding them is very difficult."

"Not if you help."

"I do not need to be at war with the Americans."

Locusta started to rise. Svoransky grabbed his arm. "You misunderstand," he said. "Your men will not be involved. All they need do is look the other way."

"I doubt that can be arranged."

"You owe us quite a bit, General," said Jurg.

Locusta's anger flared, and for a moment he considered what would happen if he punched the major. The man was shorter than he was, but built like a wrestler, thick around the neck, with large forearms and a chest like a barrel.

If he decked him, there would be a moment of elation, then consequences.

"I owe you nothing," said Locusta. "And I will owe you less if there is an attack on the base."

"General, our relationship has been profitable and surely will be more so in the future. You do not want Romania to be a member of the EU, or NATO. Nor do we. You want to be president-we find that very acceptable."

"What's your point?" snapped Locusta.

"The point is, we will do as we please," said Jurg. "You will have to accept it."

As a young boy, Locusta had struggled to control his emotions. He had gone to great lengths to learn the discipline needed to push away his anger and clear his head for logic. As a twelve-year-old he had stood in his parents' kitchen, his hand over the burning wick of a candle, testing how long he could leave his fingers there despite the pain. His goal had been to recite the times tables backward from twelve times twelve while holding his hand above the candle. It was a game as much as an exercise, but it had served him well. When his anger threatened to careen out of control, he often thought back to the candle and the sensation of heat at his fingertips, and regained control.

"I will accept no more casualties at your hands," he said coldly as he rose.

"General, who said anything about casualties?" said Svoransky. He put his hand out and touched Jurg on the shoulder. "A way will be found to embarra.s.s the Americans without involving you. We just want you to be aware of it. My companion and his people won't even be involved."

"Don't contact me again," said Locusta.

"Now now," said Svoransky. "Remember, we are friends."

The words impaled themselves in Locusta's consciousness, playing over and over as he drove himself back to his Second Corps headquarters.

Near Tutova, northern Romania

1400.

IT TOOK ROUGHLY SIX HOURS FOR THE TRAIN TO GET FROM Bucharest to the station near Piatra Neamt. Sorina Viorica spent most of the time sleeping. She lay against Stoner's shoulder, the weight and her scent pleasant despite everything he told himself.

"We need a cab," he said to her when they got to the platform.

"A town like this won't have a taxi."

"Then we'll hire a driver."

"Where?"

"The stationmaster will know," said Stoner, heading toward the ticket office. "He'll have a brother-in-law or a friend in need of work."

It turned out to be a sister, which was fine with Stoner. He gave her the address he'd written down.

The woman read it and glanced at him, a worried look on her face. Stoner nodded solemnly, then fanned the ten twenty-dollar bills he'd concealed in his fist.

The address belonged to the house that had been blown up. It took nearly an hour to get there. When they arrived, the police and a small contingent of soldiers were still guarding it, but they were able to drive up the road and park a short distance away, close enough to see the ruins.

And smell them. The scent of burnt wood and flesh still hung in the air when they got out of the car.

Stoner led her toward the house. Rags covered with blood lay on the front lawn.

"What is this?" Sorina Viorica asked.

"Your friends did this," he told her. "The ones you don't want to turn in. The dregs who are left. Six children died. This is their blood. Girls, one to ten years old. Or maybe there were seven. The remains were so mangled, it's hard to tell."

"Look." Stoner pulled the photos from his pocket. "See if you can tell which were the bombers and which were the victims."

Tears streamed down Sorina Viorica's face. She started to look at the photos, then pushed them away and ran back toward the car.

Allegro, Nevada

0508.

BREANNA THREW OFF THE COVERS AND GOT OUT OF BED, wincing a little as she walked toward the bathroom.

"Time to get up, time to get up," she told herself, throwing on the shower.

She'd had only a few hours sleep, but she was determined to get her rehab session over with, then get over to the base, kick b.u.t.t on the physical and whatever other bs the doctors threw at her, and get herself back on full duty.

Full flight duty. Flying.

She was back. During the entire Lakers game she hadn't thought about being hurt once. Her head felt fine. Her legs, ribs, arms-there were still bruises and a few creaks in her joints, but she was A-okay. There was no reason she couldn't get back in the air.

Zen was back. Mack was back. Her father was back.

The only difference between her and them was her gender. And that was absolutely not going to make a difference.

The cold water hit her like an electric shock. She resisted the urge to pump it up to hot, instead lathering and moving as quickly as possible. She'd do her hair after her workouts.

Sleek Top had been quite the gentleman after the game. He was such a sweet guy that she hated hurting him. If it weren't for Zen...

Her teeth chattered as she hopped out of the shower. She pulled a towel around her, more to ward off the cold than to actually dry herself, and walked out to the kitchen to get Mr. Coffee working. Then she went back to the bedroom to get dressed.

She was getting back in action, all the way back. There was no other goal, and no rest until that goal was achieved.

Bucharest, Romania

1810.

"I WILL TELL YOU WHERE THEY HIDE IN MOLDOVA," SORINA said in a quiet voice on the train back to Bucharest. "But I must do it in my own way."

"You can do it any way you want," Stoner told her.

"They were not always so..."

Her voice trailed off. She couldn't find the right word. He could think of several-ruthless, despicable, gutless-but he said nothing.

They were sitting opposite each other in a first cla.s.s car, the s.p.a.ce between them divided by a table. Sorina Viorica got up and slid next to him. Then, clutching his chest, she began to sob.

THE NIGHT WAS A SLIDE DOWN A LONG SLOPE, PREORDAINED. He brought her back to the apartment and started to leave; she looked at him and took a step, and from that moment he no longer resisted, no longer had another self, a professional self, to stop him.

He'd had occasion to use s.e.x as a weapon, or, more accurately, as a means to an end several times in his career. This wasn't like that. It was considerably more dangerous. It was real.

He slipped into bed with her, moving quietly, softly. Then his hunger grew. Making love, it became insatiable.

He fell asleep with Sorina in his arms, his last thought that he had crossed a line that should never be crossed.

Dreamland

1030.

THE LAST FIVE MINUTES WERE SHEER h.e.l.l. BREANNA FELT as if her legs were going to fall off and her lungs were about to collapse within her chest.

But she kept running.

She kept running because she was coming back, and nothing was going to stop her.

She leaned forward, pushing the soles of her sneakers against the treadmill surface, pushing and pushing as she struggled to finish the stress test. When she'd started, she thought of it as a race, and pitted herself against the clock. Now it was just survival, a race against the growing ache in her muscles, against pain that surged from her bones.

She was going to make it. She had to make it.

The buzzer sounded but she continued to run, comprehending that it was over yet unable to transmit the message to her legs.

Simply collapsing was not an option-the doctor was right behind her, taking it all in.

Gradually, she got her legs to slow. Her breathing was still labored, but as she slipped into a walk, her breathing began to ease and the pounding of her heart grew less intense.

Her knee was throbbing-running put a great deal of pressure on the joint-but it held. She stepped off the machine, trying to appear as nonchalant as possible.

"Well?" she asked the doctor. "What do you think?"

He didn't say anything. Instead, he motioned her toward the curtained examining area at the back of the room.

"You're going to check my blood pressure?" Breanna asked as he took the cuff from its little shelf on the wall.

"Of course."

"Didn't those machines tell you everything you need to know?"

He shrugged. Clearly he was determined to give her a hard time.

"And?" she said pointedly.

"There's no doubt that you have a healthy heart, Captain," he said. "And that in general you're fit."

Breanna started to smile.

"That doesn't mean I'm clearing you to fly," he added. "Your knee doesn't hurt?"

She shook her head.