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“How’d they take it?”

“Like the professionals they are. And with considerable mining for details. They want to see the recording. And before you say no, which is your first instinct as it was mine, these are people who worked with the kind of device we deactivated.”

“You deactivated. I held the goddamn light. I’ll think about it. I’ll think about it because they did work with that type of device, and because—active or not, and who can be sure which—they are pros.”

When she walked into the bedroom and saw the cat sprawled on the bed, she immediately felt better. But winding through the better, she was embarrassed to realize, was a strong thread of resentment.

She pointed at him. “He didn’t give me the time of day— Why did I say that? How’s a cat supposed to tell you the time? God, I hate saying things that make no sense. I’m surprised he’s not bunking with one of them.”

“They’re an entertaining and attentive novelty. You’re home.”

Home, she thought. Sanctuary or safe house, it was still home. And that’s where they were. A couple hours before, they’d been one wrong move away from a very nasty death.

She gave Roarke one long look, then put her hands on his shoulders. She boosted herself up, wrapped her legs around his waist, and locked her mouth to his.

“I had caffeine and sugar.” Revved and ready, she nipped her teeth along his throat. “We could’ve been pink mist, but we’re not. And I still like your face.”

“I’ll need to deactivate forty-year-old bombs more often.”

“Solid negative there.” She went back to his mouth as he dropped them both on the bed.

The cat gave one low growl of annoyance as he rolled away and leaped off the bed.

“Serves him right. And why is it whenever I’m in a hurry, you’re wearing too many clothes?”

“So are you, plus you’re still armed. But we’ll take care of that.”

It didn’t take him long to release her weapon harness, strip that away. It took her longer to tug him out of his jacket as his mouth, his hands, distracted her. While she struggled with his shirt, he had hers off so quickly it might not have been there in the first place.

Now, with her blood running hot, her pulse thumping fast, he drew up her legs to pull off her boots.

“Nearly there.”

“Come here, come here.”

She dragged him back to her, just to feel the weight, the shape of him over her, the taste, the heat of his mouth on hers.

All so real, so warm. So alive.

So his hands stroked down her, taking that pleasure, down the long torso, the narrow hips, those endless legs.

If he burned for her, she’d kindled the flame, and it spread as he took his mouth over flesh and bone and muscle.

His warrior, his heart, his abiding passion.

She stripped off his shirt; he peeled away her tank. And they were flesh to flesh, body to body, heart to heart while the kiss took on a wildness that raced through both of them.

When his mouth found her breast, she arched under him. On strangled cries of pleasure and impatience, she fought with his belt.

Take more. Take me. Take all.

Those clever fingers found her first, found her hot and wet and sent her flying. Even as she flew, he drove into her so that pleasure, dark and desperate, slammed into release, then release into even more pleasure.

Once again, she locked her legs around him. Body quaking, need building impossibly again, she took his face in her hands. Looking into those vivid blue eyes, she saw the same need, the same heart, the same unity.

“I love you.”

“A ghrá.”

With his eyes on hers, he let himself fall into her.

She didn’t remember dropping into sleep, but she woke in gloomy light with the sky window overhead running with rain. The cat curled at her back, and the bed beside her was empty.

Already at work, she thought, but not yet sitting across the room with the screen scrolling on mute. She missed that, the routine of that, but at the moment, routine had gone to hell.

She got up, checked the time, and decided she had enough of it for a quick, solid workout.

She grabbed coffee first, let it smack away the last dregs of fatigue. She pulled on gym shorts, a sports tank, running shoes. A couple of miles, she thought as she got in the elevator, get the heart pumping. Some weights to wake up muscles.

Then more coffee.

Downstairs, she turned toward the gym.

And stopped short when she found Marjorie and Iris doing curls.

Her first thought was that though they had about thirty years on her, they were in damn good shape. Her second: What the hell were they doing in her space?

They stopped when they saw her. Marjorie shot out that vid-star smile. “Good morning! Another early riser—and we have the excuse of getting our body clocks on New York time.”

Iris put her weights back on the rack. “We’re in your way.”

Eve thought: Yes. But said, “No, that’s—”

“We thought we’d be out before anyone else was stirring.” Marjorie racked her weights. “One has to stay in tune if one insists on doing stunts. And since I enjoy making the occasional action vid, I’m honor bound. I see you have a new model of sparring droid. Mine’s considerably older, and should be updated. How do you like this one?”

