Devil's Due

Jazz knew the floor plans backward and forward, evidently. She unhesitatingly turned left, then right at a junction, then left.

They ended up at the bathrooms. Lucia blinked, startled, but Jazz just lifted a shoulder. "Look, I've been on the road for what feels like a week, and if we're going to do this, the last thing I need is a full bladder, if you know what I mean."

Lucia choked down a laugh and followed her.

Business done, they took a quick stroll around the slowly filling work cubicles. It was a busy place—apparently, evil's stock was up this week—and every person they saw might know them, or at least their photographs. But this floor seemed to hold worker bees, not executives, and be devoted to systems and finance.

There was an empty cubicle against the far wall. The server room—which they couldn't possibly get into—was on the other side. Lucia set the heavy backpack down with a breathless sigh of relief. "You're sure there isn't shielding on the room?" she asked.

"Not in the plans," Jazz said.

"We can't get this wrong."

"The server room's locked off, with special access. Our chances of getting in there—"

"Go pull the fire alarm."

"What?"

"Go pull the fire alarm. All electronic doors have to unlock in the event of a fire alarm. It's code."

Jazz stared at her for a few seconds, then took out her cell phone and speed-dialed Ma

Lucia handed over her purse and phone.

"I'll evacuate with the herd. You find me," Jazz said.

"Okay."

Jazz grabbed her by the hand. "L. Don't disappoint me and get killed, okay?"

Lucia, for answer, pulled her into a quick hug, kissed her on the cheek and said, "Go."

Then she grabbed the backpack, shouldered it and watched Jazz head for the fire alarm. She pulled it casually and kept walking.

Alarms and overhead strobes erupted. A computerized voice came on the intercoms, over groans and shouts, and instructed everyone to head for their designated evacuation routes. Lucia stayed where she was, fiddling with her backpack, as people passed her cube. When she didn't hear any more footsteps, she ducked out and down the hall.

The server room doors, labeled with warnings for halon gas systems, plus Restricted Access, Security Area signs, were unlocked. Heart pounding, she stepped inside, blinked at the huge array of servers. Ranks of boxes; blinking red and green lights. The air was cool and dry, the floor a raised, nonstatic surface, springy under her feet.

She spotted a surveillance camera in the corner. They'd have seen her by now. She had very little time.

She slipped the backpack off her shoulder.

During the endless drive, when McCarthy had been at the wheel, she'd unpacked the EMP generator. It came in two pieces—the guts of the unit and a huge, heavy battery. She knelt and took the two parts, mated them together with a snap and flipped the toggle switch.

Lights came on.

"Gregory, if you've screwed me, I swear to God…"

She reached for the activate button, and froze when something cold touched the back of her head.

"This," a male voice said, "is the barrel of a Beretta, and you're going to want to take your hand off the bomb."

Fear and fury raced through her, powerful enough to make her sway, but she slowly raised both hands in the air.

"On both knees," he said, and kicked at her right foot, which was still on the ground. She shifted and obeyed. "Hands behind your head."

The voice sounded familiar, but congested, as if the speaker had a bad cold. She wanted to turn around, but the gun pressed to her head convinced her that curiosity was a bad idea.

"You expecting McCarthy to charge up here to the rescue? That son of a bitch is in custody downstairs. So's your friend Jazz. So you just be a good girl and take these—" a gleaming pair of steel handcuffs jangled in front of her face " — and put them on your right wrist first."

She knew the voice now; she'd finally placed it. Detective Stewart. He really didn't sound well. "You don't have jurisdiction here."

"This has jurisdiction pretty much anywhere, bitch." He pressed with the gun barrel, hard enough to bruise. She winced and involuntarily moved her head forward; the gun followed. She took the handcuffs and snapped one on her right wrist, then—unasked—put her wrists behind her. He snapped them shut. "Ready?" a voice called from the doorway.

"Yeah, she's restrained. Come on in."

The gun finally withdrew, letting her breathe a little, and she couldn't resist twisting to look over her shoulder as the door opened.

Ken Stewart looked terrible—really terrible. His pallor had taken on a corpselike appearance, and his breathing seemed labored. His eyes were bloodshot and red-rimmed. He stepped back, giving the newcomers a respectful distance. There were three of them, all with executive polish. The one in front was middle-aged, with dark hair and dark eyes and a foxlike face that looked clever and cold. A slight asymmetry to his face made the right eye look smaller.

He was rich, well-groomed, with an aura of absolute power.

"You're Lucia Garza," he said, and stepped forward. "Stand up. Turn around."

"Careful," Stewart said. "I said she was restrained, not safe."

The man nodded. Lucia got up and turned to face them. "I don't think we've been introduced," she said.

"Not formally, no, but I've been screwing with your life for quite some time now," the man said coolly. "My name is Gil Kavanaugh. I run Eidolon Corporation."

The man—no, the psychic—Simms had handpicked as his successor. The man who was the brains behind this side of the chess game, as Simms was behind the Cross Society. He seemed young for it, but she supposed that monomania was possible at any age.

He looked her in the eyes and said, "I'm not responsible for what was done to you. That was the Cross Society, playing God. If I'd had my way, Ben McCarthy would never have lived to get out of prison, and you wouldn't have ended up on a table with your legs apart, getting raped by doctors. Have they told you why it was so important?"

She felt a cold wave wash over her, and then hot prickles, as if her whole body had experienced numbness and rebirth. Her mind felt extraordinarily clear. "You saw the pictures."

He smiled. "I see everything." He tapped his forehead. "I'm tuned to your cha

I mean, what straight man just out of prison would? Look at you. Simms must have been pissed, after all the trouble he went to." Kavanaugh tilted his head slightly. "Are you sure you don't want to know about the child?"

The fire alarms cut out suddenly, leaving a taut silence and a continuing ringing in her ears.

"Last chance," he said. "It's a limited time offer."

"No," she said. "I don't want to know what you see."

Kavanaugh sighed and shook his head. "Right," he said. "Let's get her upstairs—"

It was all falling apart. He wouldn't balk at putting bullets in their heads and burying them out in the desert. And she loathed that salacious gleam in his eyes when he'd talked about the pictures. About being in her head.

She avoided Stewart's grabbing hand, let her knees collapse, and fell sideways. Her elbow smacked down hard on the EMP device, on the green button.

"No!" Kavanaugh screamed, but it was too late. There wasn't a buildup and there wasn't a warning. It fired.

There was a smell of frying circuitry, cracks and pops, and every electronic circuit within a thousand feet went dead.