"Dadu," Maya says, doing her imitation of what Simon would sound like if he could talk, wiggling him back and forth. "Dadu, you must hold me now. Hold me, Dadu. Mamma wants to lie down."

I reach up and take the boy, holding him above me while Maya lies down beside me and snuggles in.

I'm still getting used to all this. I'm not a natural with babies. With gentleness. At first, I pretended he was nitroglycerin. Shaken too hard, he would explode. But I got better at holding him. I treated his dirty diapers like live mines and learned how to disarm the worst of his bombs. But the silly-voice strangeness that possesses most people when holding a child is still foreign to me. I haven't mastered it yet, but I try, and his smile helps.

"Who's a funny boy?" I say, lowering him to my face so our noses touch for a moment. Then I lift him back up and repeat. Repet.i.tion seems to be the key to eliciting a laugh. They don't usually find humor in something the first two or three times, but after that each repet.i.tion gets a bigger reaction. I repeat the up-and-down motion, saying, "Who's a funny boy?" three times before he squeals with delight, kicking his legs and flapping his arms, saying, "Ooh, ooh, ooh!" Then he stops, wide-eyed, and turns to watch a dog walk past with its owner, that openmouthed smile locked in place.

While he watches the dog, I turn to his mother and find her eyes just inches from mine. I kiss slow and gentle, interlocking our lips. I hang there for a moment, feeling a crazy kind of closeness that I now share with two people. When we part, I say, "Thank you."

"The kiss was that good?" she asks.

"For him," I say, glancing up to Simon, who's once again trying to fly away as he says "Ooh, ooh, ooh!"

"You helped. A little." She squeezes my arm, and in that moment I decide I've had enough killing. Enough fighting. I might not be afraid to die, but there is no way I want to risk not being around for Simon or Maya. Her father hinted that Neuro might have a place for me. As a fellow company man, he knows what I do, more than Maya does, and if he says I can leave behind my days of violence, I might just take him up on it.

I turn back up to Simon. He's somehow managed to grab a fluffy white dandelion. He blows on it twice, mimicking what he's seen Maya do several times already, and then stuffs the thing into his mouth. He looks down at us, a little shocked when his open mouth is suddenly full of clinging debris. The smile fades and tears quickly come. Laughing, Maya and I sit up, working together to clear the dandelion bits from his mouth, while distracting him from the confusing feeling ratcheting him up to a high-pitched scream.

Most of my career, I've worked solo, depending on myself more than anyone else. Now, I'm part of a team, and it feels right. More right than anything before it.

With the dandelion cleared away, I lift the crying boy and stand. I put him on my chest, lean his small head on my shoulder, and do what Maya calls the "daddy bounce," shifting my weight side to side while gently bobbing up and down. Simon quiets quickly. I kiss the back of his head and look down at Maya. She's got tears in her eyes. Whispers, "I love you."

I wake suddenly, sitting up in bed. "Maya?"

I'm in a hospital. "Maya?"

She's not here.

This isn't a memory. I'm awake. Back at Neuro in the present. I only remember bits and pieces of my previous life, of Maya, but it's enough.

They have her. My wife. My son's mother. And I'm going to get her back.

The door behind me opens. I spin to greet whoever it is, saying, "We have to-"

It's Winters. Her face and hopeful blue eyes act as a catalyst. I grip my head, suddenly at the mercy of a raging migraine. Images flow past my eyes. Smells. Sounds. An entire sensory barrage of what once was. I feel Winters's embrace. Her comforting words. Feel the closeness of her friendship. Her support. And then something deeper. Something forbidden and guilt frosted.

I loved her. Briefly.

But I was going to put a stop to it. In the wake of Maya's collapse-and Simon's death-I was weak. And lonely.

"What's on your mind this morning?"

I look up at Winters, confused for a moment before getting lost in the memory. She's dressed in a loose-fitting silk negligee. Her hair is messy. No makeup in sight. She's gorgeous, standing in front of the bathroom sink in my Neuro apartment.

I can't do this anymore.

