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Devin felt sick, sort of like when he’d had The Bug. But now his head hurt really bad, and he was awful thirsty. He shivered with cold, then when he opened his eyes and saw the man, he screamed.

It was a bad dream, so his mom and dad would come. They’d come and hug him and tell him it was a bad dream.

In the dream, the man held a gun, like in the old vids his dad liked, and had eyes mean like a monster’s.

“Mom! Mom! Mom!”

“I said she’s not here! You shut up. You stop that yelling or I’ll shoot you in the leg.”

Devin choked back the next scream, but couldn’t stop the tears. “I want my mom. I want my dad.”

“Then you’ll do exactly what I say. If you don’t, I’ll kill you. Then I’ll go kill your mom—she’s Kim, your dad, Roland, and your little brother, Silas. I’ll cut them up into little pieces, then set your house on fire.”

As the boy sobbed, Potter smiled.

“Is that what you want me to do? Is it! Is it? ”

“No, no, please, mister. Please, please! I just wanna go home now.”

“You’re not going home, Devin. You’ll never go home again unless you do exactly what I tell you. Say exactly what I tell you to say.”

“I’m—I’m cold.”

“Fuck your cold! And stop your sniveling or I’ll give you something to snivel about.”

Potter rose, stepped over, bent down, and gave the smooth young cheek a hard slap. “Want more?”

Shaking his head, choking on sobs, Devin tried to curl into a ball.

In his whole life, no one had ever struck him. No adult had ever, ever shouted the f-word at him.

The bad dream was real. Monsters were real even though his parents told him they weren’t.

Potter went back to the chair.

“Now, once you do and say what you’re told, you’ll stay here while I run an errand. At that time, I’ll free your ankles so if you need to urinate or vomit while I’m away, you’ll use the bucket. If you urinate or vomit on my nice, clean floor, I’ll punish you on my return. Do you understand?”

With his chin tucked into his chest, Devin nodded.

“Look at me when I speak to you, disrespectful brat. And say: ‘Yes, sir, I understand, sir!’”

Fearing another slap—or worse—Devin looked up at the monster. “Yes, sir, I understand, sir.”

“Very good. Now, let’s begin.”

It took more than an hour because the boy kept fumbling. Potter had to get the brat some water when his voice turned to a croak. And tissues, as the snot running out of his nose was disgusting.

But he finally had what he wanted. And after some editing, he’d have perfection.

He considered just putting a bullet in the boy’s ear and finishing it. But he’d need the brat for the follow-up.

So he walked over with the clippers. “Try to run, scream, I’ll break your leg. Then I’ll go to your house and use these on your mum. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir. I understand, sir.”

Potter’s smile spread. “Very good.”

He clipped the ankle tie. “Use the bucket if necessary.”

“Can I please go home, sir?”

“When I get back from my errand. I told you, what you said was a trap for a very bad person. Once that’s taken care of, you can go home.”

Potter shut the door, locked it.

He went upstairs to edit the recording, and glanced at the monitor.

The boy did use the bucket to urinate, but fumbled that, too. Some dribbled down his pants, some hit the floor.

The droid would deal with it. Later.

It didn’t surprise him to see the boy hobble to the door, try to pull it open.

“Tried to run, so earned the bullet in the brain I was giving him anyway.”

Still, he considered the disobedience warranted some pain first. And maybe, just maybe, he’d kill the boy’s family after all. At some point.

All those years locked away he’d forgotten just how satisfying taking a life could be. He’d had to be so careful to follow the rules, even when he’d been free again.

The mission came first.

Satisfied with the recording—perfection—he walked up to the bedroom level, and into the room where he kept his wigs, facial enhancements, putty, alternate wardrobe, and all the rest.

Though he doubted he’d need one, he selected his persona.

The red wig with the ridiculous stub of a pigtail. A larger nose, prom inently hooked. Though rarely used—he hated the feel of facial hair—he added a dramatically pointed goatee that matched the wig, and bushy eyebrows.

Meticulously, he gave himself a scatter of freckles, then a few more. A large stud earring, left ear. A bit of padding around the waist. Pressed jeans, a white collared shirt that would show the temporary tattoo he affixed on his left biceps.

He added an army-green canvas satchel, slung it over his shoulder.

And examined himself in the triple-glass, full-length mirror.

“There now, thanks to Chameleon’s tutelage, your own mother wouldn’t recognize you. Not that the selfish bitch ever would if she still lived.”

Which she didn’t.

