Devil's Due

He went over the table. The woman stumbled backward, terror written all over her face.

"No!" Laskins yelled, and then it was a melee, and when it was over, McCarthy was on the carpet, facedown, panting, with Gregory's knee in his back. "I will not have this, do you understand? This behavior is unacceptable!"

"Unacceptable!" McCarthy's voice broke. "You fucking bastards, you have no idea what you're doing, do you? Ask Simms. Ask Simms if you don't believe me."

Silence. The assembled members milled around, and some of them returned to their chairs. Laskins looked around the room, then cleared his throat.

"Unfortunately, we can't do that," he said. "Max Simms broke out of his prison three days ago. We have no idea where he is at this point."

The thank-you messages Jazz and Lucia had gotten had been signed, in invisible ink, by Max Simms. They don't know that, Lucia thought, and met Jazz's eyes.

Jazz smiled slightly. Not a nice expression. She was furious, and she wanted to hit something, anything.

The fact that she hadn't, that she'd let McCarthy be taken down without jumping in with both feet, was significant. "What do you want?" Lucia asked. "Why are we here?" Laskins seemed to forget about McCarthy for a moment to focus back on the two of them.

"You're here for the same reason we all are. Because if you weren't, you'd be dead," he said. "And really, we can't have that happen. Not just now. Now if you don't sit quietly, I'm going to have Mr. Ivanovich handcuff and gag you."

"What are you waiting for?" Jazz demanded.

"Something terrible." It was one of the other Cross Society members, a sad-looking little man in a gray sports coat. He had a ragged fringe of gray hair clinging to the crown of his skull, and big dark eyes behind round glasses. "Something terrible. I wish we could avoid it, but it's impossible. Something terrible must happen."

Gregory Ivanovich let McCarthy up off of the floor and tossed a tangle of zip ties onto the conference table, along with three leather ball gags. Tools of his trade. Lucia felt her stomach clench when she saw them.

"Sit quietly, or I will do it," he said. "You know it, dorogaya. Tell them."

Lucia leaned forward and put a hand on Jazz's arm. A light pressure, but Jazz got the message.

McCarthy rose to his feet, breathing heavily, face still red with fury, but he didn't say anything either. After a moment, he took the chair next to Jazz and clasped his hands tight on top of the table. His knuckles turned as pale as parchment. Silence.

"That's better," Laskins said, and turned to look out the window at the view. "That's better. Now, we wait."

Two hours later, with no explanation, one of the Society members' beeper went off, and some unspoken signal was passed. They all relaxed.

Somewhere, something terrible had happened.

"Take them into the other room," Laskins said to Gregory. "Lock them in. We'll see to them later."

He nodded and made a gesture to get Lucia, Jazz and McCarthy to their feet. The next room was an empty office, and Gregory showed them in with another of his extravagant gestures. With a gun in his hand, of course. "No lock on the door," Jazz pointed out. For her, it was a pretty mild tone. Gregory's lips gri

"Pretty one, I'm the lock," he said. "I'll be sitting in a chair across from the door. By all means, open it. I'm a very good shot, but I can always use the practice." He pulled the door shut.

"He's bluffing," Jazz said.

"No," Lucia sighed. "He's not. Ben? You okay?"

He hadn't said a word. He didn't even look at her. "I'm fine." He didn't sound fine. He sounded—terrible. "How long you think they'll keep us here?"

"Who the hell cares?" Jazz retorted. She stalked toward him. "You want to explain now?"

His eyes focused on her, then slid away. He walked toward a window, changed course and folded himself into a chair in the corner. Eyes shut.

"Oh, no you don't," Jazz said, and followed him. She stood over him, hands balled into fists. "What they said in there. About the Cross Society getting you out of jail. That was bullshit, right? Right?"

He didn't answer. Lucia felt what was left of the strength of fear bleed away, and her muscles demanded she sit. She leaned, instead, trying to look composed. "No," she said for him. "It wasn't. The pictures exonerating you were genuine, but they'd withheld them, hadn't they? They wanted something from you. And until you agreed, they wouldn't release the evidence that would get you out of prison."

"I wasn't guilty," he said. His eyes were still shut.

"I know," she murmured. "Not of those murders."

"Wait a minute. They did release the pictures," Jazz said. "So…you agreed…"

McCarthy stayed quiet. Jazz reached down and grabbed the faded shoulders of his open fla

"It doesn't concern you."

"No," Lucia said. "It concerns me. Doesn't it?"

His eyes opened, and even as numbed and tired and betrayed as she was, she flinched from what was in them. Jazz kept asking the question, but Lucia knew full well McCarthy wasn't going to answer her. She walked to the window and stared out, thought about Laskins treating himself to the same view one wall over.

She dug her cell phone from her purse and speed-dialed Ma

No answer.

The office door opened, and an older man walked in. He was slender and stooped, with mild blue eyes and thin white hair. Short, maybe five foot five at most.

He looked sweet and a little lost, and his clothes were too big for him. He smiled at them impartially, closed the door behind him and walked across the room to the bare desk. He sat down in the chair, slid open the bottom drawer and took out a duffel bag. He unzipped it and revealed four military-issue breathing masks.

"You'll need these," he said, and held one out. Nobody moved. "Tick tock, people, tick tock. Let's move."

"Who the hell is this?" Lucia asked in confusion, and she looked at Jazz for information.

Jazz was staring at the man intently and didn't answer.

McCarthy did. He stepped forward, took the gas mask and said, "Meet Max Simms."

And then he put on the mask.

Jazz took the second one. Simms favored her with a beatific smile, then turned his attention to Lucia.

"Max Simms," she repeated. "You're kidding."

"We don't have time for introductions," Simms said, and checked a watch on his left wrist. "Let's see, did I adjust it for the time zone? Yes, I think I did. You have approximately ten seconds to make your decision, Lucia. Forgive me if I don't wait."

Jazz had tugged on her mask. Simms put his on.

Lucia looked at them all, one after another, and grabbed for the last one.

She got it in place as Simm's silent finger count went to three, then to two, then to a single index finger.

Then to zero.

Nothing seemed to happen at all. She felt nothing, smelled nothing except the industrial plastic of the mask and her own sweat. Her breath was coming fast, too fast.

"What the hell is going on?" she asked. The plastic muffled and distorted her voice, but she was pretty sure the others could hear her. Jazz lifted her hands and dropped them. McCarthy shook his head.

Simms said, "Obviously, somebody's delivered gas into this building."

"Lethal?" Lucia's mind went to the drums of chemicals back at the warehouse.

"No. Wait, please."

If anything had happened in the other rooms, there was no indication at all. No sound. The minutes seemed to drag on, and on, and on. Simms waited, watching the second hand of his watch, and then moved to the door and opened it.