I took Adriana back to classes, the two of us leaving early enough that we got to her first class twenty minutes early. I went inside and did a security check of the room while she sat quietly in her spot next to the emergency exit. The professor, a bespectacled woman who looked like she probably worshiped Annie Leibowitz, looked on with mixed emotions. She wanted to support Adriana as a female and a victim of violence, but at the same time, she didn't like that I was there. “Young man,” she said as I checked under her podium for any listening devices, “I don't think that—”

“That's exactly your and everyone else's problem at this school,” I said quietly, low enough that Adriana couldn't hear me. “You don't think. You're more worried about your political leanings, your bureaucracy, and covering your asses, and you've forgotten that there is a very scared, very threatened young woman involved in all of this. But I haven't. I've pledged to keep her safe, and lady, if I were you, I wouldn’t get in my way.”

She blanched, then nodded. “Just be quick about it, okay?”

“I'll be done by the time your class starts,” I replied, continuing my search. When I sat down next to Adriana, she looked at me questioningly. “Just a disagreement about Picasso's Blue Period.”

“Uh-huh. And that's why she's staring at you in abject fear right now?” she asked, amused.

I shrugged. “I have that kind of an effect on people sometimes.”

The class started, and it was one of Adriana's more boring classes really, a lecture class that only went to labs and actual production during the last few sessions of the semester. Until then, the teacher wanted the students to supposedly focus, to draw inspiration from the life around them.

In my opinion, it was all bullshit. You want inspiration? Look around you. The world is a beautiful and fucked up place. Inspiration existed in almost every moment of every day. You didn't need to focus to find an inspiration.

As an example, I did my first hit for Don Bertoli when I was nineteen, soon after I'd completed high school. The guy I was to take out was a piece of shit meth dealer who'd not only stiffed Don Bertoli on his payments, but had also been caught more than once dealing bad shit, which could cause the police to poke around more than normal. Nobody wants that, and so I was sent in.

I found the dealer in the parking lot of a Pizza Hut that he used for a lot of his business. I was wearing all black and a face mask, but still in my suit. I was supposed to make sure a message was sent.

I'd been training for years already, a decade spent preparing myself, knowing that the day would come that Don Bertoli would ask me to start repaying the generosity he'd heaped upon me for taking care of me all those years. Walking across the parking lot, the throwaway S&W 9mm I was going to use felt heavy in my hand, when suddenly, things started to go wrong.

The target, supposedly a tweaker who never carried anything on him, spun at the sound of my approaching footsteps. Seeing the suit, he knew exactly who I worked for, and instead of running like I'd suspected he'd do, he reached for a pistol in the waistband of his pants. I barely got my gun up in time before he squeezed off a round, which ricocheted off the pavement, nicking my right leg as it whined by. I pulled the trigger, and his chest nearly exploded, blood bursting from his back in a massive spray that painted the side of the Pizza Hut in a crimson Rorschach diagram.

The next day, after getting my leg bandaged up, was the most beautiful day I’d ever had. Each bite of my breakfast was the greatest meal I'd ever feasted upon, and each breath was sweet and perfect in my lungs. You want inspiration? I had inspiration, forty-five caliber inspiration that came in semi-automatic.

When the lecture was over, Adriana had an hour to wait before her next class, a painting lab that almost always left her covered in enough paint that I thought she looked like she was trying out for a clown spot in the local circus. We hung out in the university library, where we could at least grab a quiet corner and I could keep an eye on the comings and goings. Adriana picked out a romance novel, of all things, and sat down reading. “Really?” I asked, seeing the illustration on the cover. “I figured you for a better quality of literature than that.”

“Don't knock it until you try it,” Adriana said. “Besides, at least it lets me live vicariously.”

I didn't know if her comment was aimed at me or just a general complaint about the situation she was in, so I didn't reply. Instead, I looked at my phone, wishing Adam would call. He was normally much more involved in keeping me updated, but other than the once-daily messages that boiled down to 'no news yet,' I'd gotten nothing.

