63rd and Madison
4:30 p.m.

The FBI agents were packing their things as Special Agent #1 entered. Morris nodded to him, and the two of them moved into the bedroom, going out on the balcony to talk. "I came as soon as the word got to us."

"You have someone handling surveillance?" Morris asked quietly.

The bald agent nodded. "Special Agent #2 is in the truck. How long ago did he make the call?"

"About an hour ago," Morris informed him.

"So what did you tell the FBI?"

"Nothing," Morris said. "Aside from the fact that our boy would be ready to go at six."

"That's it? How can you be sure that Mr. Wiseman will come?"

Morris smiled, turning to look at the view from the balcony. "He'll be there."

Special Agent #1 shook his head. "I don't recall you ever giving him the number."

"He apparently got the number from 'a friend.'"

"Any ideas on who that 'friend' would be?"

Morris walked to the edge of the balcony, putting his hands on the brick wall that served as a railing. "Dr. Ross seems to be the most likely suspect, wherever she is."

"That's the other reason I'm here." Special Agent #1 walked over to stand beside his boss. "She found out who Edward Bernstadt works for. Leflin Incorporated."

Dr. Morris whirled, staring at him in shock. "What?"

Penn Station
Manhattan
5:00 p.m.

Penn Station was busy as usual, swarming with people pushing and shoving in every direction. Lisa had Heather's hand in a death grip as they made it through the doors, squeezing past people who were going the wrong way or were inconsiderate enough to stand and talk in the middle of traffic. The crush of people made it extremely difficult to find anyone, let alone be quite sure of where you were. Lisa had to admit, it was a perfect place to blend in.

She felt a hand on her shoulder. Michael was there, helping steer through the crowd. Lisa's first impulse was to shrug the hand off, but there was something comforting about his touch. Besides, it was probably a good idea to stay together in this crowd.

They eventually made it out, moving to stand near a wall out of the flow of traffic. Lisa leaned against the wall with a sigh, and Heather was relieved to pull her wrist free from Lisa's grip. "God, Mom, you were cutting off my circulation."

"You're complaining, so you're fine," Lisa deduced before turning back to Michael. "Now what? Is this the new hideout?"

"I'm supposed to meet the Doc before six," Michael told her. "But I'm going alone."

Heather looked confused and a little annoyed. "What, you're just going to leave us here?"

Shaking his head, Michael reached into his pocket and retrieved a large wad of dollar bills. "No, I'm giving you a chance to get out of town." He pressed the money into Lisa's hands.

"What?" Stunned, Lisa flipped through the handful of cash. "There's more than three hundred dollars here! Where did you get this?"

"Drunks shouldn't make bets," Michael said by way of explanation. "Lisa, I don't know exactly what's going to happen tonight. If - if things don't work out, I want to be sure you're out of danger. There's more than enough here for you both to get a ticket anywhere you want."

Lisa shook her head. "Mr. Newman, I can't accept this."

"Mom, he just handed you a big wad of cash," Heather pointed out. "Now is not the time to complain."

"And don't tell me where you're going," Michael continued. "Pick someplace that most people wouldn't think of. Someplace that wouldn't pop up in records."

Lisa didn't answer. She stared at the money that was still clenched in her hand. "Please," Michael added. "It's the only way." When she still didn't say anything, he sighed, reluctantly turning away.

"What's your name?"

Surprised, Michael turned back. "Huh?"

Lisa held out the money towards him. "Tell me your name and I'll take the money."

"Mom," Heather muttered, "what are you doing?"

"Tell me your name and I'll take the money," Lisa repeated, shaking the wad of cash at Michael. "Mr. Newman, I still don't have a clue what's going on. Maybe I'm better off not knowing. But I'm sick and tired of not knowing anything! I've been chased from my house, I've spent the last twenty-four hours running all over the city with a crazy man--"

"Lisa," Michael began, but she kept on going.

"--not that I'm not grateful for some of the things you have done for us, but that doesn't change the fact that you are the strangest person I've ever met," Lisa amended, not missing a beat. "I don't even know what or who I'm running from, why I'm running, anything. Right now I'd settle for knowing your first name!"

He stared at her for a moment, fighting the urge to pull her into his arms right then and there. Although in her present state of mind, that might not be a good idea. Lisa stood there, defiantly holding out the money and waiting for an answer. Something told him that she would be perfectly willing to throw all three hundred dollars in his face if he didn't tell her what she'd asked. It was an answer, at least. He owed her that much.

And this time, it wouldn't be a lie.

"Michael." The one word brought relief and fear at the same time. Relief to have that, at least, out in the open, and fear that it might lead to more trouble.

Lisa blinked, unsure if she'd heard him correctly. "What?"

"Michael." He said it louder, keeping his voice steady. "That's my name."

It was obvious from the look on her face that she really didn't know how to react to that, wavering between suspicion and dismissal for several seconds before putting the money in her pocket. "All right," she said finally. "You'd - you'd better get going."

Michael didn't move immediately. He stood there for a second, looking at them as if he was trying to seal a last look in his memory. Impulsively, he reached out and took Lisa's hand in his, squeezing it reassuringly, before he finally stepped back into the crowd. In a few seconds, he disappeared in the sea of people.

As soon as he was gone, Lisa took a deep breath and shook herself out of whatever trance had held her. Turning, she saw that Heather, who had been watching the entire scene with great interest, was grinning. "What?"

"Oh, nothing," Heather replied with feigned innocence. "So where are we going?"

Lisa glanced up at the list of arrivals and departures. She scanned the cities and times, considering and discarding friends and relatives as potential sources of sanctuary. Most were either too obvious or would ask too many questions. What they really needed, she realized wryly, was someone desperate enough for company that they would take them in without questioning--

Wait a minute.

"Boston," Lisa decided. "There's a 5:30 train to Boston."

"Boston?" Heather repeated. "Why there?"

"I know someone who might let us stay," Lisa answered, taking her daughter's hand and heading towards the Amtrak ticket counter. "Remind me again, Heather - you're not allergic to cats, are you?"

Grand Empire Insurance
4:55 p.m.

"Sign and date, sign and date, sign and date," Roger Bender murmured as he signed the report and the two copies on his desk, gleefully date-stamping the last one. "Ta-da! Done on time!"

Grinning with pride, he put the pen and the date stamper away and began gathering his things. It was a rare occasion when he finished up any report before the deadline, and a miracle that he'd done so after having come into work late. But leaving it to his secretary had not been an option; he really didn't trust her to handle it. Not with Spence so completely on edge with the SEC investigation.

Well, Spence could go to hell. Roger began whistling in spite of himself as he finished packing up his briefcase, pausing to grab his suit jacket and keys. As he turned towards the door, he nearly dropped his jacket mid-whistle.

Spence was standing in the doorway. He still looked frazzled, but there was a wicked gleam in his eye that hadn't been there for a while. "Heading home, Bender? Don't you owe me a report?"

Roger regained his composure faster than usual; he was prepared for this situation. He smoothly retrieved the three copies from his desk. "Oh, this one? It's all done."

"Are you sure?" Spence asked, taking a copy and flipping through it, searching for any errors he could spot on the fly. "Proofed? Copied? Dated? You referenced everything this time?"

"Every word," Roger said proudly. "Look, Craig, I'd love to stay and chat, but I need to pick up my wife--"

Spence was reading through the report, surprised and pleased. "This is excellent."

Roger hesitated. "Really?"

"Indeed it is," Spence said. "And since you've done such a good job with this report, I think you might want to have a go at editing this draft Ross gave me for tomorrow morning." He produced a huge stack of paper seemingly from thin air. "I'd do it myself, but it's a real mess, and I think it should be handled by an old pro."

Roger was stunned as the report was shoved into his hands. "But - but - but--"

"I knew you'd feel that way," Spence replied, patting him on the shoulder. "Take one for the team, Bender." He started off down the hall, turning back to add, "Your wife will just have to take a taxi."

Roger watched him go, then trudged back into his office, throwing his jacket back on the chair. "Bastard."

Salzburg and Rogeilla Real Estate
5:05 p.m.

Janet jumped in surprise as the phone rang, nearly knocking her now-empty coffee mug off of the desk. She'd been so engrossed in trying to get some last-minute paperwork done that the sudden intrusion startled her. At least there was no one here to see her; Bill and Carla had both left early. And Lisa hadn't shown up at all, a fact that had been bothering Janet all day.

She composed herself and picked up the receiver on the third ring. "Salzburg and Rogeilla."

"Janet, thank God you're still there. It's Lisa."

"Lisa!" Janet exclaimed, doubly glad that she was the only one in the office. "Where on earth have you been? I tried you at home, but--"

"I'm fine, Janet," Lisa interrupted. "Listen, I'm going to be out for a few days. I've, uh, got a family emergency."

"Family emergency? Lisa, there was a SWAT team on your front lawn last night!"

"How did you know about that?"

"I had to give Roger a ride," Janet replied, hesitating as the double entendre hit her. "In my car, that is. Where are you?"

Lisa paused. "I can't tell you, but I'm okay and Heather's with me. If you see Roger, tell him not to worry, all right?"

"All right," Janet agreed reluctantly. "But can't you tell me--"

But Lisa had already hung up.

Penn Station
5:10 p.m.

Lisa hurried back to the line at the ticket booth, where Heather was holding their place. She got back just in time to make it to the booth, pulling out the money that Michael had given her. "Two for the 5:30 to Boston," she said, hoping to God that they could get on the train.

The ticket agent took a look at the disheveled pair, then the wad of cash Lisa was counting out. "You're in luck," he informed them. "We still have several seats available."

Heather punched the air triumphantly. "Yes!"

Lisa sighed in relief as she counted out the money, smiling at her daughter's antics.

Special Agent #2 had been listening intently to phone conversations for a few hours. His body language gave no indication that he was listening to anything important, since he remained in the same relaxed position that he'd been in since he first put the headphones on. But his eyes flicked back and forth intently, narrowing in suspicion.

No one noticed his agitation, and no one noticed his haste to delete the recording from the tape. They were all too busy with other matters, and since the phone taps hadn't yielded any information so far, didn't have surveillance as a high priority. It was fortunate that they had thought to put a tap on the real estate office's phone.

He got up, asked one of the agents to take his place, and slipped out of the van. He had a few calls to make.

Outside Grand Central Station
5:30 p.m.

"We're all set up," Special Agent #1 informed Morris, who looked around at the scattering of police cars and the unmarked cars in the area. The black FBI van was parked on the other side of the street from the station entrance. "We've got choppers in the air and plainclothes agents inside. Bomb squad's on alert and we have a HAZMAT team standing by."

"Good," Morris said as they walked over to the FBI van. "No chance of blocking off traffic?"

"Here? Now? Are you kidding?"

"Wishful thinking. What about the money?"

The back of the van opened up, and they stepped inside. One of the agents handed Morris a metal suitcase. "$15 million in bearer bonds," the agent said as Morris cast a perfunctory glance inside and shut it again, shaking off the peculiar sense of deja vu he was getting.

He turned back to his right-hand man. "Can we spare any men to check out Leflin Incorporated?"

Special Agent #1 nodded. "Special Agent #2 is looking into it. Unfortunately, the terrorist threat is our main concern right now."

Morris shook his head. "If I didn't know better, I'd say they timed this."

Penn Station

"Hey, this is pretty nice," Heather observed, examining the empty compartment that she and Lisa had all to themselves. "We didn't do too badly, did we?"

Lisa leaned back in her seat. "I don't know. I can't help feeling that I'm missing something."

"Relax, Mom," Heather assured her. "We got seats at the last minute at a good price. We're on a train out of town and we've got plenty of cash left."

"That's what bothers me."

Heather sighed as the train began to move. "Knock it off, Mom. I'm supposed to be the pessimist here."

