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“Just another hour. Maybe two,” Eve said as they walked back to her office. “The killer could be the son of one of the people Rossi helped hunt. Or hired by one of them who didn’t get a death sentence. I’m damn sure he’s a pro.”

“And may be so good at it that his face doesn’t find a match. But so good at it, he leaves your card? Drawing you into this?”

“It’s stupid,” she agreed. “Stupid and risky, but he wants the challenge, the hunt. I can’t say why—maybe Mira will figure it. And yeah, I need to find out. I may not be able to put a name to him—yet—but I have to know who he is.”

“Not only for Rossi.” Roarke understood. “But because he intends to kill again.”

“Seven times more. So—”

She broke off as they turned into the office.

Summerset stood, back to them, facing the board.

“Finally. Listen, I just need you to give me some basic—”

She broke off again when he turned around. When she saw his face.

He had, to her eye, a cadaver’s face at the best of times. But now? With all the color leached out of his face, with his dark eyes full of grief, he looked like a victim.

Roarke moved quickly.

“You’ll sit. Sit over here now. I’ll get you some brandy.”

“Yes, a brandy if you will.”

As Roarke led Summerset to the sofa, Eve followed.

“You knew him. You knew Giovanni Rossi.”

“Eve, a moment.” Roarke snapped it. “He’s dead pale. He’s in shock.”

“Shocked, not in shock,” Summerset qualified. “Yes, I knew him. A friend.”

The cat leaped on the couch, moved into Summerset’s lap. He stroked Galahad, gently, his grieving eyes on Eve’s.

“I knew him when… we were young. Why was he in New York? I don’t understand.”

He took the brandy Roarke gave him, and his hand shook slightly as he lifted the glass.

A victim, Eve reminded herself. You handled a victim differently than a source.

“He didn’t contact you?”

“No. No. I haven’t heard from him in… nearly twenty years? I’m not sure now. Retired. I know he retired.”

“From?”

His hand steadied as he sipped again. Something more than grief came into his eyes. “His work.”

“Don’t bullshit me on this. I’ve uncovered enough to know he worked covert ops, probably for AISE, out of a cybersecurity company front. I know he worked for the Underground during the Urbans. And the gas that killed him came from that era.”

“Phosphine, so I saw. It was banned from use as a weapon even then. And still there were some.”

“You worked with him?”

“I was a medic.”

Before Eve could slap back at that, Roarke murmured to her, “Easy. Summerset, you can’t protect him now. Eve needs to know, whatever you can tell her. His family needs to know who did this to him.”

“His family.” Now it was fear that shot out of him. “He has a wife, children, grandchildren. They have to be protected.”

“This isn’t about his family. It’s about his team. And Jesus Christ, were you part of that team?”

“I was a medic.” Then he shut his eyes. “Old habits die hard. I was a medic,” he repeated, “and worked with Gio, and others, for the Underground. In the last few years of the wars, we made a team of twelve. The Twelve, each with our skills, our purpose. We made a unit, forged a bond of the sort nothing, I think, but war can forge.”

“What did he do? Rossi?”

“His work was cyber and communications. In the last few years we had a base, deep below a church. Fully equipped and operational.”

“Why Wasp? Code name?”

“We only referred to each other by code names. This was our protocol. He was Wasp, as he could find his way through any crack, and sting before you knew he was there.”

“You have all the names. Who was Rabbit?”

“Sylvester Farr—colonel, retired. He was the only professional soldier in The Twelve. The de facto leader. He was about the age I am now, so older than the rest of us. He died peacefully. Fifteen years ago. Nearly sixteen now.”

“Hawk.”

“Leroy Dubois. A mechanic also skilled with explosives. He died in ’26.”

“Fawn.”

“Alice.” His hand reached up, drew the chain from under his shirt, and the wedding ring it held. “Alice Dormer. She was my wife.”

Eve knew love, and understood, as Rossi’s widow had said, it could and did outlast death.