“Hey, Dan?” Adriana asked, shaking me from my thoughts and focusing my attention back on her. “Sorry.”

“Don't worry about it,” I said. “Is there something you need?”

“I know you're screening my emails, so can you pull up my system and see if I got any new ones? I'm expecting a message from my marketing professor on an assignment he gave while I was at home.”

Nodding, I took the laptop, a brand new one that was scrubbed of any viruses that Vincent Drake's last message could have downloaded. The new one ran every email in a virtual box setup that was supposedly foolproof, although I bet that Adam could get past it if we had enough time.

I pulled up the email client, which downloaded three messages. “Let's see—one from a Dr. Roberts, that's the one you want, I assume, a message from the university saying that if you want tickets to the next home football game you need to turn in your request for student section tickets by Friday, and . . . shit.”

“What?”

“Peter Gabriel,” I said. “Do I even need to tell you who that is?”

Adriana shook her head. She knew the members and former members of Genesis even better than I did by now, and turned pointedly away from me, picking up her book from her lap and pretending to read. I stuck a headphone into the sound jack and opened the mail in the virtual box, hoping the system would hold. I didn't want to have to tell Carlo that we had to buy another new computer.

The music was unfamiliar, and I'd spent the time over the past week listening to most of Genesis's famous songs. This one was different. The sound was more classic rock than what I'd expected, and the lead singer certainly wasn't Phil Collins. I assumed it was Peter Gabriel—I wasn't sure. The song was hacked and cut, the lyrics blended from different parts of the same song with a clumsy homemade transition, probably put together quickly on a laptop.

It took me a second with how the lyrics were jumbled, but then it came to me. It was of course a song from Genesis — called “Am I Very Wrong.” The images were like before, shots of the lyrics crawling by karaoke style with stills of Drake's crimes in between, but this time, interspersed with the blood-soaked shots of Angela's murder, were photos of Adriana herself, taken within the past two weeks around campus. I knew that for sure, because I saw myself in three of them and knew exactly when they'd been taken.

The last slide of the show wasn't a picture, but a single normal PowerPoint-type slide that read,

The son of a bitch had been on campus. He must’ve been good to be coming around campus and have no one notice him. Closing the virtual box, I shut the computer down and took a deep breath. My job just became a lot harder, and I wasn't sure what I could do about it, not until Adam or one of the Don's men got me some information to work with. Until then, the only thing I could do would be to stay by Adriana's side and make sure that if Drake did go all the way over the edge and into direct attack, he'd never get within twenty feet of her.

“Wait right here. I'm going to the edge of the room to make a phone call,” I told Adriana, who nodded without a word. I walked the ten feet away to give me enough privacy so that she couldn't overhear, and dialed Don Bertoli.

“Hello, Daniel,” he said, his voice mellow and cultured like he'd been expecting my call. I could hear a bit of the background noise and knew he was at the office, dealing with the legal side of his empire. “Is there anything I can do for you?”

“Yes, sir. Adriana received another email from Vincent Drake. If you have your men access the email, it's in a message supposedly from Peter Gabriel.”

“Peter Gabriel?” Don Bertoli said, sounding surprised. In the past two weeks, we'd all become at least passably acquainted with the discography of the group, although the Don himself and Margaret had admitted that at one point, they’d liked them when they were younger. I doubted either of them would be buying tickets to a reunion tour any time soon, not that it was the actual group’s fault. “Anything of particular interest to report?”

“Yes, sir,” I said, lowering my voice. “Sir, I suspect that Drake has been on campus. There were pictures of Adriana and myself on campus going to classes, taken within the past two weeks. While they’re telephoto, they are also clear enough that he was most likely within a couple of hundred yards.”

The silence on the other end told me everything I needed to know. “Okay, Daniel. When you bring Adriana home tonight, make sure your car is clean, and I’ll have someone standing by to install some new security measures on it overnight. Anything else?”

“No, sir. I need to get Adriana to her next class now.”

