That was the way they were standing when the man in the passenger seat trained the long black barrel of his machine gun upon them and also did precisely as he’d been ordered.

TWO - SAN JOSE, CALIFORNIA MARCH 1, 2002

TWO

SAN JOSE, CALIFORNIA MARCH 1, 2002

WITH ITS ARCTIC-BLUE BODY, CORAL SIDE COVES, AND beige vinyl interior, the ’57 Corvette roadster was the car of Pete Nimec’s dreams. A bolt of glorious inspiration captured in streamlined fiberglass and a classy flourish of chrome, delivering decisive 283 dual-four-barrel go without showoff extravagance. Just over six thousand of them had hit showroom floors across the USA, and just under two hundred were pumped with Ramjet fuel injection, a handful out of a scarce, exquisite handful that were still around and running a half century later.

A ’57 Corvette fuelie. Reconditioned to its original Chevrolet standards, including minor production-line imperfections. Probably worth upwards of a hundred, a hundred fifty thou, assuming you could find one for sale or auction.

And it was Nimec’s.

Which is to say, he owned it outright.

Owned it from the crossed-flag badge over its toothy front grille back to the big twin exhaust pipes at its tail. Owned it from the removable hardtop down to the wide whitewall tires. Owned it, his dream car, and by surprise no less, having received it at his condominium with a decorative red bow and handwritten note of appreciation taped to its wraparound windshield, an unexpected present from the man he admired most in all the world.

On any other morning, Nimec would have been in an unsinkable state of bliss. And he had been while driving to UpLink’s Rosita Avenue headquarters with his Wonderbar dash radio tuned to an oldies station, while pulling the ’Vette into his reserved underground parking slot, while riding the elevator to his office on the twenty-fifth floor.

But now that mood was heavy and flat, punctured by a single click of the mouse next to his computer.

He checked his watch as his telephone bleeped. Nine o’clock. Gordian would have already arrived at work.

“Nimec,” he answered.

It was the boss, as anticipated.

“Pete, you’d better come on up here.”

“This about Megan’s e-mail?”

“Yes.”

“I just read it myself,” Nimec said. “Be right with you.”

He cradled the receiver and whisked out into the corridor.

Minutes later Nimec entered Gordian’s reception room, tipped a brisk salute to Norma, got her nod of admittance, stepped over to the heavy oak inner door that she guarded like a vigilant gryphon, and rapped twice as he shouldered it open.