Zypraxon, and by extension its inventor, Noah Turlington, are what give Charley the power to go after killers like Cyrus Mattingly. And if all goes well tonight, Mattingly will join the other human monsters Charley’s taken out of circulation while powered by the awesome strength Noah’s drug unleashes in her veins.

There’s also the fact that Noah’s last-minute intervention to help Charley a year ago is the only thing that saved Luke from being devoured by flames.

The question’s simple.

How much longer can they all stay mad at Noah Turlington while they continue to enjoy the fruits of his mad science?

The answer isn’t simple at all.

Hopefully, Luke won’t have to give one until this operation’s over, and neither will Charley.

4

Lebanon, Kansas

The bedroom where Cole’s brought Noah is the only one of the three with heavy steel storm shutters covering its windows. The storm’s slacked off, but Cole had the men leave the shutters in place anyway. They’re not necessary to prevent Noah’s escape—the windows don’t open, and the glass is so thick Charley would need several tries to break it even when Zypraxon’s triggered an explosion of super-strength inside her veins. And it’s not that Cole wants Noah to feel trapped. Exactly.

Rather, he wants Noah to feel directed. Channeled. Undistracted by big skies and endless vistas once the sun rises.

If you don’t count the security team stationed right outside the bedroom door, this is the first time they’ve been alone together.

Cole hasn’t wasted any time.

Seated on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, rubbing his chin in one hand as if he’s not sure it’s still there, Noah’s still absorbing the impact of the bomb Cole dropped as soon as he drew the bedroom door shut.

“Nothing,” Noah finally says quietly. “She’s got nothing on the ground with her except for . . . her boyfriend.” He says the word boyfriend like it’s puff pastry.

“Correct.”

“And that’s why you’re in Kansas and she’s in Dallas?”

“Yes. We’re close to the geographic center of the continental United States, less than three hours from the farthest coast by plane. But she wanted significant geographical separation between our response forces and the op field.”

“And you thought this was a good idea?” Noah asks.

“Oh, no. Not at all,” Cole answers.

“And you agreed because?”

“Because our target started escalating before I could think of a better option.”

“I’m not following.”

“Zypraxon only unleashes paradrenaline into her bloodstream when she’s absolutely terrified. Not anxious, not afraid. Terrified. If I’ve got ground teams all around her and snipers on rooftops, there’s nothing in her environment that can frighten her badly enough for the drug to start working. And when it comes to her overall security, if one of her targets is capable of inflicting a fatal blow in a split second, what good is a sniper anyway?”

“Surely there were other—”

“There were not. On her last op, she had to injure herself to trigger. Badly. I don’t want her resorting to acts of self-mutilation to try to create the panic and shock she needs to feel before your drug kicks into gear. What if she cuts a nerve to her heart or her lungs before the trigger event heals her? Worse, what if she starts to desensitize to self-inflicted wounds, and then the only way for her to traumatize herself effectively the next time is to hack off one of her limbs? Her fear is the engine that drives this thing . . . for now . . . and that means letting her feel like she’s truly alone with these monsters. She has to become the victim; those were her words. And if she tells me there’s something that shuts down that process, I’ve got no choice but to remove it from the field of play.”

“You’ve removed your resources from the field of play. That’s dangerous.”

“No, their deployment is just delayed. There’s a difference.”

“It’s still dangerous.”

“I know.”

“Lie to her. Put a team in place and don’t tell her it’s there.”

“How many times do I get away with that? If I lie to her and she realizes a ground team was ready to swoop in and save her the whole time, on the next operation she’ll assume I lied again and she won’t trigger because her brain’s telling her help’s just around the corner. If she’s not afraid, your drug never triggers in her system, and if she doesn’t trigger, she can’t overpower these guys, and then we can’t swoop in and fake their deaths so that you can have more brains to play with in your labs.”

He’s getting a lot more than just their brains, and they both know it. But Cole’s hoping Noah gets that point here. Giving in to Charley’s wishes maintains the pipeline of test subjects for Noah’s experiments that Charley doesn’t even know about.

Thanks to Cole, two of Charlotte’s previous targets are now housed in Noah’s island lab. One, a serial killer who skinned his victims, and the other, an aspiring terrorist bomber, live in a state of suspended animation except for when they’re awakened within virtual reality environments designed to trigger their homicidal impulses. After six solid months of exhaustive and meticulous work, Noah has managed to generate what may well be the first neuroimage of a psychopath’s brain in the midst of a calculated murderous act. With a virtual victim, of course. Some people might consider the two men they’ve imprisoned against their will and forced to live inside an endless tape loop of their crimes “victims.” Cole’s not one of those people. If that’s the cost of illuminating the biological underpinnings of the sadistic violence that motivates some of humanity’s worst crimes, then so be it. The cost that keeps Cole up at night is the financial one. Noah, on the other hand, is more afraid they won’t be able to obtain the additional test subjects he needs to confirm his initial results.

“Christ,” Noah whispers. “I’m hoping you’ve given Luke some training in how to deal with at least some of the things that could go terribly wrong.”

“Beyond. He’s practically special ops certified.”

“Speaking as someone who is, it’s not that easy.”

“It wasn’t easy,” Cole says, “and the men training him had more deployments than you did, so step off. I’m not running an adventure camp here.”

“Fine. Luke is a SEAL who’s never seen combat.”

Cole remembers the combined smell of burnt plastic and burnt human hair and the wire-frame box spring evil men had turned into an implement of torture; he remembers how the horrors visited upon Luke reminded him of the rope that was slipped over his own wrists when he was just a boy, of the agony that came after. Some evidence of these memories must be pulsing in his expression, because Noah studies him closely, his own expression both intent and guarded.

“He saw combat,” Cole whispers, “believe me.”

“Fine,” Noah says. “Clearly, I’m not being consulted on this decision to fall back, since it’s already been made. So, at the risk of sounding impolite, what the hell am I doing here?”