The size of a gym, the lab was about forty feet square. Uniformly white and smelling of disinfectant, the area was broken up by four rows of chest-high workbenches running from front to back. A fifteen-foot-long enclosed workbench ran along the side of the room against the building’s outer wall. The countertops held computers, microscopes, and centrifuges. Other complex machinery Snider didn’t recognize stood on the laminate floors between benches.

The etched glass door swung open. A man took an aggressive couple of strides into the room but faltered when he reached the row of workbenches at the very back of the room. Graham Kilburn snapped his head from side to side, searching.

From his employer’s description, Snider recognized the next man as Seth Cohen. Lina Lopez followed, as pretty and petite as described. As Snider anticipated, they clustered by the back row of workbenches. The two doctors flanked Cohen—Kilbum to the left and blocking the glass door, Lopez to the right within arm’s reach of Cohen.

“Luc?” Lopez called out.

Snider stayed put.

“Martineau?” Kilburn snapped.

Snider didn’t budge.

Cohen reached behind his back and pulled out a gun. He held it out in front of him. “No more games, Luc,” he said evenly. “Come out now.”

Snider recognized his cue. He casually stepped out of the office and into the light of the open lab. Cohen’s arm swung around. From thirty-five feet away, the barrel of the .357 magnum locked onto his chest. Snider smiled. “Dr. Martineau sends his regrets.”

The two doctors froze, but Cohen showed little surprise. “Hands above your head, Forbes,” he said calmly. “Now.”

Snider was floored by the Forbes reference. Focus! he commanded himself. He shook his head slowly. “Wayne Forbes is gone,” he said evenly.

“Hands up,” Cohen raised his voice and wagged the gun in his hand.

Snider shook his head again. “It’s not going to happen like that Sergeant Cohen.”

“Yes, it is, Forbes or Tyler or whoever you are today.” Cohen steadied his aim with his other hand.

The reference to his other alias momentarily rocked Snider, but he shook it off. “Sergeant, look at my right hand,” he said.

Cohen glanced at Snider’s right hand, which held a remote control the size of a car key fob. Understanding settled in the detective’s face, but his aim held firm.

“Now look under the counter of that workbench in front of you,” Snider said.

The doctors’ eyes dropped to the underside of the countertop to view the cantaloupe-sized glob of putty with the central flashing red light while Cohen’s gaze remained fixed on Snider. “What is it?” Cohen asked.

“Three kilos of Semtex,” Snider said, raising the remote in his hand slowly up to chest level. “In my opinion, still the best plastic explosive in the business.”

Cohen’s arms wavered. He looked down under the countertop and saw the explosive.