She’d deserted him and his sad sack of a father. God knew why he’d bothered to track her down after he’d joined the military.

Maybe to kill her.

But she’d already been dead—dead by her own hand.

He shook that away. No matter now.

On the way out, he checked the monitor again. The boy was curled in a corner, crying. His hands, tied together, bled a bit.

Tried to beat down the door. Pathetic.

Potter shut down the droid, then went out through the garage.

He drove south, then east, parked. He walked to the bus terminal he’d earmarked. He’d already checked the schedule, so simply strolled around to the bus leaving for East Washington at eleven.

He bought a ticket—cash, to Boston—then filed out with others heading north. Just another hapless slob taking a bus trip.

Then he peeled off—found the correct bus.

He slipped inside, fixed the ’link to the underside of a seat in the middle of the bus.

Just as he walked back to the front, a uniformed driver stepped up.

Potter thought about the knife in his right boot.

“Hey, man, you want to board early, I need to see your ticket.”

Potter affected an American accent. “Early? But we’re leaving in like, you know, five minutes.”

“Closer to twenty.”

“But—is this the bus to Boston?”

“East Washington, pal.”

“Jeez, wrong bus. Sorry!”

Potter scrambled off, hurried away. Then made a turn, strolled easily back to his car. He could track the bus on the in-dash, make certain it left on time.

He’d set the message to send at twenty-three-fifteen.

By the time they managed to trace the source—and he hadn’t made that easy—the bus would be well on its way.

And the idiot cop would chase it down while he sat in his lovely house, having a brandy.

He hoped she didn’t have an accident on the chase. He really wanted the pleasure of killing her.

Eve felt herself starting to flag, and pushed through the fatigue. She’d gone down the damn rabbit hole again—no choice—only to hit dead ends on the first two names Roarke gave her.

She had to admit, Potter did have a knack for creating very solid IDs and backgrounds. When you picked at the threads, they fell apart.

But it took a lot of picking first.

She sat back, gave herself a minute to let her brain coast.

“You need sleep.”

She didn’t jolt—too tired for it.

“I’ve got another hour in me. Did you get anything else?”

“A bit, after some hard pulling. Still not a direct link to a New York location.”

“Maybe check in on the others?”

“I’ll do that. But we’re calling it at midnight. That gives you about forty-five.”

Since she’d expected him to push for now, she took the forty-five. “You can tell them to call it then, too. We’ve got all this, and the other angles to work tomorrow. We’re closer. A lot closer.”

As she spoke, her ’link signaled. “Relayed from my office. It’s on twenty-four/seven until… It’s him. Display says THE TWELVE . I need you to—”

He’d already pulled out his PPC. “Triangulate. Trace. Ten seconds to set it up. And done.”

With his other hand, he took out his ’link, signaled Summerset. “They should hear this.”

She answered. “Dallas.”

Eve Dallas. The computer-generated voice jumped a bit. Listen carefully. This message is for you. It is for Mole, Panther, Chameleon, Owl, Magpie, Cobra, Fox. All who remain of The Twelve, all of whom are responsible for the imprisonment and death of Shark.

The time has come to pay. The time has come to choose. Will you hide behind the false mask of hero, or show yourselves to be the cowards you are ?

The video unblocked, and she saw the boy.

“Jesus Christ, he’s got a kid. On-screen.”

She heard the others come in, heard the exclamations.

“Quiet!” she ordered.

“Tell them your name.” Not comp-generated now, but the hollow sound of computer-disguised.

“I’m—I’m Devin. Devin McReedy.”

“How old are you, Devin?”

“Nine. I’m nine.”

Eyes on the screen, Eve used the keyboard to run Devin McReedy, age nine, New York. And saw the Amber Alert.

“What’s going to happen to you, Devin?”

“You—you—” Tears tracked down his face. “You’re going to kill me with the gas, so I can’t breathe and I die. I don’t want to! Please. I didn’t do anything bad! I was just—”

“Devin? Remember what we discussed. Say what I tell you, no more. Or I’ll have to hurt you. Again. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir. I understand, sir.”

“Now, what has to happen so I don’t kill you with the gas? So you don’t die?”

“Somebody has to take my place. Um, um. Owl or Mole or Fox or… I can’t remember all the names. I can’t!”

“Or Chameleon or Cobra or Magpie or Panther. Or Eve Dallas. And what will happen when one of them takes your place?”

“I can go home. You promised, I can go home and you won’t hurt my mom or my dad or my brother.”