Leflin Incorporated
5:45 p.m.

The phone on Bernard Leflin Jr's desk rang. With an irritated sigh, he checked the number on the display and flicked on the speaker. "Go ahead."

"We just received a lead on one of the traces," a male voice responded. Lydia didn't recognize the voice, but she had a feeling she knew who it was anyway. "Mrs. Wiseman called her office a little over half an hour ago. We traced the call to Penn Station."

"And you waited that long to call me?"

"Long enough to find out where she was headed," the voice replied quickly. "She bought two tickets for a 5:30 train to Boston. Amtrak, train number 563."

Leflin nodded, a satisfied smile playing at the corners of his mouth as he took the number down. "Very good." He straightened up. "Don't trouble yourself with retrieval. We'll handle it here. Stay with the competition and keep me posted."

"Yes, sir." The man on the other end hung up.

Lydia raised an eyebrow. "'The competition?'"

"Appropriate, actually," Leflin replied coolly, standing up. "Get the car ready," he told the others. "We're all going on a train ride."

"You're dragging me along?" Lydia asked. "Bernie, have you lost your mind?"

He smiled. "Walters is convinced I can't trust you. Of course, I can't trust him, but recent events have spun too far out of my control to trust anyone at this point. Besides, what else should I do with you?"

Her purse was sitting on the table outside the office. "You could let me make a stop in the ladies' room."

"Fair enough." He gestured for her to lead him out.

As she walked into the hall, she stopped and reached for her purse, only to have the gorilla guarding it grab her wrist. "You don't need that."

"Oh yes, I do," she replied, pulling her hand free. "I've got a bit of a problem I need to attend to." At his blank stare, she sighed. "Do I need to spell it out for you? Or would you like to go in there and search for it yourself?"

The big man paled and thrust the bag towards her, holding it away from him as though it were a live cobra. The other security guards chuckled as Lydia took the purse and started rummaging through it. As she shifted things around, she caught hold of her cellphone, slipping it into a small makeup bag. Having done that, she pulled the bag out of the purse. "Here it is."

"Wonderful," Leflin said uncomfortably. He turned to one of the other guards. "Escort her to the ladies' room, if you please."

Outside Grand Central Station
5:49 p.m.

Michael stayed in the center of the rush-hour crowds, moving along with the flow of human traffic as he approached the entrance to Grand Central Station, staying on the other side of the street. He could see a few police cars, but he was sure there were plenty of unmarked vehicles in the area. That black van on the corner looked particularly suspicious.

Maybe a different route would be a good idea.

Leflin Incorporated

The two security guards stood outside the ladies' restroom, waiting. And waiting. And waiting.

"Are you done yet, Dr. Ross?" one of them shouted.

"Just five more minutes!" Lydia called back, fumbling with the cellphone. Now if I could just remember that number...

Outside Grand Central Station
5:50 p.m.

If there was one thing Dr. Theodore Morris hated, it was waiting. He paced back and forth in the small space behind the van in frustration.

"He's not coming," the bald agent said.

Waiting was bad enough, but waiting with a complete pessimist was worse. "How do you figure that?" Morris growled.

His second-in-command was unfazed by Morris' foul mood. "It's ten of six. If he was coming, he'd be here by now."

"Thank you for the vote of confidence." Morris turned his attention to the traffic, watching car after car slowly pass by. There was the occasional speed demon, but traffic was typical for rush hour. A large green van passed in front of the station, taking its time and blocking Morris' view of the entrance.

The entrance to the station was clear of people. In the next second, as the van passed by, someone appeared in front of the entrance. Michael Wiseman stood there, looking right at him and waiting. Morris started slightly, impressed. He hadn't even seen the man approach. Well, at least that showed that he had indeed paid attention to his training.

"Sir!" a voice barked through Morris' headset, startling him. "Wiseman was just seen--"

"I know," Morris snapped. "Hold your positions. I'm going out to meet him." He reached into his suit pocket and pulled out his cellphone and a small black box. "Not coming?"

Special Agent #1 shrugged. "So I was wrong."

Morris took the suitcase of money from a nearby FBI agent, tossing the cellphone to Special Agent #1. "Make yourself useful. Take my calls."

With that, he turned and started for the crosswalk, heading across the street. For once, things were going according to plan.

As soon as Dr. Morris spotted him, Michael knew there was no turning back. The tall scientist ducked back behind the black van and appeared a few seconds later with a metal briefcase in one hand. He chucked a small black object at Special Agent #1, who looked utterly nonplussed as he caught it. Michael forced himself not to smile, almost wishing he could hear what the Doc had said. Then again, it felt better to have some distance between himself and the Doc for the time being.

Michael shifted his weight, unable and unwilling to relax. The Doc seemed to be taking forever. He glanced down the street, gauging the distance between himself and the unmarked van he'd literally vaulted over a few minutes ago. If he made a break for it now, he might just make it.

But, he knew, it was too late for that. He took a deep breath and steeled himself as Dr. Morris came up to him. The Doc was keeping a little more distance than usual between them. Seeing the cut on Morris' lip, Michael realized why.

The two men stared at each other for a few seconds. "It's about time," Morris said flatly. "Didn't think you'd come."

"Yeah, well, you know me," Michael sighed. "I'm a sucker for punishment." Morris looked at him oddly, but did not reply. "How's the lip?"

"Healing," Morris answered. "How's the wife?"

Michael set his jaw. "She doesn't know anything, Doc. You've got to believe me."

"Give me one good reason to trust you now."

"I came back, didn't I?"

The tall scientist said nothing for several seconds, but the barely perceptible nod and the slight softening in his eyes was all the response that was needed.

Dr. Morris had only made it halfway across the street when his cellphone rang. It took Special Agent #1 a moment or two to realize that the ringing was coming from his suit pocket. He retrieved the phone and turned it on. "Hello?"

There was a pause on the other end before a familiar voice spoke. "Who is this?"

Special Agent #1 sighed. Talk about lousy timing. "I'd tell you my name, but you don't like referring to people by numbers."

"Very funny. Where's Dr. Morris?"

"He's otherwise occupied. Told me to hold the phone," Special Agent #1 replied curtly. "Where the hell have you been?"

"Fifteen million dollars in bearer bonds," Morris said, handing the suitcase to Michael. "Don't lose it."

He opened the small black box in his free hand. Michael took the transmitter and receiver without a word, putting them respectively under his shirt and in his ear.

Morris reached into his pocket and retrieved a small plastic bag. Inside was a key. "The locker number is 1469," he informed Michael. "You go in, head straight for the locker, and open it up. There are several plainclothes agents watching the lockers in case anything happens."

"Yeah, like a bomb blowing up in my face," Michael muttered.

"Let's hope it doesn't come to that."

"I don't have time to explain, but I think I found your mole," Lydia said. "I saw a couple of Leflin's people paying off your number-two man. Slicked-back black hair, six foot one - ring any bells?"

The bald agent blinked. "Special Agent #2?" he asked, incredulous.

"Talk about your uncreative codenames. But if that's the man I just described, yes."

"Impossible," the agent said scornfully.

Lydia forced herself to keep her voice down despite her irritation. "How else would Leflin have been able to keep your team off of the Wisemans' scent so easily? Pay a man on the inside to take charge of the search, spread false reports, ignore a few details. It happens."

Special Agent #1 inhaled deeply, trying to get his thoughts in order. "You're positive about this."

"I'd stake my career on it."

Nodding, Dr. Morris' right-hand man lowered the phone and glanced over to where another group of suits were positioned behind a police car. The man in question was not among them. His gaze traveled over to the fringe of the crowd before he spotted a familiar figure talking quietly into a cellphone. Special Agent #1 narrowed his eyes. "All right. Call back in ten minutes."

"I'll try, but - oh, hell. Got to go!" With that, she hung up abruptly.

Michael didn't smile, pocketing the key and looking up again. "Were you really going to put it back in? That's all?"

"You should know the answer to that by now."

"You sound like my sixth-grade math teacher, Doc."

Morris checked his watch. "5:52 p.m. If I were you, I'd be heading into the station right now."

Michael glanced over at the entrance apprehensively. "Guess I don't have a choice, do I?" He took a deep breath and turned away, pausing for a moment before he finally started down into the station.

The Doc watched him go. "Actually, Mr. Wiseman," he murmured, "you did."

Lydia managed to shove the cellphone back into the small makeup bag as the guards entered the bathroom. "Do you mind?" she snapped at them as they practically dragged her into the hallway. "Bernie, your father must have told you about respecting others' privacy."

"We don't have time for privacy, I'm afraid," Leflin replied. He had his cellphone pressed to his ear, listening to someone on the other end. For a moment, Lydia was afraid he might have tuned in to her recent conversation. "He did? Damn. We'll take care of it. See if you can't arrange a diversion after the fact. I'm implementing Plan C." With that, he hung up the phone.

Lydia sighed. "Do I even want to know what Plan C is?"

He folded his cellphone and put it in his breast pocket. "Trust has failed, so I'm going to have to do this the old-fashioned way."

Grand Central Station
5:55 p.m.

At least they'd given him change for the turnstile this time. The note hadn't said anything about the subway, but it was always good to be prepared.

Michael stayed with the flow of traffic, looking around the station. Where were the lockers again?

"Mr. Wiseman." The Doc's voice in his ear nearly made him jump in surprise. "Have you found the locker yet?"

"I'm getting there, Doc," Michael muttered, shoving through the streams of people who all happened to be going in the opposite direction before he finally broke free and approached the lockers. "Okay. 1067... 1338... 1425... uh-oh."

"What do you mean, 'uh-oh?' Is there something wrong with the locker?"

To be honest, locker number 1469 was fine. It was the one above it that he was worried about. More specifically, Michael was worried about the man built like a tank trying to shove a huge bag into locker number 1468. He had to be seven feet tall at least, Michael realized, and he was pissed off. Not only that, he was blocking the locker Michael had to get to.

"Mr. Wiseman, answer me! Do we have a problem?"

"Oh, yeah," Michael replied. "About three hundred pounds' worth."

Special Agent #2 hit the "End" key on the cellphone, privately pleased with himself. Before he could put the phone away, however, a pair of strong hands grabbed him by the shoulders and threw him against the side of one of the vans. He blinked, dazed, staring into the face of his superior. "Sir, what--"

"Who were you talking to?" Special Agent #1 demanded. Two more members of Morris' team were also present and glaring at their traitorous comrade coldly.

"No one," Special Agent #2 protested.

The cellphone was snatched from his hand. "No one?" the bald agent echoed, punching up a series of keystrokes that brought up a calling history. "This doesn't look like 'no one.' It doesn't even look like an authorized call."

"I was calling for backup--"

"Backup? From Leflin Incorporated?"

When the color drained from the other agent's face, Special Agent #1's suspicions were confirmed. He grabbed the dark-haired agent by the collar, pinning him against the van. "All right. Where are they?"

Grand Central Station

"Excuse me," Michael said for the third time. "Could you move for a second?"

The giant blocking his way had ignored the first two attempts, but this time he glanced over at Michael. "Move me yourself."

Michael considered that, then shrugged and grabbed the other man's arm. The burly man turned, but before he could retaliate, Michael had already flipped him over his shoulder onto the concrete. He lay there, blinking up in confusion at Michael. "Sorry," Michael apologized, not entirely contrite.

The man said nothing, staring for a few seconds at the man who was half his size, then taking into account the distance he'd been thrown. He jumped to his feet, turned, and ran for it.

"Hey, you forgot your bag!" Michael called after him, but the man was still running. He shrugged and turned back to locker number 1469. Not surprisingly, the key fit in the lock. "All right, Doc, the key fits."

"It's one minute til six, Mr. Wiseman. Go ahead."

"I was afraid you were gonna say that."

