I snooped around for something that resembled bio-tech equipment, though I would have settled for anything made in this decade. The only thing I saw was dusty hard-copy tomes on Islam, the Bahai movement, versions of the Koran, political history, and Malcolm X. Not one medical journal among them. As a roach scuttled along one of the bookshelves, my stomach fluttered. My only hope was that a sterile lab was hidden behind one of the bookshelves, like something out of James Bond.

An eruption of masculine laughter came from the kitchen. Through the rumble of their voices, the words were impossible to distinguish. The sound had an odd pattern and cadence. It was fast-paced and rose at the end of phrases – definitely not English.

Just as I was ready to burst in and introduce myself, a black man stepped into the hallway. His skin was a well-worn, walnut hue, so deep it almost seemed to glow. A dazzling smile still graced an open and expressive face. Dark brown eyes twinkled when he saw me. Salt-and-pepper hair was cut short on the sides. He wore a loose-fitting, button-down shirt and jeans, and looked like the farthest thing from a biotech.

"I'm Jibril. You must be Deidre." He smiled again, this time just for me. He took two steps, closing the distance between us, and extended his hand.

"No, I must be crazy." I took his hand and pumped it once, grinning maniacally. I noticed a bright flash of something embedded in his forehead between the eyes. "You have one of those new microchip tattoos?" I asked.

Jibril nodded sagely. "Would you like to see it?"

I'd always been curious how those things worked, so I said, "Yes."

He closed his eyes for a moment, and the chip began to glow slightly. When I stared at it, I saw a swirling, gilded script moving from right to left between his eyes.

"It's beautiful," I said. "But I can't read the words. What does it say?"

Strolling out of the kitchen, Michael leaned against the doorframe. " 'There is no God, but Allah,' " Michael translated, " 'and Muhammad is the prophet of God.' "

"Heckuva statement," I breathed.

With a hardy laugh, Jibril clapped me on the shoulder. "You're right, Michael. Definitely refreshing."

"Didn't I tell you so?" Michael smiled. "Deidre is a regular firebrand."

Our brief dash in rain had soaked Michael's leather jacket. He stood so close that I could smell the musty, wet odor. The curls of his hair hung enchantingly over one eye. I wondered how it would feel to reach up and run my fingers through it.

I cleared my throat, and a soft punch to his arm hid my growing embarrassment. "You getting sweet on me, big guy?"

Jibril bright grin faded. "My prince," he said, arching his eyebrow.

"A discussion for another time." Michael glared at Jibril. Though his tone was light, the smile he gave Jibril held a trace of tightness.

"Of course, but ... If you want to talk about it, I've been there, you know."

"Who could forget," Michael said with a smile.

"Yes, well." Jibril coughed out a little laugh. Turning to me, he brightened. "You came here for something. Let me get it for you."

I frowned. Jibril made it sound like the LINK was something he could just pull down from his bookcase and hand over. " 'Get it for me'? Shouldn't we prepare for surgery or something?"

"You'll see." He smiled cryptically. Jibril walked over to the flag-draped window. Kneeling next to the bookcase underneath, he retrieved a small wooden box. It was plain dark wood, perhaps mahogany. There were no markings on it whatsoever, and it was about the size of an old cigar box. He pulled out something small and shiny. He replaced the box, and returned to my side. His hands enveloped mine. His skin felt dry against my sweating palms.

"What the hell is this?" I demanded, searching his brown eyes. He was focused on something far away.

"It is done," he said, pressing the hard, round object into my palm. He squeezed my hand tightly and shut his eyes.

A loud rap startled me. Still holding his hand, I felt Jibril jump in surprise.

"FBI!" An angry voice shouted from behind the door. "Open up!"

Michael looked at me. "Were we followed?"

"Oh shit!" I tried to squirm out of Jibril's grasp. Jibril held my hand firmly. I couldn't escape his grip without relinquishing my hold on the strange, metallic object he gave me. Despite the object's apparent uselessness, I couldn't bring myself to let go. I tried to will my fingers to release. My mind refused to obey. If that thing could somehow reconnect me to the LINK, I wasn't about to lose it – no matter what was at stake.

"Are you crazy or something?" I barked at Jibril, trying to catch his eye.

"It is as Allah wills it," he said as he watched the door with a dreamy expression.

Michael grunted. "God has chosen the FBI as Their agents? I'm in the wrong profession."

I squirmed in Jibril's grip. "Let go of me." I gestured with my knee.

Michael held up his hands. "Relax, Deidre. Don't do anything rash. We've done nothing wrong. What can they do?"

"It is as Allah wills it," Jibril repeated calmly.

"We're coming in!" A muffled command came from behind the door.

"I'm going to open the door," Michael said with a quiet conviction. "Show them that we intend to cooperate."

" 'Cooperate'?" I repeated, stunned. "Good Lord, you are a country bumpkin, aren't you? You don't cooperate with the FBI. They'd just as soon shoot as not."

Michael stopped in front of Jibril and me. "What do you suggest we do? Run? I might have been a smalltown cop, but I know enough to realize that if those agents are doing their job, every exit is covered. We wouldn't get far. Gabe is right. It's out of our hands."

"Not if I can help it." I slammed the flat of my foot into the most vulnerable part of Jibril's body: his knee. With a yelp, he let go of my hands.

The apartment door strained under the pressure of someone's body or a battering ram. Wood began to splinter. They would be through the door in a second. I pocketed the metallic object Jibril gave me and reached for my Magnum. Michael grabbed my elbow before I could even pull the gun out. "That would be really stupid, Dee. You know that."

"Let go of me," I demanded, sizing Michael up for my knee trick.

Following my gaze, he said, "Don't even think about it. What do you think you're going to do with that gun anyway?" His smile was as tight as his grip on my elbow. "You're one tough woman, Deidre McMannus, but not even you could hold an entire battalion of FBI agents at bay with a measly six rounds from an ancient projectile weapon."

The door slammed open so hard the doorknob punched through the thin plaster wall. A black uniform stepped cautiously into the room. Bright yellow block letters spelled out fbi on his ball cap. A badge was printed on the tee shirt underneath his heavy leather jacket. Seeing me, with my fist in my pocket, the agent raised his assault rifle.

"Play it cool," Michael whispered to me. "We didn't do anything wrong."

"I didn't, that's for sure. What about you? What about him?" I jerked my head in the direction of Jibril, who had propped himself up on the chair and was rubbing his knee. "What have I been aiding and abetting this time?"

Two more uniforms gingerly stepped around the shattered doorway. As I stared down the barrel of a gun, my feet felt rooted to the spot. Sweat pricked under my arms. Michael let go of my elbow, and raised his hands.

"I'm a cop," Michael said calmly, as if his announcement of that fact would diffuse everything. "Take it easy."

More black– and yellow-clad men streamed in the door, like a horde of wasps, followed by uniformed police.

When I saw the police, I relaxed a little. With effort I let go of the Magnum, and put my hands up. As a uniform passed near me, I asked, "You boys got a warrant?"