“How old are you again, Devin?”

“Nine. I’m nine.”

“Just nine years old. So young! So innocent! So defenseless! What do you say, heroes? Is your miserable life worth more than this boy’s? Decide, choose which of you will trade lives. I will contact Eve Dallas again at precisely noon tomorrow. If you attempt to stall, or negotiate, he loses a finger, and the price goes up to two lives for his.”

On-screen, the boy curled up, sobbing.

“At that time you will receive specific instructions. Follow them, precisely, or he loses a hand, and the price goes up to three lives. Fail, and he dies, and I take another. Payment is due.”

The transmission ended.

“On the turnpike, heading south,” Roarke told her.

“No, he’s not. He’s not. That’s a ploy, misdirection. How fast is he traveling, what’s the last mile marker?”

“He’s been at a steady sixty, and sticking to the right-hand lane.”

“A truck, a bus. He’s not on it.”

But she contacted Whitney.

“Commander, urgent situation. I need roadblocks, southbound turnpike.”

She whipped through the details.

“Five minutes,” Whitney said, and clicked off.

“He’ll do it.” Marjorie rubbed a hand on her heart. “He’ll do exactly what he said to that child.”

“Quiet.”

She tagged Peabody.

“Don’t talk, listen. He’s got a kid. Devin McReedy, age nine. Amber Alert’s been out since just after four.” She reeled off an address. “Get there, find out who’s handling it, talk to the family. Details. Get them all. Then get here, you and McNab. Have him contact Feeney. And you contact the rest of the bullpen.

“Everybody here by six hundred hours for a full briefing.”

“I’ve got it. Goddamn bastard!”

“Get the details and relay them.”

She clicked off. “Computer, replay message received from The Twelve.”

“Lieutenant,” Summerset began.

“Quiet. I fucking mean it. The screen’s jittering some. Bouncing some. Not a smooth ride. Computer, get me buses leaving New York, southbound—fuck, what time, what time?”

Unable to compute.

“You shut up, too. Message received, twenty-three-fifteen.”

“At the rate of speed,” Roarke calculated, “allowing for time to get on the turnpike, the mile marker at the first trace… About eleven.”

“Computer, buses leaving New York, southbound, between twenty-two-thirty and twenty-three hundred. Give me departure location, destination.”

Acknowledged. Working…

“If I could speak.”

“Not yet,” she snapped at Summerset. “Freeze screen.”

While the computer began listing buses, Eve moved closer to the screen.

“That’s it, that’s the one. Eleven o’clock bus, nonstop to East Washington. Departing from the East Side terminal. Roarke.”

“I’ll give Whitney the information.”

“Get this screen to enhance. I want to see that back wall closer, better. Can you sharpen it?”

“I can do that.” Cyril stepped forward. “If I may.”

“Do it, just do it. Yeah, more. That’s the ceiling line there. You can just see it. Low ceiling. Maybe seven and a half feet. No window. It’s a basement. Kid’s in a basement room.”

“And terrified. I will speak!” Summerset snapped it out. “I will not sit safe in this house while he torments, tortures, and kills that child. Someone’s child. I will not put my life above his. I will not risk it.”

“So what? You’ll be the trade?” Furious, she rounded on him. “How, with that big stick up your ass, do you find room to shove your head in with it?”

“Well, that’s a good one,” Harry murmured. “I’m stealing it.”

“You can save your insults.”

“I’ve got plenty, but I’m going to say I gave you credit for more brains than this. But you’re broken brick stupid if you think he lets that kid live two minutes after he kills you, or any of you.”

“You can’t be sure—”

“She’s right.” Ivanna put a hand on Summerset’s arm. “He’d never let the boy live. He took a child because it would shake all of us to our core, and you more than anyone. He doesn’t plan to let the child live.”

“No.” Summerset put a hand over hers. “No, of course he doesn’t. But I’m not as easy to kill as he believes. I could—”

“You will not do a damn thing unless I tell you to do a damn thing.”

“You have no authority to—”

“Fuck yeah, I do. I’ll slam you in lockup before you can blink. Material witness. I’ll put every one of you in lockup if I have to. Jesus Christ, did you hear him?” she demanded. “Did you listen? He’s so egotistical he thinks we still believe he’s dead. He doesn’t know how close we are because—egotistical. Narcissist. Goddamn psychopath.

“He’s pissed. He’s so pissed he missed this afternoon that he goes right out and snags a kid. Grabbed him up.”