First, she tried to imagine the middle-aged woman going at it with the droid, one fabricated as a muscular male of about thirty-five.

“Ah, I haven’t tried it yet. I broke the last one.”

Marjorie’s brows winged up. “Sparring?”

“I was a little pissed off.”

“Impressive.”

Iris handed Marjorie a tube of water. “We’ll get out of your way. We just need to stretch it out.”

“How about we finish with some yoga, Iris? Could we use your very Zen dojo for that, Lieutenant?”

“Sure. Ah, there are programs.”

“I have my own.” Marjorie tapped a finger to her temple as they left.

Eve stood a minute to make sure they kept going. She couldn’t remember ever having that much conversation or pulling out that many manners ten minutes after rolling out of bed.

To compensate she put herself through a hard, sweaty three-mile run, then another session with weights. She might have used the dojo for a little yoga herself, but for all she knew, they’d still be in there.

Doing sun salutations, or meditating.

She stretched where she was, then headed straight back to the bedroom.

Roarke sat, the cat across his lap. The screen scrolled on mute as he did whatever he did on a tablet. But routine took another detour as he wore black jeans and a blue T-shirt that turned his eyes to blue lasers.

“Where’s your suit?”

“Taking the day off.”

“You’re taking the day off?”

“The suit is. I’ll be working from home until I join you at Chez Robert.”

“Oh.”

It actually helped knowing he’d be around for a while, keeping their guests contained.

She grabbed more coffee. “Two of them were down there, the vid star and the tea queen. In skimpy skin shorts and sports bras.”

“I see.”

“They’re pretty ripped. I had to talk to them, and pretend I didn’t want them to go away so I could work out.”

“A challenging start to your day.”

“Tell me about it.” She headed in to shower.

When she came back, he had plates under domes, more coffee waiting, and the cat banished to the floor.

“Even with the conversation, the workout, I’m ahead of schedule. I’m going in early again.”

When she sat, he took off the domes, revealed pancakes, bacon, fruit.

The world got considerably brighter.

She immediately swamped the pancakes in syrup.

“I’ll coordinate with you, but I need to refine the op, get a team briefed. I’m going to bring Lowenbaum in.”

“You think you’ll need SWAT?”

“Potter’s a professional, too. The more coverage, the better. If we can box him in today, take him, it’s done. Turn him over to the Brits—not the ones staying here. They all go home.”

“And all’s right with the world.”

“Except for Rossi and his family, yeah. Can’t make all right with their world, but we can bring them justice.” She shoveled in pancakes. “About letting them all see the record from last night? If we miss Potter today, I’ll green-light that. It may trigger something that can help. If we get him, there’s no need.”

“Fair enough.”

“What were you working on?”

“Not working so much as checking. The Great House Project. It’s winding up.”

“So Peabody said, but with a lot more words. They’re spending the weekend there.”

“There’s still some work. They could move in altogether if they wanted.” With the tablet set aside, he ate with her. “It’s finish work, punch out work primarily. But they want the big moment. The weekend’s a trial run.”

“You made it run. I know you made it run smoother and faster than it would have. They appreciate it.”

“I’ve enjoyed it. The project itself, and the working with friends.”

As he enjoyed sharing breakfast with his wife and speaking, for a few minutes, of happier things.

“Which reminds me,” he added, “the chair for Number Two will be ready by official move-in.”

“That’s good. Did I tell you Jake’s moving in with Nadine?”

“Yes, you mentioned it. And so did Jake, when I saw him at An Didean—he’s taken an interest in one of the students. Gee’s got a rather masterful way with a guitar. Jake and Nadine seem very happy.”

“It’s happening everywhere. It’s weird.”

Stuffed with pancakes, she got up and faced her closet.

“It’s an op, a major op. I’m wearing black.”

Because she said it like a challenge, he had to smile.

“It’s a bit cooler today, and rainy. Go for the leather jacket. You have a black one that’s very thin and flexible leather.”

“How am I supposed to know which one that is?”

He held up a hand, then wary of the cat, took the plates to stow inside the AutoChef cabinet. Shut the door.

He went into her closet and directly to a black jacket.

“This one.”

Simple, she noted, no fuss. Good pockets. And she did have a weakness for leather. “What’s the symbol on the buttons. Flowers?”