Michael stared at the locker for a second before turning the key in the lock. He took a deep breath and held it, squeezing his eyes shut and steeling himself for the worst as he opened the door.

Nothing happened. Michael opened his eyes. The locker was empty - except for a folded piece of paper. Exhaling in relief, Michael took the paper and unfolded it. "There's a note, Doc."

"That's all? Read it."

He scanned the contents. "Says to take the 6:05 up to 145th and look for a purple tie-dyed shirt."

"145th Street," Morris repeated. "We'll see if we can't get a couple of teams up to Lenox. I'll stay in contact with you til then."

"What? That's it? Can't you get some plainclothes agents on the car with me?"

"We'll try, but I doubt it," Morris said. "It's almost six o'clock. You had better get moving, Mr. Wiseman."

Outside Grand Central Station
6:00 p.m.

"The route goes up through Hartford," Special Agent #1 told the five remaining members of his team. The sixth was currently in custody. "He'll be most likely to try to board about thirty miles south of there, because there's a fairly well-traveled intersection. If the train's going to stop prematurely, it'll be there. Leflin will have time to engineer some sort of accident to guarantee that."

"Would he go to those lengths?" an agent asked.

"He's already pulled some ridiculous stunts already, and he's one of the richest men in the world. Yes." Special Agent #1 turned back to the map. "But we can cut them off ten miles later. There's a road that runs parallel to the tracks for a good six or seven miles, and we might not have to stop the train to board - which would tip Leflin off anyway. It'll take us approximately forty-five minutes to get there. Any more questions?"

Another agent cleared his throat. "Have you informed Dr. Morris?"

"Only that there was a security leak we had to take care of. He won't stop long enough to listen anyway, he's too busy trying to get the HAZMAT teams on the move. Besides, do you want to tell him we pulled agents away at a time like this and then come up empty-handed?"

There were no more questions.

Somewhere outside Hartford
6:30 p.m.

"There it is," Leflin said, pointing down at the dimly-lit gray ribbons that traced through the blackness below that was supposed to be Connecticut. "Amtrak number 563. Right on schedule."

Lydia glanced dispassionately out of the helicopter window, more interested in their mode of transportation than anything else. "Mmm-hmm. Mind if I ask where you got the stealth helicopter?"

"We've taken on some government contracts. This one isn't due for a week. They won't miss it."

She turned and stared at him. "We're taking a stealth helicopter to stop a train and pick up a pair of civilians who have no clue what's going on." He nodded. "Am I the only one here who sees just how ridiculous this is? What, exactly, do you intend to accomplish here?"

He did not look at her, keeping his gaze fixed straight ahead. "I already told you that."

"Bullshit. You're bordering on fanatical, Bernie. This isn't about business anymore."

Leflin tensed at that, and she could see the muscles working in his jaw as he tried to formulate a calm answer. "My father devoted his last remaining years to the pursuit of life," he said after a moment. "His own life, and perhaps eventually the ability to prolong others' lives as well."

She hesitated before replying, slipping into psychiatrist mode. Now was not the time to be blunt. "What happened to him, Bernie - he made his own decision. I don't agree with it, but do you really want events to repeat themselves?"

He shrugged. "I'm just trying to finish what he started."

Sighing, Lydia sat back in her chair. Neither one spoke for several seconds. "It wasn't your fault," Lydia finally said.

At that, Leflin did turn and look at her, but Lydia had already turned back to the window.

"Hey, Mom?"

Reluctantly, Lisa stirred from her sleep, blinking tiredly at her daughter. "It's a four-hour ride, Heather. Nothing you say or do will change that."

"I know, Mom, that's not what I meant. Is there a stop in the middle of nowhere?"

Lisa sat up, shaking her head briefly to clear out the last dregs of sleep. "Of course not. Why do you ask?"

Heather was staring out the window, trying to get a glimpse of something up ahead. "Because we're stopping."

New York City

The subway ride seemed to be taking forever. True, it wasn't a short jaunt - he was going halfway across Manhattan - but to Michael it seemed like eternity. He checked the watch that the Doc had given him and winced; he only had an hour til the deadline. Not that it meant anything. He still hadn't seen a purple tie-dyed shirt.

He forced himself to stay alert, shifting the briefcase to his left hand, glancing around the subway car apprehensively. "Mr. Wiseman," Morris barked through the earpiece, jolting him into full alertness. "Any changes?"

"Hmm? No, nothing yet," Michael murmured, trying to keep his voice low. Even in New York, talking to oneself in a crowded space wasn't the best way to stay inconspicuous. "My stop's coming up, though."

"All right. Whoever the messenger is, stall him. We're trying to move a HAZMAT team and some units up there without drawing too much attention."

Michael nodded as the train began to slow. "You got it."

He was relieved to be able to exit with the flow of traffic as the train stopped and the doors slid open. Clutching the briefcase tightly, Michael elbowed his way onto the platform with the rest of the departing horde. Rush hour was dying down, and the majority of the traffic was getting off.

Stepping out of the flow of traffic, Michael scanned the area, seeing nothing but dull and muted colors, and not a hint of purple. "Anything?" the Doc asked.

"Don't see it yet," Michael muttered, moving to the other side of the support beam to get a better look. As the crowds began to thin out, he suddenly caught a flash of bright purple near the street entrance. Michael started moving towards it, hoping to get a better look. As he crossed the platform, he got a look at the owner of the shirt and stopped, surprised.

"Do you see him?" Morris demanded.

"Well," Michael replied, "I see her."

The girl was probably in her late teens or early twenties, a few years older than his daughter. She was Asian, her black hair cut short and intentionally uneven, with a purple streak in it that matched the neon purple tie-dyed tank top that she was wearing along with ratty jeans and black boots. She paid no attention to Michael, bobbing her head and chewing her gum in time with the music coming through the headphones she was wearing. "Her?" Morris echoed. "Are you sure?"

"Yeah, that shirt could be seen a mile away," Michael replied, resuming his course towards the girl.

She remained oblivious as he approached, but suddenly caught sight of him mid-bob and stopped, pulling her headphones down to hang around her neck. The head-bobbing ceased, but the gum-chewing did not. "So you're the guy?" she asked, looking him up and down appraisingly. "He didn't say you were cute."

Michael rolled his eyes. The past twenty-four hours were bad enough without being hit on by someone not much older than his daughter. Then something else dawned on him. "Who didn't say that?"

The girl looked at him, then at the briefcase, as it dawned on her that something serious was going on. "Nobody," she replied, backing away. "Listen, I got to go--"

Before she could take another step, Michael grabbed her by the arm, making sure his grip was gentle. She opened her mouth to scream, but then stopped, looking at him. There was no anger or malice in his eyes, just frustration and concern. "Just tell me," Michael said quietly.

She nodded, and he released her. "Look, I don't know who," she said, reaching into her back pocket and pulling out a folded slip of paper. "This big guy just gave me fifty bucks to give you this. That's it. I swear."

Michael took the slip from her, unfolded it, and sighed. There was an address written on the paper. "Let her go, Mr. Wiseman," Morris told him, much to Michael's relief. "We don't have time for this."

"Thanks," Michael told the girl. She didn't move, and he gestured with his head. "Get out of here. Go."

She looked at him oddly before turning and scurrying up the stairs to the street level. "Got an address, Doc," Michael said. "Some office building a few blocks from here."

"Give me the address," Morris replied. "And get moving."

"You're starting to sound like a broken record, Doc."

Somewhere outside Hartford

The caravan of freight trucks finished passing through the intersection, despite the fact that four of them should have stopped for the train that was sitting and waiting for them to pass. The driver was so infuriated at the traffic slowing him up that he didn't notice the vehicle pulling alongside the train.

"Huh," Heather said as the train began to move again. "Thought we were going to make a real stop. Not like there's anyplace to stop around here, but still."

"Sorry to disappoint you," Lisa said tiredly. "Maybe you might want to try to get some sleep."

Heather shook her head. "I tried. I don't know, Mom - I've just got this feeling. Like we're not out of the woods yet. Something's gonna happen, I know it."

Lisa looked at her sympathetically before sitting up and scooting over. "Come here, you." As Heather scooted into the seat beside her, Lisa put an arm around her daughter. "Heather, we're going to be fine. I can work things out when we get to Boston. Besides, I really don't think Claire will turn down the opportunity for company."

Heather smiled at that, leaning against Lisa with a sigh. "Does she really have fourteen cats?"

Lisa smiled. "Maybe they'll make good pillows."

As Heather laughed, the door slid open. "I'm afraid," Leflin said, "that you won't be needing to worry about cats where we're going." He stepped into the car, dragging a very pissed-off looking and familiar woman behind him. "Mind if we sit down?"

"Yes," the woman said acidly, glaring at Leflin.

He smirked as two dark-suited men stepped up to guard the door. "I wasn't talking to you, my dear."

145th Street
6:40 p.m.

"This is the place," Michael told the Doc quietly as he stood in front of the building. It was about six stories, nondescript, gray, with the interior lights dimmed. It didn't look like anyone was there.

"Well, stop standing there and go on in."

"Are you sure? Maybe I could just ring the doorbell and wait outside."

"Mr. Wiseman." There was no mistaking that tone. Michael sighed and grabbed the door handle, silently hoping that it was locked.

To his disappointment, the door slid open at his touch. Michael swallowed before stepping into the clean, dim, and silent lobby. "Hello?" he called. No one answered. "Honey, I'm home!" Still no reply. Michael stood in the center of the lobby for a few moments, considering his options and waiting for something to happen. Nothing did.

"Guess no one's here," Michael said, more to the Doc than himself. "Oh, well."

He started to turn away, but a familiar ding broke through the silence. Michael turned back towards the elevators at the far end of the lobby. The floor numbers were lighting up, marking the progress of the elevator coming closer and closer to the bottom floor. It finally reached the lobby, and the doors slid open to reveal... an empty elevator. Cautiously, Michael approached the elevator, peering in.

The only thing inside was a yellow Post-It with two words in block letters: GET IN.

"No, this isn't a trap," Michael muttered, looking apprehensively at the elevator. But it seemed that he didn't have a choice in the matter. Taking a deep breath, he stepped inside, and the doors slid shut behind him.

Somewhere outside Hartford
6:40 p.m.

"Just who do you think you are?" Lisa exploded as Leflin sat down across from her and Heather, shoving Lydia into the seat beside him. One hand pinned her arm down, and the other was pressing something cold, hard, and small against her back. It probably wasn't a gun - he personally hated them - but Lydia decided she wasn't going to take that chance.

Not yet, anyway.

Leflin smiled tightly. "I'm a man of many means. That's all you need to know."

"Thank you, Mr. Cryptic," Lydia murmured. Leflin tightened his grip on her arm so much it was painful.

"It most certainly is not!" Lisa snapped.

"Mrs. Wiseman," Leflin said, "please keep your voice down."

There was a slight edge to his voice that hadn't been there before. Lovely, Lydia thought. Now he decides to unravel.

"Why? So maybe someone will notice we're being held hostage?"

"Keep it down, Mom," Heather muttered through clenched teeth. Her eyes were fixed on the armed goons in the doorway. Lisa was glaring at Leflin, who seemed visibly uncomfortable. Lydia, for once, did not notice; her attention was drawn to the darkness outside. Was it her imagination, or were those sets of headlights moving down the nearby highway getting closer? As if they were keeping pace with the train?

Leflin cleared his throat. "Mrs. Wiseman--"

Lisa barreled on, heedless of Heather's nails digging into her arm. "I am sick and tired of this cloak-and-dagger shit! I want answers!"

"Mom!" Heather exclaimed, shocked. Lydia reluctantly turned away from the window, visibly impressed.