“We’ll talk when you get home. Goodbye.”

I hung up my phone and walked back over to Adriana, who was still staring at her book but hadn't turned a page yet. Kneeling down, I looked her in the eyes. “Are you okay?”

She blinked, her eyes wide and frightened, and shook her head softly. “I just want this to end.” She took a deep, shuddering breath. “Let's go now. I don’t want to go to my next class.”

* * *

After dinner, which I ate by myself in the kitchen while Adriana ate with her family, I went out to meet with Adam, this time at the Starlight Club. The manager, cued in to my coming, met me at the door. “Sir, it is good to see you.”

“Bullshit,” I said with a small chuckle and an apologetic shrug. “You're just worried that I'm going to do something stupid again.”

I took off my coat and unbuttoned my shirt, showing him I wasn't carrying a pistol. I'd left it locked inside the borrowed Lexus that I was driving while Don Bertoli's expert worked on my car. They'd already gone over it in the few hours we'd been home and assured me that nobody had left anything inside, but after they were done, anyone even touching my car would end up recorded, and I'd get a message about it.

The manager of the Starlight Club looked me over, then nodded. “I'll be honest, you had us scared last time.”

“Yeah, me too,” I said, thinking back to the lack of control I'd shown. That might work for your average street gangster, but not for one of Don Bertoli's men. “Is Carmen okay?”

“She took a few days off, but she's back to work,” the man said. “In fact, she's working tonight. Would you like to say hello? No private rooms though.”

“Not right now,” I replied, taking out a small pack of hundred-dollar bills. “Actually, I have a friend coming. He's doing some work for me, and I'd like to reward him with a little private dance from Carmen. She's just his type. After I leave, of course. Think she could schedule him in?”

He looked at the bills, greed flaring in his eyes. In the world of the Starlight Club, sex and money ruled everything. “I think that could be arranged. Your friend knows how to follow the rules?”

“He's much better behaved than I am. Let me grab a table, and I'll call you over when he arrives.”

He nodded, and I found a table in the quietest corner of the club. The bouncer, a big moose of a guy named Shawn, who I knew was more look and aura than actual ability, kept his eye on me, but I just gave him a nod of understanding. I was there to stay under control and get some business done.

Adam showed up, amazingly, right on time, his face flushed as he walked in the door. On stage, a rather flexible, surgically enhanced blonde by the name of Tammy Twister was showing the crowd exactly how she'd earned her stage name.

“God damn, you think I'm going to be able to focus with that going on in the background?” Adam said as he sat down. His eyes were so fixed on Tammy that he nearly missed the chair before finding his seat.

“If you can focus, there's a certain young lady I'd like to introduce you to later,” I said by way of enticement. “I must say, though, that I've been a little disturbed by your lack of progress.”

He pulled his eyes away from the stage as Tammy's music ended and she collected her few articles of clothing and left the stage with a little wave of her fingers to the crowd. Reflecting on what I'd just said, he shrugged. “What can I say, man? You're right. This Drake character has got some skills that go beyond the normal level of scum that you and I have dealt with.”

“No shit,” I said, reaching into my coat and pulling out another thumb drive. “He sent this today, complete with photos taken within the past two weeks—close enough to easily be within rifle shot. Those shots are at ground level too. It's not like he was on top of a building or in a hotel across the street or anything.”

Adam nodded and put the thumb drive into his shirt pocket. He pulled out another drive, the same one I'd given him before, and handed it to me. “That jives with what little I've been able to find out. I copied what I could find, but most of it is just background.”

“Give me the run down, so I can tell Carlo when I get back. I can look over the details later.”

Adam gestured to the waitress, ordering a Jack and Coke. I asked for just mineral water. I didn't want any issues with alcohol right then. The waitress walked off, her ass swaying side to side, Adam getting himself an eye full before turning back to me. “This guy is scary, Daniel. I can't get the exact operational details, but I was able to find some people who were willing to talk generalities with me. After enlisting, he specialized in what some people would call enhanced interrogation techniques, teaching some of those skills to groups who later on were accused of human rights violations and were taken before international courts.”

