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Gray glanced back at his motorcycle. The bike’s GPS must have betrayed his location. Gray struggled to explain, but he had no adequate excuse. He and Monk had been sent from Washington to Quantico to attend an FBI symposium on bioterrorism. Today was the second day, and Gray and Monk had decided to skip the morning lectures.
    “Let me guess,” Painter continued. “Out doing a little joyriding?”
    “Sir …”
    The sternness in the director’s voice softened. “So did it help Monk?”
    As usual, Painter had surmised the truth. The director had an uncanny ability to assess a situation. Even this one.
    Gray looked over at his friend. Monk stood with his arms locked across his chest, his face worried. It had been a hard year for him. He had been brutalized in an enemy’s research facility where a part of his brain had been cut out, destroying his memory. Though he had recovered what was left, gaps remained, and Gray knew it still haunted him.
    Over the last two months, Monk had been slowly acclimating back to his duties with Sigma, restricted though they might be. He was on desk duty and offered only minor assignments here in the States. He was limited to gathering intel and evaluating data, often beside his wife, Captain Kat Bryant, who also worked at Sigma headquarters and had a background in Naval Intelligence.
    Gray knew Monk was straining at the bit to do more, to gain back thelife that had been stolen from him. Everyone treated him as if he were a fragile piece of porcelain, and he’d begun to bristle at all the sympathetic glances and whispered words of encouragement.
    So Gray had suggested this cross-country race through the park that bordered the Quantico Marine Corps Reservation. It offered a chance to blow off some steam, to get a little grit in the face, to take some risk.
    Gray covered the phone with his hand and mouthed to Monk, “Painter’s pissed.”
    His friend’s face broke into a broad grin.
    Gray returned the phone to his ear.
    “I heard that,” his boss said. “And if you’re both done having your bit of fun, I need you back at Sigma Command this afternoon. Both of you.” “Yes, sir. But can I ask what it’s about?”
    A long pause stretched as if the director was weighing what to say. When he spoke, his words were careful. “It’s about the original owner of that motorcycle of yours.”
    Gray glanced at the crashed bike. The original owner? He flashed back to a night two years ago, remembering the roar of a motorcycle down a suburban street, running with no lights, bearing a deadly rider, an assassin of mixed loyalties.
    Gray swallowed to gain his voice. “What about her?”
    “I’ll tell you when you get here.”
    1:00 P.M.
Washington, D.C.
    Hours later, Gray had showered, changed into jeans and a sweatshirt, and sat in the satellite surveillance room of Sigma headquarters. He shared the space with Painter and Monk. On the screen shone a digital map. It traced a crooked red line from Thailand to Italy.
    The path of the assassin ended in Venice.
    Sigma had been tracking her for over a year. Her location was marked by a small red triangle on a computer monitor. It glowed in the middle of a satellite map of Venice. Buildings, crooked streets, and winding canalswere depicted in precise gray-scale detail, down to the tiny gondolas frozen in place, capturing a moment in time. That time was shown in the corner of the computer monitor, along with the approximate longitude and latitude of the assassin’s location:
    10:52:45 GMT OCT 9
LAT 41°52’56.97"N
LONG 12°29’5.19"E
    “How long has she been in Venice?” Gray asked. “Over a month.”
    Painter ran a tired hand through his hair and narrowed his eyes in suspicion. He looked exhausted. It had been a difficult year for the director. Pale from spending much of the day in offices and meetings, Painter’s mixed Native American heritage was only evident in the granite planes of his face and the streak of white through his black hair,