“I’m very sorry. I’m sorry I have to dredge it all up, but I do. Your wife was with the Underground?”

“Fawn, we called her. She looked so gentle, and was, had been. Gentle, harmless. And she was fierce. She was a teacher, and we met when I came to her school, after the terrorists had bombed it. She was hurt, bleeding, but the weeping was done for her. She wouldn’t stop, wouldn’t stop digging, and pulled those young, broken bodies from the rubble.”

Because he needed it, Eve gave him silence, and waited for him to say more.

“We saved some. And some we saved because she wouldn’t stop. Her hands, raw and bleeding, but she wouldn’t stop. I fell in love with her while we worked on those innocents, in the blood and the stench and the cruelty, we fell in love.”

“What happened to her?”

He stared down at his brandy, then lifted his gaze, steady and even now, to Eve. “She died on May 18, 2026, with Hawk—with Leroy Dubois. Heroes, they died heroes. And they died victims of treachery, betrayed by one of us.”

“Who?”

“We called him Shark, and he proved well named. Conrad Potter. He was a cop, one who’d been in the military, in intelligence. He was a traitor who betrayed his comrades for money.”

“Was?”

“He died. Not then, and not by my hand. Wasp found him first, and broke some fingers fighting him. Was stabbed, had ribs cracked, but like Alice, he wouldn’t stop. Gio wasn’t a fighter, not a hand-to-hand man, but he found him first.”

Slowly, Summerset sipped more brandy.

“He might have killed Potter. Possibly, though he wasn’t a killer. But I stopped him. I thought, this is for me to do. It’s for me to kill the man who killed my Alice, killed the mother of our baby. Who killed my friend.”

“What stopped you?” Roarke asked.

“Alice. In my mind, her voice in my head. So clear, as if she stood with me. ‘Let him live, let him live a long life without his freedom. Let him live with the shame, with blood on his hands. Death’s too quick. Let him pay, moya lyubovna , every hour of every day of every year.’

“She was gentle and fierce, a teacher who became a warrior. So for her, I let him live. They tried him in The Hague, and there were more war crimes uncovered. He had so many deaths on his hands. He died in prison, but after decades.”

“When? When and where did he die?”

“On the third of November, 2056, in the prison they call Five Hells, in Manchester.”

She’d confirm that, but moved on. “I need to know about the other six. You and six more are still alive.”

“Ivanna you know. She was Panther, for her grace, her cunning. We were young together, and had… we were lovers. So very young. The dance took her away, and the war made her another soldier. Clandestine. Ivan, you met.”

“Jesus, the let’s-screw-with-time guy?”

“He was a young scientist then. Not a soldier, or only when needs must. He had no taste for that. A scientist, an inventor. Brilliant. He was Owl.

“Cyril Snowden, Cobra. Like Giovanni, a cyber. He lost most of his family to the war, in the early days of it.

“Boy.” Summerset looked at Roarke. “I trust you’ll know this name. Marjorie Wright.”

“The actress?”

“A long, successful career. Such talent. And she used it, that talent for becoming, for acting, to fight. She was Chameleon, as she changed into whatever was needed. You may know the name Iris Arden.”

“I do,” Roarke agreed, a little astonished. “Arden Teas. It’s more than tea, but that’s what built the fortune. But she’d have been very young.”

“Barely twenty. Young, yes, and beautiful. She used youth and beauty, and the doors they and her wealth opened, to gather intelligence. She was Mole. And Harry, Harry Mitchell, who was Magpie. A thief, a very good one. Not as good as some,” he added with a smile for Roarke. “A small man, agile and quick. He not only scavenged for whatever was needed and couldn’t be provided but slipped and slid into places with good eyes, good ears.”

“And you?” Eve asked.

“Fox. Sly, I suppose, and I like to think clever.”

“You took an oath—eleven of the twelve? After?”

“How do you know?”