“Shit,” I commented, nodding to the waitress when she gave us our drinks. I took a sip of my mineral water, wishing for a moment I'd asked for a whiskey instead—I could've used it. “So how'd this fucker get a job teaching sculpting at a major art college?”

“Apparently, Drake took a little vacation from reality right after the first Gulf War,” Adam said. “The military, of course, kept it hush-hush. It isn't good for a Spec Ops guy who was just teaching at the School of the Americas only six months prior to go off his nut. From the one source that was able to talk to me, the hospital they sent him to used a lot of—get this—artistic therapy. Knowing they'd never let him back into service, the military rehabbed him and even paid for him to attend college, where of course, he became an artist. Financially, he did pretty well too, which is probably why he got the job he did. Looking over who bought his pieces, though, a trend emerged.”

“What?”

Adam took a drink of his Jack and coke and sat back. “The only people who bought his shit were government sources or military contractors. I saw a picture of a statue he did for Fort Drum, up in New York. I think my little cousin did better last month with his fucking Play-Doh.”

I sighed, shaking my head. “And the military never thought to check up to see if their little wind-up toy stayed repaired?”

“Hey, it'd been twenty-two years since he got out of the hospital,” Adam said. “Guess they figured they'd done their bit for him, and that whatever was fixed would stay fixed. Most of the people who felt they owed him a debt of gratitude were either retired or dead, and the new generation of brass just wants to forget the bad side of it all. Besides, who the fuck knew he was breaking down again until he snapped? The first sign was the sexual harassment claim by Adriana, and a lot of people hadn't believed her, dismissing it as an oversensitive college girl's whine.”

“And now everyone who caused this asshole to become what he became is just hoping he gets himself captured or killed before he gives the military a black eye,” I finished. “Is there even an investigation?”

Adam shook his head. “Doubt it. They might be providing some background support to the Seattle police, but with only two murders, graphic as they are, there's no real cause for the FBI or anyone else with the Feds to try and step in. There's no Colonel Trautman coming to try and pull this Rambo out of the woods this time. This is in the hands of the locals.”

“Who can't even stop a rampaging preschooler on a sugar rush,” I replied with no amusement. “And your efforts to find him?”

“He's picked up some computer skills somewhere. That first email that you handed to me, I dissected the code. It had some decent work involved. He knows well enough how to use the Deep Web and mask his steps, at least. Combine that with his military skill at blending in, and he's going to be tough to track. He's going to have to make a mistake, I think.”

“I can't stay by Adriana's side forever,” I said, though I wished I could. “I don't think Mr. Bertoli would like it if we spent the rest of her life attached at the hip.”

“Bet you would, though,” Adam said, setting his drink down when I shot him a dirty look. “What? She's a beautiful girl.”

“Still, don't even joke that way,” I warned him. I finished off my drink, then sighed. “All right, well, I still want you on this. He's got to have made a mistake somewhere.”

“I'll do my best,” Adam said, polishing off his Jack and Coke. “Daniel, I know this one's important to you. I'm serious that I'm going to do my best.”

I nodded, then rubbed my hands together, trying to relieve my tension. It was time for me to get back to where I wanted to be, next to Adriana, making sure she was safe. “And I appreciate it. In fact, I thought I'd give you a little preview of my appreciation. Wait right here.”

I signaled to the manager, who nodded in understanding and disappeared to the back while I went up to the bar. Carmen came out a minute later, a professional smile on her face but still a hint of concern on her face. “Hi, Carmen.”

“I heard you wanted me to spend some time with a friend of yours?” she said, leaning against the bar. I didn't think she was trying to give me a preview of her boobs, but with my height and her clothes, that was what happened. This time, though, she was professional, not seductive. “That him over there?”

“That he is,” I said. “I just wanted to say I'm sorry about last time.”

