"You ever do any jail time?"

"Nope ... well, 'cept for a few days in the brig back in 'Naam."

"I liked it," Tommy said with a smile that was almost smug. "It was relaxing, damn relaxing. Nothing to do but play cards, hang out with the fellas. There's always some thug who doesn't mind giving up his bacon ... no, I mean bacon-bacon, the breakfast kind," he added in response to the strange look Sam shot him. "Prisons have come a long way."

"I ain't going to jail or prison," the old man growled. "I value my freedom too much ... and I ain't giving it up for any type of breakfast meat."

"Well, all I'm saying is they don't live too bad there. I'm sure it would get boring after a while, but there's much to be said for a life of no responsibilities. And, shit, they live better at Cook County lockup than the average person did just a hundred years ago."

"Okay ... I might see that part ... the bit about no responsibilities." Sam pursed his lips. "But even you gotta sleep. Wouldn't you worry about all them bacon-less convicts getting together and slipping up on your ass when you were snoozing?"

"Nope. I don't hafta sleep." Tommy stretched in his seat, still smug.

"Oh, bullshit," said Sam. "I know you ain't gotta sleep much, but even you have to catch a wink sooner or later."

"Nope." Sam's friend shook his head complacently.

"The fuck you say...."

There was a silence, which finally was too much for Tommy.

"No, really," he protested, looking over several times to where Sam sat next to him in the driver's seat. "I don't hafta sleep."

"Not at all?"

"No."

Sam's curiosity was piqued, as it so often was around his younger looking friend. The old Chicagoan needed little sleep, could easily go many days without it. But even he needed to rest sometimes. He'd assumed Tommy was the same. "Is it like ... a Gift?"

"No ... I can't figure how." Tommy twisted his lips several ways. "I mean, it might be the side effect of some Gift I acquired along the way, but I don't think so. I never slept much, and one day I just realized I didn't need it at all."

They drove for some minutes, with Tommy from time to time pointing out a new change of direction. This time, it was Sam who couldn't bear the silence.

"I've seen you sleep, motherfucker," he finally burst out, "just a few days ago."

"No, I can sleep. I do it a lot with Rhonda, and sometimes just to break up the days, and, yeah ... I caught a few winks after being mindfucked. I just don't have to."

Sam could feel himself getting agitated and had to will himself to calm down. He still was discovering things about one of his oldest friends.

"So, how do you know?" Sam struggled to adopt his normal keel. "What's the longest you've been without sleep?"

"I once went without sleep for a hundred years, just to see if I could do it."

"Fuck you," Sam shouted, his agitation back in a flash.

"Sam, I shit you not. I don't need to sleep."

The oldster steered the truck into a gas station and taxied up to the pumps. "Hey, fetch me a soda and a bag of chips while I fill up."

Tommy made his way into the convenience store, and Sam's mellow mood soon sank back into place. He mused about their day and about what their final destination might be. "Motherfucker doesn't sleep," he giggled under his breath.

It was just past 2:00 pm, and they'd been on Fleener's trail all day. The mercenary's path had led them all over Chicago and the northern suburbs, often crossing back over itself for no apparent reason. It had become clear early on that the felon was making some amateurish attempt to avoid being followed, which, Tommy had asserted, was reason to believe they were on the right track to find the man's comrades.

But stopping to check out every place Fleener had halted was time-consuming. They'd even lost his spoor several times, but Tommy's keen senses always got them back on the trail.

When they'd reached the outskirts of Lake Forest, one of the ritzier communities along the North Shore, the two friends had suspected their objective might be getting closer. Fleener had been out of the hospital less than a day and simply couldn't have travelled far using only surface roads. What's more, his scent was getting progressively fresher.

"What're we gonna do if this guy leads us to his Gifted buddies?" Sam asked as the two men climbed back into the vehicle.

"You mean in light of Camille's miserable adventure with Summerall?"

Sam nodded as he started the car and took them back on the road.

A still-angry Camille had called in the wee hours of the morning and told them of their capture of Summerall and the felon's subsequent release into federal custody. She and Eric were making enquiries, but it wasn't clear if their prisoner had been transferred to a federal lockup or simply had been released by his patrons.

"I been thinking about that since we spoke with Camille." For a moment, Tommy seemed at a loss for words. "I reckon we could give them a good talking to?"

The Chicagoan chuckled dryly.

"Sam, I'm not joking."

The two men exchanged pained looks.

"Come on, what're we gonna do?" Tommy asked. "Call the local police? Let's just assume the local cops have enough to charge these guys. But guess what happens. I guarantee the feds will show up with a warrant and Merrick and Davisson will disappear. If the feds immediately let them go, then we wasted our fucking time. But what's the other option?"

Sam knew.