Oddly enough, this burst of fury did not eliminate Leflin's calm. He seemed to relax at that final outburst, his discomfort fading. "You want answers? Very well." He leaned forward, still pressing the cold, hard object against Lydia's back. "There's a very good reason for all the inconsistent reports. No, your husband did not die the moment the train hit him. And no, he did not die when he reached the hospital. The doctors, nurses, scientists and bureaucrats have been withholding the truth from you, with good reason."

He paused for several seconds, just for dramatic effect. "You see, Mrs. Wiseman, your husband is alive."

145th Street
New York City

It seemed like the elevator was taking forever. Michael stood there, nervously scanning the floor, walls and ceiling for the entrance of a toxic egg. He'd seen plenty of movies where the good guys were knocked out or killed by gas in an elevator. And why else would the Eggman pick such an empty, out-of-the-way spot for the drop? He could just kill me and take the money...

No. Michael forced back the wave of panic, trying to think. If the Eggman wanted the cash that badly, he would have to be sure that Michael was actually carrying it. He was all right for now.

The elevator finally stopped at the fifth floor, and the doors slid open. Cautiously, Michael stepped into the empty, dimly-lit hallway. Not a soul was in sight. The elevator doors slid shut behind him with a whisper. Michael stood there for a moment, waiting. "Hello?"

A dry cough pierced the silence, and Michael turned to see an eerily familiar figure standing at the end of the hallway. The little man had made almost no sound; Michael hadn't heard him approach. Holding up the egg so that Michael could see it, the Eggman beckoned.

Somewhere outside Hartford
6:45 p.m.

"You see, Mrs. Wiseman, your husband is alive."

There was a long pause. A very long pause. "What?" Lisa whispered almost inaudibly, shocked. Heather was staring at Leflin as though the man had grown a second head.

Lydia froze for a second, her mind racing. Then the panic faded away to be replaced by an expression of total scorn. "Oh, for the love of - Bernie, of all the stupid, half-assed ideas you could have gotten into your head!"

"I don't appreciate your tone," Leflin informed her coldly.

"Tough," Lydia snapped. "You know, I figured you'd fallen for some kind of cockamamie story, but this just takes the cake! What, was your 'source' completely drunk out of his mind?"

The shock on the Wisemans' faces was turning quickly into doubt. "Are you calling me a liar?" Leflin demanded.

"No, but you're misinformed as hell." Lydia shook her head, sighing with frustration. "I don't believe this. I really don't believe this. I haul my sorry ass all the way out here from Denver to check out a security leak, get one hour of sleep, try to deal with the most stubborn SOB the Pentagon has ever hired, nearly get killed - and because someone's been telling you fairy tales!"

"Coming up to the drop-off point!" the driver announced as the black SUVs sped down the highway, trying to keep pace with the train. "We'll hit the patch in about a minute!"

Special Agent #1 checked his gear. "All right. Try to get us in line with the entrance to the third car from the front." He turned back to the other three agents who had volunteered to board the train. "They're in compartment C15. Probably under guard. I want this done quickly and quietly. Ross may or may not be with them. The Wisemans are NOT to be harmed." He paused. "Any questions?"

There were none. "Anyone feel like talking me out of this?"

The others exchanged glances. "No," Special Agent #3 said with a grin.

"Damn."

Grand Empire Insurance
New York City

The office secretary was packing up to leave. Roger Bender could hear her shuffling papers and reports, putting things in order before escaping their mutual prison. He glared at the report in front of him, then looked out at the quiet hallway. Most of the lights had been shut off. He heard a sigh, the sound of a briefcase zipping up, and finally the click of heels getting fainter and fainter as she headed for the elevators. Well, now it was official; he was the only one there. No one was around to see him working diligently at a report that wasn't even his responsibility. No one was around to point fingers if he left before they did.

If he left now, he could get to the police station before eight. Then he could get Ruth home in time for "Everybody Loves Raymond." Then she just might let him live.

Roger stuffed the report in a folder with disgust and grabbed his coat. There were far more terrifying things in his life than Craig Spence.

145th Street
6:46 p.m.

"Where's the bomb?" Michael asked.

The Eggman shook his head, pointing at the satchel in Michael's hand. "It's all here. Fifteen million." Michael patted the satchel, keeping his eyes fixed on the egg. "The bomb. Where is it, and how do I stop it?"

Shrugging, the Asian man reached into his pocket with his free hand. He never lowered the egg, nor did he take his eyes off Michael as he retrieved a folded piece of paper. "Here. Access code."

"Toss it over here."

"Money first."

"Uh-uh, there's no way," Michael protested. "Not while you've got the Chicken Embryo of Death right there. You give me the paper, then I slide you the money."

After a moment's hesitation, the Eggman slowly nodded. He dropped the paper to the floor and kicked it over to Michael. His aim was good, for the paper bounced against Michael's shoes. Slowly, Michael knelt down to pick up the paper, never letting his gaze stray from the little man. He straightened again just as slowly, unable to get rid of the sense of dread that was building and building. Somehow, he was forgetting something.

Just as Michael realized what he'd overlooked, the Eggman dropped the egg.

"Doc, he's dropping it!" Michael yelled, gulping in clean air and holding it just before the egg hit the ground. He dived to catch it, but he was too late.

"Mr. Wiseman!" Morris shouted into the headset. "Mr. Wiseman!" No answer. "Damn it."

He immediately checked his watch, noting the exact second and minute before turning and yelling at the head of the HAZMAT team. "The agent's been released!"

"We've got the building sealed, sir," the technician assured him. "Did Mr. Wiseman--"

Morris looked past the sea of police and emergency vehicles at the office building. "Have a team ready. We'll know in six minutes."

Outside Hartford

The two guards posted outside the compartment door were alert and ready for whatever trouble they might expect on a train such as curious passengers or suspicious conductors. But they weren't exactly prepared for the armed team of agents that appeared out of nowhere.

They were smart enough to know when to cooperate.

As Lydia paused in her ranting, Leflin relaxed the pressure on her back, and she shifted ever so slightly. Not enough to get his attention, but enough to realize that there was no way that Leflin had a firearm back there. The other two men were another matter, but it still freed up her options.

She paused only to take a breath before launching back into her tirade. "Do you have any idea how much trouble you've caused for everyone? How much money and time this has wasted? Your father at least had the sense to know when he was going too far!"

"And then he killed himself, in case you've forgotten," Leflin snapped, his cool demeanor finally fading. "I know exactly what I'm doing."

"Yeah, kidnapping," Heather interrupted. "That's got to look great on your resume." Lisa elbowed her sharply.

Leflin glared at her for a moment before slipping back into an unsettling calm, leaning back unconsciously. "What do you propose to do about it?"

For answer, she suddenly leaned forward and slammed her elbow back into his face.

About a second later, chaos officially erupted.

145th Street

Still holding his breath, Michael jumped to his feet, the satchel momentarily forgotten. The Eggman was hastily backing away, out of his reach. Before Michael could make a move to capture him, thick arms wrapped around his neck, squeezing his larynx like a vise. He was literally lifted off his feet. Fighting against the instinct to gasp for air, Michael kicked futilely and grabbed the arms holding him, trying to pull them apart.

But for all his strength, he couldn't get them to budge. Holding his breath at the same time made it even more difficult, and he couldn't get any traction on the floor. As he struggled furiously, he could hear a deep chuckle in his ear.

"Surprise," Charlie Smalls grunted through the gas mask he was wearing. "Superman, my ass."

Outside Hartford
6:47 p.m.

Leflin's howl of pain told Lydia that she had hit home as she pulled herself free from his grip without any trouble, scrambling to her feet and moving out of his reach. The billionaire didn't notice. He was too preoccupied with his discomfort, doubled over with both hands covering his bloody nose. The two guards started in surprise, looking from their boss to Lydia with confusion. They weren't exactly prepared for this contingency.

Still covering his face, Leflin glared at them. "Stop staring at me and get some ice!"

The guard nearest the door nodded, stood, and left the compartment. As he closed the door behind him, he heard the unmistakable click of a safety being turned off. He turned around slowly to see several guns pointed at him.

Special Agent #1 regarded him coldly. "Two down. How many more to go?"

145th Street

After over a year of tedious and constant training - even though he hadn't been all that attentive - Michael knew exactly what to do if someone grabbed him from behind and tried to cut off his air supply. He even knew what to do if his feet were lifted off the floor.

But none of his training had taught him what to do if he had to hold his breath at the same time.

Smalls didn't have that problem. Without loosening his choke hold, the huge man slammed Michael into the wall, putting all of his weight into it. It was all Michael could do to keep from gasping in pain as the plaster cracked from the impact. He bit his lip to keep from crying out - too hard. Immediately, Michael tasted blood. He'd forgotten that his enhanced strength extended to every muscle - even his jaw.

As Smalls pulled back, Michael jabbed his elbow back blindly, hoping to connect. His aim was wide, and he connected with the big man's side. Smalls grunted. "You want more? Fine by me."

Finding a fresh section of wall, he repeated the procedure, leaving another Michael-shaped dent in the plaster where the first one had been. The angle was different, and his head took more of the impact this time. Michael was vaguely aware of the Eggman shuffling past them to pick up the satchel as Smalls went back to crushing his windpipe.

No! Michael couldn't believe this. After everything he'd been through, this psychopath couldn't just walk away. Then again, he wasn't having much luck with the giant who was attacking him. The metallic taste of blood in his mouth gave him an idea. Maybe fighting back wasn't the way to deal with this guy.

His struggles grew weaker, and after a second or two he went limp in Charlie's arms.

Lydia bent down to pick up the small metal object that Leflin had dropped. Lisa and Heather stared at it. "A cigarette lighter?" Lisa asked in disbelief.

Leflin shrugged as best he could. "I had to improvise."

"Wow," Heather said. "You really are a loser."

Anything Leflin could have said in response was cut off by a polite knock on the door. "Get that," he said to the last remaining guard.

The man obeyed. As soon as he saw who was standing out there, he reached for his gun. He wasn't quick enough, and the next thing anyone in the compartment knew, the door was kicked open and several men with guns blocked the threshold. "Freeze! Federal agents!"

Lisa yelped in surprise, and the remaining guard took one look at what he was facing and dropped his gun. "Hands on your head," Special Agent #1 ordered.

"My hero," Lydia said wryly.

"Don't even go there, Dr. Ross."

As the last of Leflin's guards was hustled out of the compartment and handcuffed, Lydia remained in the corner with Lisa and Heather, surreptitiously placing herself between them and the agents.

The bald agent stared at Leflin, who was still hunched over in pain, then looked back at Lydia again.

Lydia shrugged. "He pissed me off."

Heather grinned wickedly, and Lisa tried not to laugh.

145th Street
6:50 p.m.

"Just where do you think you're going?" Charlie demanded as he let the limp body fall to the floor.

The Eggman looked up from his inspection of the satchel as he stood in front of the elevator, waiting for it to open. Charlie stepped over Michael's body to confront the little man. "You're not leaving without me, are you? I did my part."

"Did you?"

For answer, Charlie turned the body over for the Eggman to see. Michael's eyes were closed, but there was blood trickling from the corners of his mouth. "Looks like it." The Eggman said nothing. "I thought we were partners, old man. Did you get the money?" The old man nodded. "Well, show me."

Hesitating for a moment, the Eggman passed the satchel to Charlie. The burly man crouched down beside Michael and unlatched the case, letting out a low whistle as he flipped through the contents. "I've got to hand it to you," he said. "This was worth all the hassle--"

Suddenly, Michael's arm shot out and knocked the satchel out of Charlie's hands. It flew into the far wall, and the contents spilled in every direction. Charlie cried out with shock as Michael jumped to his feet, shoving the big man to the floor. He took a step towards the Eggman, but Charlie recovered enough to grab his opponent's leg and yank Michael down to the floor. Again the big man wrapped his hands around Michael's neck, but Michael shoved his fists up between Charlie's arms, pushing outwards with all his strength. They were fairly evenly matched; Michael was stronger than Charlie, but the convict had the extra advantage of being able to breathe. As the two men struggled, the Eggman glanced at the spilt money and sighed as the elevator doors opened.

