What he saw next surprised the hell out of him.

The shooter was a woman. She lay on her back among the weeds, her blood black in the moonlight, pumping from a wound somewhere beneath the hand she clutched to her abdomen. The other arm had been rendered useless by a second bullet, which had caught her high in the chest and transformed her shoulder into a blooming rose of gore. The copious flow from the belly wound and its location relative to other body landmarks told Jonathan that he’d pierced her liver. She’d be dead in minutes. The odd angle of her legs, and the stillness of them, told him that his bullet had clipped her spinal cord as well.

He told Boxers, “One more friend sleeping.”

“Copy. Ready when you are.”

“Begin your final. We’ll be ready for exfil in five.”

An expensive 9 mm Beretta lay on the ground next to her. He kicked the pistol beyond her reach. She wore low-rise, high-cut denim shorts that no father would approve of, and an Abercrombie T-shirt that probably cost a hundred dollars.

Carefully avoiding the rivulets of blood, he let his weapon fall against its sling and again lifted his night vision gear out of the way. He knelt near her shoulder, brushing luxurious auburn hair off her face. With no real thought, he folded her hand into his glove. She appeared no older than Thomas. With high cheekbones and thick lips, she could have been a model. The thought of killing someone so beautiful cramped his stomach. “Who are you?” Jonathan asked.

Her eyes showed only terror. “Help me,” she said. “It hurts. I can’t feel my legs.”

“I know,” Jonathan replied. “You’ve been shot. Are you Chris?” Until this moment, he hadn’t considered the possibility that “Chris” might have been a Christina.

“I think I’m dying.”

Jonathan nodded. Very softly, he said, “You are. It won’t be long. Are you the last, or are there more of you out here?”

For a moment, it appeared as if she wanted to answer, but then her eyes grew hard.

“Answer me,” Jonathan pressed. “I’ll stay here with you till it’s over.”

Her pupils seemed unnaturally bright as they reflected the moon. “Fuck you,” she said.

Jonathan smiled, squeezed her hand gently. He’d seen a lot of people die in his time, and he always admired the ones who accepted their fate with guts. Good guy or bad, heaven reserved places for those who showed courage to the end.

He continued to hold her hand as he fished his flashlight from his web gear and thumbed the switch. The white light hurt. He held the light in his teeth, and with his free hand he started patting her down. “Let me know if any of this hurts,” he said.

“Who are you?” the girl moaned.

Blood soaked into the waistband of her jeans as Jonathan reached into the front pocket and found an Indiana driver’s license. “You’re Christine Baker,” Jonathan read aloud. In this light, it was finally get naked and make love, it was supposed to be a wonderful thing. Tiffany would have been his first. But then it turned to blood and violence.

They flew in complete darkness. The silver glow of the moon on the meaningless landmarks below was Thomas’s only evidence that they were flying at all. It wasn’t till his eyes adjusted fully that he noticed the pilot was wearing night vision goggles.

Their flight lasted less than half an hour. From what Thomas could tell, they landed in a dark field in the middle of nowhere. The rotors were still turning at nearly full speed when the commando at his side unclasped his seat belt and rose to an awkward, half-standing position. He took a half-step forward and said something in the pilot’s ear, soliciting a nod and a thumbs-up, and then he turned to face Thomas.

“Okay, Tom, here’s the deal. I want you to stay put with your belt fastened until I come back for you. We have a car waiting.”

“Why can’t I just come with you?”

“Because I want to make sure that this last step is truly secure. If anything is wrong, I’ll tell the pilot, and he’ll take off outta here like a rocket. That’s why you stay in your seat with the belt on. You’re almost home.” With that, he opened the side door, inviting in all the racket of the rotors, and stepped out into the night with his weapons. When the door closed again, the quiet-which wasn’t really all that quiet-seemed oppressive.

Thomas couldn’t take it anymore. “Excuse me,” he said loudly, nearly a shout. “Mr. Pilot?”

The pilot turned, still only an ink stain against the night.

“What’s happening?” Thomas asked.

“You haven’t figured it out yet?” the pilot asked, his tone light with amusement.

“No. I haven’t figured out anything. I’m totally lost.”

The pilot laughed. “Like hell. You’re as found as anybody could hope to be.”

Jonathan had stashed the rental Explorer in the back forty of someone’s rolling farmland nearly six hours ago. They’d chosen this location by studying aerial maps and determining that it offered privacy while still being reasonably accessible. It also offered a good chance to fly in and out unnoticed.

He approached the vehicle by the book-slowly and methodically, with night vision in place as if anticipating an ambush. Nobody ever died of caution. With the scene secure, he went about the business of transforming himself from Night Stalker to Regular Guy. He moved to the back of the vehicle and opened up the tailgate. No dome light came on because he had disabled it first thing. Two zippered duffel bags waited for him just where he’d left them, looking like two deflated balloons. His rifle and rucksack went in one, his vest, web gear, and night vision equipment in the other, along with his black coveralls, mask, and boots. The transformation was complete within three minutes.

Just like that, Jonathan could have been anyone-a rancher, maybe, on his way to town. A rancher with a.45 still strapped in a high-hip holster that was concealed by a denim jacket. When the duffels were full, he zipped them up, closed the gate, and headed back to the chopper. He opened the side door and announced, “Okay, we’re all set.

“But if they do.”

“They won’t.”

“But if they do.”

The Explorer bounced in a deep rut. “You think that the police are these efficient do-gooders that you see on television. You think that they can chase bad guys with impunity, crash doors, and save the good guys. Well, that’s not always true, because ridiculous rules get in the way. If I had to jump through all the hoops that police and prosecutors do to assemble intelligence and put together a plan, you’d be dead now. And if they knew who I was, they’d put me in jail for saving you. Not because of the outcome, but because of the process. And this is ten times more about my business than you ever needed to know.”

“What about trace evidence?”

Jonathan laughed. Everybody on the planet watched CSI these days. “Look, I know what I’m doing. There is no trace evidence. I am entirely untraceable.”

“But I’m not. I’m way traceable.”

Jonathan agreed. “To a certain extent, yes. That’s why I didn’t want you touching the girl. I didn’t want you transferring fibers or fingerprints onto Chris…Tiffany.” Hard to know which name the kid would find more comforting.

Even in the darkness, Jonathan could see Tom’s displeasure. “We have to report this!”

“Not gonna happen. Not by me, anyway.”

Thomas turned sideways in his seat, beginning a serious negotiation. “If we call the police right now, then they’ll know it was all self-defense. If we don’t call, then they’re going to draw all these wrong conclusions, and I can end up in jail.”

“Nobody’s going to put you in jail, Tom. Don’t be so melodramatic. We’re not calling the police. Period.”

Thomas wasn’t done yet. “I don’t think you understand, Scorpion. I don’t think I can keep a secret like this. I’m going to have to tell somebody. Not even to call for help, necessarily, but just because it happened, and when I get together with my friends over a couple of beers, it’s going to slip out.”