"The other option," continued Tommy, "is that those two disappear down a government oubliette somewhere." A heavy silence followed, Tommy slowly shaking his head all the while. "I have no problem with those assholes rotting in the bottom of some rancid dungeon. They deserve that and a lot worse. What I have a problem with is the government thinking they have the right to do that to someone ... to anyone. Because we both know Uncle Sam doesn't stop with disappearing people like Summerall and Merrick. I'd rather kill those guys myself."

Sam didn't know what to say. They drove on, again in silence, as Tommy nibbled at some cookies.

Eventually, he spoke again. "But I don't want to kill anyone. So ... I'm going to take a chapter from a book by my friend Sam Babington. When we catch up to these idiots, I suggest we talk to them and try to get them to cleave to the straight and narrow. If they can convince both of us that they've seen the light, then we'll send them on their way. If they don't ... well, I don't know what to do. We'll figure it out on the fly. Either way, they're going to tell us everything about this gang of theirs. And I mean everything."

Sam nodded. It was a bad plan, a damned bad plan, but one he could live with. There were no good options at this point. At least he could see none. He wanted to talk about something else ... anything else.

"Hey," said Sam, "you never said how you got in and out of the lockup the other day. Or is this another thing I don't want to know about?"

Tommy began to laugh. "Maybe a little. I won't tell all my secrets, but I've gotten good at skulking around and hiding in shadows over the years."

"Even as big as you are?"

"Even as big as I am."

"So ... not a Gift?"

"Nah, just years of practice. It's a great survival tool, and I've earned my living on and off sneaking in and out of places."

"Thus, your familiarity with jails?"

Tommy's reply was another bout of laughter.

A set of lights in the rearview mirror caught Sam's attention, and he cursed bitterly. "Motherfucker. This is the fourth time I've been pulled over since I've owned this truck." Bringing the vehicle to a stop alongside the road, he pulled his license and proof of insurance from his wallet and the registration from the glove box. It was some minutes before the officer came along the window.

"Doing some work in the neighborhood, are you?" the officer asked brusquely. The area of Lake Forest through which they were driving was decidedly upscale. Sam's work truck was not.

"My friend's just giving me a lift home, officer," said Tommy. The officer pulled up short when he saw the man in the passenger seat. Apparently, the policeman liked what he saw, because the man's demeanor turned volte-face.

"Where's that?" the man asked in newfound politeness.

Tommy fired off an address.

"Oh, okay ... well, drive safe." The police officer returned to his vehicle without a further word.

Sam sat for a moment with his hand on the key before turning the ignition. He was astonished, but he didn't know why. Such stops were commonplace. Officers often provided only the flimsiest pretext.

"Every man should own a white boy, for just such emergencies," he said as he started the engine. He looked over. Tommy seemed equally shocked, an occurrence so rare Sam felt a twinge he couldn't photograph it.

"The guy didn't even pretend it was a traffic stop," his friend said.

"Nope," Sam replied. "He didn't even ask to see my documents. Welcome to America."

They continued along their route for another 15 minutes, until the trail they followed veered into a small area along Lake Michigan. It was a posh neighborhood of opulent midsized houses, older and much nicer than McMansions, but with a few larger homes that gracefully had been carved into apartments or condominiums.

Tommy asked Sam to stop, and he hopped from the vehicle. He disappeared for a few minutes, before walking back and then off toward another side street.

He returned to the pickup after another few minutes "He's gone now but Fleener was at that house three doors up for some time. We should take a peek."

Sam looked around, saw a suitable parking spot, and left the truck there. He and Tommy walked the half block to a handsome brick two-story that looked as if it recently had been remodeled. With no hesitation, Sam's friend walked up and knocked on the door.

A man of about 25 years, clad only in shorts, answered the door. Without preamble, Tommy reached out with is left hand and flipped the man hard across the nose with a single finger, before pushing him into the foyer.

"Who else is in the house?" he demanded as Sam followed them inside and closed the door behind them.

Tommy had pegged the man as Gifted straight away—Sam couldn't always discern such things so swiftly—and since the fellow lacked great physical attributes, the man who answered the door must be Davisson.

"Motherfucker," the man howled. Tommy flipped his nose again, bullied him into the front room, and tossed him on the couch.

"Who's in that room?" Tommy pointed toward a half-closed door on the east side of the building.

"My girlfriend," the man smirked. "She's sleeping."

Another flip across the nose was his reward.

"You put your mojo on me a few days ago. You try it again, and my friend here will start breaking bones. Now where is Merrick?"

The young man gave a defiant look. "Who?"

Tommy flipped the man even harder, this time on the left ear. It sounded like a bullwhip cracking.

"Motherfucker," the young man shrieked, nearly jumping from his seat on the couch. "You think I'm fucking scared of you?" he screamed.

Another hard flip.