Michael finally pried Charlie's hands off his neck and punched the big man in the face. It was an ill-aimed punch; the gas mask made it difficult, and his attention was suddenly directed elsewhere. He glanced up to see the Eggman getting into the elevator only a few feet away.

"Bye-bye," the Eggman said as the doors slid shut.

Desperately, Michael lunged for the elevator, but Charlie took advantage of the distraction and grabbed his opponent by his collar, scrambling to his feet as he threw Michael into the wall. To Charlie's surprise, the smaller man was on his feet in a second and charging. Catching the convict off guard, Michael plowed headlong into him, slamming Charlie into the wall. But Charlie was ready for something like that, and before Michael could pull back, grabbed him in a headlock.

Gritting his teeth, Michael planted his feet, trying to flip Charlie over his shoulder. Instead, he managed to send both of them crashing to the floor.

Dazed, Michael barely managed to catch the punches Charlie threw at him in midair, desperately grappling with the convict. His lungs were starting to burn, and Michael realized that he wasn't going to be able to duke it out with Charlie indefinitely. As the big man pinned him down, Michael grabbed wildly at his head. Charlie howled as Michael's fingers pulled his hair. Again Michael grabbed, and was gratified to find the edge of the gas mask.

Sorry, Michael thought as he grasped the rubber strap and yanked with all his might. At the same time, he kneed his opponent in the groin. Charlie cried out in pain, rolling off of Michael.

The gas mask remained in Michael's hand. As Charlie sat up, he suddenly realized what had happened, but it was too late. The big man opened his mouth in terror, convulsing as the toxin bombarded his system. Scrambling to his feet, Michael backed away in horror, letting the gas mask slip from nerveless fingers.

"Mr. Wiseman!" Michael almost jumped a foot as Dr. Morris shouted into his ear; he'd forgotten about the earpiece. "I know you can't respond, but if you can hear me, head for the front entrance! We have a HAZMAT team in place!"

A familiar scrap of white paper was lying a few feet away. Michael snatched the paper up, unfolding it to see an address and a series of numbers. The second he read the address, he bolted for the stairwell.

There was still time to win this one.

Outside Hartford

"I'm telling you, I was set up!" Leflin was yelling. "I was told that I was exposing a conspiracy!"

"I'm sure you were," Special Agent #1 said mildly as the millionaire was hustled into a black van along with his men. "You should have checked your sources."

Leflin managed to push partially free of his captors. Despite the bandage that was covering his nose, the controlled fury in his eyes was patently dangerous. "What are you going to tell the courts? You can't prove anything without exposing yourselves."

"Let me see," Lydia said, coming up to stand beside the bald agent. "We can prove kidnapping, misappropriation of government property - that's the helicopter, of course - and the fact that you deliberately attempted to sabotage a legitimate government project is certainly going to thrill a judge."

He glared at her. "I trusted you, Lydia. I thought you were a friend."

"I could say the same for you, Bernie," she said sadly. Turning away, she ignored his angry shouts as he was shoved into the van.

As she walked back towards the string of police cars, Special Agent #1 came up beside her. "What next?" she asked.

"We'll have to question him," he informed her. "See what he knows."

"Mmm-hmm. And the charges?"

"Going to be hard to bring up given the circumstances. If he's cooperative, he'll just disappear from the public eye and split up his fortune to his investors."

Lydia chuckled in spite of herself. "He's just going to hate that." She frowned. "But that's not what I asked."

He blinked in confusion as they approached the nearest open van. Lisa and Heather were sitting in the back of the van, being checked out by one of the agents who knew first aid. They were more or less unharmed, albeit fairly shaken up. Lisa was squeezing her daughter's hand so tightly that her knuckles were white, but Heather wasn't complaining. "So what happens now?" Lisa asked as they approached.

Lydia folded her arms and gave the bald agent a meaningful look. "You know, Q-ball, that's a very good question."

Special Agent #1 closed his eyes. "Don't call me that."

145th Street
6:51 p.m.

The building was completely sealed off as Dr. Morris approached the front entrance. Extending from the front doors was a heavy plastic chamber, which had air filtering equipment on the right and left to clear the toxins from the chamber. The back was opened up to allow access from the building.

"How much more time?" one of the technicians asked.

Morris checked his watch. "One minute."

6:52 p.m.

Michael grasped the handle of the stairwell door and was less than pleased to discover that it was locked. He backed up a few steps and threw all of his weight into the door. The hinges snapped and the door practically buckled as Michael tumbled through the threshold, door and all. He stumbled to his feet and bolted down a flight of steps - then got a better idea. Vaulting neatly over the railing, he dropped three floors and landed rather painfully on his feet. He winced at the landing, stumbled, and charged for the lobby.

6:53 p.m.

Seven minutes had passed. And Michael Wiseman had yet to emerge. Dr. Morris stared sadly at the front doors of the building, then sighed and started to turn away.

A sudden whump caused him to whirl around. Michael had come charging out of the front doors and slammed headlong into the plastic. Realizing just what was going on, he'd managed to brake just in time to keep from tearing right through the protective sheet.

"Get him out of there!" Morris shouted, moving to stand beside the technician working on the air filtering system. "Are you sure this will work?"

The tech handling the controls sighed, his voice distorted by the bio-suit filter. "Our instrumentation should be able to pick up most known toxins, and this time we know what we're looking for."

Morris spoke into the earpiece again. "Mr. Wiseman, you'll have to hold on for a second or two. We have to make sure the toxin is filtered out."

Michael nodded, closing his eyes and desperately trying to hold his breath a few more seconds. It felt like his lungs would explode at any moment. He was feeling light-headed, and crumpled to his knees, barely noticing as the two men in biohazard suits caught him before he could crash to the ground. But he did hear a hissing sound and felt the rush of circulating air as the toxic air was sucked out of the chamber.

A green light on a nearby panel switched on, accompanied by a shrill beep. "We're clear!" the tech shouted.

Unable to take it any more, Michael exhaled with a gasp. To his surprise, something plastic was shoved against his nose and mouth. Opening his eyes, Michael put a hand over the oxygen mask, holding onto it as he sucked in a deep breath of air. He was relieved to discover that it was indeed an oxygen tank that the mask was connected to.

At a signal from Dr. Morris, a flap in the chamber was opened, and the two men in yellow suits helped Michael stagger to his feet. Too tired to argue, he allowed them to support him on both sides, hauling him through the sea of flickering red-and-blue lights. Michael kept his head down, watching the asphalt instead of the lights; he hadn't taken his medication, and was taking no chances.

Predictably enough, Morris was waiting for them at the ambulance as Michael was hauled into the back. "I hope you have good news."

Michael tried to speak, but his chest hurt too much. With shaking hands, he handed Morris the note. The Doc unfolded it, reading over the contents as Michael took another gulp of air from the oxygen tank. He glanced up. "A bomb?" Michael nodded. "This series of numbers?"

"Code," Michael gasped, finally finding his voice. "Eggman... said something... about an access code."

Morris nodded and opened his cellphone. "We've got a location. Madison Square Garden." A pause. "You heard me. The bomb's right across the goddamn street from you. I have an access code here. Take it down." He read from the note. "3-5-7-2-5-9-5-3-0-7-8-1-1-6-6-5-7-4-2. Tell the bomb squad they've got thirty minutes at the most."

He hung up the phone. "What about our friends in there?"

"Eggman went down the elevator. Didn't see him get off at the lobby, so he could still be in there." Michael paused for a moment, breathing heavily. His chest still hurt.

"We'll check that out," Morris said. "Smalls?"

Michael didn't reply immediately. He looked down at his hands. "He's - he's dead." He looked pained, the realization of what he'd just done sinking in. Absently, he added, "The money - uh, the money's actually spread out all over the fifth floor."

When the Doc did not reply, Michael looked up to see that Morris was standing there, fixing the Look on him. It wasn't just the Look that Michael had become used to. Dr. Morris seemed to be trying to bore a hole through Michael's skull with that glare. And it didn't take a rocket scientist to figure out what he really wanted to know.

"Doc," Michael said, "she doesn't know anything. Okay, maybe she doesn't buy the I.R.S. cover anymore, but she still thinks I'm just some crazy SOB who works for the government."

"Do you know how close we came to having the security of this project utterly blown?" Morris demanded.

Michael dismissed the impending string of questions with a wave. "We didn't. Besides, Doc, she doesn't want to know. Not if it's gonna endanger her - or Heather." He took another gulp of air from the tank. "You can do what you want to me, but leave them alone. They're not a security risk."

"You're sure."

"I'm positive." Michael shielded his eyes with a hand. "You mind closing the door or getting me some shades?"

Dr. Morris glowered - for about five seconds. He turned to watch the flashing lights of the squad cars and emergency vehicles that were already pulling out into traffic, headed towards a bomb that they just might be able to stop, and hundreds of people that they just might be able to save. He turned to look at the man sitting on the gurney in the ambulance, a man who had risked his freedom, his life, and his family's lives to make it possible.

"Lie down, Mr. Wiseman." Groaning, Michael obeyed as Morris' cellphone rang. "Morris here." The tall scientist frowned. "Where are you?" He paused, listening. "Yes, that sounds exactly like something she'd do."

He stopped and looked at Michael thoughtfully for several moments. "I'm afraid that I'll have to agree with Dr. Ross for once." There was a rather long pause. "I don't have the time or the inclination to explain myself. Meet us at 34th and 4th after 7:30. Yes, bring all three of them."

Nodding, he shut off the phone. "Feel like taking a trip?"

"Depends where we're going."

"To see if this," Morris replied, shaking the scrap of paper, "is telling the truth."

Somewhere outside Hartford
6:55 p.m.

"What do you mean, a change of plan?" Lydia demanded as Special Agent #1 finished instructing the helicopter pilot and sat back in his seat. Also piled into the helicopter were Lisa and Heather, since Lydia had refused to let either one of them out of her sight.

"We're going back into the city," the agent replied.

Lisa leaned forward. "WHERE in the city??"

He looked uncomfortable. "Couple blocks from Madison Square Garden."

"What?" Heather echoed. "Why?"

Special Agent #1 shook his head helplessly. "Beats me."

Both Lisa and Heather turned to stare at Lydia. The psychologist shrugged.

7:10 p.m.

"Can't this thing go any faster?" Michael groused as the limo sped down the parkway, pressing an icepack to his head. He was breathing easier now, but he was still sore from being bashed into the walls repeatedly. There was a small cut on his forehead from where his head had hit the wall the second time, and it was covered with a gauze bandage. The bruising around it was still visible. Morris had been quite impressed, estimating that he'd been hit hard enough to cause a skull fracture in a normal human being. Michael had just been anxious to get bandaged up and get moving. He'd suffered a fair share of cuts and bruises from the altercation. Most were minor, but Morris had insisted on bandaging some of the larger ones so bystanders wouldn't be able to see them healing.

Dr. Morris didn't reply, listening intently to his cellphone. A good portion of the teams had been left in the vicinity of Grand Central Station - including the bomb squad. Which meant that calling them in was not as difficult as it would have been otherwise. The HAZMAT teams had remained to decontaminate the building and search for the Eggman. "Hm." He shut the cellphone off. "They've actually got most of the arena evacuated."

Michael nearly dropped the icepack into his lap. "You're kidding? Already? During a game?"

"It was an off-season charity game," Morris replied. "Turnout wasn't as high as it might have been for, say, the NBA All-Star Game."