She began to pace again. “Still raining some when the alert went out, and that had to take a while. Used the rain for cover. Kid walking home from school alone in the rain. I need the report. Details. Nine—probably not far to walk, lives in the neighborhood. Lower East, that’s pattern.”

When Summerset started to speak again, Roarke held up a warning hand, shook his head.

“He should’ve cooled off, taken a day or two, but he couldn’t. Grabs the kid. Kid that age would put up a stink most likely. Maybe lured, but more probably, knocked him out. Quick jab, toss him in the car, and drive home.”

“That doesn’t—”

Now Roarke held up a hand to Iris. “She’s working it.”

“Drive home, straight into the garage. Haul the kid down to the basement because that’s a fucking basement. Zip-tie him. Prep the room? No, no, already prepped. Grabbing the kid today, impulse, but he already had the room, the gas, the idea. Just for one of you. Now the kid’s bait, and he’s switched to this method.”

“We factor in basement,” Roarke said.

“And that’ll narrow it. Maybe a full basement, a lower-level apartment or whatever. Maybe just below-level storage, but basement. Basement, attached garage. No other way.”

“If I may.” Now Marjorie lifted a hand. “It’s possible, isn’t it, the child’s in a garage. A rented garage.”

“No, floor’s wood—probably fake wood, but wood—and how many rented garages have full soundproofing? He can’t risk holding a screaming kid, and why wouldn’t he scream, unless Potter’s sure he couldn’t be heard?”

“I’m going to agree. For what it’s worth,” Harry said. “He needs the ease of entry. He puts a cam in to watch, sure, but something goes wrong, he’s running off to a rental? No, it’s all in one place. His place.”

“Lieutenant.” Ivan cleared his throat. “If he plans to use gas, as with Giovanni, he would want the space fully sealed. He would then require a mask and a way of dissipating the gas—after. It’s a fairly large space from what we could see, so he’d need more than one canister to be… to be sure.”

“All right. What does that tell you?”

“The house is large enough for his purposes. This basement area, a secure area for his weapons, another area for his, ah, costumes? He learned from me, so may have a small lab to make drugs, such as may have been used on the boy. A living space, of course, and I believe he would keep that main area clear of any of this. On the risk someone might come to the door, or he has a delivery, that sort of thing. I would also try a two- to three-story home, with basement.”

“Okay. Do that. All of you do that. If you need sleep, take it. Two-hour shifts.”

Then she turned to Summerset. “By noon tomorrow, I’ll have him in a box. He made mistakes. The boy’s just the latest one. He has to keep the kid alive for the follow-up at noon. Show him off again, scared and crying. Instead, the kid’ll be home with his family.”

“You can’t be wrong. How would we live with it? How would any of us live with it?”

“I’m not wrong. Go find me a basement.”

Roarke waited until they’d left the room.

“Well done. You gave them exactly what they needed. The straightforward, the matter-of-fact. Confidence.”

“I’m not wrong,” she said again. “Because I can’t be.”

He went to her, laid his hands on her shoulders, met her eyes. “You’re not wrong. But you were before.”

“When? About what?”

“When you said he was a step ahead of you. He’s not. He still thinks he’s anonymous, an unsub, and his pains to conceal his identity are wasted, time-consuming. So he’s fallen behind, and has no idea what’s coming.”

Rubbing her shoulders, he pressed his lips to her forehead. “You won’t do two-hour shifts. You need sleep, but you won’t take it.”

“I’ll take a booster if I need it. But right now? Sending that message? He’s given me a strong second wind. And it’s going to blow him back to hell.”

Her communicator signaled.

“Commander.”

“We have the bus, and the ’link he used, as well as a description from the driver. Male, Caucasian, sixties, red hair and beard. The detectives in charge of the McReedy investigation have a description of a Caucasian male, gray hair, clean-shaven, black raincoat standing in the alleyway where the boy’s mother found his violin case. Between a building, currently vacant, and a black car. ‘Car’ is the best the wit could do.”

“They’re both Potter. I have Peabody and McNab with the parents now. They’ll bring any further information here, sir. I have the remaining Twelve in Roarke’s comp lab. They’ve given me several possibilities on Potter’s location and his vehicle. I’m bringing in the rest of my detectives here, at oh-six hundred. Sooner if we hit.”

“I’ll be there at oh-six hundred. Contact me if sooner. Narrow down those possibilities, Dallas.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I’ll work here,” Roarke told her. “I’ll take the auxiliary.”

