I made myself turn back to the bedroom door. Forced my body into an attitude of alert professionalism. At least that was the façade I was trying to sell. Top wasn’t fooled for one damned second, but we were too deep in the badlands here to back up and give me a time-out and maybe some Zyprexa or Seroquel. Personally, I wanted to drink a whole bottle of Knob Creek 100 and listen to the blues. Ideally with no working firearms on the premises.

Lot of things I wanted, but none were likely.

Ghost watched me with unblinking intensity. I tried to telepathically tell him I was just fine and dandy. And his expression told me I was full of shit.

But … had he heard the voice, too? That’s how I read the situation.

So, did that make us both crazy?

Or …

Not now, asshole, I snarled inside my head. Do your damned job.

And so I squared my shoulders, girded my loins, chased the ghosts from my head, and turned the handle.

INTERLUDE 3

THE PLAYROOM

UNDISCLOSED LOCATION

NEAR VANCOUVER, BRITISH COLUMBIA, CANADA

FIVE MONTHS AGO

“He’s here.”

The two words sent a thrill of unfiltered terror through Rafael Santoro.

He’s here.

He.

The man who called himself Mr. Sunday.

Kuga lingered in the doorway, smiling that nasty smile of his. A knowing look in his bright eyes, too many white teeth in that grin.

He would have made a good torturer, he mused darkly. Not professionally, but as a hobby.

“His chopper just landed,” said Kuga. “I’ll bring him in.”

The door closed with a soft click. An attempt at subtlety? Probably.

Santoro rose quickly from the couch on which he had been sprawled while reading field reports. He straightened his clothes and ran fingers through his curly hair. He glanced around, deciding on what image he wanted to convey when the guest entered the room, and decided on the desk. A physical barrier that created a subjective one. The leather guest chairs had slightly shorter legs than the desk chair, which meant that once Kuga and Mr. Sunday sat, they would be looking slightly up at Santoro. Sometimes it made the guests uncomfortable, putting them at a positional disadvantage; sometimes it made Santoro, who was below-average height, feel more powerful in the moment. Today, he wanted both effects.

He went and sat behind the desk and spent a few quick moments tidying some things up, but also staging it to look like this visit was in the middle of a hardworking day. He dug a few files out of a drawer and scattered them artfully on one edge of the desk, placing them at an angle where the tabs could be read. One was on the exoskeleton production, another was R&D on a new eugeroic drug therapy that showed real promise for increasing factory worker man-hours with existing staff.

The door swung open, and Kuga came right in, saying, “Knock-knock.”