Quaid believed in Molly McGill.

Molly didn't answer the door, though. The grandmother did.

"Why, color me damned," she said, yanking the screen door. "The louse returns. Whorehouses all kick you out?"

Quaid grinned. "Hello, Eunice. How are you this fine morning?"

Her seamed face turned askance. "What're you here for?"

"We were hoping for a word with Molly if she's around."

He opened his shoulders to give the octogenarian a full view of the porch, where stood Durwood Oak Jones and his dog, Sue-Ann. They made an odd sight. Quaid and Durwood shared the same vital stats, 6'1" 180-some pounds, but God himself could not have poured two more different molds. Quaid in sportcoat, softish, suntanned forearms and mussed-just-so blond hair. Durwood removing his hat and casting steel-colored eyes about with a humble air, bluejeans pulled down over his boots' piping. The mottled dog rasping like any breath could be her last.

Eunice stabbed a finger toward Durwood. "He can come in. But you need to turn right around. My granddaughter wants nothing to do with cads like you."

Behind her, a voice called, "Granny, I can handle this."

Eunice bared her dentures. "You're a no-good man. I know it, you know it, my granddaughter knows it." Veins showed through the chicken-y skin of her neck. "Go on, hop a flight back to your whores and Hollywood buddies!"

Quaid gave her a wide berth, trusting the woman's control of neither her bony fists nor Polygripped chompers. He actually lived in San Diego, a distinction lost on Eunice, for whom Hollywood and all of SoCal constituted a single unbroken Gomorrah.

"Sorry Eunice," he said, "but Durwood drove the van up from West Virginia. We're sticking a while."

Before she could object, Molly appeared. Bending to slip on a shoe, wriggling past her mother with a kid's jacket tucked under one elbow. Even in the worst domestic throes, Molly McGill could have charmed slime off a senator. Those freckles, the dimpled smile oozing wholesomeness. And that body, just enough va-voom to push Quaid's thoughts in decidedly unwholesome directions.

He said, "Can't you beat a 74-year-old woman to the door?"

Molly staggered into her second shoe. "Can we please just not? It's been a crazy morning."

"I know the type." Quaid smacked his hands together. "So hey. We have a job for you."

"Oh really? You're a little late. McGill Investigators closed. I have a real job starting in 53 minutes."

"What kind?"

"Reception," she said. "First Mutual, three months."

"Temp work?" Quaid asked.

"I was supposed to start with the board of psychological examiners, but the position fell through."

"How?"

"Funding ran out. The governor disbanded the board."

"So First Mutual ...?"

Molly's eyes, big and leprechaun green, fell. "Is temp work. Yeah."

"You're criminally overqualified, McGill." Quaid stooped as he said this, feeling the injustice in his own gut. "Let's talk, get this straightened out."

He breezed inside to the living room. Durwood and Sue-Ann followed, Sue without a leash but keeping a perfect twenty-inch heel at her master's side.

Two kids poked their heads around the kitchen door-frame. The boy was Zach. No forgetting Zach. What was the girl's name? As Quaid groped back in memory, he waggled his fingers at her.

Molly said, "Zach, Karen—please wait upstairs. I'm speaking with these men."

There it was: Karen. The boy argued he should be able to stay; upstairs sucked; wasn't she the one who said they had to leave, like, right that second—

"This is not a negotiation!" Molly said, and when he kept it up, "Watch a video, alright? Go find a video about asteroids or photosynthesis."

They bounded off.

Molly sighed. "I just sent my tardy children off to watch videos. I am officially the worst parent ever."

Quaid glanced around the living room. The floor was clutter-free, but toys jammed the shelves of the coffee table. Stray fibers stuck up from the carpet, which had faded beige from its original color. Yellow? Ivory?

"Quite the contrary—you're an outstanding parent. You work hard. You do what's best for your children. That's why you're going to take this assignment."

The most effective means of winning a person over, Quaid had learned in his many years wooing opposition lawmakers, was to identify and frankly articulate their objective, then explain how your proposal brought it closer. Part two was always trickier.

"The client is American Dynamics, and they've got deep pockets. You help us pull this off, all your money troubles go poof."

A glint pierced Molly's skeptical expression. "Okay. Listening."