She shrugged it off, a true pro. “I've been doing this for three years. I've seen stressed out men before. You did scare the hell out of me, but you seem like a decent guy.”

“People keep telling me that recently, for some fucking reason,” I replied, getting her to smile a little bit. Leaning in, keeping my elbows and hands on the bar and clear of Carmen so as not to scare her, I lowered my voice. “Be nice, okay? Don't play him and milk him for everything he's got.” I motioned over to Adam. “Come with me.”

We walked over, and Adam's eyes nearly bugged out of his skull when the little Latina came around in front of him, her hair pulled back into hasty pigtails and her outfit actually helping with the look. “Adam, this is Carmen, a friend of mine. Carmen, this is Adam. I have to go, but you two have fun.”

“Th . . . thanks,” he said, his eyes fixed not on Carmen's chest, but on her face. She did have a pretty face, I had to agree, but still, she was taken aback to the point that she blushed a little and gave a genuine smile. She was probably used to her customers never looking higher than her breasts. “Hi. Would you like to sit down?”

I turned and left, waving the manager over. “Make sure they both have a good time, okay? Call me if there's a problem later.”

“Okay, sir. And thank you.”

“Don't mention it.”

Driving back to the Bertoli estate, I had to smile as I thought of the look that passed between Carmen and Adam. I didn't know much about the girl, to be honest, but she seemed okay—just doing what she needed to do to survive.

When I got back, I was shocked to find Margaret Bertoli standing in the foyer, concern written on her face. “Mrs. Bertoli, what's wrong?”

“Adriana,” she said, her eyes filled with worry. “She's been trying to go to sleep, but she's woken up twice now in the past hour, panicked and screaming. Daniel, I know you're trying, but you need to deal with this man who’s doing this to her.”

I nodded and took the thumb drive Adam had given me out of my jacket. “I got this tonight. Later on, I'll give it to Mr. Bertoli. It's more background information on Vincent Drake. I'll take a look at it after I talk to Adriana.”

“Daniel . . .” she said, then nodded. “Fine. See if you can assure her that she's safe. Carlo and I certainly can't right now, it seems.”

I rushed over to Adriana's bedroom, finding her sitting up in bed, her eyes haunted and her hands in her lap. “Dan . . . where were you?”

“Talking to my private investigator,” I said. “Don't worry, I'm back.”

“I'm having problems going to sleep,” she said.

“You're scared,” I said simply. Margaret was still in the room with us, so instead of taking her hand, I simply knelt down on the floor next to her bed. “Ade, you don't have to worry. I'm going to make sure you're safe.”

“How? He got close enough to take those photos,” Adriana said, revealing that she'd seen the email. I cursed under my breath at whatever dumb fuck had let her see them, then nodded.

“I know. But he won't get anywhere near you here, especially since I'm going to stay right here, sitting in a chair outside your room all night. Nobody's going to get by me.”

Adriana nodded, her eyes filled with trust. “Daniel . . . thank you.”

“Get some sleep, Ade. You've got that math class tomorrow, remember? Don't worry.”

Margaret spoke with her daughter for a little while as I went down the hall and grabbed a chair from the library, arranging it and my laptop next to Adriana's door. I was just sitting down when Mrs. Bertoli came out. “Do you really plan on staying here all night?”

“Yes,” I said simply. “If she calls out, I'll be there before she can even fully wake up.”

She looked at me for a moment, then patted my shoulder. “Thank you, Daniel. After this . . . you and I should have a talk.”

“About what, ma'am?”

She smiled. “About my brother-in-law's rules, and how sometimes they need to be changed. Good night, Daniel.”

“Good night, Mrs. Bertoli. Sleep well.”

She went down the hallway, and I looked to my left and right. Adriana's temporary room was buried in the interior of the house, with no windows to the outside, on the first floor in a relatively unused part of the guest wing. The house was quiet, and I sighed. Opening my laptop, I fired it up and decided that I could do a little bit of reading up on the information Adam had given me before I closed my eyes.