As I lay in bed that morning, watching her sleep, I came to a conclusion. Our relationship, no matter how good it feels or how much comfort it provides, is wrong. I'm still married, and, despite what Maya did and the anguish I feel about Simon's death, it wasn't Maya's fault.

She didn't murder our son.

The Dread did.

When she recovers, I need to be there, till death do us part.

Death do us part.

But I'm not ready to break things off with Winters now. Not standing half-naked in my bathroom. Not immediately following last night. She deserves better than that. "Just distracted."

She brushes her teeth, speaking between strokes. "About what?"

I wave off the question. I need to speak to Lyons. It's about something important. Something critical.

But ... I can't remember what.

She spits in the sink, rinses, and places the pink toothbrush in the wall-mounted holder.

I gasp out of the memory, returning to the medical room. Winters has a steadying hand on my arm.

"It was your toothbrush," I say.

"What?" She guides me to a chair. Sits me down. "Are you okay?"

The headache is gone, but memories are surfacing one by one. Most are insignificant, days and events lost in time, things I wouldn't have remembered even before losing my memory. The cascade of history is like background noise. Voices, whispers really, of days gone by. Riding my childhood bike. Military training. Endless school days, each nearly identical to the previous. I can ignore these memories, but the more recent and powerful ones return with painful urgency.

"I don't remember everything," I tell her. "Bits and pieces. But ... I do remember us. Parts, anyway."

She crouches in front of me. Takes my hands. "What do you remember?"

"I'm not sure you'll want to know."

She offers a sad smile. "I'm good at reading people. It's part of my job. I could see it in your eyes that morning. Also, it's been a year. So, let's hear it."

"I'm still married," I tell her, voicing Josef's old conclusion and Crazy's newly formed opinion. "And I was then. It shouldn't have happened."

She nods, either in understanding or acceptance.

I place a hand on her cheek, and she leans into it. "I'm sorry," I tell her. Then my body goes rigid as a fresh cascade of memories is unleashed.

She pulls my hand from her face. "Did you remember something?"

"A lot. But nothing important." I rub my head, feeling a fresh headache brewing. "I didn't ... break things off before. Why not?"

She stands, returning to her usual professional demeanor. "That was the day you decided to forget. About me. About Maya. Your son. And everything else that mattered to you."

She's growing angry. Borderline p.i.s.sed. These are the emotions that fueled her earlier attempt to physically subdue me. Given what I now remember about her, I'm glad she wasn't seriously injured during that failed effort.

"That doesn't make sense. Doesn't sound like me," I say, but I'm still not positive. Out of a lifetime of memories, I think I've recovered maybe thirty percent, most of that being from childhood.

"How is he?" It's Allenby, in the doorway. Her hair is loose and billowing. The sight punts pain into the side of my head and sends me back.

"What the h.e.l.l did you two do?" Allenby's voice is loud in the phone. I pull the device away from my ear.

"What are you talking about?" I ask. "What happened?"

"They got Hugh!" she shouts.

"Who got him?" I ask, but I already know the answer. There's only one they she'd a.s.sociate with me. The Dread. "Are you safe?"

"Don't worry about me, you-"

The office door-my office door-bursts open. It's Lyons. His cheeks are flush.

I point to the phone, "It's Kelly, she's-"

"I know," he says, moving past me to my computer. I can hear my aunt shouting but can't make out the words. Lyons steps away from the computer, revealing the screen and a single photo. The phone lowers away from my ear. I have a thousand questions but am too stunned to ask all but one. "When?"

"Ten minutes ago," he says.

I stare at the photo depicting my parents, both dead. My father lies on a concrete walkway, a pool of blood around his supine body. I recognize the hotel in the background. They were on vacation. I helped pick the spot. In the background is a second body, soaked and surrounded by a puddle of water.

"They're targeting our family." He says it calmly, like the danger has pa.s.sed for the rest of us.

He doesn't know. He thinks they're still here.

Lyons must see the shift in my face. He asks, "What is it?"

I stand. "Maya and Simon went back to the house. Simon wanted one last night in his room."

