As Quaid saw it, things were going according to Hoyle. The Mice were en route. Molly's phone was pinging only intermittently, likely stuck in an RF-blocking bag, but extrapolating by its time and last location, Durwood pegged the caravan at thirty minutes out. The Mice would park outside the old steel factory and confirm Steed was in his office, then infiltrate the premises using the security holes Molly had slipped them. When they tried storming the CEO's office—no doubt Josiah was priming his sermon right now—the guys would intervene.

"Spitballing here on next steps," Quaid said in the back of the Vanagon. "After these kids are locked up, will you need to get back to West Virginia and tend the acreage a bit? Or should I book us another gig?"

Durwood watched his monitors. "You count chickens. I'll watch the eggs."

Quaid chuckled. "Always look forward, Wood. Always. This could be a marketing coup, stopping the Blind Mice. We'd be negligent not to capitalize."

Durwood switched between views, now watching Jim Steed hunched at his desk, now jib cranes in the prefab construction facility.

Quaid went on, "Obviously you can't run TV spots advertising that sort of thing, but word gets around. It affords us an opportunity to grow the brand. Expand the image of Third Chance Enterprises."

Durwood grunted his displeasure at the name. Quaid considered it quite the bon mot, believing it captured the essence of the partnership perfectly. Both men had arrived at their current station on the heels of failure—Quaid, twice felled from the pinnacle of Massachusetts politics by prostitution scandal; and Durwood, who blamed himself for the deaths of his wife and eldest son, then came unhinged upon those dozen Iraqis, perpetrating a vengeance so savage the Army rangers disavowed him.

Durwood refused to call this last a mistake. Still, between it and what'd happened with Joel and Maybelle, you had to figure two slip-ups could be assigned—which in Quaid's estimation validated the name.

"This unrest could take a while wrapping up. There's all kinds of work available. Priceless art needs recovering. State secrets have been jeopardized. I'm still taking phone calls from Fabienne Rivard—she wants to meet in person." Quaid licked his lips at the thought of the leggy French heiress-CEO. "We're free to make this thing whatever we like."

Durwood said, "No difference to me, what the brochures say." His calloused finger worked the cam-joystick. "I'll worry about keeping the both of us alive."

Faced with such incuriousness, Quaid had little choice but to carry on the musings in his own head. He reclined as best he could in the cramped Vanagon confines, amid Durwood's arsenal and spy gizmos, Sue-Ann nuzzling his loafers, and dreamed.

He believed Third Chance Enterprises could be more than small-force private-arms. There was a core of life in what he and Durwood did—a vitality, a zest. He believed this core deserved to be shared somehow, spread far and wide. Should he memorialize their adventures in print? Nah, nobody read books anymore. Movies? Quaid knew plenty of Hollywood heavies who might turn their tales into box-office gold, but this didn't curb his wanderlust either.

As a boy, Quaid had lamented the unconquerable size of the world, of humanity—what a mere sliver one could ever know. How many people would be born, grow tall, make goals and battle sickness and fall in love, and never catch a whiff of Quaid Rafferty? The tragedy flowed the other direction, too; Quaid, no megalomaniac, felt despair at all the beautiful souls in Namibia and Burma and the plumb-middle of Ohio that he'd never meet.

These thoughts had surely driven him into politics, along with the Gallagher family name. Fame had balmed—but not cured—his lust to connect more broadly. When he'd helped that first prostitute (he chuckled ruefully at the need to clarify which) during his governorship, it had been this reverence for the undiscovered greatness in people, a Pretty Woman Syndrome offshoot, that had driven him to abandon all caution and good sense. She'd needed help keeping her apartment. She and Quaid had shared a stretch of bar at the working-class watering hole he frequently stole off to. That was all it had taken to sprout the seeds of his downfall.

Well, that and a face that belonged on Heaven's dollar bill.

"Mm."

This utterance lifted Quaid from his reverie. "Oh—sorry. Lost myself a bit there. What's the word?"

Durwood's face soured. "Looks like Steed's heading out."

"What? But we checked the logs—he never leaves before eight. He gets back late to the Marriott and falls right asleep."

"That's the pattern," Durwood agreed. "But here, look it."

He zoomed his camera tight on Steed's luggage by the door. Beside his usual briefcase laid a tagged roller bag.

"He's getting on a plane," Quaid said.

"Yep."

"Why's he getting on a plane? He always drives it."

Durwood shook his head.

Now Jim Steed was snapping shut his laptop and slipping into a coat, the collar snug around his thick neck. He stretched, a workman's reach for the ceiling. He tapped his desktop as though trying to recall some to-do, then, giving it up, went for the door.

Quaid said, "If he's gone when the Mice get here, they won't bust in. Molly'll get crucified for giving bad info."

"Possible."

"We gotta keep him there. We gotta stall him somehow."

Durwood removed his hat. "I could, hm. Throw an alarm?"

"No, no," Quaid said, standing. "We can't have alarms blaring when the Mice show. I'll stop him."

"How?"

"Dunno. I'll figure it out."

"Why're you in Pittsburgh? Far as Steed knows, it's just me here putting in extra security."

"I'll make something up."

One foot out the sliding door, Quaid paused to scan the contents of the Vanagon's cabin. Stinger missile tubes. Two crates of grenades, one chemical, one frag. (Seven years in, Quaid still didn't know what "frag" meant or stood for.) An array of sleek black cases that might've belonged to the brass section of a marching band—but was actually firepower enough to take down a Central American government.

On the van's tailgate, stowed in a notched rack, was some disk-shaped instrument attached to a silver stick.

Quaid took it.

"That's not what you think it is," Durwood said.

"Doesn't matter." Quaid knew of his partner's penchant for gadgets. This looked like a selfie stick but probably focused the sun's rays to a death-beam. "I just need a prop."

He entered the factory using the contractor badge he'd been assigned at the start of the AmDye job. The plant was dark at this hour; the sound of Quaid's loafers smacking the catwalk caromed off the slate floor and squat machinery. He didn't flip any switches, and no motion-detecting lights blared alive.

Jim Steed's office was the first door off the catwalk. Quaid caught him on the way out, locking up.

"Whoa there," Quaid greeted. "Don't tell me you were about to leave without saying hello."

Steed twisted his key from the knob. "Thought Durwood was doing the security solo. Shouldn't you be out clubbing?"

Quaid took note that his partner had been griping about his extracurricular activities behind his back. "Oh, I would be, but he needed a hand. Durwood acts like we're all a hindrance, anybody in his business. That's just part of his script." He nodded to the bags. "Where you off to?"

"Home. Kid's got a hockey tournament tomorrow—can't stay overnight."

Hockey tournament. Quaid winced at the rotten luck.

"On a Friday? You and Janet pull him out of school for that?"

Steed extended the handle of his roller bag. "Regional tourney, yeah. