Manny swiveled his head around at her as they passed through and began a descent underground into a tunnel that could have had a “Holland” or “Lincoln” sign tacked on it for all its sturdiness and lighting. The farther down they went, the more that big question that had been plaguing him since he’d first seen her loomed: Why fake her death? Why cause the kind of chaos she had in his life and the lives of the other people she’d worked with at St. Francis? She’d never been cruel, never been a liar, and had no financial problems and nothing to run from.

Now he knew without her saying a word:

U.S. government.

This kind of setup, with this sort of security . . . hidden on the outskirts of what was a big-enough city, but nothing so huge as New York, L.A. or Chicago? Had to be the government. Who else could afford this?

And who the hell was this women he was treating?

The tunnel terminated in a parking garage that was standard issue with its pylons and little yellow painted spots, and yet as large as it appeared to be, there were just a couple of nondescript vans with darkened windows and a small bus that also had blackouts for glass.

Before she even had his Porsche in park, a steel door was thrown open and—

One look at the huge guy who stepped out and Manny’s head exploded, the pain behind his eyes going so intense, he went limp in the bucket seat, his arms falling to the sides, his face twitching from the agony.

Jane said something to him. A door was opened. Then his own was cracked.

The air that hit him smelled dry and vaguely like earth . . . but there was something else. Cologne. A very woody spice that was at once expensive and pleasing, but also something he had a curious urge to get away from.

Manny forced his lids to open. His vision was wonky as hell, but it was amazing what you could pull out of your ass if you had to, and as the face in front of him came into focus, he found himself staring up at the goateed motherfucker who had . . .

On a wave of pain, his eyes rolled back into his head and he nearly threw up.

“You’ve got to release the memories,” he heard Jane said.

There was some conversating at that point, his former colleague’s voice mixing with the deep tones of that guy with the tattoos at his temple.

“It’s killing him—”

“There’s too much risk—”

“How the hell is he going to operate like this?”

There was a long silence. And then all of a sudden, the pain lifted as if it were a veil drawn back, and memories flooded his mind.

Jane’s patient. From back at St. Francis. The man with the goatee and . . . the six-chambered heart.