"But still, the whole arena--"

Morris smirked. "Apparently, the Knicks were losing. Badly. People were already walking out."

Michael stared at him for a few more seconds in utter disbelief. "Uh-huh. What about the bomb?"

"There's a team searching the lower levels right now."

"So what are we supposed to do?"

Morris put the phone back into his coat pocket. "We wait and see."

Madison Square Garden
7:20 p.m.

When the dead janitor was found stuffed inside a storage closet, the agents searching the halls knew they were on the right track. Consequently, it was not a great surprise when a bomb was discovered hooked to one of the generators not far away from the body.

The sheer amount of homemade explosive wired to its control box was.

The officer in charge switched on his radio. "Lieutenant, I think we've got something. How much left to evacuate?"

"We're herding out one of the concert stages now," crackled a response. "Other one's still left, the lowest level. Are you positive this is it?"

"Oh, yeah. Bastard's got it hooked up to a generator. Something tells me cutting the power is a bad idea."

"Is there an input screen?"

There was a computer keyboard hooked up to the thing, with a small monitor. The cursor blinked expectantly. "Yep, we got an interface. This guy's set up plenty of decoys, though. Cutting wires isn't going to help. Timer says we've got 10 minutes."

"Our orders are to disarm that damn thing and to use the access code first. Put it in and see what happens. We'll keep trying to get people out. If you can't shut it off in seven minutes, get the hell out of there."

"Yes, sir." Switching off his radio, the officer retrieved a printout from the pocket of his vest. "Clear this floor. Get the dogs out of here, get the staff out of here, no one but essential personnel. Be ready to seal off and contain the blast on my order." And pray while you're at it, he added silently.

Taking a deep breath, he turned to the keyboard and slowly began to type.

Seventh Street

"Goddammit!"

Like a large portion of New York City drivers, Roger subscribed to the school of thought that if you leaned on your horn long enough and cursed loudly enough, you would somehow move deadlocked downtown traffic. Sometimes, the theory actually worked.

This, however, was not one of those times.

Traffic had been relatively tolerable until he'd neared Madison Square Garden, and then everything had ground to a dead stop. No amount of cursing or honking or prayer would get it to move. Groaning, Roger rested his head against the steering wheel. "Should have taken the subway," he muttered to no one in particular.

The unmistakable sound of sirens made him lift his head and listen. It wasn't just one or two sirens, but several, coming from all directions. Curious, Roger shut off the ignition and got out of the Mercedes, taking his keys with him and turning on the automatic door lock and car alarm as he did so. He checked to make sure that he had the key chain with the pepper spray before shutting the car door and peering over the tops of cars. Other motorists were following suit.

He could see the Garden a block away, and he could also see that the entire intersection was blocked off. The caravan of emergency vehicles told Roger that something was going on. Something decidedly unpleasant.

Roger wondered just what he was going to tell Ruth.

Madison Square Garden
7:22 p.m.

The officer tapped in the last two characters of the code. "Here goes nothing," he muttered as he pressed the ENTER key.

There was a high-pitched beep, and the screen went blank. The officer jumped to his feet, but stopped as a new message popped up on the screen.

CORRECT ACCESS CODE
TIMER ABORT

To his immense relief, the timer stopped moving. The screen shut off, and the lights on the control box dimmed. He switched on his radio. "I think I've got some good news here."

34th and 7th St.
7:35 p.m.

"It's after 7:30," Michael said. "I didn't hear anything explode."

Morris nodded, finishing up his cellphone conversation. "Seems the Eggman was good as his word. Then again, he probably didn't want to risk the manhunt that would ensue if he got the money, got away and let the Garden blow sky-high."

Michael snorted. "Forget the FBI. He'd have to deal with rabid Knicks fans." He paused. "The code worked?"

"The code worked. The bomb squad disarmed the bomb and they're running a sweep of the building to make sure they got everything. There's a very large crowd of disgruntled patrons outside, but at least they're not dead." He smiled - a tight, small smile, but a smile nonetheless. "Good work, Mr. Wiseman."

"Thanks," Michael said distantly. "What about them, Doc? What are you going to do about my family?"

"Actually--" Morris began, but he was interrupted by a tapping sound. Startled, he rolled down the window to see who it was.

Lydia brushed her hair out of her face. "Dr. Morris. Fancy meeting you here."

"Dr. Ross," Morris said calmly. "I trust everything is in hand?"

"More or less. Your lackey is keeping an eye on things." She gestured towards the black SUV that had pulled up at the curb behind them. "Let's save the introductions and excuses for later. I've got fifteen minutes to get our stories straight."

145th Street

The power had been cut to the building, and it took a crowbar for the team investigating the aftermath of the standoff to pry open the elevator doors on the first floor. Half an hour had passed, and the Eggman had not emerged from the building. No one was sure if he was dead or alive.

Finally, the doors slid open.

The elevator was empty save for a cryptic note on a piece of yellow paper:

FAIR GAME.

There was no sign of the Eggman.

34th and 7th
7:45 p.m.

Michael hated waiting.

He was standing outside the limo with Special Agent #1. Inside the limo, Dr. Morris was talking on his cellphone, in the midst of a private conversation. And in the black SUV nearby, Dr. Ross was talking to Lisa and Heather, telling them a story that - he hoped - would straighten things out.

Leaning against the limo, Michael glanced at the bandage on the other man's cheek. "So what happened to you?"

Special Agent #1 turned and glared at him. His gaze flickered to Michael's elbow resting on the limo. Sighing, Michael straightened up again. Things were starting to get back to normal.

"So all this - was a hoax?" Lisa said in disbelief.

Lydia took a deep breath. She, Lisa, and Heather were sitting alone in the SUV, while Lydia nursed a fresh cup of coffee. "Yes and no. First off, the ambulance records you received must have been forgeries. There's no way that the hospital would have released actual records to anyone but your husband's immediate family. It's against policy, and they'd be looking at serious liability issues - especially the way the White House has been trying to push medical privacy legislation."

"Then why would a man pretending to be Dr. Morris show up at my door?"

"You weren't the only one getting fed false information." Lydia pursed her lips, thinking. "Much of the project in question is classified, so I can't give you hard details. What I can tell you is that your husband was listed as an organ donor, and as such he was a legitimate participant."

"In what?"

"I can't tell you that." Before Lisa could start ranting, Lydia added, "Because, in spite of all the frustration this must be causing, the Pentagon funded some of the research we were doing - some of it highly sensitive."

"Uh-huh," Heather said in disbelief. "What about Mr. Newman?"

Lydia was ready for this, having compared stories with Michael. "Mr. Newman actually did work for the I.R.S. a few years back before he came to work for us. Dr. Morris has continually found that amusing for some reason, so I'm not surprised he told you that just to annoy Newman."

Heather frowned, but Lisa's eyes lit up with understanding. "So then why all this cloak-and-dagger crap?" Heather asked.

"That's what we're trying to figure out," Lydia replied. "Sometime in December, Dr. Morris disappeared and Mr. Newman's apartment was broken into. Turns out that someone in the Pentagon had fed some misleading information to a Bernard Leflin Sr., telling him a ridiculous story that unfortunately caused Leflin to go after both Morris and Newman. When Leflin discovered he'd been lied to, he committed suicide."

She took a drink of coffee before continuing. "Leflin Incorporated has a number of government contracts, and a lot of connections. My father happened to be great friends with Leflin Sr., and I knew his son personally. Bernie Leflin could never just let something go."

"So he came after us," Lisa finished.

"Not quite. We think he had a source deliberately feeding him, and you, misleading information. Leflin Incorporated practically owns Edward Bernstadt's law firm. And while all you received was a bunch of ambulance records, Morris was tricked into believing that someone had leaked the exact details of the research to you. Possibly because it indirectly pertained to your husband's organ donation."

"What organs did he donate anyway?" Heather muttered. "Geez."

"Heather," Lisa said warningly.

Lydia looked pained. "I'm not sure of that; I'd have to check the actual records. What I can tell you is that most of this insanity is a result of several gross misunderstandings. Someone was trying to give the impression of a major security leak in order to halt the entire project without actually disclosing information - and framed Mr. Newman. He caught on to Dr. Morris' suspicions too late to persuade him otherwise."

"Well, if it wasn't disclosing information, then why did he panic when I mentioned my husband?"

"Probably thought you were referring to something more than forged ambulance records. From what I've heard, Morris was going nuts over the supposed leaks - and the real leak was planting evidence that pointed towards you."

"Why us?" Lisa exploded. "We haven't done anything! I knew Michael was listed as an organ donor, for crying out loud!"

"That's what we're trying to figure out." Lydia scowled. "We've caught the leak, and when I get my hands on him--" She paused, taking a second to compose herself. But the moment of anger had actually helped; Lisa and Heather seemed to soften, at least towards her. "I suppose the main reason you were wrapped up in this is because of Leflin Senior's mistaken crusade. That whole misunderstanding must have pointed him towards Leflin and the Espotek lawsuit."

Lisa was silent for several seconds, thinking. Lydia took another gulp of coffee, watching the other woman carefully. "Is there anything else you want to know?"

"What's going to happen to us?" Heather blurted out.

"You're going to get a ride home, and if my guess is right, Morris is on the horn trying to see about getting your front door and a couple windows replaced. That's all." Lydia sighed. "Believe me, we want to put this mess behind us as much as you do."

Lisa stared out the window, peering at the limo. "What about Mr. Newman?"

"Well, after Morris rants at him for a solid hour, I assume he'll be back to work." Lydia set the almost-empty coffee cup in a holder and folded her hands in her lap. "Mrs. Wiseman, let me assure you - this project is classified not because of some ominous threat or the machinations of a bunch of men in black. We're involved in highly sensitive research and investigation that could benefit a lot of people some day - and to keep our funding intact, the security of the project has to be also. We also have to be contracted out to handle some bizarre problems from time to time to keep our funding," she added off-handedly. "The minute a major security breach happens, the funding is gone. But here, that didn't occur. You haven't been told anything true that you weren't aware of already, and I'll make a point of that when I submit my report on the mass chaos of these past 36 hours. Right now, there's no point in holding you here or disrupting your lives any more than they have been already. I admit that there's nothing we can do about frayed nerves--" Lisa managed a small smile at that-- "but we can at least replace your windows and make a few calls to calm down some people. You're free to go... unless you actually want to hang around here."

Lisa didn't respond immediately. She continued staring out the window, thinking. Lydia bit her lip, praying that the woman would be satisfied, that Lisa Wiseman was as sick of the insanity as she was. "All right," Lisa finally sighed, throwing up her hands. "I just want to get out of here."

Lydia smiled. "I'll see if I can't get an agent to drive--"

"But," Lisa interrupted sharply, "I want to talk to Mr. Newman first."

Curiosity was a dangerous tendency, but Roger's day couldn't get any worse than it already was. So once he was sure that traffic wasn't going anywhere - and that the car alarm was indeed turned on - he wandered down the rows of cars, trying to get a glimpse of the action.

It was obviously centered around Madison Square Garden. There was a huge crowd blocking the intersection; the sheer numbers of people were making it impossible for traffic to get through. A block or so behind him, Roger could see movement; the police were taking it upon themselves to herd the motorists around a detour route before they could start rioting.

As he scanned the scene, something caught his attention. There was a pair of dark vehicles pulled up at the curb of one of the intersecting streets - and while there were no other cars on that block, it was cordoned off. Now why block off a perfectly good outlet?

As Roger approached, he realized why; the street was one-way, and led towards the sea of blocked traffic. Obviously, they were trying to keep anyone else from adding to the gridlock. He was about to turn and go back to guarding his Mercedes when he suddenly saw a familiar face near one of the black cars. Was that Mr. Newman?

