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  Mayer gently placed a hand on Tom’s chest, pushing him back farther into the elevator to allow the two men to enter.

  “Sir,” she said, acknowledging Tremain.

  The director gave her a nod, briefly making eye contact with Tom before turning away to continue his conversation with Abernathy.

  There was something in that look, something that triggered some kind of instinct in Tom—a sixth sense connected to his other half. Whatever was happening had something to do with him.

  He concentrated on their whispers, thinking he heard mention of Chicago, which only served to make him more jittery.

  The elevator stopped again, and as the doors parted, Tremain and Abernathy stepped off. Tom could hear the murmuring of activity on the floor, and suddenly he darted around Agent Mayer. She cried out and lunged for him, but he was faster and slid through the narrow opening just as the elevator doors closed. He felt bad about ditching his escort, but something was up, and he was sure he should be a part of it.

  He had stepped into a large conference room. A huge map of Illinois hung on the wall in front of a meeting table. Satellite photos of various neighborhoods were clipped to the edges of the map.

  A rock formed in the pit of his stomach as suspicion started to take shape.

  Abernathy was the first to notice that Tom was behind them. “Hey, you don’t belong here,” he snarled, moving toward him, and Tom immediately assumed a fighting stance, ready to take on the agent again.

  “Stand down, Agent,” Tremain said wearily as he stepped toward them. “You can’t be here, Tom.”

  “I overheard you talking,” he said. “You’re going to Chicago—does this have anything to do with Madison?”

  He carefully watched the director’s face, looking for the slightest hint that he was right, and he caught it—a telltale twitch at the corner of the man’s right eye.

  “What’s going on?” he demanded.

  The elevator doors opened and an exasperated Agent Mayer stormed out. “I’m sorry, sir, he was just too fast for me…”

  “Is she in danger, Mr. Tremain?” Tom asked over the harried agent. “You have to tell me.”

  “We don’t have to tell you anything,” Abernathy blurted, reaching to take hold of his arm. “You’re to return to your quarters with Agent Mayer at once and—”

  Without even thinking, Tom grabbed hold of Abernathy’s hand and bent the fingers back. The agent screamed out in pain and dropped to his knees.

  “Let him go, Tom,” Tremain ordered, and Tom did.

  Abernathy scowled, and Tom was certain that if Tremain hadn’t been there, things would have gotten very ugly. But instead, the agent composed himself, stepping back, allowing his boss to handle the situation.

  “We’ve received intelligence that Kavanagh is moving against a target in a Chicago suburb and—”

  “It’s Madison,” Tom interrupted. “Her mother lives in the Chicago suburbs, and if Kavanagh is sending somebody to hurt her, we have to do something immediately.”

  Tremain put his arm around his shoulders and steered him toward the elevator. “We have a team working on it right now. Go back to your room and we’ll keep you posted.”

  “Let me go with you,” Tom said, planting his feet and shrugging off the director’s comforting arm.

  “You know that’s impossible, Tom,” Tremain replied. “It’s a trap. Kavanagh is using Madison to get to us, to you. This is our chance to turn the tables on him. We’ll contact you just as soon as we hear anything.”

  “You know I have the skills,” Tom said desperately. “And you know that the more I use them, the better I get. And who knows what I could remember while I’m out in the field—things we’re all trying to learn here at the lab, which doesn’t seem all that much safer anyway.”

  Abernathy came forward as Tremain remained silent.

  “You can’t be serious, sir,” he said. “You’re aware of the risks—”

  “I’m very aware, Agent Abernathy,” Tremain snapped.

  The director’s gaze had gone icy cold, and Tom had to wonder what exactly Tremain was seeing as he looked at him.

  Kenny Tibideau was getting one of those headaches, the kind that usually led to trouble of one kind or another. Sometimes he heard voices when his head ached. He wasn’t sure exactly what it meant, maybe he was crazy, but it was a problem he’d had for just about as long as he could remember—a problem that was his and his alone.

