The guys drove me as far as Battery Park. From there, I caught the northbound 2 train and rode two stops to the rendezvous point. Leaving the subway, I peeked about to see whether anyone was paying me special attention.

Ideally I would've taken the train all the way from New Jersey and not risked being seen in the Vanagon. Durwood had said the travel times were too variable, though—he wanted to be on-site early but not too early.

A few men in suits stopped looking abruptly when I caught their gaze, but they were forty-somethings: not Mice. A girl wearing sparkle-seamed tights, 16 or 17, followed me up the escalator and for a block on Barclay before splitting off to a cellphone store.

In the clear.

I undid the top button of my knit sweater as I approached the office park. The instructions had been to dress "corporate-ish," which I interpreted as business casual, a more natural look for me than slacker-blogger. I could manage fitting into Lower Manhattan.

I wondered how the other Mice would do. How would Piper Jackson? Or Hatch with his angry head-to-toe tattoos?

Skyscrapers rose in all directions, sheer facades of black glass and steel. Wingtips rushed by, clip-clomp, and cart vendors wielded tongs and traded paper-wrapped souvlaki for cash. I learned long ago to keep my head down and walk in the city—even when lost, especially when lost—but still the tops of buildings pulled my chin. Precarious, nudging the cloud cover. Crossing the street, I glanced up the skyline gap and spotted the tallest spire of them all. The Freedom Tower.

I hadn't seen it so often that it had become just another building. For me, the Freedom Tower meant 9/11. Nineteen men wanting to make a statement so badly that they hijacked jumbo jets, sacrificed their own lives, sacrificed the lives of thousands of innocents.

What statement did Josiah want to make today?

I descended a half-flight to a recessed plaza. Offices rose on three sides, floor upon floor of workers engaged in their daily routine. Commodities traders. Florists. Private equity firms. A corporate hive.

I had not expected to come today. I'd told Quaid no chance, I was done with the job. He had been working the money angle hard—possibly having caught a glimpse of my MortgageStar notice, which informed me "Due to instability in credit markets, our new Terms of Service include a modest* overage charge," then extra tiny at the bottom, "*350% monthly APR on carryover balance."

I didn't care. Not after Ted Blackstone. Every time my thoughts drifted back to that night, shivers shot through me. I had been present for a murder. I hadn't stopped it—hadn't even tried to stop it. My escape had been a fluke. The guys had theories, some kind of diversion or frequency jamming, but I wasn't interested. I divided the next days equally between prayer and random hugs of my children. "Mom, stop the lameness," Zach complained into my shoulder blades, but I couldn't.

Quaid eventually figured this out and changed tack. He explained now was the safest time to reengage with the Mice—they would never dream of launching another risky attack this soon after a close shave.

Yeah, right.

I had seen what the Mice were capable of. I didn't know if Josiah had gone temporarily out of his mind in Ted Blackstone's baronial study, or found his true mind, or what. But I knew this: an office park in Lower Manhattan was not a setting you downshifted into.

I had begun scoping out options to replace my lost $2000 per week. I had called Rainey Personnel hoping to be connected to a fresh liaison, but Chad must've been watching caller ID—he picked up on the first ring and cheerfully informed me that after the First Mutual debacle, I was persona non grata. "Oh and you'll be happy to know we're the only firm with jobs; the unrest has basically obliterated new temp opportunities."

The ring tone was fresh in my ear when Durwood appeared at the kitchen threshold, clearing his throat.

"I'll protect you."

He said he had failed me. He said he wouldn't fail me again, those steel-gray eyes level on mine. Sue-Ann sat rigidly at his side, one arthritic hip twitching.

So here I was.

I scanned the plaza for familiar faces. At first, I saw none, only mass humanity streaming in and out of revolving doors. Then a few dots in the crowd resolved themselves—a flock of purple hair, the gait of a young man circulating through the plaza without going anywhere.

The Mice.

Now I saw them, one after another like the first counter-top ant outbreak of the spring. My pulse accelerated. Piper Jackson! There she was in a brown delivery-service uniform, her back against a pillar, looking at a tablet that an outsider would assume was a confirmation device.

She wouldn't want me engaging her out in the open. At the same time—wasn't it incredibly dangerous for all of us to be hanging out here, in one place, in public? Dozens of cameras must have been watching us; what if the police or FBI had facial-recognition software? What if Blackstone's security system had captured images—images that were sitting in some database now?

Even if there was no grander technology at work, we were a large group of jumpy kids with no obvious reason to be here. We were bound to arouse suspicion.

This attack, whatever it was, had better happen soon.

A voice behind me, hoarse: "You're here."

I turned. Garrison looked like a GQ model in a slim dress shirt, bunched at the chest.

"Where are we supposed to go?" I asked. "Have you heard?"

He bent to my ear. "Somebody said they saw a package."

"Like a—so like a package for ..." I trailed off without finishing.

Now a college girl in a badly-fitting blazer, probably her mother's, rushed up to us. "Okay do you guys know the plan?"

Garrison started to answer, but I pulled them both by the sleeves underneath the awning of a travel goods store.

