The ground below Holtzmann’s feet was cracking open. There was nothing there, no solidity, nothing to hold onto. He was going to fall into that abyss and keep falling, keep falling. This nightmare was going to swallow him up, swallow Anne with it, swallow up his boys, swallow everyone and everything he loved.

Because he knew something he shouldn’t. Because if John Stockton would stage his own attempted assassination, would kill dozens of his supporters, dozens of federal employees, three of his own Secret Service agents…

…then he wouldn’t hesitate to kill Martin Holtzmann, and anyone else who might know.

Holtzmann needed this out of his head. He needed to forget. He needed his suspicions gone. He needed his qualms about purging Nexus from the children erased. Then he needed the Nexus out of his mind, forever. He needed to forget he’d ever tried it, forget all of this.

Holtzmann reached out with his mind to his home’s network for the first time in weeks, sent his thoughts out towards the Nexus boards, and started searching. There must be something out there. Something that would make him forget. Something that would erase his conscience. Something that would turn back the clock, to where it was before he’d ever downed that first vial, before he’d ever supped of this forbidden fruit.

He searched and searched and searched, finding dead end after dead end. There must be something that would do what he wanted. There must.

He was still searching, frantically, desperately, when a mind like a god’s descended thunderously down onto his own. A monstrous mind, an epic mind, full of rage and murder. It crushed his will beneath its staggering force. Its mental fist closed painfully around his heart, and began to squeeze.

Kade sucked at the memories of Rangan and Ilya his agent had found in this mind. A montage of them spilled across his mind.

Rangan, tortured. Hooded and cuffed. Being electrocuted. Being smothered with a towel and suffocated while his body jerked and spasmed against its restraints.

And Ilya.

Ilya with her eyes closed, pale and still.

Cold. Lifeless.

Ilya dead.

It hit him like a blow. He opened his eyes and he was on his side, on the floor of the room in Saigon, a glass of water he’d had by the bedside on the floor, rolling on its side, water spilling out. He couldn’t breathe. Dead! Dead!

And that face. The face seen in the mirror. He knew that face. He knew whose mind this was.

He felt the anger rising behind the shock. Anger like he’d felt in Thailand, like he’d felt after the inferno in Bangkok, anger like he’d felt every time he’d found someone using Nexus to kill or rape or steal, anger that threatened to erupt from within him.