“Four-leaf clovers. For luck. You might want those lug-soled boots. Good traction if you have to run down your bad guy.”

“He’s pushing eighty. I think I can take him.”

But she went for the boots, and a black shirt, black trousers.

“Not those, darling.” He took the trousers, exchanged them for another pair. “Those were indigo. You’ll want true black.”

“Black should just be black.”

They both heard the crash from the bedroom.

“Bugger it.”

When they pushed out, the cat stretched up inside the open cabinet, happily licking syrup off a plate.

The dome sat on the floor where it had fallen.

“He opened it,” Eve said. “He opened the damn door.”

“I’m impressed. I’m bloody well impressed. And yet.”

Roarke strode over, plucked up the cat. “I’ll put a lock on it if needs must,” he told the cat, and set him down.

Unconcerned, Galahad licked syrup off his paws. His bicolored eyes zeroed in on Eve’s, and were full of delight.

Amused, she dressed.

“I expect to be on scene by twelve-fifteen,” she told Roarke. “If you want to go in with us, be at Central by noon. Otherwise, I’ll give you a location.”

“I’ll let you know.”

“If he contacts Iris again… she knows how to play it. But I want to know about it.”

“I’ll make sure of it.”

As she loaded her pockets, he walked to her. “Take very good care of my cop today.”

“You’ll be there for part of it, so take care of my gazillionaire, expert consultant, bomb deactivator.”

“Then we have a deal.” He kissed her. “I’ll see you in a few hours.”

She glanced at the cat as she started out. “He’s thinking about doing it again.”

“Are you now, mate?” she heard Roarke say. “Are you really?”

She was barely through the gates when Whitney tagged her.

“Sir.”

“My office, as soon as you get to Central.”

“I’m on my way in now, Commander.”

“Good. So am I.”

When he clicked off, she winced.

Just over a minute later, it was Mira.

“Dr. Mira.”

“I’d like to meet with you this morning regarding your investigation.”

“I’m on my way in, and meeting with the commander. I can come to your office after that.”

“I’ll come to you. I’d like to see your board.”

So much, Eve thought when she ended the call, for getting an early start on the op. After some calculations, she sent a group text to her bullpen.

If it’s not hot, drop it. Operation briefing zero-eight-thirty. Peabody, send last night’s report to all and book a conference room.

She sent a request for Lowenbaum to attend, then considering her time crunch, shot off more to Berenski, DeWinter, and the boomer citing the urgency on receiving their findings on prints, DNA, and bomb analysis.

And driving through the rain, avoiding idiots who lost all ability to drive at the first drop, she planned her op.

When she arrived at Central, she rode the elevator straight up to Whitney’s office. As others got on, got off, she shared space with a street LC who looked like she’d had a nasty scuffle with a colleague or client, a pair of uniforms arguing baseball, and an undercover cop sporting a black eye and chowing down on a breakfast taco.

Whitney’s admin had yet to arrive, but the commander’s doors stood open. He said, “Come.”

Eve knew tired and annoyed when she looked at it, as she often felt the same way.

“Sit.” When she hesitated, he pointed to a chair. “Sit.”

She sat.

“Make this clear, Lieutenant. You suspected an explosive device had been planted somewhere on the premises of a restaurant on the Lower East Side, and rather than alerting the bomb squad, obtained a warrant to enter and search.”

“Yes, sir. I—”

He cut her off with a look. “You and the civilian consultant entered the building with the civilian’s explosive scanner, located the device. Upon doing so, you did not move to a safe distance and contact the division manned and equipped to secure and deactivate incendiary devices, but allowed the civilian to risk his life and yours by attempting to do so.”

“Yes, sir, with one qualification.”

“Qualification. What did I miss, Lieutenant?”

“The civilian identified the device as Urban Wars era, and assured me he could and would deactivate the device. While the civilian might have risked his own life, he would never have risked mine. He would not risk mine.”

Whitney drew breath in and out his nose. “As simple as that?”

“As certain as that. If Potter had been watching the target, we risked alerting him by calling in an explosives team. The probability he was, was low, sir, but not zero.”

“I’ll remind you you’ve yet to conclusively establish that Potter is the suspect, that he is still alive.”

