In truth, he was solid under there. Bumping into him was like running into a brick wall. Sophia knew this from experience. She knew some other things about him from experience, too.

"Gillman," she told him now, hoping he wouldn't be able to tell where her thoughts had gone. "Danny Gillman and Jay Lopez. They're quite a pair, aren't they? It was pretty obvious that they'd fall for the damsel in distress ruse." Which was exactly what she'd tried on Deck, a million years ago. And now she was completely rattled. Had he come here to break the news to her, to tell her he'd already delivered his resignation letter to Tom? "I know I was lucky there were only two of them, and they both fell for it. Although the plan was only to distract them while Dave escaped, and I know it probably wouldn't have worked in real life, because one of the reasons it did work was because Danny and Jay know me." She was babbling, she heard herself babbling, and saw that Decker had stopped leaning. He looked ready to run away. "They both sent me flowers today, congratulating me on my success last night." She laughed, and it sounded fake, forced, even to her own ears. "That's a first, huh? Getting flowers from men I've killed? They were nice though, the flowers-"

Dave touched her arm, interrupting her, grounding her, his fingers warm and solid through the sleeve of her blouse. "You did an excellent job last night," he said, then passed the conversational baton back to Decker. "Don't you agree?"

"It was good work," Deck said. He glanced at his watch. And here it came. I just wanted to tell you that working with you is impossible for me. Gotta go.

"I had no idea sending flowers to the person who killed you was the proper protocol, posttraining-op," Dave commented mildly. "What do you suppose Mark Jenkins likes best? Roses or lilies?"

Sophia laughed.

Deck actually smiled.

"And you owe Sophia a bouquet, Deck," Dave kept going, "although a lunch date would probably be an acceptable substitute."

Sophia shot him a look. What was he doing? But he'd gone back to staring at his Palm Pilot.

"Lopez and Gillman were just...They're so young and..." She rolled her eyes. "A little too enthusiastic. Besides, I killed Deck by mistake. Which is one of the reasons I'm here today. To try to figure out what I did wrong."

"Killing Tom was your mistake," Decker told her. "As for me..." He shook his head. "You had no idea I was in your kill zone. That was my fault. I should have let you know I was there."

"Everything happened so fast," Sophia said. "Although it always does, doesn't it?"

"Yeah," Decker agreed. "Warp speed. Or at least you think it's warp speed until you're in the middle of a firefight. Then you get a real look at what fast means. At the same time, adrenaline can make everything seem to slow down, stretch out."

Just standing here talking to her was such hard work for him, he was actually sweating from the effort.

"I don't think I got the adrenaline rush until after it was over," Sophia admitted.

He actually smiled again. It wasn't as genuine as his smile at Dave's flower joke, but it wasn't bad. "Lot of good it did then, huh?"

Sophia managed a smile, too. "Yeah." She also managed to keep her mouth shut when Decker didn't say anything for a moment. Don't babble, don't babble. He didn't like it when she babbled.

So there they were, standing there, smiling at each other, both so tense they were about to snap. Or at least she was smiling at him. Decker's smiles were always much too brief. But he was looking her straight in the eye, as if he were trying to read her mind.

He opened his mouth, as if to speak again, but down the range, someone opened up with an automatic weapon. And Sophia instinctively ducked. She caught herself, turning it into a major flinch rather than a flat-out dive for cover.

Both men-Decker and Dave-took a step toward her, matching concern in their eyes.

"I'm okay," she said. "I just spaced. I forgot I was in a firing range, although this should have been a clue." She held up the ammo clip she was still holding.

"You want to go again?" Dave asked. "Or just head to lunch?" He turned to Decker. "We're going to the Greek place. Want to join us?"

Deck looked at his watch again.

And Sophia just said it. "Or do you have to go write your resignation letter?"

"I guess you didn't talk to Tom yet," he said, and her heart sank. "About going to New Hampshire."

Sophia shook her head, turning to look at Dave. He made a never-heard-it face as he shook his head. "I'm going to New Hampshire?" she asked.

"We all are," Decker told her, told Dave, too. "Along with Team Sixteen. When I left the office, Tom told me it was a go-it happened much faster than he thought, but...We're doing more war gaming, and we'll get some winter training in, too. They're having the coldest winter up there in around fifty years. I, uh, requested you-both of you-participate in my squad. I won't be a team leader-we're going to be mixing it up with Sixteen this time, letting their officers lead. But he agreed it would, uh, be a good idea if we continued to...Work together. For a while."

Sophia couldn't believe what she was hearing. And then she could, because this was Decker. She'd told him she loved her job, and that was all he'd had to hear. He was going to do whatever he had to do to make sure that she could stay. Sweat was nothing. He would bleed if he had to.

He glanced now at Dave. "I'm hoping you'll accept the assignment."