  He ignored the pain and squinted through the driver’s side window, concentrating on the house numbers as he slowly drove by.

  He’d always suspected that hearing voices would be the one last thing his parents would need to put him away for good. That, on top of the fact that he’d been born with a rare sleep disorder.

  Nope, the whispering voice that he heard from time to time would always be his little secret. And besides, it didn’t do any real harm, reminding him a lot of a radio signal not quite tuned in. It was more annoying than anything else, especially because it sometimes led to one of his narcoleptic attacks.

  If he was going to have one, he hoped he could hold it off at least until he delivered the pizza.

  Kenny glanced at his watch and felt a stab of panic. He had less then six minutes to make his delivery or the customer paid nothing. He glanced over to the red thermal bag resting on the seat beside him; so much pressure for one large pepperoni, one super-Caesar salad, and one order of cheesy bread sticks.

  He really didn’t know why he stayed with the job; it didn’t pay all that great, and the tips often weren’t worth the trouble of finding a house on a late Friday night in the wilds of the Chicago suburbs. His boss, Mr. K., could be a real ballbuster, but at the same time he was an all-right guy. A full physical was required to work for Mama Mia Pizza, and of course his problem—his narcolepsy—had come up, but Mr. K. didn’t seem to care. As long as you do the job, we won’t have a problem, he’d said.

  Finding the house at last, Kenny pulled the delivery car over to the curb. Just in time, was his last thought before everything went black.

  Slumping momentarily in the seat, the boy soon recovered. He sat up and looked around with new eyes.

  Kenny Tibideau wasn’t there anymore. He’d been replaced by another who wore his skin, one with an entirely different objective.

  A portable phone trilled inside the glove compartment, and the boy reached across to retrieve it.

  “Is everything set, Sleeper Two?” a voice asked him.

  The boy peeled back the Velcro cover to expose the carrier’s contents: the large pizza box and paper bag containing the salad and the bread sticks. He lifted the lid of the pizza box to expose not a large pepperoni, but a twelve-shot Beretta compact pistol.

  “Are you prepared for delivery?” the voice asked again as he closed the box lid.

  “Affirmative,” the boy said before switching off the phone and returning it to the glove compartment.

  Then he got out of the car, food case balanced on one arm, and strolled up the walkway toward the house.

  To make his delivery.

  Madison tapped her foot uneasily. They were all sitting together in the living room, she and her mother at opposite ends of the couch and her father across from them in the old wing-backed chair. No one would make eye contact.

  “I can’t stand this,” Madison finally blurted. “Why do you two have to act so childish?”

  “Honey,” her mother said, staring at her manicured nails. “It’s been a long night for all of us. Let’s not get start—”

  “Mom,” Madison interrupted, jumping up from the couch. “Don’t tell me not to get started. Ever since I got home all you two have done is fight, and now you won’t even speak to each other.”

  “Madison, please,” her mother begged. “I’m tired.”

  “I know,” Madison said. “I know you’re tired, and so am I. Do you even have any idea what I’ve been through the past couple of weeks?” She stopped, cutting herself off as she realized h
ow close she’d been to spilling the fact that she’d completely fallen for an amazing guy who just happened to be a sleeper assassin, which he hadn’t even discovered himself until just after she met him.

  She couldn’t tell her parents the truth about Tom. She couldn’t tell anyone.

  But God, didn’t they get that there was bigger stuff out there than stupid fights about the mortgage or whatever?

  “I just … I just wish you could remember that we all used to be a family,” Madison continued, lowering her voice. “And okay, you aren’t together anymore, and I get that that’s not going to change. But could you at least be civil to each other, for my sake? And yours?”

  “We know it’s been hard for you,” her mom said. She shot a look over at Madison’s father, then went on. “Your father and I had spoken about how to handle this before you came back, and I thought we were on the same page about making this as easy as possible on you.”

