"Cowboy," said Bug, "you don't understand. You don't go to events like this. These are fan conventions. At least one out of every three people is in costume."

My heart, which had been teetering on the edge of a long drop, toppled over into darkness.

The jet flew on.

But toward what?

Chapter One Hundred and Eight.

Grand Hyatt Hotel 109 East Forty-second Street New York City Sunday, September 1, 3:46 p.m.

Junie Flynn sat on the bed, legs crossed, shoulders against the headboard, eyes closed. Meditation was the only thing that kept her from climbing the walls. And even then, inside the calm s.p.a.ce she had created while the minutes and hours pa.s.sed, tension nipped at her with rat teeth.

No calls.

No word.

Nothing.

Not from Joe or anyone at the DMS. The only call she'd received had been a short, awkward one from Violin asking if they could talk sometime, maybe. Junie agreed, of course, but before she could ask what Violin wanted to talk about, the strange and moody woman had hung up.

Apart from that, Junie's cell remained as silent as if it were broken.

She knew that this was how it had to be. Secrecy was paramount for the DMS. If anyone ever suspected that she knew something about one of Joe's missions, then she would become a liability. She could be used as a lever against Joe. It broke her heart to know that she was the one c.h.i.n.k in his armor.

Love was such a wicked thing at times. How like a blade. Used one way, it could carve and sculpt and prune, it could remove a tumor or harvest a flower. Used another way, it stole life and scarred beauty and destroyed hope.

Love was like that.

In Junie's view it was the most powerful force in the universe, the core of creative energy, the shaper of all things, giver of life and author of possibilities. However, it could be turned to wicked purpose.

Mr. Church knew that, she was certain. The two men stationed outside her door were not there to protect her. Not really. They were there to protect Joe.

To protect the mission.

She understood that, appreciated it, and hated it, too.

The minutes grew like weeds to become hours, and Junie fought her panic. Moment by moment, the calm s.p.a.ce around her withered and contracted.

When someone knocked on the door she jumped and cried out in a voice like a startled bird.

Chapter One Hundred and Nine.

Peachtree Center Avenue Atlanta, Georgia Sunday, September 1, 3:47 p.m.

"Now that's really in poor d.a.m.n taste," growled Police Officer Michael Feingold.

His partner, Officer Carol Daniels, was standing a few feet away, arms wide to keep the crowd from crossing while traffic crawled past. He followed Feingold's line of vision and didn't have to ask what he was referring to.

Mother Night was crossing the street.

It was a young woman dressed exactly as the one from the video. Betty Page wig, sungla.s.ses, painted lips, and an outrageous costume that pushed the envelope of modesty. Here at DragonCon they saw a lot of people push that same envelope, and occasionally tear it open. Earlier that day they'd busted two men dressed only in blue body paint and carrying plastic spears. They claimed to be ancient Celtic warriors. Even tried to argue that a layer of paint const.i.tuted clothing. It didn't. Daniels and Feingold made them sit in their cruiser for a couple of hours and then gave them a citation and fine.

The girl in the Mother Night costume was wearing a high-cut midriff top that exposed the bottoms of her b.r.e.a.s.t.s.

"She shows even half a nipple and I'm busting her for public indecency," said Feingold.

Daniels grunted. "That costume's what's indecent."

The crowd parted to let the woman pa.s.s, and there were equal amounts of boos and cheers.

The woman held a sequin-encrusted leash that connected to studded leather collars on two men who stumbled along behind, hands bound behind their backs, pillowcases over their heads. The men were covered in realistic-looking wounds. Both of them wore blood-soaked white dress shirts, the flaps hanging. On the back of one, the words GOVERNMENT LACKEY were written in red lipstick. The other had GOVERNMENT STOOGE. Two other men followed behind, dressed in hoodies and gorilla masks.

The light changed and Daniels dropped her arms to let the crowd cross the street, rivers of people going from the Hyatt to the Marriott or the other way. It amazed both officers that these people still wanted to dress up in costumes, go to panels, cruise the dealers' rooms, stand in line for celebrities, when half the d.a.m.n country was in flames. At the morning role call, the sergeant said that the mayor was considering shutting down the convention but no one had a workable plan for what to do with sixty thousand tourists. The fear was that to stop the con would be to create doubt about a possible terrorist attack and that would result in immediate panic.

And, of course, chaos.

A plan was being worked out, according to the sergeant, and most likely this evening, as the activities of the day wound down, they would coordinate with event staff, hotel security, and some National Guard to shut it down and more or less tell everyone to stay in their rooms.

The plan, Feingold and Daniels agreed, was horses.h.i.t. No way it would work. There would either be a panic or a riot.

Having a fruitcake dressed as Mother Night was not likely to help matters. It was socially irresponsible as well as potentially dangerous. Riots have erupted over less.

As the woman crossed the street she pa.s.sed within a few feet of Feingold and Daniels.

"I have to," murmured Feingold, and then stepped into her path. The woman stopped.

"Is there a problem?" asked Mother Night. The two men in gorilla masks stopped also, flanked her as if they were bodyguards. The men with the pillowcase hoods milled as if drunk.

"Miss, I feel I need to urge you to reconsider your costume," said Feingold, trying to sound calm and authoritative. "Some people might take offense."

The woman tugged her sungla.s.ses halfway down and looked at him with big, innocent brown eyes. "Oh, my. It's just for fun."

"People are dying," said Feingold, his tone shifting into harshness. "Not everyone would think what you're wearing is fun. Some people might get pretty angry about it."

"Oh, it's okay," said the woman. "They're going to kill me later on anyway. All part of the fun."