"Winter in New Hampshire," Dave said with absolutely no inflection. "Whoo-hoo. That's about as good as it gets. I'm in." He turned to Sophia. "You are, too. You can take a day trip into Boston." Back to Deck. "Her father's at Mass General. She's been trying to find the time to go see him. This works out perfectly."

Decker was visibly surprised. "Your father's alive?"

Sophia closed her eyes. Oh, Dave, wasn't this hard enough? "Yes," she said aloud. "It turns out I have an aunt-his sister. She tracked me down a few months ago. He's alive, but he's been sick. Last week he went into the hospital, and...Aunt Maureen's been calling again."

"You don't have to go," Decker said. He was fierce in his conviction. "You owe him nothing."

"Except he's your father," Dave pointed out. "And after he's gone, you'll never have another chance to talk to him."

"I haven't decided what I'm going to do," Sophia said.

"If there's anything I can do to help..." Deck said.

"Thank you," she said. "You've already helped a lot."

He smiled at that. "Yeah, right." Another glance at his watch. "I've got to get moving. You might want to get lunch to go. We're leaving tonight-2100 hours. Pack your warmest clothes."

And with that he was gone.

Sophia stood there, listening to his footsteps fade away. It was only when the outer door closed with a resounding thunk that she turned to Dave.

"I hate you," she said.

Dave nodded mildly as he finished locking the weapon back in its case. "I know."

Izzy spotted Marky-Mark just outside the grinder. "Hey, hey, Romeo. How's the view from the top of the world?"

The little dude was on the phone as Iz jogged over. Whoever he was ringing didn't pick up. His mouth tightened, but he didn't leave a message. Probably because Izzy was listening.

"Uh-oh," Izzy said. "Trouble in paradise already?"

Jenkins was seriously pissed. "This is the worst fucking time in the entire history of the world for me to leave town, and we're going to fucking New Hampshire for cold-weather training. Have you heard this? New Hampshire? At 2100? Tonight?" His voice went up about five octaves.

"Yeah," Izzy said. "They want us to practice freezing our balls off. I say we petition to stay here, do the entire op in the warehouse freezer at Stu the Butcher's Wholesale Meats." He followed Jenk into the grinder, where BUD/S class 5000, or whatever number they were up to these days, was doing endless PT. They were still in early phase one of their training. The grind 'em up and ring 'em out phase, hence the name "grinder."

Jenk kept off to the side, but he joined the class as they started their push-ups. He was a maniac. He did this all the time, jumping into whatever torture the SEAL candidates were enduring, and not just keeping up, but making it look effortless.

Izzy sat down on the ground near him, leaning back on his elbows. "So what happened last night?"

Jenk push-upped, eyes on the ground. "Nothing."

"Don't lie to me, Argentina. I saw you leave the Bug with Lindsey."

That one got him a glance, but Izzy wasn't sure if the disbelief Jenk leveled at him was for Lindsey or Argentina.

"She drove me home," Jenk said. He was such a good liar. Izzy studied his technique whenever possible. He'd added just the right amount of dude, get a grip with a dash of don't I wish she'd come inside... Truly brilliant.

"So how was she?" Izzy asked. "Hot or unbelievably hot?"

Point-blank refusal to accept the lie wasn't enough to break the M-ster. "Number one, she drove me home," he said, the fact that he was on his forty-seventh push-up nowhere in his voice. He sounded as if he had his feet up on his desk. "Number two, even if by some miracle I'd had intimate relations with her, I wouldn't talk about it."

"Dude, dude, dude," Izzy said. "You better believe she's talking about you right now, with all her friends. Haven't you watched Sex and the City? Shit, she's giving a blow-by-blow, complete with exact specifications-length and width-of your physical attributes."

Jenk was unfazed. But he glanced at his phone.

He'd put his cell on the ground next to him, set on silent so it wouldn't disturb the tadpoles, but close enough so he could see it light up if someone called.

Someone important. Izzy wasn't going to try to guess who. Lindsey.

Izzy reached over and picked it up, which-hello!-got a rise out of Marky.

"Give it back, Zanella."

"No worries, Weebs, if it rings, I'll hand it over." He clicked on the outgoing call log. Lindsey, Lindsey, Lindsey, Lindsey, and...Lindsey. Starting at 0930 this morning. No, wait. Starting at 0430. "You called her at 0430? No wonder she won't call you back." Or maybe she had. He checked the incoming call log. Nope. Nothing from Lindsey. Except. Whoa, doggies. "Tracy called you at 0314 last night?"

Jenk sat up, wiping the sweat off his face with the bottom of his T-shirt. "Give me that." Izzy surrendered the phone. "You have serious boundary issues, Zanella."

"Holy crap," Izzy said as the lightbulb went on overhead. It was five hundred watts and quite illuminating. "You were with Lindsey last night and Tracy called, begging you to do her."

"Yeah, right." Jenk did crunches now, his phone safely in his pocket.