  “Maybe it would be best if I headed out,” her father said, an edge to his voice. He stood, a deep frown creasing his forehead.

  “No, we need to talk about this,” Madison said, surprising herself with how firm and reasonable she sounded. It was weird, but now that she was home, it was really hitting her how much everything she’d just experienced had changed her. How could she be afraid to confront her parents and try to force them to be adults about their problems after facing off against trained killers? “With everything that’s happened,” she finished, “I can’t believe you two are being so selfish.”

  “We’re not being selfish,” her father replied sternly. “We’ve been trying to do what’s best for you.”

  “You—” Madison began, but was interrupted by the sound of the doorbell.

  “Who the hell could that be?” her mother muttered, looking at the time.

  “I’ll get it,” her dad said, striding to the door.

  For a moment Madison and her mother sat and listened to the sound of her father’s voice wafting in from the foyer.

  “Who is he talking to?” her mother asked, pushing off from the couch. Madison got up to follow.

  “Hey, guys?” he called out then. “We didn’t order a pizza, did we?”

  Chapter 7

  TOM WAS AMAZED at how quickly everything was moving.

  As he sat in the back of the van speeding through the nighttime streets of Chicago, his thoughts were a blur, and he made a conscious effort to slow them.

  He had been shocked when Tremain actually seemed to believe that there was merit in his suggestion and had invited him into the debriefing, much to the displeasure of Agent Abernathy.

  In the darkness of the van Tom glanced casually in the agent’s direction. He was sitting with his eyes closed at the end of a row of three other blank-faced Pandora agents. Mentally preparing for the mission ahead, Tom thought, or maybe just catching up on some sleep.

  It had been nonstop activity since leaving Washington. A caravan of vans had left Pandora for a short ride to a private airfield where a jet had been waiting for them. The team had been airborne almost immediately. An hour and thirty-seven minutes later they had landed just outside Chicago and hooked up with another, smaller group of agents. It had been a whirlwind, but at least they’d been on the move toward Madison.

  Tom rubbed his hands together nervously, wishing that the van would move faster.

  “Are they sweating?” Tremain asked from his seat beside him.

  Tom turned to look at him. “Excuse me?”

  “I asked if they were sweating,” he said, motioning with his chin. “Your hands—are your hands sweaty?”

  “A little,” Tom said.

  “Been in this business an awfully long time and my hands still get that way,” he said.

  Tom could see the agents around them responding to the director’s words: small knowing smiles and nodding heads, some agents even looking at their own hands and then rubbing them on their pant legs.

  “Besides the sweaty hands,” he said, “are you doing all right? If not, it’s perfectly okay for you to stay with the van and—”

  “No,” Tom interrupted. “I’m fine; it’s just that I’m worried … about her.”

  Tremain was quiet, which did nothing to lessen his concern.

  “Why her?” Tom asked. “Why are they after Madison? What does she have to do with anything?”

  Tremain leaned his head back against wall of the van. “Kavanagh is a really sore loser. Something of great value has been taken from him, and now he’s going to strike back.”

  Tom stared, not sure if he really understood.

  “You, Tom,” the director continued. “You’re the thing that’s been taken away.”

  “But it still doesn’t explain why Madison.” Tom was desperate for an answer that would make some sort of sense to him.

  “I’m sure that Kavanagh is well aware of how fond of the girl you’ve become,” Tremain said coldly. “He’s using her to pull you in. She and anyone unlucky enough to be with her at the time are going to be made examples.”

  Tom still couldn’t believe it. “So he’s gonna try and kill her because he’s pissed off at me? That’s insane.”

  The director nodded. “That’s Brandon Kavanagh. This is his way of flipping off Pandora—to show that he isn’t afraid, a warning not to mess with his plans.”

  Tom felt his anger surge, his thoughts going to the eerie dream image of his other self—Tyler Garrett, fleeing deeper into the old mansion, deeper into the recesses of his mind.

  Where the secrets were kept.

