I did.

"I'm barefoot," I said, unable to drag my eyes away from Dorshak. My voice sounded distant and hollow in my ears. "I can't ..."

Michael laughed unkindly. "A second ago you were fighting tooth and nail, now you're worried about your feet?"

I swallowed my disgust. I didn't want to say what was on my mind – how horrified I was at the terrible ease with which I destroyed the minds of the FBI agents, or how I couldn't stomach the idea of stepping over the cadaverous, blinded Dorshak. Instead, I just stared at Michael and said, "You're the one in a hurry. Cut feet will slow me down."

Reaching under the table, Michael found my bloody shoe. "Here."

I pursed my lips.

"Deidre," Michael insisted in a low voice, almost a growl. His face was hidden in the shadows, but the gray of his eyes caught the light. The hard lines of Michael's face, which I'd been so attracted to, looked menacing now. I wondered if I'd made the right choice, after all.

"I made a deal with the devil to bring these lights down," Michael continued. "Don't make my sacrifice meaningless. Let's get out of here while we still can."

I grabbed the shoe. Wedging it on, I felt a sticky wetness curl around my toes. I was grateful for the darkness as I hauled myself into the maw of the anteroom. I slid onto a table headfirst and banged my already bruised chin.

"You know," I said loudly. Finding the edge of the table with my fingers, I pulled my legs around and felt for the floor. "I don't know what you're talking about sacrifice for. Mouse gets credit for this brownout, so don't go attaching your sig file to it just yet."

I had just stumbled onto the floor, when I heard Michael vault easily onto the tabletop. He landed with a soft sound that belied his obvious mass. A quip about how much I despised his cyberware advantage died on my lips as I suddenly remembered the strange infrared I'd gotten from the FBI agent's vantage point. That image was nothing like the normal readout on a cyborg. Even the best shadow-ops hardware could only reduce body temperature a few degrees. Michael's body appeared as cold as the rest of the room, all except that strange bright center.

"You nuclear-powered, big guy?" I asked quietly.

I heard the sound of leather against leather as Michael moved around the small room.

"I found the door," he announced in lieu of a response.

There was a loud popping sound as Michael forced the lock. The hallway was illuminated by a thin string of battery-operated lights.

"If we get out of here, you'll tell me exactly what you are, Michael."

"If we stand here arguing about it, that isn't going to happen, now is it?"

Twisting my mouth into a grimace I hoped he could see, I pushed past him. "Follow me."

We were lucky that the door Michael found opened into a back hallway. Despite the evidence of Dorshak's raise, it seemed the police department never got that remodeling money they'd been begging tor since my days on the force. It took me three seconds to remember the layout. I'd be more surprised at my ability for recall, if it wasn't for the fact I spent most of my dream time still walking these halls.

"This way," I told Michael. I slipped off my shoes and took off at a run. My pounding strides made a sharp slapping sound on the concrete floor. Over my shoulder, I shouted, "Let's take this deeper into the station. It should be deserted, what with most people trying to get out. Plus, it will give me a second to hunt up some files. From there, I want to find ..."

The backup generator interrupted me. The machine groaned deep within the station walls. The lights flickered, then sprang back to life. In the brilliant electric flash, someone appeared in my path. I instantly recognized his coppery, shoulder-length hair and handsome, arrogant features. He still wore the Armani suit from this morning's escapade at the restaurant. A tiny dab of mustard on his lapel was the only sign of his scuffle with Michael. Otherwise, he looked impeccable.

"Morningstar." I slid to a stop. "Where the hell did you come from?"

"Exactly," he murmured with a laugh. It was a dry, feathery sound, decidedly unpleasant. Turning to Michael, he said, "You squandered the opportunity I gave you, Michael. I hope you don't think that nullifies our deal."

"He's the one you made a deal with?" I jabbed my thumb in the direction of Morningstar's chest. Michael didn't acknowledge me, but I could tell by the fierce way he stared at Morningstar that it was true. "Oh, Michael."

Now I understood. It was no wonder Michael had been acting emotionally closed off. He'd gone back to the "family." I only prayed, for Michael's sake, his deal didn't involve another job with the Mafia.

Though his expression was impassive, Michael's eyes searched Morningstar's face, "As long as Jibril is free."

"He proved much more decisive than you, dearest brother, albeit not as much of a team player." Morningstar smirked. With a dismissive wave of his hand, he added, "Jibril has flown the coop. He's long gone."

Michael's jaw flexed. "Don't call me that."

"What? 'Brother'? We're made from the same stuff, Michael. You can hardly deny that."

I felt absent from this conversation, almost invisible, yet totally absorbed, just as I had at the restaurant. Michael and Morningstar dominated whatever space they occupied. It was as though the sheer power of their personalities muffled the very fabric of the universe.

I made my living noticing things other people didn't, but I never even heard the cops approaching until they were right in front of me. Even then, they had to shout in order to get my attention.

"You there!"

I jumped at the sound. Two plainclothes stood at the end of the hall. Their standard-issue guns already drawn, they stood like partners who'd been together for a long time. The older one stayed slightly behind and a little to the left, watching their backs, yet ready to cover the front.

Though they weren't in uniform, they might as well have been. They wore similar suits in that same rumpled cop way so many longtime detectives had. I didn't know their names, but I knew these guys. Even their crew cuts were identical.

Raising my hands, I put on a charming smile. "Hey, boys ..." A sudden wind rushed past me. The gale ruffled my blouse and tugged at my hair. Behind me, the emergency lights blew out one by one. Glass showered down, flying toward the detectives. They raised their hands trying to ward off the shattered bulbs.

The instant their guns pointed away from me, I was ready to run. I turned around just in time to see Michael and Morningstar draw their weapons. Michael grabbed for the battered .45 with his right hand, as Morningstar reached for his weapon with his left. Their arms unfurled in perfect unison. They looked like deadly mirror images.

"No!" I screamed.

Explosions ripped through the tiny corridor. Searing heat pierced my shoulder, followed by a scorching pain that seemed to illuminate every nerve ending. Spun around by the momentum of the bullet, I bounced clumsily against the wall. Darkness tickled the edge of my vision. I groped at the wall and fought to remain standing. I clutched my shoulder, trying to staunch the blood flow.

Michael's arms were on my waist, supporting me.

"You've been shot," he whispered.

I pressed my lips together. The silence of the hallway rang in my ears. I turned my head, keeping my cheek to the cool plaster surface of the wall. The two detectives lay on the floor; neither of them moved or made any sound. The dark blue of their suits looked black against the gray tiles. My face contorted to a grimace as I noticed their bodies were sprawled at awkward angles. There was no blood.

"No blood?" I repeated out loud, my voice a harsh whisper. "No blood?"

"Untimely heart attack," Morningstar said, as though pleased.