"You've heard of the Blind Mice, these anarchist hackers?"

"I—well yes, just this morning from Zach. He has their T-shirt."

"Why am I not shocked by that?" Quaid muttered. "Anyway, here's the deal. We need someone to infiltrate them."

Molly blinked. Twice.

Quaid kicked one tasseled loafer behind the other, looked to Durwood.

The latter said, "Y'be great, Moll. You're young. Personable. People trust you."

"Me?" Molly's eyes were approaching grapefruit size. "What did you call them, anarchist hackers? I just started paying bills online."

"No tech knowledge required," Quaid said. "We have a plan."

He gave her the nickel summary. The Blind Mice had singled out twelve corporate targets, "the Despicable Dozen," and American Dynamics topped the list. In recent months AmDye—whose various divisions spanned the global economy—had seen its websites under constant attack, its factories slowed by computer glitches, internal documents leaked, the CEO's home egged repeatedly. Government agencies from FBI to NYPD were pursuing the Mice, but the company was troubled by the lack of progress and so had hired freelancers Quaid and Durwood to take them down.

The guys would have handled it themselves if not for the Mice's challenging demographics: Durwood was a whiz with facial prosthetics, but even he couldn't transform Quaid believably into the mid-twenties.

"Sounds dangerous," Molly said.

"Naw." Quaid spread his arms wide. "You'd be in the care of Third Chance Enterprises. No danger whatsoever."

Like the politician he had once been, Quaid delivered this line of questionable veracity with full sincerity. Then turned to his partner. "Right, Wood? She won't have a thing to worry about."

Durwood thinned his lips. "Mm."

This response, typical of the soldier he had been, was unhelpful to the cause.

Molly said, "Who takes care of my kids if something happens, if they sniff me out? Would I have to commit actual crimes?"

"Unlikely."

"Unlikely? I'll tell you what's unlikely: getting hired just about anywhere with a felony conviction on your application ..."

As McGill niggled on, Quaid felt Durwood's disapproval like an extra person in the room. Durwood thought the job was beyond Molly. She's twelve credit-hours short of a PhD!, Quaid had argued. Mm-hm, Durwood countered, Psychology. The few times they'd used her before had been secondary: posing as a flight attendant during the foiled Delta hijacking, later as a librarian for the American embassy in Rome. Durwood felt they needed a professional. Kitty Ravensdale. Rosamond. The Zhāng twins.

A professional would've been nice, but the Third Chance coffers—which Quaid alone managed—were not exactly overflowing. Quaid figured Molly could rise to the occasion. He believed in her.

She, apparently, did not fully reciprocate the belief.

"Also, I have to say," she continued, and from the sass in her voice, Quaid knew where they were headed, "I find it curious that I don't hear from you for six months, and then you need my help, and all of a sudden you're on my doorstep. You think you can waltz in here with no regard—"

"I apologize," Quaid said. "We got busy. The Dubai job ran long, then those Guadeloupean resort workers got hit by a second hurricane. How awful's that, right? Everything at once. I shoulda called."

Molly's flaring face cooled, and Quaid saw that he'd not lost her.

Not yet.

Before either said more, a heavy ker-klack sounded outside.

"What's the racket?" Quaid asked. He peeked out the window at the Vanagon, which looked no more beat-up than usual.

"It's been going on all morning," Molly said. "I figured it was construction."

Quaid said, "Construction in this economy? In this neighborhood?"

He looked to Durwood.

"I'll check 'er out." The ex-Marine turned for the door. Sue-Ann, heaving up laboriously off the carpet, scuffled after.

Alone now with Molly, Quaid walked several paces in. He doubled his sportcoat over his forearm and passed a hand through his hair, using a foyer mirror to confirm the temple curlicues that appeared on his most flattering days.

This was where it had to happen. Quaid hadn't behaved with perfect honor toward Molly, and that was an obstacle. Surmountable, though. Sound arguments were at his disposal. He could play the money angle. He could talk about making a safer world for Molly's children. He could point out that she was meant for greater things, appealing to her sense of adventure, pitching the job as escape from a hamster-wheel existence and entrée to a bright world of heroes and villains.

He believed in the job. Now he just needed her to believe too.