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forever. He had some knowledge of what it was like to be a survivor, to be Ishmael, alone to tell you all. He knew that when she finally understood and felt everything it was going to hurt her like a bandage ripped from a fresh wound.
    But maybe he could ease the pain for her.
    * * *
    M onday morning. Three weeks after the incident in Los Angeles. Sean could not wait any longer, had to do something. Anything.
    The train to Washington, D.C., slowed, came to a stop, disgorged its load of passengers. Businessmen mostly, a few tourists, a school group up to observe democracy in inaction. He was carried along in their flow, appearing to all eyes a businessman here for a conference or merger meeting. Gray suit, tie a year or two out of date, shoes with a bit of scuff to them. The gun lay concealed under his jacket.
    Sean hailed a cab and took it to a hotel where he had never stayed before, nor would ever stay again. He checked in, respectfully declined the amenities of morning newspaper and nightly turndown. For a moment he stood, gazing out the window, wondering if he should call Monique. They could get together, if only for lunch. No, better to wait, he decided, and left the hotel, making his way to a strip mall four blocks away.
    The pay phone was at the end of the strip mall. Last time he had used this phone, it had been outside a convenience market. The market had been replaced by a video game store that did not seem long for this world; the posters in the window were sun-faded, the store bereft of customers. Sean picked up the phone, deposited his change, and dialed a number.
    He hadn’t made the call in four years, but the number still worked. The code he gave worked too, and a smooth female voice asked him to please hold. He waited, outwardly calm but inside him doubt gnawed. Because while there were few rules in his line of work, there was one that always stood, unchangeable.
    You did not go to them. They came to you. You waited for the call. They gave you the task you were to perform. You did not ask for an assignment.
    But it had been three weeks with no call. It surprised him, that he could be so worried. After all, he’d known that the chances of them calling him again were slim. Halsey had made that clear. Sean had not realized just how badly he wanted back in, to go after these bastards. To help Jennifer Thomson. He had thought himself past such feelings. Past caring.
    Apparently not.
    The female voice was back on the line. She gave him an address and a time. Tomorrow morning.
    It felt very good to be getting back to work.
    * * *
    T he meeting was at a coffee shop near the airport. He didn’t know if that was good or bad, that it was here instead of HQ. But Halsey was already there when he arrived, and perhaps that was a good sign, that Halsey had come rather than send some flunky.
    Halsey sat in a booth near the back, an untouched glass of grapefruit juice in front of him. His eyes were paler than usual in the restaurant’s fluorescent light, but otherwise Halsey appeared much the same as he had four years ago. He’d been across a mahogany desk then, making an offer of early retirement.
    Except it hadn’t an offer. There were no offers, only orders.
    “Halsey. Been a while,” Sean said as he sat.
    Halsey nodded, flagged down the waitress.
    Sean ordered coffee and waited for Halsey’s words of welcome. There were none yet, just the frosty gaze and the face, tight-mouthed and unmoving. That wasn’t surprising — Halsey had never been known for his charm. Finally Halsey said, “How is Florida?”
    Sean felt his disquiet ratchet up a notch at Halsey’s use of the present tense. He let none of it show, only replied, “Florida’s fine.”
    “Good. Glad to hear it.” Halsey picked up the juice glass, set it down without drinking any, said nothing more.
    The bastard was going to make him say it. Fine. “You probably know why I’m here.”
    Silence his only reply.
    “The recent unpleasantness in Los