Sam knew what his friend was doing. It wasn't mere torture. Both men were aware that folks with mental Gifts almost always needed deep concentration to use them. A crack across the nose or ear was more than just a way to effect compliance. It was a tactic to keep a powerful adversary from casting his own punch.

The most recent flip didn't intimidate Davisson or force him to comply. It merely infuriated him more.

"Scream all you want, you little fucker. The apartments upstairs, and the houses on either side, are empty. The only person you're likely to wake up is your girlfriend ...."

A look of surprise and alarm crossed Tommy's face, and he flipped Davisson hard alongside his head with two fingers. The man fell backward and let out another series of screams and threats.

"Watch him," Tommy said before stepping toward the half-closed door.

As soon as Sam's companion moved in that direction a pitiable and frightened cry could be heard from the room. Tommy disappeared behind the door. Sam slapped Davisson across the face and nose several times before Tommy reemerged several minutes later.

Looking down on Davisson as Tommy returned, Sam saw a look on the man's face that made him want to strangle him. It was that look, a flat smirk, a teenaged boy might get when caught doing something horribly wrong but knowing his parents wouldn't punish him.

Moments later, the cocky young prick lay unconscious on the floor, the recipient of a short, sharp punch to the chin from Tommy Haas.

"I'll be back in ten minutes," he told Sam briskly.

"That's not a girlfriend, is it?"

"I'm taking her to the hospital."

Sam began to protest.

"I'll explain later. Tie him up ... pop him every once in a while, to make sure he's really out. If Merrick shows up ... fucking break his neck, I don't give a shit ...."

Sam realized there was a growing look of concern and fury on Tommy's face.

"I'll take care of everything ... do what you have to do," Sam reassured him.

Tommy disappeared behind the door, and a few minutes later a sudden change in air pressure in the apartment told Sam the sliding glass door of the room, which seemed to be a bedroom, had been opened. Glancing out a window, it dawned on him that it was still daylight.

He never flies when people can see him, the old Chicagoan thought. A faint pang of he knew not what twisted in his belly.

Sam spent the next minutes amusing himself by giving flips and slaps to the motionless Davisson. In between, he leafed through any papers he could find and gathered all the electronics present. It was close to 15 minutes before Tommy returned, entering through the same door from which he had departed.

"Still un-mojo-ed, I see," said Tommy in a faint voice.

"Yeah, he slept like a baby. There isn't much here, but I grabbed what papers there are and the tablets and phones for Philly."

"That'll excite her," Tommy replied. "I'm sorry ... there are probably going to be some more online videos."

Sam wasn't too upset. Tommy didn't photograph well, so any videos of him would be unidentifiable and doubtless would appear fake.

"But we couldn't call the police or paramedics here," his friend continued. "She didn't know how she got here, and ... I think she got a peep at you through the door when she came around from Davisson's hoodoo."

Sam understood. His prints were in the apartment, and his vehicle had been pulled over not far away. Even though the officer who'd stopped them hadn't checked his ID, the truck's tags were registered to the Trust that owned their home.

"I couldn't let this place become a crime scene," said Tommy as he gave the still unconscious Davisson an ungentle kick to the groin. He put his arm around Sam. "Welcome to America."

Sam couldn't help but laugh.

"Do you mind driving home alone?" Tommy asked.

"What's up?"

"My charitable mood from earlier has lapsed. I want to have a serious talk with this guy ... and ... I know how you feel about heights."

"You are a persuasive cuss," he replied. "Let me find a box to stick all this junk in, and I'm outta here."

Ten minutes later, Sam was driving south toward the city, wondering if he ever, truly would understand his friend. There was no question Tommy was sheltering him from things, as he often had done the previous year, making decisions on issues about which he knew Sam would be deeply conflicted—he was doing so at that very moment with Davisson.

Burying their heads in the sand for 25 years had led them to this dreadful impasse, and, as Tommy had pointed out, their actions last year had only bought them some time. Something newer and perhaps more dangerous now was afoot. He couldn't for the life of him decipher why the government was supporting such gross criminality, but they apparently were. Even in the unlikely event Summerall, Merrick, and the others were operating on their own, outside government authority, the actions of that crew eventually would prompt a backlash against all people like them.

It was evident to Sam now that none of them would remain safe while always staying clearly within the bounds of the law.

That realization troubled the otherwise law-abiding citizen that Sam was. He felt hardly a twinge of guilt over his bloody actions a year before at The Range, where he had found and rescued the girls. That episode had been clear self-defense. He struggled, though, not to think of the disappearance of Mallory Chaney and all that incident represented. It was a subject he'd never broached with Tommy—good Lord—but Sam knew. The woman's sudden disappearance filled his belly with ice. But did they have any alternative to such actions? Had it not also been its own kind of self-defense?

Was it too much to ask simply to be let alone?