"We need to blend," I told them. "Let's browse—if you work in an office, you get to browse after lunch."

As we fingered neck pillows and massage doodads, I observed through the window. The Mice I recognized continued to mill about the plaza, looking ill-at-ease, tugging at unfamiliar clothes. Businessmen and women streamed through by sideways and subterranean wells, but fewer with each passing minute—it was nearly 1:30. Food carts were shutting down, vendors gathering napkins and scraping griddles.

This nearest cart sold hot dogs and bratwurst. I did a double-take at the size of the cook, who kept ducking to miss pots and pans hanging from above. He wore a hat, sleeves, and high-fastening collar. From this distance, his face almost looked ... green.

Hatch.

I hustled out of the store, instructing Graham and the college girl to wait.

A man in a puffy New York Giants coat was gazing at Hatch's menu board. I waited for him to clear off, then walked swiftly to the order window.

"Hey!"

Hatch kept wiping down a baking sheet with a rag.

"I think most of us're here," I whispered. "We probably need to—"

"Outta meat," he interrupted.

His eyes roamed beyond me. In his off hand, the hand without the rag, he held a silver circular device.

"People are, uh—the onions are getting soggy," I said, hoping he'd pick up my meaning. "You should know."

He clenched his teeth. Seeming to notice something behind me, he clicked the circular device. Counter? Stopwatch?

"Out. Of. Meat," he repeated. "Try me tomorrow."

I turned away from the cart, bewildered. Why would Hatch disguise himself as a sausage vendor? Why risk interacting with all those customers? The cart did have plenty of space—had he needed to smuggle something in? Something large?

That package Garrison mentioned?

The phone chimed. A text from Durwood.

any sign of Wack?

"Wack" was the guys' codename for Josiah. I faltered a moment, then decided texting was consistent with my cover—both covers, for the guys and the Mice.

None, I tapped out.

been told the target?

Nothing yet.

correspond when you have it.

Durwood's responses came instantaneously. I couldn't imagine his work-worn hands navigating a cellphone like a teenager's, but apparently they could.

Will do, I sent.

what was in his hand? metal or plastic?

I swiveled my head around the plaza, not spotting the Vanagon. How had Durwood seen into Hatch's cart? Had he placed high-powered cameras somewhere? I knew Durwood did this. Quaid said the ex-marine was known to stay up all night prepping a mission site.

Metal I think.

Durwood did not answer this, and I returned to the travel goods store. After filling in Garrison, who now had a trio of female Mice with him, I watched the plaza. I found Piper Jackson again, now using a different pillar for cover, hunched intently over her tablet.

A lanky security guard seemed to have taken an interest. He was drifting her way, holding his earpiece, possibly speaking into a mic. I wondered again if the authorities had pictures of us. Maybe they had artist renderings of just the key figures like Piper.

What happened if they nabbed her? The contract with American Dynamics—as I understood it—called for Josiah's capture. What if Piper gave Josiah up under interrogation? If the police got Josiah, was the job over? Was I off the hook?

What if Piper gave us all up?

Garrison said, "Maybe we should go look for an Algernon."

He and his girl posse were huddled near the exit, seeming bored with the store's Sharper Image fare.

"A what?" I said.

"Algernon," he repeated. The word echoed with some memory—from childhood? "That's what the leaders are called."

"Who, like Hatch and Piper?"

He nodded. Feathery bangs covered half his left eye. "And Josiah."

I beckoned him to the window and pointed out Piper. Shoulders brushing, we watched the security guard approach her.

My stomach clenched. I felt Garrison's warm grip on my sweater.

The guard asked Piper a question. She turned sharply, then, noticing the uniform, swiped her tablet and showed him something on-screen. The man squinted, then looked up and pointed across the plaza to one of the skyscrapers.

Piper seemed to nod her understanding, then thanked him.

The guard left.

"Fake-out!" Garrison said. "She pretended she couldn't find an address."

I smiled in spite of the fact the guard might've foiled this operation, sending me back home to my children. I was wearing so many disguises—layer upon layer of deceit—that I could hardly keep straight how to feel, who or what to root for. Fear of discovery was the only constant.

As Piper had dealt with her inquisitive security guard, Hatch had finished closing up. He cinched a tarp snug over the cart's facade and crossed the plaza to Piper. He handed her a wrapped hot dog, which she paid for in cash.

More disguises. More deceit.

The towering Libertarian made Piper look like a child. The two spoke for a minute or more, their postures closed. Hatch keep glancing back over his shoulder at the cart.

Why?

What could be inside?

A hot, sour sensation spread through my body. Whatever the Blind Mice had started—movement? outcry? revolution?—kept turning darker. The murder of Ted Blackstone had repulsed some but attracted others. A vicious element had crept into the copycat pranks sweeping the land. A social media CEO in Silicon Valley had been executed, also by knife. Quaid's friend Sergio, the major, had been egged on the steps of city hall. The stakes kept raising. Where would it go next?

I thought my heart couldn't get any sicker, and then things got infinitely worse.

Walking into the plaza in a suit that almost—almost—prevented me from recognizing him, was my son Zach.