"But..." He looks bewildered. Panicked. "They were supposed to be here. I told them to stay here!"

I can hear the distant voice of Allenby on the phone. She's heard and is shouting at me to go. "Get Simon, Josef! Get them both!"

I'm on my knees, gripping my head.

"What happened?" Allenby's voice is clear now. Present.

"A memory," I say. "A hard one." I'm glad I don't yet remember what happened next. My stomach clenches with the knowledge that it, too, will soon be unleashed. The memories I've regained are already enough to spur me into action. I remember my son. The depth of my love for him and the pain of his loss. I know what the Dread took from me. From my family. And, like Allenby hoped, it is enough to make me face my newfound fears.

No, I think, I don't want to face them. I want to obliterate them.

The unanswered question is, Why did I run from them in the past?

Knowing that the answer will eventually be freed by changing scar tissue, I decide to waste no time or energy trying to uncover it. Given the look in Allenby's eyes, I think time is something I don't have.

Allenby gets her hands under my arms and lifts. I stand with her. "We need to go."

I understand her urgency. Maya's kidnapping now weighs heavily on me. The idea of losing her, for good, and in such a horrible way, after betraying her trust all those years ago, is unacceptable. But where there was urgency before, there now seems to be a ticking clock. "What's changed?"

Allenby heads for the door. I follow, shakily at first, but then steadied by Winters's hand on my back.

"They're on their way here," Allenby says, looking over her shoulder.

"Who is?"

"Dread Squad."

I'm about to say that's a good thing when I realize the implications of her fear. They're not on their way to help; they're coming to stop us.

"I spoke to Lyons," Allenby says. "He sounded ... different. Angry."

"He thinks they killed Maya?" I ask.

She nods. "But I think it's more than that. He seemed more upset about the attack. Compared it to Pearl Harbor. Said the Dread had awakened a sleeping giant."

"He's been comparing the Dread to World War Two j.a.pan," I say. "Sees this as the first wave of an invasion."

"His war has finally begun," Winters says. "I knew he was preparing for the worst, but I didn't know he was actually ready to strike. While I'm sure he has support from people above my pay grade, this is war, and I doubt he has the president's stamp of approval. This was all supposed to be a process. Build evidence. A game plan. Present it all to the president and let him decide."

"I think that this was the plan all along," I say. "Something started two weeks ago. It's why he brought me back. I was going to be his Enola Gay." My eyes widen. "I was going to deliver a bomb."

"What bomb?" Winters asks.

I shrug. "I have no idea, but I was his delivery system." I turn to Allenby. "He's found someone else to do it."

This is something he's been working on for a long time at that second location, and if the World War Two a.n.a.logy is accurate, I don't think Maya will survive it ... if she's alive. Whether or not Lyons's actions are impulsive, misguided, or on target and justified, Maya's life is at risk. "What's the plan?" I ask, strengthened by my increasing resolve.

"Maya's embedded tracker is transmitting. You're going after her," she says. "You're the only one who can. I'm going to let the Dread Squad take me in so I can have a chat with your father-in-law. See if I can't talk him back from the brink. There has to be another way to do this, or at least do it with the full support of the U.S. military."

I nearly point out that the U.S. military might be compromised already, that under Dread influence they might be more likely to shoot each other or us. This is probably the same conclusion Lyons has come to. If so, he can tell Allenby himself. Let them debate strategy and protocol. I'm going after Maya.

I notice a slight tremor in Allenby's hands. It started when she mentioned Dread Squad. "You seem a little nervous. You don't think Katzman will-"

"I don't think it will be Katzman," she says, "or anyone else we might know. Dread Squad isn't just the handful of men you saw here." She stops in front of an armory door. "There are hundreds of them."

"Three hundred thirty-three," Winters says. "I helped vet them. They were supposed to be a defensive force, like the Secret Service, protecting VIPs from Dread influence, but I think they've been trained for something else."

"They're not your problem." Allenby enters the armory.

The armory has been picked over, but an array of familiar clothing and weapons has been laid out for me. I pick up the machete and whisper, "Faithful."