The unfortunate lackey chosen to carry the bad news clutched at his nose. It bubbled unpleasantly as he whimpered, "I'm sorry, Senator, we sent six men to your daughter's apartment, ten into that restaurant! Who'd have figured Armstrong was such a slippery snake? Or that your kid would leave the table just before the hit went down?"

John Caddrick vented his rage with another backhand blow, then paced the dingy little hotel room, muttering curses under his breath and trying to figure out what that little bastard Armstrong would do next. High-tail it to the FBI? Maybe. But with Jenna Nicole in tow? Armstrong was good at disguises—as John Caddrick had discovered, much to his chagrin—but Jenna was instantly recognizable. If they tried to go anywhere near the New York FBI offices, the men he and Gideon Guthrie had hired would nail them. The trouble was, Armstrong was bound to realize that. No, that meddlesome bastard would attempt getting them both out of the city. But how? And where would the detective go? Armstrong was more than smart enough to know they'd be watching the bus stations, the airports, the car rental agencies, the ferry launches, anything and everything that offered a way out of the city.

Caddrick swore explosively again. Dammit! After everything he'd worked to achieve, with the timetable counting down to the final few days, along comes that goddamned, nosy bastard Armstrong... . He paused in his pacing. Armstrong knew that timetable, knew enough of it, anyway, to calculate their next major move. And the rat-assed little detective was a Templar, too, same as the senator's worthless daughter and now-deceased sister-in-law. If Armstrong and Jenna Nicole didn't try to rescue the next target slated to die, John Caddrick didn't know Templars.

"They'll go to TT-86," Caddrick muttered under his breath. "Get your butt onto that station with a hand-picked team. I want Armstrong dead."

"And your daughter?" the lackey quavered.

John Paul Caddrick shut his eyes, hating Cassie Tyrol for turning his daughter against him, for bringing her into this mess, for showing her the evidence... . And John Caddrick's employers would demand blood. At this stage, security leaks had to be plugged. Fast. Regardless of whose family got in the way. So he snarled out, "I won't by God let anybody screw this up. Not as close as we've come!"

Speaking through a handful of blood, the messenger asked, "Same M.O. as Luigi's?"

"Hell, yes!" He ran a distracted hand through his hair. "We've already got Ansar Majlis on station, thank God. Infiltrated ‘em into that construction crew weeks ago. The second your team sets foot on that station, I want them activated. Major blowup. Whatever it takes to make it look good."

"Yes, sir."

"Well, don't just stand there, goddammit! Move!"

The lackey scrambled for the door.

John Caddrick yanked open the hotel room's wet bar and upended an entire, miniature bottle of scotch, then hurled the empty against the wall. The thing didn't even have the decency to shatter. It just bounced off. His ragged temper left a considerable hole in the drywall above the television set, along with a broken lamp and three overturned chairs. Damn that meddling detective! And God damn that brainless bitch, Cassie Tyrol! His only child... who'd never quite forgiven him for all the missed birthday parties and recitals and graduation ceremonies, stranded on the campaign trail or conducting Congressional business...

But there wasn't a stinking, solitary thing he could do to save his little girl. And once Jenna knew the truth, Caddrick's ungrateful wretch of a daughter would do whatever it took to see her own father behind bars. If he wanted to keep his butt out of the electric chair, he'd better make damned sure she died. And before this business was done, Noah Armstrong would bitterly regret having ever interfered in Caddrick's business. The senator ripped out another savage oath, then stalked out of the hotel.

Cassie had finally been paid in full for the trouble she'd caused.

All that remained now was to finish the job.

Of all the souls wandering the Commons of Time Terminal Eighty-Six, none felt as out of place Skeeter Jackson. He wasn't lost, which was more than he could say of three-quarters of the people around him. But his status was so changed, he couldn't help but reflect wryly on how odd it was to be trundling a heavy cart stencilled "Station Maintenance" through Edo Castletown, past crowds of kimono-clad tourists jostling elbows with Victorian gents and bustled ladies and a few forlorn, middle-aged men with paunches, bald knees, and Roman tunics.

Confidence man to bathroom-cleaning man wasn't quite the transition Skeeter had hoped for, when he'd decided to give up his life of petty crime. There wasn't much glamor in a cart full of mops, detergent bottles, and vending-machine supplies. On the other hand, he did not miss having to dodge station security every ten minutes, or sweating bullets every time some chance acquaintance glanced his way. And while he didn't eat high on anybody's hog, at least he didn't regularly miss meals, any more, thanks to the uncertainty of a pickpocket's income.

Skeeter was very glad he'd switched careers. But he wasn't quite used to it yet.

A wry smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. As confused as he sometimes felt, the other up-time residents were goggle-eyed with shock to find La-La Land's most notorious confidence artist walking the straight and narrow, working the first honest job of his life. It had only taken an act of God and Ianira Cassondra to get him that job. But he couldn't have continued in his old career, not after the pain his greed and stupidity had caused the only friends he possessed in the world. He frequently marveled that he still possessed any friends at all. Never mind ones close enough to help him start his life over again. After what Skeeter had done, he wouldn't have blamed Marcus and Ianira if they'd never spoken to him again. Whatever their reasons, he wouldn't let them down.

As Skeeter maneuvered his cart through the bustling hoards of eminently lost humanity trying to find their way back to hotels, to restaurants that were impossible to find in the station's sprawling maze, or simply standing still and screaming for junior at the top of panic-stricken lungs, the public address system came to life from speakers five stories overhead. "Your attention, please. Gate One is due to open in three minutes. All departures, be advised that if you have not cleared Station Medical, you will not be permitted to pass Primary. Please have your baggage ready for customs inspection by agents of the Bureau of Access Time Functions, who will assess your taxes due on downtime acquisitions..."

A familiar voice, the sound of friendship in the middle of all the chaos, sounded at his ear. "Double gate day, yes?"

Startled, Skeeter turned to find Ianira Cassondra smiling up at him.

"Ianira! What are you doing up here in Edo Castletown?" The lovely cassondra of ancient Ephesus could usually be found at her kiosk down in Little Agora, surrounded by her adoring up-time acolytes. Ianira's self-proclaimed worshipers flocked to TT-86 by the thousands each year, on pilgrimage to honor the woman they considered the Goddess incarnate on earth.

Ianira, blithely ignoring the adoring worshippers who trailed her like pilot fish in the wake of an ancient schooner, swept long strands of glossy, raven's-wing hair back from her forehead. "I have been to visit Kit Carson, at the Neo Edo. The Council of Seven asked him to participate in the Festival of Mars next week."

Kit Carson, the planet's most famous and successful individual ever to enter the business of scouting the gates through time, had retired to TT-86. Having pushed most of the famous tour gates now operating through the terminal, Kit Carson was one of the station's major tourist draws, in his own right, despite his status as essentially a recluse who had vowed never to return to that up-time world again. Skeeter, however, steered clear of Kit whenever possible, on general principle. He tended to avoid the older male relatives of any girl he'd tried to finagle into bed with him. Kit, he avoided even more cautiously than others. Kit Carson could seriously cripple a man, just looking crosswise at him. The day Kit had hunted him down and read him the riot act about staying away from Kit's granddaughter, Skeeter would've welcomed a double-gate day. He'd have crawled through an unstable gate, if one had been available, by the time Kit had finished with him.