He'd returned to the City of Angels two hours before, after an unexpectedly long tour of Europe. His employers had been keeping him busy of late, flying him around the globe regularly to take the helm of planning and executing operations intended to subvert and sabotage the Earthside activities of the International Fleet. Many of his old comrades had moved away from field work over the past decade; even Simon, though the man had stuck to it longer than the others. Cole had no intention of "advancing", as his employers called it. Many of the others from his old unit were believers -- they did this because their ideals coincided with the Grey Wolves' mission. Cole, however, was no romantic. He didn't fight for ideals. He'd betrayed the International Fleet because the Wolves had made it worth his while. And, as promised, he had delivered others as well. He had sought out those who could be turned, and he gave them the push they needed. For that, he had been well-compensated. The Court Martial had ended that for him; although he could not be convicted, he was still under heavy suspicion. But the Wolves' esteem had not disappeared. They had been all too happy to take him on as one of their own, as well as all those he had helped to see the light. Now the others had advanced past him, mostly into administrative functions, but that did not bother Cole. He did what he was good at. He would have wanted nothing else.

Now, however, those circumstances were being upset. The Wolves, for reasons Cole could not fathom, had more or less sent Simon on a suicide mission. He had assassinated the father of Rebecca Solenis, the girl who had, at 15 years old, killed one of Cole's comrades in Alaska, and, following orders, had purposefully left evidence. Simon had called Cole roughly twelve hours before to warn him that anyone from that photograph unfortunate enough to fall under the scrutiny of the IF all those years ago would now be in danger, and that Cole should disappear for the time being. Cole wondered if Simon's son was really that perceptive, but he wasn't about to take chances. After all, the kids might still hold a grudge from that business in Juneau.

Cole didn't own much in the apartment he kept in Los Angeles, the city he still considered home; it had come furnished, and he wasn't one to collect personal effects. So he had almost finished with his packing when he heard knocking at his door.

Cole stopped, straightened up.

Perhaps they did still hold a grudge.

He had kept his pistol nearby all morning, full magazine loaded and suppressor attached. Somehow, he couldn't help but think that he had been expecting this. Waiting for this. It had a feel of inevitability to it.

Cole didn't like that.

He moved toward the door, silently, muscles trained by hundreds of ops, with the SOTF and the Wolves. He came close enough to look through the peep hole. There, in the corridor, stood Hunter Gabriel. He had grown up more than Cole would have expected in the past four years; his features looked hardened, as though he'd been through some hard times, and there was an intensity that had not been there during their surveillance of the pair in Alaska. The boy's face bore several days' stubble, and the beginnings of circles under his eyes seemed to suggest little sleep.

Well, fine. So he wouldn't be a pretty corpse.

Cole backed away from the door, lifted the pistol and opened fire on the door, firing off six rounds. He stopped, listened. Nothing. Moving cautiously, never letting his pistol waver, Cole moved forward and jerked the door open.

There were six holes in the far wall of the corridor, but no body.

This fact only registered peripherally, however. At that moment, he felt the edge of a knife's blade press against his throat.

A voice next to his ear said, "Don't move." He didn't.

"Mr. Cole. I remember you."

That was all she needed to hear. She would have done what she intended to do the man blind if Gabriel had identified him for her first. She was grateful for the advantage, at the same level she would have been grateful for snow shoes or a gas mask in the proper situation. His assistance saved them time they might have wasted questioning an innocent man.

She walked the man into the bedroom. He only tried to get out of her hold once. She didn't nick any arteries - Hale had been most specific on the preservation of hostiles for interrogation - but there was enough depth to the cut she made across his throat to stain the carpet and to convince him that resistance was not in his best interest.

While she strapped Cole into the straight-backed wooden chair from his study, Gabe swept the room for weapons. He found two pistols and emptied both, disassembling them and tossing their remains on the bed. She removed the captive's shoes and socks, cut away his jacket and left him in his undershirt and trousers. She did not gag or blindfold him; he needed to be able to talk, and he would talk more quickly if he could see what she was doing.

Gabe watched the last of these preparations in silence, but she focused herself on her task.

Cole was silent as well. When she requested the name of his immediate superior, he said nothing. When she asked him for the names and locations of the other men in the photograph who'd been prosecuted for treason, he gave them a list of addresses and telephone numbers. Sol glanced at Gabe, who gave the merest shake of his head; some of that information they already had from Bryant, and what the man said didn't match. Cole was lying to them.

Sol looked away from Gabe and back at Cole.

Only pain would override fear that powerful.

Sol asked Gabe to leave the room. This unnerved him more than it did Cole, which was saying something. What did Sol plan to do for which she did not want Gabe present?

Gabe paused a moment, eyes moving between Sol and their captive. After a moment Sol turned and met Gabe's eyes. What Gabe saw made him tighten his jaw. But he nodded, solemnly, and left the room, closing the door behind him.

Weariness overcame him, and he leaned against the wall beside the doorframe, closing his eyes.