“I messaged Dr. DeWinter this morning expressing the urgency of that confirmation. There’s a high probability his prints will be on the device. I’ve also messaged Chief Berenski on the urgency of that confirmation.”

“Pierce is in custody. Has he made a statement?”

“Not as of my last contact with Inspector Abernathy. Pierce is set to be extradited and transported to London this morning. There are things I can control, Commander, and things I can’t.”

“Get in line,” Whitney muttered.

“I’m consulting with Dr. Mira shortly, and plan to brief my squad on an op to take Potter this afternoon. He’ll be there, he’ll be close. I’ve requested Lieutenant Lowenbaum attend.”

“You haven’t been given clearance for this op.”

“No, sir. If you could attend—”

“Oh, I’ll be there.” He took another breath. “Dallas, you’re exceptional police. You run your division with skill and sense, and your instincts are solid. But Potter, if it is Potter, pulled you into this investigation, and he’s playing with you.”

“Understood, sir, absolutely and completely. But the fact is…” Screw it, she decided. “Permission to speak frankly.”

“By all means.”

“He’s fucking up. He firmly believes he’s smarter than any of the targets, than me, than the NYPSD. And his vision is narrow while his methods are unnecessarily complicated. He thinks of them as a puzzle only he can solve. And it’s stupid. The use of the cousin of one of the targets? We disproved that in about ten minutes. He should’ve expected us to check, but he didn’t. He believes we think he’s dead so we’re down some rabbit hole.

“He fully expects those three women to just—just la-de-da their way into that restaurant today. He killed one of their friends, someone they went through a war with, and they’ll just stroll into a ladies’ lunch? He doesn’t understand them or respect them. Or me. He’s so focused on taking them out so they’re just check marks on a list.”

When she finished, Whitney inclined his head.

“He managed to escape from a maximum-security prison, fake his death, and access considerable funds before coming to New York and executing a trained agent.”

“I didn’t say he was stupid, Commander. His methods are. If he’d just killed Rossi, he could have walked away and focused on the next. But he couldn’t leave it at that. And there’s the stupid.”

“I want those confirmations. Until we have them, you’re pursuing an unsub. The prints aren’t enough, if there are prints. He might have handled it during the wars. Which you’ve considered.”

“Yes, sir. It would up the probability, but we need the DNA to confirm.”

“Where’s the briefing?”

“Peabody’s booking a conference room.”

“I’ll be there. Dismissed. Dallas,” he said as she got up and started out. “How did Roarke learn to deactivate an Urban Wars–era bomb?”

“Summerset taught him.”

“Summerset—” Whitney rubbed his eyes. “Never mind. Go.”

She went, jogging down glides this time. She had an hour before the briefing, so some time to prep. On the jog, she texted Feeney, informing him and inviting him in.

She headed straight to her office, intended to hit her AC for coffee, then get down to it. Get some of it organized before she met with Mira.

And found Mira already in her office, sitting at her desk, studying the board.

“You haven’t been able to update your board since you clocked out yesterday.”

“No.”

“And want to get to that, and other matters. I want a few minutes first.”

“I’m briefing at eight-thirty if you’d like to attend.”

“I’ll adjust my schedule.” She rose so they both stood facing the board. “He’s not rational.”

“I clued into that.”

“What he’s attempted to do this afternoon, the way he’s attempted it, is foolish.”

“I said fucked-up and stupid.”

“All of that. When he fails, when he realizes he’s failed, his next move will be more irrational, and more dangerous.”

“That’s why I want to bag him today. He’ll be there.”

“No question,” Mira agreed. “But irrational, foolish, fucked-up, stupid, doesn’t discount cunning, Eve. And after today, if he slips through, you’ll be on his kill list.”

“I figured I already was, just low on it. I need coffee. Do you want coffee or tea?”

“I’ll take the coffee.”

Mira walked over and sat on the very edge of Eve’s visitor’s chair in her pretty russet-colored sheath. With it she wore a triple strand of pearls, some sort of russet-colored studs with tiny pearl drops, and sky-high heels that swirled russet and pearly white.

“Take the desk,” Eve told her.

“I’m fine. I’m not sure you were on the list before this. Thanks.” She took the coffee. “He had no need to kill you when he believed he’d best you. He’d have enjoyed your failure, and the guilt you’d have felt for the death of Summerset, as well as the others.”

“Roarke?”