"What?"

"It's part of the show. Good guys and bad guys. Big dramatic finish and, oh, poor me, I die. Don't you know that's how it goes?"

"That's not funny."

The woman pushed her gla.s.ses back into place. "Oh, no, you're wrong there. It's hilarious."

With that she moved around Feingold, nodded to Daniels, tugged on the sequined leash, and sauntered off, giving the crowd something to look at with absurdly exaggerated hip swagger. Lots of catcalls, whistles, obscene comments, shouts, and laughter. Her slaves staggered along behind her, their awkward balance occasionally steadied by the big men in masks.

Daniels came and stood next to her partner, who had his fists balled at his sides and whose face was now the color of a boiled lobster.

"She's asking for trouble," grumbled Feingold.

"Well, shame on her if she finds it and needs our help," sniffed Daniels. "I might just not see her. b.i.t.c.h."

The crowds surged back and forth and the officers had to shift their focus back to the management of all those people. Feingold, unable to completely let it go, kept throwing looks at the hotel that Mother Night and her entourage had just entered.

Then something else caught his eye and he looked up as a phalanx of helicopters moved slowly from east to west above him, no more than a hundred yards above the hotels. They were military birds. Feingold had done a tour each in Iraq and Germany, and he knew helicopters. Those were AH-64D Apache Longbows and UH-60 Black Hawks. He counted at least a dozen of each, and four AZ-1Z Vipers. They vanished behind the buildings.

"The h.e.l.l was that all about?" asked Daniels.

"Don't know. Something with the attacks."

Suddenly there was a burst of static from their radios and the dispatcher said, "All units, call in for instructions."

Chapter One Hundred and Ten.

Grand Hyatt Hotel 109 East Forty-second Street New York City Sunday, September 1, 3:48 p.m.

Junie crossed to the door. The lock was in place. She leaned close.

"Yes?"

"Agent Reid, ma'am."

"Is everything okay?"

"Shift change."

"Oh, okay."

She peered through the peephole and saw an agent dressed in a dark jacket, white shirt, and dark tie. He had a long, lugubrious face and the kind of bland, expectant expression people had when waiting for someone to answer the door. He turned and said something to someone else Junie couldn't see. Probably Reid.

Junie flipped the lock back and opened the door.

"Do you guys need to use the bathroom before you..."

There were three people in the hallway. Agents Reid and Ashe.

And someone else.

Reid and Ashe lay on the floor. Blood pooled under their heads.

The other man stood there, and his bland expression changed into a slow smile. He raised a pistol and pointed it at Junie.

"People like you make this too easy."

Chapter One Hundred and Eleven.

Marriott Marquis Hotel 265 Peachtree Center Avenue Atlanta, Georgia Sunday, September 1, 3:50 p.m.

She walked through madness leading her slaves on a leash.

Her costume was perfect, and she knew it, showing enough skin to attract the eye, and because she was dressed as the infamous Mother Night from yesterday's video, every eye that fell on her lingered.

In any other place, she and her hooded slaves would create a screaming panic or have witnesses calling the police. But this was DragonCon, and there were hordes of bloodthirsty vampires, storm troopers from the 501st Vader's Fist, Cen.o.bites from the h.e.l.l dimension, and far worse. By comparison, the gruesome and humiliating nature of her costume was understated.

Everywhere Mother Night looked she saw a deliberate insanity, a willful detachment from the ordinary. The atrium of the Marriott Marquis was vast, soaring four hundred and seventy feet above the lobby, and seeming to ripple and flow. Mother Night always thought it looked like the inside of the s.p.a.cecraft from Alien. The one designed by H. R. Giger. Like this was the throat of some t.i.tanic dragon rather than the lobby of a hotel. The entire lobby, wall to wall, was crammed with people. But also not people. There were Orcs and Hobbits, Vulcans and Klingons, Vikings and s.p.a.cemen, dead presidents and celebrity monsters. This late in the day, the panels were shutting down and the parties were kicking into high gear. Every tier of the atrium was abuzz with people going from room to room, in costume and in street clothes, sober and drunk, stoned and abstinent. Laughing. Everyone laughing.

She saw a line of teenagers in hoodies and backpacks with anarchy symbols spray-painted on their backs. Impromptu costumes. People shook beers and doused them, and they retaliated by throwing handfuls of confetti as if bombing the crowd. Hotel security and police scowled, and several times they stopped the kids to check their backpacks. They found beer and some pot. A few kids were dragged off. The rest were absorbed into the party.

Mother Night estimated that the lobby was packed with four thousand people. The fire codes were a joke. Thousands more shouted from the balconies.

The costumes changed as the day faded and night came on. There were fewer kids and a lot more booze. Costumes got smaller, more risque, occasionally obscene, always delightful.

Strolling among them was such fun. Especially once the crowd began to get her costume. People with toy guns pretended to shoot her. The kids dressed in hoodies immediately fell into step behind her, appointing themselves as her entourage. She knew that her beauty and skimpy costume were as much a draw as her "character." By playing Mother Night on this weekend, in this town-with the destruction of the CDC the buzz everywhere-she was a walking cause celebre. Cameras flashed, flashed, flashed.

It was so delicious. Even the people-and there were many-who thought that her costume was in bad taste and far too soon, reacted to her. Their disapproval and contempt was evident on their faces, in their shouts, in the fact that they followed her in order to berate her. Once the crowd was aware of her, everyone reacted to her in one way or another.

Everyone.

She constructed a haughty half-smile interspersed with flashes of a broad "yes-we're-all-in-on-it" grin.

It was so thrilling.

To be out in public as Mother Night.