Over the next days, Max attempted to act as go-between for a meeting with the SecDef, as her boss was customarily called, but after nearly a week of false starts, Tommy opted to travel to Washington with the intent of stalking the man if such was required.

Since the attack, Rhonda's time had been spent looking after a swiftly healing Kenny at Cecil's Brooklyn Heights home. The oldster's bulky presence was the only reason Tommy felt safe leaving her now. And as he made his goodbyes to his beloved, she leisurely shooed him away, confident he would succeed in calming the waters and returning them to their home.

He nearly cried at her faith in him. He swore in his heart, to every god whose memory he could muster (and those were many), that he would have her back in their home, even if he had to break every promise he'd ever made to himself about behaving honestly and justly toward his fellow humans.

Late on a Saturday, he slipped from Cecil's home, walked a short way to a place of concealment, and took flight.

Just over an hour later, he touched down a few blocks from Max's Alexandria, Virginia, residence. After taking a few careful turns of the neighborhood to ensure there was no surveillance, he knocked and was swept up in the delight of his friend's welcome. Her house was a warm, comfortable place at which he once had felt very much at home. It was a joy to see nothing had changed.

His first in-person meeting with Max in some time confirmed much of what he had surmised. His old friend was effusive in her apologies for the attack on his Murray Hill home, which she informed him was a result of the collapse of the Special Services Administration the year before. All that organization's classified files, which previously had been highly compartmentalized, had been made available to the entire Intelligence Community as part of restructuring ordered by the new presidential administration.

"Some FBI analyst likely stumbled across an old Special Service's file," said a remorseful Max after they'd broken bread at her broad kitchen table. "I should have seen that coming ... but the IC just sucks up so damn much information these days. It's impossible to keep track of it all."

"I don't worry for spilt milk, Max. Even if I did, I've never been one to blame my friends for the bad deeds of my enemies. Tell me about the SecDef ... and then tell me about this idiot Race Brannon. I'm ashamed it took me days to catch your hint about him."

"Oh, jeez" she replied in a weary voice, "I'm sorry about being so cagey over the phone. Look, I don't think I'm under surveillance ... per se. But who the hell knows who's listening these days?"

"Well, actually, you do," he replied with raised eyebrows. His friend was a senior official in the Intelligence Community, or IC as she called it. It amused him he sometimes had to remind her of the fact.

"Okay, okay," she said, waving her hands, "but the point is, we have to be careful ... and stop trying to get under my skin." She gave one of her many playful swings.

"What about Savoy?" It was important he know about the man.

"A pretty good guy in my experience," she said, nodding her head, "and much more approachable than most senior people. I know you plan on sneaking up on the guy ... which makes me uneasy. But it shouldn't be much of a problem. I know how you are, and his security detachment is much less robust than someone like the president or vice president. Hell, the guy even runs to the drugstore by himself sometimes."

"How should I approach him?"

"I been thinking about that." Max adopted a quiet and conspiratorial voice. "Starting day after tomorrow, his wife is going to be out of town for a few days, visiting military dependents on the West Coast. He cuts loose when she's out of town. If he's true to form, he'll go out at least one night alone, eating wings and drinking two, maybe three beers."

"Guy sounds like he's positively off the leash."

"Yeah," she said, "he isn't your typical marine. He's sort of cerebral and is one of those guys who feels having a security det is a complete waste of taxpayer money ... and hot wings are his hidden delight. So that should work out well for you."

She paused for a moment. There was a look on her face he'd seen many times before, when she wanted to say something but didn't know how to approach the subject.

"Why don't you just blurt it out, Max."

"I ... I sort of ... he and I go back a long way, even before you and I worked together. So I was happy and surprised when he got pegged for SecDef ... which is why I have such easy access to him. He's actually a few levels above me in the food chain ...."

"Max ...," he said patiently.

"If people found out the two of you were meeting, it would go very bad for him professionally. Les isn't a real political guy ... though he understands it better than I do."

"Max ...." Sometimes she just needed some friendly prompting.

"I think he's sort of expecting you to show up. I've told him quite a lot about you," she said with an apologetic wince. "I sort of think that's why he sent his wife on this last-minute trip to Seattle."

"Why didn't you just say that? ... Max, what's going on?"

"Oh, I can't explain it." The lovely woman took several long and exasperated breaths. "The mushroom cloud from the death of that man Morse and from Mallory Chaney's disappearance is still rising."

"How exactly?"

She leaned closer to him across the kitchen table and laced her fingers. "Uh ... where to begin," she nearly whispered. "Apparently, Morse was the only thing keeping those people of his in line ...."

"They scattered to the wind?"

"Some of them did," she replied in words just above a whisper. "Most of them just come and go as they please. Some have been scooped up by other agencies, some freelance while keeping their day jobs with the government. There are more rumors flying about, with less real detail, than at any time I've ever seen .... People are scared, and I mean really scared, now even more than last year."

Tommy couldn't keep the sadness and disappointment from his voice. "Morse and Chaney falling off the board made things worse, didn't it?"

"In a way, yeah," she said in a tone that was oddly encouraging. "Fear makes people do heedless and cruel things. And, oh, Christ, so many people are seeing Chaney's absence as a chance to cash in, to turn things to their political advantage. But ... I don't think I ever fully expressed to you the horror I felt at what was happening in Montana and Utah. Everyone knew that program existed ... but no one knew exactly what they were doing. As little dribs and drabs of information have come out about what was being done there, people have been mortified. I think there are some principled folks that want to stand up against this nonsense."

"The president doesn't know about us, does he?"

