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slammer . . . it makes sense, right? You’d rather get them into a safe house and run the case from there?” He’dbacked me up—Aaron Ellis was nothing if not supportive of his troops—and would go with my expertise on the question. But he wasn’t, in truth, asking for reassurance that it made tactical sense not to put them in protective custody.
    What he was really asking was this: Was he making the right decision in assigning me, and not someone else, to the job of guarding principals from Henry Loving? In short, could I be objective when the perp was the one who’d murdered my mentor and had apparently escaped from the trap I’d set for him several years before?
    â€œA safe house’s the most efficient approach,” I told Ellis and returned to my office, fishing for the key to unlock the desk drawer where I kept my weapon.

Chapter 3
    MANY GOVERNMENTAL AGENCIES are wedded to initials or acronyms to describe their employees or departments, but in ours, for some reason, nicknames are the order of the day, as with “lifter” and “hitter.”
    The basic bodyguards in our organization are the close protection officers, whom we call “clones,” because they’re supposed to shadow their principals closely. Our Technical Support and Communications Department is staffed by “wizards.” There are the “street sweepers”—our Defense Analysis and Tactics officers, who can spot a sniper a mile away and a bomb hidden in a principal’s cell phone. The people in our organization running surveillance are called, not surprisingly, “spies.”
    I’m in the Strategic Protection Department, the most senior of the eight SPD officers in the organization. We’re the ones who come up with and execute a protection plan for the principals we’ve been assigned to guard. And because of the mission, and the initials of the department, we’re known as shepherds.
    One department that doesn’t have a nickname is Research Support, to me the most important of all our ancillary divisions. A shepherd can’t run apersonal security job without good investigative research. I’ve often lectured younger officers that if you do research up front, you’ll be less likely to need tactical firepower later.
    And I was lucky to have as my protégée the person I considered the best in the department.
    I called her now.
    One ring. Then: “DuBois,” came the voice from my earpiece.
    It was the woman’s secure mobile I’d called, so I got her work greeting. With its French origin, you’d think the name would be pronounced doo-bwah but her family used doo-boys.
    â€œClaire. Something’s come up.”
    â€œYes?” she asked briskly.
    â€œLoving’s still alive.”
    She processed this. “Alive? . . . I’m not sure how that could happen.”
    â€œWell, it has.”
    â€œI’m thinking about it,” she mused, almost to herself. “The building burned. . . . There was a DNA match. I recall the report. There were some typos in it, remember?” Claire duBois was older than her adolescent intonation suggested, though not much. Short brunette hair, a heart-shaped and delicately pretty face, a figure that was probably very nice—and I was as curious about it as any man would be—but usually hidden by functional pantsuits, which I preferred her wearing over skirts and dresses. The practicality of it, I mean.
    â€œIt doesn’t matter. Are you in town? I need you.”
    â€œDo you mean did I go away for the weekend? No. Plans changed. Do you want me in?” she asked in her snappy monotone. I pictured her having breakfastas the September morning light slanted through the window of her quiet town house in Arlington, Virginia. She might have been in sweats or a slinky robe but picturing either was impossible. She might have been sitting across from