Instinct told him to go hide in the car. But for once, Roger told his flight instinct to shove off.

The window of the limo rolled down to reveal a very grim-looking Dr. Morris. He cleared his throat loudly, and Michael and Special Agent #1 broke off their glaring contest and stood at attention - or something close to it. "The HAZMAT team did a clean sweep of the office building. They found Charlie Smalls, but not the mastermind of this whole scheme."

Michael groaned and closed his eyes. "What about the money?" Special Agent #1 asked.

"The $15 billion was accounted for. It was strewn across a corridor, but it was all accounted for," Morris replied. "Apparently, there was an exit through an unused portion of the city sewer system. Fortunately, the toxin's been contained."

"So what now?" Michael asked, dreading the answer.

"Right now, there are several teams sweeping the area in search of the Eggman. But our part in this whole fiasco, I'm pleased to say, is done. The ransom money is accounted for, and the immediate threat has been neutralized." He stared levelly at Michael. "Your part in the matter is complete. And you did very well, Mr. Wiseman. For now, we will leave the capture of the Eggman to the FBI."

"Speaking of neutralizing threats," Lydia said, coming up to them, "Mrs. Wiseman is perfectly amenable to pretending this never happened - provided we repair her door, windows, replace any broken or damaged furniture, and make a few calls to relieve her of the burden of irate employers or school administrators."

"That sounds reasonable," Morris said.

"However," Lydia continued, "she wants to speak to Mr. Wiseman privately."

Morris glowered. "I'm not sure that would be advisable."

"Doc," Michael groaned. "For the last time, she doesn't know anything. And I'm not going to do anything that'll get her and Heather in danger if I can help it. You know that."

Morris was silent for a few seconds, thinking. "Are you still wearing the mike and earpiece?" Michael nodded. "Keep them on. I want to listen in to be sure you don't let anything slip."

Sighing, Michael conceded. "All right, all right." He turned to where Lisa and Heather were standing beside the van, heading towards them.

Lydia watched them go, then opened the limo door and sat down beside Dr. Morris. "In the meantime, you and I have some matters to discuss."

"Such as?"

"For one thing, the matter of payment." She grinned as the window rolled up. "What, you thought I did this out of the goodness of my heart?"

34th and 7th St.
7:55 p.m.

When Michael reached Lisa, he wanted to say something profound, something that would express what he was feeling without giving everything away. "Hi," he managed instead.

She looked him up and down, noticing the bandages on his hands and his forehead. "Hi."

He noticed that she was nervous, more so than he'd expected. "What's wrong? Um, aside from the obvious."

"We're supposed to be getting driven home by an agent," Lisa told him. "Are you sure that's safe?"

"Well, I--" Michael hesitated, unsure what to say. Lisa's gaze flicked past his shoulder, and she stopped, staring at something behind him. Grateful for the interruption, Michael turned around.

Special Agent #1 noticed Roger's approach at about the same time. He was striding forward purposefully, with the look of a man who for once had his cowardice in check and was desperately trying to keep it at bay. "Excuse me!"

Of course, when two burly agents blocked his path, some of the cowardice leaked through. "I'm sorry, sir, you'll have to move along," one of them said, grabbing Roger's arm. "Traffic will be moving at any moment."

"I'm - I'm sure it will," Roger said sarcastically, glancing back at the unmoving lines of cars. "Listen, there's just someone I need to talk to back there."

Michael glanced at Roger, then at Lisa, as an idea popped into his head. "Let him through!" he shouted.

The agents stopped and stared at him, and Special Agent #1 glared. "Trust me," Michael told him quietly.

After a moment, the bald agent nodded, and the agents released Roger. "That's better," Roger muttered, brushing his jacket off and striding towards Michael and Lisa. "Where on earth have you been?" he demanded of Lisa.

"Amtrak number 563," Heather replied. Lisa elbowed her. "What?"

"Hey, I've got an idea," Michael said as if it had just occurred to him. "Why don't you go home with Roger?"

Roger closed and opened his mouth like a fish, but no sound came out. Special Agent #1 raised an eyebrow, but didn't say anything. Lisa looked at Michael with dawning comprehension and relief.

"I mean, if you're both headed the same way, it makes sense," Michael continued. "And if you get an escort, you'll get a shortcut out of the traffic."

Lisa shot him a grateful smile. "Would you, Roger?"

"Well, of course, I--" Roger broke off and grabbed Michael's arm, pulling him aside. "What did I miss here? Weren't you just *running* from these people?"

"Everything's fine now, Roj," Michael reassured him. "Whole thing was a misunderstanding - a really big misunderstanding," he amended. "But it's more or less straightened out now."

"Uh-huh." Roger noticed the bandages. "What happened to you?"

Michael touched the fading bruise on his forehead, wincing a bit; it was a lot better than it had been an hour ago, but it still stung. "Had my head slammed into a wall." At Roger's skeptical look, he added, "Big misunderstanding."

Roger stared at him for a second, then looked out at the traffic nearby. "So... we could get an escort."

"Yep."

"Well, then, why not?" Roger was suddenly at ease again, his mood lifted by the prospect of staving off Ruth's fury.

"Not right this second," Lisa interrupted. "Mr. Newman, I still have to talk to you."

Special Agent #1 scowled, but reluctantly conceded. "Pull your car onto this block," he told Roger. "We'll open up the roadblock for you."

"Fair enough," Roger answered, looking at the agent suspiciously. "I suppose." He leaned towards Lisa. "Don't take too long. You never know."

"Thank you, Roger," Lisa said sincerely.

"You're welcome." Roger gave Michael a Please-Don't-Do-Anything-Stupid look before hurrying back to the immobile sea of cars. Special Agent #1 sighed and walked back to discuss something with the other agents, leaving Michael alone with his wife and daughter.

Lisa was silent for a moment before turning to Heather. "Heather, get in the car, please?"

"Mom!" Heather complained.

"Get. In. The. Car."

Heather didn't need any further prompting. She knew that tone too well. Michael smiled as his daughter sullenly climbed into the SUV, slamming the door behind her. He and Lisa were abruptly left alone together, with the semblance of privacy - the mike beneath his shirt was what separated it from the real thing. Michael had removed the earpiece, not wanting Morris to distract him, but he had kept the mike on.

No one spoke for a few seconds as they both stared at each other, studying each other: Lisa looking at the bandages, at the bruise that was still visible on his forehead, trying to make sense of the situation, Michael taking in every detail of Lisa's face, determined to affix it to his memory for when Morris inevitably shipped him off to Antarctica or someplace like that.

He finally broke the silence. "Uh, the Doc said you wanted to talk to me." At her puzzled look, he added, "Why?"

"I don't know," Lisa murmured, looking away. "I've had things explained to me - sort of. Some things. A lot of things still don't make sense, but - was that really your name?" She hesitated. "Michael, I mean?"

"Yeah," Michael replied, trying to sound nonchalant. "Yeah, it is."

Lisa nodded, absently brushing a strand of hair out of her face before finally looking him in the eyes. And then she slapped him.

But there was almost no force behind it, no anger, and instead of the sharp smack of palm against cheek, the sound was softer, more muted. It was more of a stage slap than the real thing, like swatting a fly. As Michael stood there, puzzled, Lisa frowned. "Well, I didn't think I could really do it."

Frustrated, she combed her hair back with her fingers, looking around for a moment. "You know, I should be angry. Sure, I got an explanation, sure, we're fine now, but none of this explains your earlier behavior. The date you never showed up for. The flowers. That thing at Thanksgiving. Showing up at that party. Getting shot."

She stopped, looking at him, as if that had just occurred to her - that three months after the shooting, he was perfectly fine. Lisa shook herself and continued with her rant. "I can't figure you out. I can't figure *me* out. I don't know why I haven't found a cop and gotten a restraining order right now. I ought to be furious with you, Mr. Newman, but I'm not."

Michael realized that he'd been holding his breath, and let it out in a sigh of relief. "You're--" He had to subdue the hope in his voice. "You're not?"

Lisa looked down at her hands, clutching the hem of her blouse. "Not as much as I ought to be." She met his gaze. "But you *did* get us out of this mess as far as I can tell. You did help us out at Thanksgiving. And you did save my life."

"So..." Michael wasn't sure where this was going.

"Mich--" She caught herself. "Mr. Newman, I'm asking you to stay out of my life."

"Okay. I'm completely confused."

Lisa smiled a bit at that. "I'm not angry. And I am grateful. And I suppose that you just happened to be at that party when Roger and I were there. But it would be safer for Heather and me - safer for all of us - if you tried to stay away as much as possible."

"Yeah, I guess so." Michael looked down at the pavement.

"I'm not saying I never want to see you again--" Lisa began, and Michael abruptly looked up. Realizing how that had sounded, she collected her thoughts. "I have been furious with you, and then I've been grateful, and then furious again. Let's just say they've balanced each other out. I just - I have to get back to a normal life. Get Heather back to a normal life. Every time you show up, things just get crazy."

"You don't know the half of it," Michael sighed, and Lisa chuckled. Encouraged, he went on. "When you say 'try,' do you mean you won't get mad if it's by accident?" Lisa looked at him oddly, trying to conceal her amusement. "Say, if the Doc's car breaks down in your neighborhood again, or we get on the same bus, or if we get stuck in heavy traffic--"

He didn't get a chance to finish before Lisa leaned in and kissed him.

To the observer, it wasn't much of a kiss. Lisa simply leaned in and pressed her lips to his, a brief, gentle kiss that lasted only a second or two. But it effectively silenced Michael. "That," Lisa said quietly, "was for keeping your promise."

Dazed, Michael blinked, unable to recall just what he wanted to say. He couldn't seem to get the words out.

A horn honked. Roger's Mercedes was pulling up to the curb, and Heather was getting out of the SUV. "Goodbye, Mr. Newman," Lisa said before turning and walking away.

Michael still couldn't say anything. He watched her go, watched Heather glance over at him with a knowing grin - she'd probably seen the whole thing - before hurrying after Lisa, ready to tease her mother to no end. He barely noticed Dr. Morris coming up beside him.

"Eight o'clock," the doctor observed, "and all's well."

"Uh-huh," Michael replied, not really listening.

"It seems things are going back to normal."

"Uh-huh."

"Your family will be fine, Mr. Wiseman," Morris assured him. When Michael didn't answer, he glanced over to see the dazed expression on the other man's face. Morris stifled a laugh before nudging Michael in the shoulder. "Let's get going."

"Going?" Michael jolted back to reality. "Where?"

"Home, of course," Morris replied as he headed back to the limo and opened the door. "With a quick stop by an operating table first."

"Aw, Doc..."

"No whining," Morris scolded him as Michael reluctantly climbed into the limo. "When I said things are going back to normal, I meant *everything.*"

"You really know how to take the fun out of everything."

"I take pride in that ability."

The limo drove away.

Police Department
New Rochelle, NY
8:45 p.m.

When Ruth Bender had first been brought in for disturbing the peace, her reaction was to scream and threaten everyone she could with bloody murder. It was infuriating the way she'd been treated, and the looks on the officers' faces when she'd made her one phone call to a United States Senator were perversely satisfying. Unfortunately, Uncle Jimmy hadn't been able to get her out since he was tied up with other things, and Ruth had returned to screaming.

That had gotten old after about four hours. She'd moved on to muttering to herself and pacing the cell, glaring balefully at the other overnights behind bars. They would flinch, having learned that the psycho in the designer suit was best left alone. After a few hours of pacing in her stockinged feet - heels weren't made for pacing - she'd had to sit down.

Now she was sitting on the bench, back against the wall, staring dully at the floor. She had been thinking, since there hadn't been much else to do. Unfortunately, her thoughts had turned to Roger. And despite her best efforts, there was this nagging little voice that insisted that he had a point as well, even if he was lousy at making it.