"No, wait..." Izzy was thinking aloud. "Midnight, it's a booty call; 0300, it's help, I've fallen and I can't get up. Or the equivalent. A flat tire. Ditched by the ex in some cheap motel. But he promised me he'd marry me this time..." He imitated Tracy. "Am I warm?"

"No," Jenk grunted.

But Izzy knew he'd discovered why Jenk believed this was the worst time-how had he put it? The worst fucking time in the entire history of the world to leave town. "You were banging Lindsey for, what, the second? Third time? When the phone rings. Hello, it's crazy Tracy. Come save me. And you were stupid enough to go, which sends a giant message to Lindsey: You are my second choice. And maybe she was your second choice, until you did a face-to-face with Tracy and it hit you. She's the one-night bang. Lindsey's a much better fit in that forever slot that you're suddenly so desperate to fill. Why are you so desperate to fill it? I have no idea. But okay, you handle Tracy, and finally around 0430, she passes out on your couch. You try calling Lindsey, but she won't pick up. You try again today, but she's definitely dodging you. Dude. That's gotta suck."

Jenk had stopped his crunches, and he just lay back on the grinder, arms over his eyes. "Zanella, just give me a break."

"Okay," Izzy said. "How's this for a break? A nonstop transport flight from the air base to New Hampshire. Six uninterrupted hours to pitch your woo, to grovel as charmingly as possible at the fair maiden's feet."

Jenk sat up. "Give me a break as in, I love you like a brother, man, but I can't take any more of your shit today, so shut the fuck up."

"So you don't want me to tell you-perhaps more clearly-"

"No."

"That Tommy's Troubleshooters-Lindsey included-are coming with, to Nuevo Hampshire?"

That caught Jenk's attention, but he was still less than happy. "Can't you ever just say what you fucking mean?"

"I did," Izzy said. "What, do you want it like this?" He spoke like a robot, with no inflection. "Lindsey and the other Troubleshooters are coming to New Hampshire. On the troop transport. With us. At 2100 tonight."

Jenk exploded. "Why the fuck didn't you tell me that twenty fucking minutes ago?"

Izzy shrugged. "Hey, you're not banging Lindsey, right? I mean, that's what you told me. I figured you probably didn't care."

Yup. Marky-Mark didn't care so much, he chased Izzy for a good three miles down the beach.

It was after eleven before Tracy got into the office. She was still moving slowly, totally hungover, just tucking her purse into the bottom drawer of the reception desk, when Tom poked his head out of his office.

He didn't call her on the intercom-probably because he thought she wouldn't know how to answer it.

"Good, you're here," he said.

"I'm sorry I'm late-"

"I need you in my office," he said, and vanished. Not his usual Tracy, when you've got a sec or Tracy, can we schedule a time to talk...

She should have just straightened her shoulders and marched on in, ready to face the fire. Or rather the getting fired.

Because that was what this was about. She'd held-and lost-enough jobs to recognize a prefiring glare when she saw one.

Instead, because she was such a ninny, she ran into the ladies' room. Don't cry, don't cry, don't cry. If she started to cry, her makeup would run, and her nose would get even redder than it already was from crying last night and this morning, too.

She'd woken up in Mark's apartment, in his bed, and for several dizzying moments had had absolutely no clue where she was. He'd left her a note, though. I hope you're feeling better. Help yourself to coffee and cereal. Lock the door behind you when you let yourself out.

As she'd read his neat block handwriting, memories of the night before came surging back. Lyle. A diamond ring-along with a spare engraved with Heather-the-ho's name. I can explain. Running to Mark for help.

For more than help-how humiliating that had been?

Tracy gazed at herself in the mirror. How could her life have gotten so screwed up? Why, even now, was she considering Lyle's marriage proposal? I need you, he'd told her, as he knelt before her in the hallway of the hotel and cried.

He'd cried.

He'd insisted that the engagement ring engraved with Heather's name was merely to boost his confidence. He'd been so afraid that Tracy would say no, that he'd pushed her away for good this time, that she wouldn't take him back. He'd bought that other ring-a foolish mistake-as a way to pretend to himself that it didn't matter if Tracy turned him down. He'd told himself that he'd marry Heather instead.

But it was Tracy he loved, Tracy he needed.

She knew she was a fool to think he'd meant all that bullshit-just because he'd cried.

She'd figured it out, too. Lyle had been told that his being married would increase his chances of becoming partner at the firm. When she confronted him with that, he hadn't denied it.

Last night she'd been devastated by that realization.

This morning, though, she'd woken up resigned. It was Tracy who needed Lyle. So what if he was marrying her for ulterior motives? The bottom line was he finally wanted to marry her.

And, God, he'd actually cried.

As usual, she was probably going to cave. But she was unwilling to give in immediately. She'd called, left a message on Lyle's cell phone letting him know that she needed some time-an entire month-to think.