“He’d have the satisfaction of Roarke’s guilt and grief. All that power and money, and he’d lose a father figure and, now that you’re on that list, a wife. While he’s incapable of understanding love, he fully understands guilt and grief. Not feeling them, but knowing others do.

“You took a considerable risk last night.”

“Calculated, weighed. Would Roarke have let me hold the light if he couldn’t deactivate the bomb?”

“No. But he’s not infallible.”

“He hasn’t missed yet. We have a good chance of getting Potter today, before anyone else is hurt, because Roarke didn’t miss. And the way Potter’s set this up—”

“Foolishly complicated, easily dismissed. He considers you and the targets the foolish ones. He’ll do at least some recalculation after today.”

“I plan for him to recalculate in a cage.”

“I’d like to sit in when you interview him. You will interview him?”

“He murdered in New York. The Brits will extradite him, but I’ll get my shot.”

“I’ll get out of your way, and come back for the briefing. Again, don’t underestimate him, Eve.”

“I never underestimate a killer.”

She took the next fifteen to organize for the briefing before she heard Peabody’s boots coming.

“Conference room’s booked. I turn my back for a few hours, and you’re defusing a fricking bomb.”

“Roarke deactivated.”

“And still. Feeney tagged McNab as we were coming in. He wants him and Callendar at the briefing. They’ll man an EDD van, help work the comms, and be on scene if you need eyes and ears.”

“Good.” She handed Peabody a disc. “Set this up, and start putting up a board. Updated.”

“On it. You should know Carmine—the lab guy—is working on something with Yancy. He thinks together they can get some sort of idea what was under the mask. Something about face shape, bone structure. Eyes, ears, and whatever.”

“They think they can get a face?”

“Sounds like a long shot, but Carmine’s got his teeth in it, and Feeney’s giving him the go.”

“Can’t hurt. Set us up. I’ll be there in five.”

“Conference room one.”

Eve took the five to update her own board, then walked into the bullpen. And into Jenkinson’s tie with bright yellow, orange-beaked rubber ducks swimming on frothy blue bubbles in tiny tubs.

“I can’t even begin,” she said.

“You’re messing with bombs, and you don’t call, you don’t write?”

“You’re on call now. And you know what? Soft clothes, but wear that terrifying tie. Nobody’s going to think you’re a cop.”

“That’s just another way to kick their asses into a cage.”

Maybe he was right, she thought. She didn’t want him to be right, but maybe.

She walked out of the bullpen—and nearly into Garnet DeWinter. Another sheath, this time pale green and worn with candy-pink skyscrapers. She’d changed her hair—people were always doing that—so some of her natural curls framed her damn near perfect face.

“I didn’t need the reminder to do my work.”

“Did you get the DNA?”

“I went into the lab early, after working late.”

Eve echoed Whitney. “Get in line. Walk and talk. Did you get the DNA? I’ve got a briefing on an op, and Whitney wants confirmation.”

“I’m very good at my work, and have considerable of it that doesn’t apply to your investigation.”

“I wouldn’t have asked for you if you weren’t good at your work. Look, DeWinter, this asshole planned to blow up three women, and anybody else within about ten feet, this afternoon. I spent part of my night holding a fucking flashlight so Roarke could deactivate a bomb and stop that from happening.

“Quit your carping, and tell me if you got the DNA.”

“I wouldn’t have taken the time to come here if I hadn’t. The remains were not Conrad Potter’s, but the remains of one Trevor Kimball, age fifty-eight, who according to his records self-terminated—a bedsheet hanging—in the same prison as Potter three days prior.

“There were not sufficient remains to match an adult male of his height, his weight.”

“Pierce divvied them up.”

“That’s for you to determine. In the meantime—”

“Thank you.” Eve held out a hand.

DeWinter frowned at the hand, then sighed, shook it. “You’re welcome. We are on the same team, Dallas.”

“I’m aware. He’s a very bad guy, DeWinter.”

“So many are.”

“You could’ve just sent the report instead of coming in.”

“I was a little pissed off.”

“Again, get in line.”

“Yes, but that seems to be your natural state of being.”

“It helps catch the very bad guys. How do you walk around all day in those shoes?”

“Stylishly.” With that, DeWinter turned on her skyscraper heels and walked stylishly away.

In her lug-soled boots, Eve went into the conference room.