As if to remind me of the real threat he posed, the agent's finger tightened noticeably on the trigger. "You know what they say, right?" His voice trembled with excitement. "The only good traitor is a dead traitor."

That wasn't what I expected from my green-eyed "good cop," and I told him so. "Aren't you supposed to ask me to surrender before you shoot?"

"Who's to say I didn't?" His lips stretched into a thin smile. "Dorshak?"

Dorshak just moaned, not making a good case either for or against me.

"What about our viewing audience at home?" I used the chair to gesture in the direction of his camera eye. "Don't they have something to say about this little first-degree murder?"

"Hmmmmm." He pretended to consider my words carefully, then said, "Golly, but they seem to have been blanked out like the rest of the precinct. I guess they'll have no choice but to believe my report."

"Jesus. You're sick." I grimaced.

The agent snarled, and I had a sinking feeling that quip was going to be the last one I'd ever make. Not clever enough to die for, I thought as I pivoted in a vain attempt to swing the chair around to block the blast. I knew it was useless – plastic wasn't much protection against a gun.

My peripheral vision registered the motion of the door opening. I watched the agent's eyes leave me for a second. Wasting no time, I charged him. I heard the click of the trigger being pulled, but somehow his gun misfired. I propelled the chair at him with all my force. Chair and agent clattered against the wall.

Pushing past them, I ran right into someone's arms. I thrashed against the human fortress that held me, ready to kick or bite my way out.

"It's me, Deidre." A smooth baritone tickled my ear. "Michael."

"How did you find me? Wait. Tell me later. We've got to get out of here ... Dorshak, the agent, maybe others ..." My words came out in a breathless, incoherent jumble. "Go, go, go!"

It was too late. Behind us, the one-way mirror shattered. I turned in time to see muted red light glinting on the explosion of glass. A dark form leapt through, carrying the glass around her like a deadly aura. She landed on the table with a thud. The glass slivers made a plink-plunk as they fell away from her, seemingly ruled by a gravity that she defied. She barely slowed her stride. It was another FBI agent. I could tell by the red light coming from her left eye: the targeting computer.

Michael pushed me behind him. On impulse, I accessed the LINK. The world fell away around me in a starburst of light. At the speed of thought, I lassoed the FBI frequency and hacked my way in. A wall of ones and zeros scrolled passed my vision, stretching as far as I could see in every direction. The wall seemed to ripple as the numbers flashed through. I searched through the binary for the key. Reaching into the tangle, I grabbed hold of a back door and squeezed myself through.

Suddenly, my perspective switched. I rode piggyback behind the charging agent's infrared filtered vision. Michael stood by the door, or, at least, what I assumed was he. The readout was confusing. A bright light glowed at the center of Michael's chest. It was like a hot coal, almost white against the ghostly pale blue of the rest of his body. The light was the size of a pinprick, but the heat it radiated spread out in two massive triangular shapes. Their apexes met at the core, and spread out like a bow tie.

"What the ...?" I heard the agent say from my vantage point on the LINK. She was almost on top of Michael. I began to panic. My mind sent out a single thought: Stop!

Enhanced muscles spasmed as the LINK connection between mind and body was severed. I was propelled back into my own consciousness with an almost physical snap.

"Grk," was the most intelligible sound that came from the mouth of the advancing agent. I shook my head to clear it and saw the agent stumble mid-stride. She plummeted facedown onto the floor. Dorshak and the FBI agent who had interrogated me were also silent.

I was stunned. That wasn't how the LINK was supposed to operate. Normally, it took several seconds, an eternity LINK-time, to connect two or three individuals to one agreed-upon frequency. Even cops and FBI agents usually operated on separate bands, while maintaining only a loose connection to the official channel. Not to mention the fact that my command was more of a desperate request than any real code. If something so simple as "stop" could do this kind of damage, I certainly wouldn't have been the first fugitive to use it.

"Did I kill them?" I whispered. I didn't trust my voice in the eerie silence.

Michael shrugged. He seemed uninterested, as if he were used to federal agents dropping like flies every time he entered a room. "Doubtful."

I looked to the fallen agent. Her eyes had rolled up into her head, and a string of drool escaped from her trembling lips. Her hands made useless grasping motions at the air. Breath came in ragged spurts, but at least she seemed to be taking air in on her own. Before I could get too close to the still-quivering agent, Michael laid a hand on my shoulder. "What have I done?" I murmured, horrified. "We can't just leave them here like this. They could die."

"They could live." Michael's voice was quiet.

"I can't take that kind of risk with people's lives."

"I understand. Call for an ambulance." He sighed. "But while we run, eh? Every second is costly."

I nodded. I patched into the emergency police frequency and sent out a code thirty-eight. I logged off before the dispatcher could capture my ID. When I returned my attention to the present, Michael was crouched over Dorshak. During the same blast that downed the agents, Dorshak slumped against the floor. Most of his body was still hidden by Michael or the table, but I could see his face.

No one would have ever mistaken Dorshak for a handsome man, but now his features took on a frightening cast. His face was covered in blood and gore. An eyelid drooped unnaturally over a damaged cornea. My heel had punctured his eyeball. Bile rose in my throat. I had seen violence in the line of duty before, but never anything this gruesome. "Oh, Ted."

Michael grasped Dorshak's trembling arm. Michael held Dorshak's wrist stiffly away from his side to expose the holster.

"What are you doing? Leave it," I heard myself say. "It's an old .45. He doesn't even have laser sights on it."

With his other hand, Michael quickly removed the gun. Then, unceremoniously, he released his grip, and Dorshak's arm fell to the floor like a deadweight. "We need a weapon, and the antique is the least likely to have a homing device. Your compassion is notable, Deidre, but there's no reason to be foolish."

Tucking the .45 into his belt, he said, "We've wasted enough time. Let's go."

I wanted to protest, engage in a philosophical discussion about compassion, but he was right. I grumbled a barely civil, "Fine."

I hadn't moved since downing the agents, so I took the remaining steps that separated me from the door. It opened to chaos. In the hallway, a leather-clad punk sprinted past, nearly knocking me backward. Uniforms followed close on his heels. "No good," I whispered, and shut the door. "Can't go that way."

I turned around and leaned my back gingerly against the door. I took a deep breath and tried to think. An agent quivered at my feet and Dorshak's dead eye seemed to stare at me. Tearing my gaze away, I looked up at the gaping hole in the mirror. The jagged edges formed an angry cavern of darkness.

Michael stared at me anxiously. I watched him track my gaze. "Through there? You know a way out through there?"

"Maybe," I murmured. Dorshak lay just under the window.

"Well, come on then," Michael insisted. Stepping over a chair, he made his way to the mirror. Glass crunched under his boots. Pulling the cuff of his leather jacket tight, Michael swept the remaining glass from the mirror's base. Glittering shards rained down on Dorshak, but he never flinched.