The black Pronto Spyder turns right onto Twenty-third Street, executes a U-turn, then parks next to a telephone pole by the curb, just adjacent to the twenty-foot-high, stark white concrete wall. The side street, which borders the asylum to the north, runs west another two blocks before dead-ending at an abandoned textile mill. The neighborhood is run-down, the street deserted, except for a Dodge minivan parked at the far end of the block.

Dominique exits the car, adrenaline pumping. She pops the trunk, verifies that no one is around, then removes a fifty-foot length of white, half-inch-thick nylon rope. Knots have been tied in the line at two-foot intervals. Bending down as if inspecting her right rear tire, she secures one end of the rope to the base of the telephone pole, then returns to the trunk.

She opens the large cardboard box and removes the thirty-two-inch radio-controlled model helicopter. A mechanical claw hangs from beneath the tiny landing gear. Dominique positions the last knot at the free end of the nylon rope within the claw’s grasp, then closes it.

Okay, don’t fuck this up. Keep the rope clear of the barbed wire.

She starts the miniature copter’s battery-powered engine, cringing at the loud, high-pitched whine of the rotors. The toy chopper lifts off, wobbling as it struggles to tow the nylon rope with it. Dominique maneuvers the model airship into a steep vertical climb high above the concrete security wall, taking up all the slack.

Okay, nice and easy …

Using the joystick, she guides the chopper past the wall and over the yard, then activates the claw, releasing the rope.

The freed knot drops to the yard, its length slipping between the coils of barbed wire to rest on top of the concrete barrier.

Perfect. Go! Dominique slams the joystick to the right. The model helicopter races toward the textile mill at the end of the street and disappears over the rooftop of the abandoned property. She powers the radio control OFF, hearing the tell-tale sound of plastic crashing in the distance.

Slamming the trunk closed, she climbs back in the roadster and guides the car into the staff parking lot.

Dominique checks her watch: 10:07. Almost time. She reaches into the glove compartment, removes the worn spark plug and ratchet, then turns off the car’s engine and pops the hood of the Spyder.

She closes the hood three minutes later, using a wet rag to wipe the grease from her hands. After fixing her makeup, she takes a moment to adjust the tight-fitting halter top before covering her half-exposed cleavage with the pink cashmere sweater.

Okay Mick, now it’s up to you.

She hurries to the entrance of the facility, praying that Mick had been lucid during their conversation earlier that afternoon.

10:14 P.M.