“It’s my job to know. Rossi would only tell his wife he had to go to New York, a friend needed him. He’d taken an oath and had to go. And he came here, he came right away. He honored the oath.”

“We swore. First, before the mission, an oath, and Potter with us. And again after we lost Alice and Dubois, with their blood still fresh before we set out to find Potter, that same oath. If any one of us needed help, we’d come. No matter where, no questions. Nothing would stop us. We would never speak of it, as I am now, breaking that oath.”

“You’re not breaking an oath. You’re helping me find out who killed your friend. A war hero. A husband, father, grandfather. And, clearly, a spy. Retired.”

“We would come—that was our bond, to the lost, to ourselves, to each other.”

“So you know where they all are, and they know where you are. How to contact each other.”

“Yes, but we don’t. I saw them all at the funeral for Rabbit. It’s the last we all gathered together, the last we all spoke together of those times.”

“Are any in New York besides you and Ivanna?”

“No. I know she speaks, not of those times, but sometimes speaks to Mole—Iris—and to Marjorie. But the talk is of grandchildren and personal things.”

“I need their contacts. They need to be contacted now.”

“I’ll contact them. They know me,” Summerset insisted. “Yes, they know of you because they would have kept track of me as I have of them. But they don’t know you. If I tell them what happened to Gio, and that who killed him wants their lives, they’ll believe me.”

“First, take a good look at the board, at the face of the driver.”

“I have. I don’t know that face. He’s not one of us. He would’ve been young when we were The Twelve, but I’d know that face if he were part of us.”

“All right. Make the contacts. I can arrange for protection.”

Summerset let out a bark of laughter. “Forewarned, they are protection. Wasp had no warning. He had to believe either Ivanna or I called for him. Your board tells me the driver met him and drove a limo. It makes me think he believed I sent for him. Roarke would provide a limo for my friend. So the killer used me to kill.

“I’ll contact the others. They’ll come.”

“It’s not necessary for all of them to—”

“They’ll come,” Summerset said flatly. “We took an oath.”

“They’ll stay here.” Roarke flicked a glance at Eve, watched her struggle with it, then shrug. “This house is secure, as you know. They’ll be safe, which is Eve’s concern, and yours. And they’ll be accessible—to the lieutenant. We have more than room enough.”

“I’m grateful—”

“Don’t.” With some heat, Roarke cut Summerset off. “Don’t say ‘grateful’ to me. I wouldn’t be here without you. Use my office, with the secure line engaged. Talk to your friends, and we’ll arrange for their travel.”

“That’s best.” Eve nodded at that. “Keep the travel off the radar. The killer might expect it, but he won’t know when. They should cover the departure and arrival, and—”

“Lieutenant, we spent years in espionage. They know what to do. Old isn’t feebleminded.”

“Rossi wasn’t feebleminded, and he’s dead.”

“He had no warning,” Summerset insisted. “And no reason to doubt. He would have been worried for me, or Ivanna.” Carefully, Summerset got to his feet. “I’ll contact them, all of them, and make the travel arrangements. See rooms are ready.

“It helps to have duties, a purpose,” he said before Roarke could object. “I was shaken, but I have my balance now. I know you, Lieutenant, will hunt the killer of my friend. And you’ll find him. I’m grateful.”

“Don’t say ‘grateful’ to me when it’s my job.”

“It’s not a job, but a calling. I know callings.”

He walked away, into Roarke’s adjoining office, shut the door. The red light, securing it, blinked on.

“I’m going to need to talk to him again, about all of this. Pull out details.”

“Not tonight.”

“No, not tonight.”

“I want them here, Eve. I want him to have the comfort of that. I know it’s an imposition.”

“No, no, you’re right. Safe, accessible. He’s got plans, Roarke.”

She rose, walked to the board. “He has a plan in place for every one of them. How do you kill a fox?”

“They hunted them, riding on horses, with dogs giving chase, catching the scent. Barbaric kind of sport.”