She made a slight gagging sound. "That's only a matter of time, even with Brannon playing goal-keeper around him." She leaned on her elbows and brought her intertwined fingers to her mouth. "It's anybody's guess what role Brannon played at Hollirich, but it's clear he's setting himself up to pick up where Chaney left off. He doesn't have a fraction of her political influence, but ...."

"... he has the president's ear," he finished.

"I don't know how long he thinks he can keep it up ... but that's a reflection of the hubris in that administration. I've never seen such a poisonous mixture of willful stupidity and braindead cocksureness."

"But when the man does find out?"

Max said nothing, but a pained look crossed her face.

"I'm not going to fret about it, then," he continued, "at least not for now. For now, let's just worry about the SecDef; Jot down his address, and I'll go take a quick look around his place tonight." He gave a laugh. "And don't get that worried look on your face. Everything will work out fine."

"Ugh ... Jesus," she muttered as she reached for a pen and paper.

***

Tommy left Max to her rest at about an hour before midnight and found a dark alley near the Potomac River to launch into flight. It wasn't at first clear where he should go. Certainly, a short reconnaissance of the area around the SecDef's home would be in order—that was the excuse he gave to Max—but such a thing might wait until tomorrow.

No, tonight he needed to think. It was his first chance to do so alone and undistracted by the company of others since this most recent crisis had begun. Tommy had a sharp and clever mind, but the complexities of modern life sometimes required him simply to clear his mind and to think. He was the least methodical thinker imaginable, and merely walking and pondering was a way in which answers often came to him, unbidden, as if sprung from another mind.

After a few minutes aloft, he dropped onto the dark rooftop of a building near Dupont Circle, one of the trendier areas of Washington, and spent some time on the ledge watching late-night revelers come and go, mulling over recent events. It was only after another 90 or so minutes had passed that the omnipresent tug of hunger pulled him down to the street, and he spent some time weaving in and out of the various eateries and taverns for which that area of the Capital was famous.

Throughout, he pondered, ignoring the partiers and tourists and the occasional amorous rams and ewes who paused to gawk at his false beauty. It was easy enough to do. He'd been ignoring or fending off the advances of others for centuries.

But his thoughts? Nothing came to him, at least not straight away.

Several times he passed by old haunts and on one occasion strolled past a townhouse a half block off of Massachusetts Avenue that for some years had been his home. The quaint and stately building, now the embassy of some tiny statelet he'd scarcely heard of, tugged at his heart. The world was littered with such pleasant reminders for him.

Max's words had stirred much. There was no question more things were at play than he now imagined. The world had always been complex, but now it was positively Labyrinth. He'd toyed briefly with the idea of what he might do to Race Brannon when he got his hooks into the man, but banished such thoughts immediately. Max had made it even more clear during their short meeting: the disappearance of the former vice president had scared living hell out of a great many powerful people in the federal government. And Tommy likewise had been around long enough to know that Max's words were true. Frightened people often do heedless and foolish things. More disappearances of powerful and high-profile folks would be counterproductive to any effort Tommy made to keep his friends safe.

Brannon was a part of the conspiracy against them, and he no doubt played a role in the death of Amy Lascar and countless others, but his name would have to go on the short list Tommy kept in the back of his mind of those who needed punishment. All were architects of the nightmare, and all would pay sooner or later.

That was a great part about living forever. He could afford to be patient.

But what else was at play?

The raid on their New York home suggested that he likely had been under some sort of direct surveillance, despite his care and precautions. It was something that couldn't be avoided, but it also meant there probably were government agents who had watched him closely enough to have learned his face, at least their own versions of it. The peculiarities of the Gift meant they could not share that appearance with others—he appeared different to every person, after all—but it meant there were government people who could recognize him. It was something to keep in mind.

Even before speaking with Max, it had dawned on him some time before that there likely were more players involved in what was going on regarding the Gifted than Tommy knew. It only made sense. The existence of people like him was an open secret, and always had been, one known to many thousands of officials and workers throughout government. The expansion of the military-intelligence state in recent years, and the involvement of companies like Hollirich and Valhalla, had only drawn more people into the know.

And it would be foolish to think there weren't other corporate players looking to monetize the existence of people with special powers. Without a big mover and shaker like Mallory Chaney at the head of things, there could well be a mad dash to profit from the knowledge. If nothing else, the filthy rich often knew no shame or self-control. There was no difficulty imagining a world wherein every tycoon would want a bulletproof bodyguard or hyper-accurate assassin. Really, the rich and entitled being what they were, some might just want a superpowered plaything, if for no other reason than to keep up with the Joneses—or whatever the billionaire version of the Joneses might be.

"Oh, Jeez," he said aloud at the thought.

No, he couldn't contemplate that now. The best they could do for now was keep their ears to the ground and try their level best to watch one another's backs. And if that meant needing to make friends in the government? Well, Tommy had made compromises before to keep others safe. He would do so again. Too many people were counting on him.

By that time, several hours had passed, and he'd made his leisurely way northwest on Massachusetts, away from the restaurants and clubs of Dupont Circle. Turning on his heel now, he began to retrace his steps and did so at the same sedate and thoughtful pace. From time to time, faster walkers would overtake him and pass him along the narrow sidewalk, almost always with a quiet and polite "pardon" or "excuse me" or with a civil smile or sideways nod of the head.

A half a hundred paces after reversing his course, another polite murmur and the faint tread of footsteps announced another group was preparing to pass him by. Tommy stepped aside, nodded politely in reply, and as they passed stole a quick glance at the trio, two men and a woman who spoke to one another in subdued Mandarin Chinese. Each was tall, strong, and attractive.

All three were Gifted.