“Stick with the financials. That’s another angle. Money, house, vehicle.” She shoved at her hair. “He won’t have the car and the house under the same ID, that’s too simple for him. But there’s got to be some overlap with the accounts. He needs a driver’s license, vehicle registration, background that’ll pass if he gets in a fender bender, deals with any traffic stop. He doesn’t want to bother, have to remember grabbing that license every time he uses the car.”

“And the IDs he’s created are too good for one-offs.”

“Right.” Funds flush, she remembered, but not unlimited. “I’m going to push on the car. If they don’t narrow the potentials on the house in an hour, ninety minutes, we shift and focus there.”

Something would give, she thought. Something would break.

They worked in near silence. She heard Roarke mutter or curse now and then, and his mutters and curses leaned harder into the Irish.

She tried not to think of Devin McReedy, of the fear in his weeping eyes, the terror in his voice.

Why were there so many luxury vehicles in New York? The wit said black, but she couldn’t discount dark blue or gray.

Devin’s voice played back in her head.

“He edited the recording.”

“Hmm. He did, of course.”

“Because it had to be perfect. It wasn’t quite seamless, but close. He took that time. Status, top-of-the-line. If it’s French food and design at the top for him, and the Italians after, who makes the best vehicles?”

Deciding he could use a short break, since she’d distracted him anyway, Roarke got more coffee. “I like to think I do.”

“You weren’t making them pre-Urbans. And he’s not putting money in your pocket. You’re Summerset’s. What nationality? Think like him.”

“Ah, I see. For status and longevity and so on. Add he’s from Europe. Germany.”

“Okay. I’m pushing German makes up.”

Her ’link signaled. “Peabody.”

“We’re leaving the McReedys’ now. I’ve got the report from the detectives who caught the case, and Devin’s parents couldn’t tell us much more. They’re holding on by a thread, and the thread’s really thin.”

“Go by Central, pick up helmets. He might try for a head shot this time. And a battering ram.”

“Bollocks to that,” Roarke said.

“Battering ram’s a backup.”

“How close are we to finding him?”

“Getting closer. Take a booster if you need it. It’s going to be a long night.”

She clicked off, rolled her stiff shoulders.

“You could take an hour on the sleep chair.”

“I’m good. I’m still good.”

“You get so pale.”

“I’m good,” she repeated.

Time to take a hard look at the far-too-many German luxury cars registered in New York.

She lost track of time as she searched, whittled, added, or deleted.

Roarke’s ’link signaled.

“Peabody and McNab at the gate. I’ve let them through. Summerset will let them in.”

“Good. I need to move.”

She rose, rolled her shoulders, circled her neck. After adding her current list of cars to the board, she paced.

“Are you getting anywhere?”

“I might be.”

“Passed ninety minutes. I lost track.”

“Give them a bit longer. You’ve McNab to add in now.”

“Yeah. An hour more.”

She checked the time. Ten hours, eight minutes until noon.

“Twelve. It’s noon because it’s twelve. He should’ve given us less time, but he had to hit that mark.”

“That slipped by me, and of course, you’re right.” He crossed to her, held out a cookie. “A bit of fuel.”

“What kind of cookie is that?”

“Oatmeal.”

“Oatmeal in cookies should be illegal.” She stuffed it in anyway. “Next thing, it’ll be spinach.”

“Actually—”

“Don’t tell me. I don’t want to know.”

She turned as she heard the clomp and prance.

They came in carrying boxes. Peabody in black didn’t particularly surprise her. But she wouldn’t have believed McNab owned any black. The shirt had a lot of black-on-black swirls and symbols, and the airboots sported dark red and black stripes.

But the baggies looked almost normal until you considered the shocked-face emoji on the belt buckle.

“Helmets,” Peabody said. “Battering ram.”

“Put those anywhere. McNab, computer lab. Summerset and the rest of them will bring you up to speed.”

“I’m there.” McNab’s pretty face hardened like stone. “Somebody uses a kid like this? He’s going down, he’s going down hard. Booster or high-octane coffee, She-Body. Not both.”

“It was just that one time. Where do you want me?” she asked Eve.

“I’ve got a list of lower probability vehicles, a culled list of seasonal theater tickets, and a list of Potter’s known—so far—aliases. You can use your PPC, cross-check. A wit says the car’s black, but—”

“Yeah, can’t be sure. I’m going for the coffee instead of the boost.”

After she programmed her coffee, Peabody sat at the table.

And all three got back to work.