“A chase. Maybe.”

“Or a trap. Trapping them. You think the method is connected to the code name.”

“Possibly. I need to get the other seven on my board.”

“I’ll help you with that.” He got up, went to her, took her hands. “Then you’ll call it for tonight. We’ll have a houseful tomorrow. And you’ll have these very capable hands full with interviews, I suspect.”

“Right. I can’t keep this contained, just the three of us and the ones coming in. I have to report this to Whitney, I have to give Peabody the details. And I’m going to need to talk to Mira.”

“He’ll understand, and if he doesn’t, he’ll have to accept it.”

“You didn’t know.”

“I knew he’d probably done some covert work during the Urbans, but it wasn’t something he chose to talk about. I knew he’d lost his wife during the wars, but not precisely how. I knew she’d been a teacher, but not that she’d worked with the Underground.”

“He’s going to need to tell me more.”

She scrubbed her hands over her face, then shoved them back through her hair. “This is hard on you. Seeing him take this kind of hit’s hard on you. It’s going to get harder. I’m going to make it harder. So… apologies in advance, I guess.”

“He’s on that kill list.”

“Yeah. Gotta be.”

He stroked a hand down her cheek. “You’ll make it harder, because you’ll do everything you can to keep him from being checked off that list. Him, and the others he worked with, fought with. I’ll likely have some reactions to your methods.”

She actually smiled a little. “You think?”

“Apologies in advance.”

“Let’s get this done, get some sleep. Tomorrow’s going to be a hell of a day.”

That night, no one slept well in the house Roarke built.

Once again, she woke before dawn, and woke alone. But for the cat who curled at her back.

“Time display,” she ordered, and stared at the numbers on the ceiling: 5:12.

She could try for another hour, but it wouldn’t happen, so why bother? Far from rested, she called for lights—fifty percent would do until coffee.

With coffee, she stood at one of the bedroom windows waiting for the jolt to wake up her body. Her mind was already up and running.

Who killed Giovanni Rossi? Who intended to kill six others? Had Conrad Potter had a protégé? A relative, a lover? One who waited decades to strike?

It made no sense. Rossi, and the others, had lived their lives, built careers for those decades while Potter sat in a cage. They’d made families and homes while they’d slipped into middle age, and some to beyond that.

And put, as much as anyone could, the blood and battle in the past.

And was that the point? To wait until it was all distant, almost like another life? When this life was precious?

When guards were down?

Rossi’s certainly had been.

Was it that best-served-cold business? she wondered.

She downed the coffee, then went in to shower.

Let it simmer, let it cook, let it brew.

The driver/killer. Middle to late fifties. No match on face rec. A pro. Another agent?

There, the smirk bothered her. Why hold up the card, why draw attention? The arrogance of it didn’t read pro or covert agent.

A dozen questions, what seemed like inconsistencies ran through her mind as she stepped out of the shower, into the drying tube.

The through-line came clear, she thought as she grabbed the robe—short, silky, and scarlet.

A team of twelve, and one turned traitor. His actions caused the deaths of two of the twelve. And you could call it murder. Now nearly four decades later, another murder, another of the team of twelve.

Her card stuck between the fingers Rossi broke fighting the traitor. Through line clear there, too. Summerset’s wife to Summerset to her.

She went out and into her closet. Thinking hell of a day, she grabbed black trousers. She started to reach for a black shirt, sighed, then pulled out a tank in what she thought of as a faded sky blue. It justified, to her mind, the black jacket.

After dragging on the trousers, the tank, she studied her half a million boots.

“You might go with navy.”

Her hand slapped for the weapon that wasn’t yet there. Then her heart settled back in place as she turned to where Roarke leaned against the doorjamb.

“Jesus, Roarke.”

“Navy would play off the black and work well with your shirt.”

“Fine. I only have six dozen navy boots.”

He stepped in, crossed over, took a pair. Eve turned them over, studied the pristine soles.