This man had chased them through Juneau four years ago. This man had fired a weapon at them, and tried to kill them - tried to kill Gabriel. This man had information for her that could lead to Simon Reiner and her father's killer. This man was not a man; this man was a safe to crack. This man was a puzzle to solve. This man was a means to an end, and his end was merely part of the means.

She shed her jacket and then her shirt, folding them neatly and placing them high on one of his shelves. This done, she advanced on the figure in the chair and knelt next to him, her eyes locked on his. There weren't any words that were going to sway this man; threats were not the solution to this equation. Before they could communicate, there had to be a clear definition of terms. He had to understand the consequences of his actions; he had to know what she would do to him. Once that was accomplished, they could negotiate. There was only one way to get her point across.

Using the knife and then her fingertips, she peeled a section of skin away from the subcutaneous layer of fat on the back of his calf, and another at his ankle, just over the bone. It was important to leave the nerve endings intact; Hale would have been pleased with her. The man tried for the iron act, shaking and sweating and attempting not to cry out. She was in the middle of the fifth dermal separation when he lost it, and she finished what she was doing and sat back.

It took him a few seconds to realize she had stopped, and she waited patiently until he focused on her again.

"There are seventy square inches of surface area to the average adult human," she informed him in a reasonable tone of voice. "That was a little less than eight."

And finally, silence.

A minute later, the door to the bedroom opened. Sol emerged, closing it behing her. She had removed her coat and shirt, which was good, because her hands were covered in blood, with rivulet trails running to her elbows. She closed the door behind her. They didn't need to worry about leaving prints; they weren't on file anywhere but with the IF, not yet. Technically speaking, they weren't civilians for another week, when their contracts came up for renewal. Until then, they ghosts.

Sol crossed the living room, not looking in Gabe's direction, beelining for the kitchen sink. She turned the knob, and scrubbed her hands and forearms with the sponge, scrubbed roughly enough to leave the skin pink and raw when she finished after almost six minutes. She then wiped down the bloodied knob as well.

Gabe stood still through all of this, in the same spot he'd been standing in since he'd left the room, watching Sol. He waited until she was finished to speak. "What did we learn?"

Sol stood still a moment, then spoke with her back to him. She told him what Cole had spilled: what he did for the Wolves, what Simon Reiner did, who his contacts were, and so on. He'd told Sol that his primary link to the Wolves was through a front company.

Vanguard Ltd of New York. One of the numbers on Simon Reiner's phone bill.

Gabe called the airline and made arrangements while Sol disappeared back into the bedroom. When she returned, her movements were significantly less certain. Gabe wondered at the state of the body in the next room. He wondered if seeing her doing a second time had gotten to her.

The man noted that the lift was holocammed, and took the stairs. Cole's apartment was on the fifth floor. He ascended at a comfortable rate, apparently in no hurry. He emerged from the stairwell on the desired floor without visible fatigue.

The corridors were narrow, not wide enough for three to walk abreast. He had studied the building's layout on the plane, so he had no trouble finding his way. He turned the last corner, shifting the weight of his briefcase to his left hand.

He saw two people standing in the corridor ahead. Closer to him was a female, aged roughly twenty years, with a physique and bearing that suggested extensive military training. The skin of her hands was pink, recently scrubbed clean. She looked weary. Her companion was a male, of about the same age and also holding himself with a distinctive controlled grace. He was just shutting the door to David Cole's apartment behind him.

He fixed his eyes on the fire alarm at the far end of the hallway and kept walking. He kept his heartrate and breathing regulated carefully, his walk casual. He gave absolutely no sign that he had any interest in these two.

But as he passed them, the female walking in front with her companion close behind, both pairs of eyes flicked toward him just momentarily.

The man in the wire-rimmed spectacles kept walking to the bend in the corridor, rounded it, and stopped. He listened. He heard the footfalls of the pair slowly getting fainter, until they stopped. Then there was the soft tone of the lift arriving, and the sound of the doors rolling open, and then shut.

He turned and started back down the adjoining corridor, stopping in front of the door to Cole's apartment. He inserted a rectangular piece of polycarbon into the lock, and waited for it to reshape itself to the mechanism. At the same time, he opened his briefcase and lifted the suppressed pistol from within. He turned the omnikey in the lock, and pushed inward, leading with the pistol. The living room and kitchen were both empty. He closed the door softly behind him, and set down the briefcase. The master bedroom was shut. The man crossed the room and opened the door.

He lowered his pistol.

David Cole sat in a chair, bound hand and foot, sporting numerous wounds. The gaping slash through the throat seemed to be the one that had killed him.

The man in the wire-rimmed glasses closed the door to the master bedroom, and left the apartment, picking up his briefcase and stowing the pistol while he went. He locked the door to the apartment behind him.

When he reached his rental car, the man picked turned on his cellular phone and dialed.

"Speak."

"Enrique?"

"Henri? You done already?"