He can't remember how many days ago that was. Five? Six? A week, maybe? He doesn't know.

It feels like years.

The Architect leaves the Church Street Marketplace and makes his way to Burlington International Airport via taxi, catching the first flight he can out of town, not much caring where it will take him. He knows he's being followed; if he's not under close surveillance then at least he's somehow being tracked. There's an 11:20 departure that takes him to Chicago, and, like Bell, he manages to grab a few hours of sleep on the flight. He leaves the airport and heads into the city, where he takes a room at the downtown Marriott, still traveling under the name Willem Smart. It unsettles him to continue using the Smart ident.i.ty, but he has only one set of papers remaining on him, and he wants them clean when he leaves the country.

His rolling bag with his wardrobe has been lost to him, left behind at the Watergate, and after checking into the hotel he heads out immediately for some utility shopping, clean clothes and necessary toiletries. He returns to his room, showers, then sits on the edge of his bed, feet flat on the floor, debating what to order from the room-service menu. He doesn't like any of the choices, finally settles for a grossly overpriced chicken Caesar salad. He turns on the television, flips through the cable news offerings, and sees absolutely nothing at all about happenings in Las Vegas, Nevada, or, for that matter, about the death of a brigadier general outside of Baltimore, Maryland.

He eats his salad with the room-service cart fully opened as his table, resists the call of his laptop until he is finished. Once his meal is completed, he succ.u.mbs, sending his programs out into the world to do their work, responding to the correspondence that demands his immediate attention. There is an e-mail from Zoya, and it's with difficulty that he saves it for last.

Her message is short. She is in Montreal, she is free, she loves him.

He sends her a response with the address to their house in Narbonne, in the Languedoc-Roussillon region of southern France, only fifty miles or so from the border with Spain. He tells her he loves her and that he will never, ever, risk her like this again.

The room phone rings. The bell surprises him, but the call itself does not. The Architect looks at the unit, at the message light flickering red in time with the annoying bleat. He watches it do this twice more before answering.

"Mr. Smart," a man says. "I'd like to buy you a drink and discuss a business proposition."

"I've had a long day, and I'm very tired," the Architect says. "If you would like to leave me a number at which you can be contacted and a name to ask for, I would very much appreciate it."

The man on the other end of the phone agrees, apologizes. He leaves a number and a name. The name is Wallford.

The Architect hangs up, then makes notes about the call before proceeding to the rest of his work. He shuts down his laptop, turns off the lights, and climbs into bed. There are enough pillows for him to arrange them to his liking, the way he has done every night without her, the way he will, very soon, never have to do again.

"Goodnight, my love," he whispers, and settles into sleep.

It's into the small hours of Sunday morning by the time Bell gets to the house in Hailey, the house that's too big for just him alone. He's called Amy three times before leaving Las Vegas and texted Athena twice that many times, and the only answer he's gotten has been from his daughter, a terser-than-usual text message telling him that she's going to sleep. He sends one back, sweet dreams, and gets no response.

He unlocks the door to the house and drops his bag, fumbles his way to his bedroom, halfheartedly undressing as he goes. He can no longer tell which is greater, his hunger or his exhaustion, and he feels like his body is turning to parchment, thin and brittle. He finishes stripping in the bathroom, showers in less than two minutes, towels off, and heads for his bed. He's closing his eyes when he sees Nessuno standing in the doorway. He shifts, pulls the covers back, and she climbs in beside him.

She puts her head against his breast, and he puts his arm around her shoulders, finds them strong and warm, feels her relax, and then he's asleep.

He dreams of shadows.

Acknowledgments.

This novel would not have been possible without the a.s.sistance of several people.

Gerard Hennelly, Eric Trautmann, Evan Franke, Nunzio DeFilippis, and Christina Weir remain stalwart and endless fonts of knowledge, support, critique, inspiration, and friendship. It is on your collective shoulders I have stood to reach the high shelves. I am grateful to be able to call each of you friend.

Once more, heartfelt thanks to Heather and Daniel Perkins, not solely for their a.s.sistance, but for their efforts to teach me about the life of the deaf. I still fear I do not have it right, but I sincerely hope I'm getting closer.

My thanks to Patrick Weekes, who served as an early reader when one was desperately required. He helped far more than he thinks he did. Sometimes, you just need someone to talk to.

A quick thank you to all on Twitter who responded to obscure questions at odd hours, foremost amongst them Natalie Stachowski, who knows many, many things, and not all of them are about nugs, the Sith, and N7 training.

As always, to David Hale Smith, and to Angela Cheng-Caplan. There is no such thing as "only business," and I am humbled by your dedication and devotion to your work, and your unflagging faith in my own.

To Ben, who will read this and think it silly because he has lived and witnessed the Real Deal, but who put the idea in my head. Through all the years and all the miles, your friendship still holds its notes, still rings clear and true. Someday, I sincerely hope we will be in the same place, at the same time, and that you'll be buying.

To Jennifer, my bandit. Always and forever.

Last, to those who offered insight and information, but who asked not to be named. Your service is remembered.

About the Author.

Greg Rucka is the New York Times bestselling author of almost two dozen novels, including the Atticus Kodiak and Queen & Country series, and has won multiple Eisner Awards for his graphic novels. He lives in Portland, Oregon, with his wife and children.

gregrucka.com.

Also by Greg Rucka.

The Jad Bell Series.

Alpha.

The Queen & Country Series.

The Last Run.

Private Wars A Gentleman's Game The Atticus Kodiak Series.

Walking Dead Patriot Acts Critical s.p.a.ce.

Shooting at Midnight Smoker.

Finder Keeper.

A Fistful of Rain Batman: No Man's Land.

Perfect Dark: Second Front.

Perfect Dark: Initial Vector.

end.