God, she was tired. Tired of fighting, of screaming. She'd be on the receiving end of that when Amanda came home. At first, she'd wanted to make Roger crawl... but he did that all the time. Right now, all Ruth wanted was for it to be over. Would she agree to sell the house? Probably not. Unless Roger found an alternative that was to her tastes. Ten thousand up front was quite a good offer.

But that would be letting him win.

There was a creak and the sound of footsteps. Ruth didn't look up at first. She'd probably be there for the rest of the night. To her surprise, though, the feet stopped in front of her cell. Ruth looked up. She was actually glad to see him for once.

Roger shifted uncomfortably. "Ruth."

"Roger."

He looked around, at the drab walls, at the empty cells, and, most importantly, at the iron bars separating her from him. "We need to talk."

Three days later
63rd and Madison
New York City
5:55 a.m.

"Start spreading the news
"You're leaving today
"I want to be a part of it
"New York, New York..."

The fact that Dr. Theodore Morris was breaking into song even before he reached the townhouse was an indication of the irrationally good mood he was in. All things considered, however, he had a right to be cheerful. The fiasco of the past few days could have ended far worse than it had. Even Dr. Ross's demands hadn't been quite as bad as he'd expected.

"I want to wake up
"In that city that doesn't sleep..."

He punched in the code and smiled as the door slid open, continuing to sing as he entered the townhouse.

"And find I'm king of the hill
"Top of the list
"End of the line
"King of the hill..."

Crossing the pool area, he launched into the final verses. Ross's final report to the Pentagon had been generally favorable, and she had skillfully diverted any fallout that could have resulted from Michael's escape - by not mentioning that part. She instead focused on Leflin's sabotage attempts.

"These little-town lows
"They have all melted away
"And I'm gonna make a brand new start of it
"Right there in old New York..."

The downside was that neither Leflin nor Special Agent #2 had been aware of the identity of their "source." But the attempt had failed, and the project was still in good standing. Which was all Morris cared about for the moment.

"You always make it there..." He trotted up the steps to Michael's bedroom. "You make it anywhere..." Opening the door, he entered just as the curtains slid open, spreading his arms wide for the big finale. "Come on, come through... New York, New York!"

He dropped his arms as it became apparent that his audience was conspicuously absent. "Mr. Wiseman?"

"In here, Doc!" someone shouted from behind the closed bathroom door. Morris relaxed, suddenly realizing that the shower was running. The water shut off, and a few minutes later, Michael emerged, dressed and drying his hair with a towel.

Morris smirked. "Have we suddenly become a morning person?"

"Don't bet on it." Michael hung up the towel and snagged a pair of clean socks from the dresser. "Didn't sleep too well, anyway. Figured I'd get some privacy for a change."

"I thought you'd be interested to know that Bernard Leflin Jr. is taking an extended vacation - for health reasons," Morris informed him as Michael sat down on the bed and pulled on the socks. "In his absence, the major stockholders are running things."

"An extended vacation?"

"An enforced vacation. He's lucky."

"What about that lawyer?"

"Not quite so lucky." Morris sighed. "Seems Mr. Bernstadt had been involved with some questionable dealings and had to leave the country. One of his victims, however, may have discovered his whereabouts."

Michael snorted. "That's real convenient."

"If it makes you feel any better, the Espotek lawsuit is still going forward as planned. Your family, naturally, will not be among the plaintiffs, but the numbers are still sizeable enough to have Espotek worried."

Michael tied his shoes and looked up. "So was it just a faulty respirator? Why I'm here instead of--"

"Mr. Wiseman--"

"Doc." Michael stared at him, all traces of his usual levity gone. "I need to know."

Morris sighed. "Had the respirator worked, Mr. Wiseman, you would have had a fifty-fifty chance of surviving." Michael continued to stare at him. "But at best - from what I saw -you would have been a vegetable. The damage to your spinal cord..." He trailed off, unable to continue. He couldn't think of a way to say it.

But Michael got the gist of it. "You're sure."

Slowly, Morris nodded.

Michael was silent, digesting that information, possibly comparing his current state to the possibility that the Doc had just laid before him. After a moment, he sighed and stood up. "All right, General Patton, what's on the list for today?"

"Breakfast and your morning workout," the scientist replied, and Michael sighed. "Cheer up, Mr. Wiseman. I have a surprise for you."

"A surprise." Michael gave him a suspicious look. "As long as it doesn't involve eggs, I'm game."

Morris chuckled and headed off to the kitchen. Yes, things were starting to get back to normal.

New Rochelle, NY
9:45 a.m.

Thank God it was Saturday.

Normally, Heather slept in til noon, so Lisa was surprised to come downstairs to find her daughter sprawled on the couch in front of the television, watching cartoons. Beside her was a box of cereal, which Heather was dipping into like a bag of popcorn in a movie theater. She was still wearing her pajamas, and looked thoroughly satisfied.

Lisa chuckled, and Heather looked up. "Aren't you just the picture of contentment."

"Had nothing better to do." Heather shrugged. "I don't know, I just felt like getting up." She grinned. "It's nice. The peace and quiet. No Uncle Roger."

"Heather..."

"Oh, come on, Mom. Admit it. He was getting to you, too." She sat up. "Besides, it was about time he had it out with Aunt Ruth."

"I just hope that's working out," Lisa sighed absently. "Pick up the mess when you're done, okay?" She pointed to the bits of cereal that Heather had dropped on the carpet.

"There's only a few crumbs," Heather muttered.

"What-ev-er." The doorbell rang, saving Lisa from trying to reason with her teenage daughter. "Pick them up before someone steps on them. I'll get that." She could hear Heather groan as she went into the foyer, drawing her bathrobe closer around her before she opened the front door.

"Aunt Lisa, I will clean for you, I will mow your lawn, I will sleep on the floor, I will pay you rent if you give me asylum!"

Lisa sighed. "Hello, Amanda."

Amanda Bender tried to look as pathetic as possible while clutching two hastily-packed suitcases. "Please. I'm begging you. I can't take the two of them anymore!"

"'Manda?" Seeing just who it was, Heather hurried over. "What are they doing now?"

"The usual. I almost forgot why I decided to study abroad." She looked back at Lisa. "Please?"

Lisa glanced over at Heather, and could see the "please" mirrored in her own daughter's eyes. "Oh, all right. Heather, you want to help her with her bags?"

Heather didn't need to be told twice as she and Amanda hurried up the steps, chattering all the way. "So what'd I miss?" Amanda said.

"Well..." Heather opened her mouth, but paused at the look Lisa was giving her. "Same old, same old."

Amanda snorted. "It's got to be better than my first three hours back in the States." Heather started laughing. "What's so funny?"

"You'd never believe it," Heather told her as they disappeared around the corner. "It all started with this hottie..."

Closing the front door, Lisa leaned against it with a sigh, smiling. Yes, things were getting back to normal.

63rd and Madison
10:00 a.m.

"This afternoon," Morris said pleasantly, "you'll be starting some defensive training with an old friend of mine. It was originally scheduled for Wednesday, but fortunately he was understanding enough to shift around his busy schedule."

"You're never gonna let me live this one down, are you?" Michael sighed as he pulled on his jacket.

Special Agent #1 smirked. "No."

"And afterwards, you will spend an hour in counseling," Morris continued. Michael groaned. "Mr. Wiseman, while the events of the past week have proved that you can be trustworthy - when it counts - I am concerned that you are not emotionally adjusting to your second life as well as we had hoped."

"What gave you that idea?" Michael muttered sarcastically. He saw the look on Morris' face and sighed. "Sorry, Doc. Just kind of hoped never to see Dr. Davis again."

"You're not having a session with Davis," another voice replied. The three men turned to see Lydia enter the pool room, crossing briskly to meet them. "I'm taking over that department."

The smirk melted off of Special Agent #1's face. Michael frowned, confused. "What's going on here?"

"Dr. Ross was originally supposed to be a member of my team," Morris explained. "Circumstances thwarted that when we initiated the project." He ignored Lydia's derisive snort. "However, Dr. Ross will be joining us as a consultant - seeing as how her background in neuropsychology and her ability to smooth things over have proved very useful."

Special Agent #1 looked extremely uncomfortable. "Sir, I have to protest. Dr. Ross is completely unorthodox and might jeopardize the security of the project."

"Oh, really?" Lydia raised an eyebrow. "Well, if you feel that way, I'll just march right back to the Pentagon and give General Roskin a new report."

"General Roskin?" the agent asked, surprised.

"Who do you think really sent me down here?" Lydia asked. "Roskin's no fool. She knew something more was going on."

"There's also the matter of Leflin's mysterious source," Morris continued. "Neither Special Agent #2 nor Bernard Leflin knew the identity of the insider who fed them the information in the first place. There is someone in the Pentagon who's actively trying to sabotage this project, and I need someone to play both sides to find out who it is."

Michael looked baffled. "Most of the people who requested that I keep tabs on this project opposed it to begin with," Lydia explained. "It still hasn't occurred to some of those blowhards that I don't share their opinions."

"As much as I would like to continue this conversation indefinitely," Morris said, checking his watch, "we need to get moving. There's an office on the third floor, Dr. Ross. Make yourself comfortable."

With that, he started for the exit. Michael paused for a second, still confused, before shrugging it off and following the scientist out. "Hey, Doc, you think I'm trustworthy enough for a trip to McDonald's?"

The negative response was drowned out by the slamming of the front door.

Special Agent #1 stood there, stunned, trying to absorb this new bit of information. "You're part of his team, now," he echoed, spitting out the word "team" in disgust.

"Seems like it."

"Is this a permanent position?"

Lydia patted him on the shoulder and started towards the office. "Like it or not, Q-Ball, you're stuck with me."

"Don't. Call. Me. That."

Somewhere in the Caribbean

It was almost dawn. The sky in the east was becoming lighter, the darkness of night blending into blue, then gray, then a pale yellow nimbus that precluded the rising sun. Alone on the deck, the little man watched expectantly, as if the sun might not decide to rise if there was no one there to see it. Such wonders deserved an audience.

He took a sip of water, stifling a slight pang of regret. For the second time, all that planning had gone to waste. Almost everything had worked out as he'd anticipated; the super man had taken the bait, brought the money, and he had escaped while his erstwhile partner had it out with the fool. The only flaw was the loss of the money, scattered across the plaster-spattered floor of the office building.

Ah, well. At least he hadn't gotten away completely empty-handed.

Smalls had proved useful. The man's connections had yielded a great deal of hidden assets; despite his conviction, he'd been able to put the money he'd stolen to good use. It wasn't $15 million, true, but Smalls had quite a nest egg. With one of the many aliases the man had, it was no trouble getting out of the country. The United States was not all it was cracked up to be, and he'd spent far too much time there. There was so much more out there than the U.S. had to offer. Although, he had to admit, some of their cruise lines were almost worth the money. Flying was overrated.

He reached into his satchel, pulling out an egg. Studying the pristine, perfect surface, he reviewed his equally perfect plan. What had gone wrong? Well, that was simple: Smalls had been too quick to judge. The man had been bleeding from the mouth, but not the eyes. Of course, he should have noticed that. Had the man, indeed, perished? Had he at least achieved his revenge?

Strangely enough, he found that it didn't quite matter. Perhaps he hadn't come out of it with his vengeance or the money, but he was content. For one thing, his accommodations were far better here than they had been in prison. And he didn't have to share a bunk with Charlie. The super man had played the game with honor, and won fairly. The fault was his for making a mistake.

But he was free. And he had all the time in the world.

Chuckling, the Eggman tossed the egg in the air, catching it again neatly in his palm. He placed it back in his satchel and stood up, shuffling down the deck as the sun finally broke over the horizon, illuminating a brand new day.