  “But we are going to mess with him, right?” he asked the director.

  “Oh yes,” Tremain answered with a serious nod. “You can count on that.”

  “Good,” Tom said, pulling back on his anger. “And when we get back to Pandora, I want to let Dr. Stempler have another try at me.”

  “That isn’t necessary, Tom,” Tremain said. “I’m sure there are other, less dangerous methods we could use to—”

  “There isn’t enough time,” Tom interrupted. “He has to be stopped. Look what Kavanagh’s done to me … what he’s trying to do to Madison and her family.”

  He turned his gaze to the director, looking into the older man’s eyes. “Who’s next?” he asked.

  “Sorry, pal,” Madison heard her father say as she entered the hall behind her mother. “Think you’ve got the wrong house.”

  She glanced toward the foyer, where her mother had joined her father. “What address do you have?” her mother asked.

  From where she stood, Madison could see the kid fumbling with a large pizza box and a delivery bag. Probably his first run or something, she thought as she heard him muttering under his breath.

  Madison laughed quietly, shaking her head. “Dude, it’s not the house,” she said softly to herself. It seemed like the beginning of a bad joke—How long does it take a pizza guy to realize he’s gone to the wrong house?

  The sudden sound made her jump, as if somebody had set off a firecracker. She looked up to see her father stumbling backward, bent over, hands clutched to his stomach.

  “Daddy?” she asked, watching in slow motion as he turned around. There was blood on his hands—on the front of his shirt. He looked almost as surprised as she was.

  Her mother was trying to keep him from falling. She was screaming his name over and over again, and Madison finally realized that her father had been shot.

  The deliveryman—no, he was just a kid, like her—moved into the house, smoking pistol in hand, and shot her mother.

  Ohmygod, ohmygod, ohmygod, ohmygod, ohmygod, ohmygod.

  Madison screamed as the next shot rang out and her mother fell to the floor, dragging her father down with her.

  And then the gunman looked at Madison, and she saw something in his eyes, something cold, inhuman, and horribly familiar.

  Her mind was deluged with memories of the last few weeks. And looking at this guy, who now aimed the barrel of a gun at her, she realized that the violence had
managed to follow her—tracking her to her very door.

  Her parents were moving—both alive for now, but for how much longer Madison hadn’t a clue. She watched as the deliveryman aimed, his finger nearing the trigger, and then she reacted. It wasn’t the smartest thing to do, but her resources were limited.

  She screamed as loudly as she could, then grabbed at the first thing she saw—a sneaker from the floor—and threw it at the attacker. The shoe hit him square in the face, and he flinched. He was already moving toward her, once again aiming his pistol. Still, she ran, practically feeling the gun on the back of her head.

  Then she heard a commotion behind her and spun around to see that her father had risen from the floor and grabbed hold of the gunman’s arm. The gun went off, but the shot was wild, shattering a table lamp nearby.

  “Get away,” her father was screaming, and she saw blood dripping from the corner of his mouth and down his neck.

  She hesitated a moment but then understood the look in his eyes. He was going to sacrifice everything for her.

  He’s going to die if he has to, she thought as she turned and ran through the house.

  The caravan turned onto Washington Street

  and pulled over to the curb, not far from the Fitzgeralds’ home.

  “This is it, people,” Tremain said, and a kind of electric buzz went through the back of the vehicle as each of the agents readied to perform the function assigned him or her.

  He turned to Tom and, in a fatherly gesture, reached over adjust the straps of the boy’s bulletproof vest. “You sure about this?”

  “I’m good,” Tom replied, his body tingling in anticipation. “So what now?”

  “We wait,” Tremain said coolly.

  “You’re kidding,” Tom said incredulously, rising from his seat. He felt the other agents’ eyes on him. “We’re just going to sit here? What if they’re in danger or…?”

  Tremain gestured for him to sit. “Easy, Tom,” he said. “We’ve had the place under surveillance since we learned of the threat.”