“Make that six dozen and one.”

He chose a navy belt, offered it.

His suit wasn’t navy, wasn’t black, but some rich color between. And made his eyes fire.

“You’re up early,” he said as she slipped the belt into the trousers’ loops.

“Not as early as you.”

“You didn’t sleep well.”

“Did anyone?”

“Not likely. Summerset has the travel information.”

“I need that.”

“He copied you, so you’ll have it. They’ll all be here by late afternoon.”

“All of them, just like that?”

“Yes.”

She put on the boots. She didn’t think they fit like a glove—feet weren’t hands, for God’s sake. They fit like boots. Excellent boots.

She carried out the jacket, set it aside, then strapped on her weapon harness.

“I want to talk to Summerset before I go in this morning. I need more details on the incident that killed his wife and Dubois. I read about the explosion—the Dominion HQ, a lot of munitions, equipment, supplies, personnel inside. According to history, the hit was considered a major Underground success, and a turning point, again major, in ending the conflict in Europe.”

“But that doesn’t tell the story.”

“No. Where was he? Where was Potter, and the rest of the team?”

She should’ve pushed him there last night, she thought. But she’d pulled back. He’d looked ill, so she’d pulled back. And couldn’t do that again.

“He’s up. I doubt he slept. We could breakfast now, the three of us, in your office.”

He waited a beat, then one more.

“Is there any problem with me being there when you talk to him?”

“No. Over a meal just seems…” Unofficial. The cop wife, the father figure victim, and Roarke between. “You’re probably right. It’ll save time. And you weren’t thinking of time as much as making him comfortable.”

She put on her jacket, met his eyes. “I’m going to make him uncomfortable, Roarke.”

“You are, yes. And that can’t be helped, can it?”

“It can’t. I don’t want him leaving the house today. He won’t like that.”

“Oh well, he won’t, not a bit. There will be things he’ll want to see to, to prepare for his friends. I’ll see they’re done and he stays home.

“I can help with this.” Eyes on hers, Roarke put a hand on her arm. “I intend to help with this. You need to let me.”

“Like I could stop you if I wanted to. And I don’t. Ask him to come up.”

When they started out, the cat—obviously expecting the usual routine—looked puzzled. Then followed them out.

“I’ll see to breakfast.”

Eve just nodded. Food wasn’t high on her list.

“Keep the coffee coming,” she said, and walked to her board.

All those faces now. The actress, the heiress, the thief. And the scientist, the e-man, the dancer.

Then the dead.

Teacher, mechanic, soldier, e-man.

Traitor.

Because it pulled at her, she studied Alice Dormer’s ID shot. A pretty blonde with delicate features. Quiet blue eyes, a generous mouth.

She looked, Eve thought, more like a woman who’d bake cookies on Saturday morning rather than one who’d fought and died in war.

Where would Roarke be, she wondered, if Alice had lived? Would Summerset have taken his daughter to Dublin to raise? Would he have been there to save a brutalized, beaten boy, given him a home, a life, a chance?

No way to know.

She turned away when Roarke brought out domed plates.

It did no good for him to know she wondered. It did no good to wonder. It had nothing to do with the investigation.

When he went back for a pot of coffee, she put another chair at the table, then opened the balcony doors.

They could all use the air.

As Roarke brought out the coffee, Summerset walked in.

If he looked more cadaverous than usual, she didn’t mention it. Sometimes a shot was just too easy.

“I’m going to record this.”

He held up a hand. “There are things you’ll ask, about me, background, and so on, I won’t speak of on record. I have many reasons,” he added, and looked at Roarke.

And Roarke between, she thought again.

“We’ll start with that, no record. But then we go on, assuming you want what I want. To identify, capture, and charge the person responsible for Giovanni Rossi’s death. To prevent that individual from taking more lives.”

“I want what you want.”

“Then sit,” Roarke ordered. “The pair of you.”

He removed the domes himself, then poured the coffee.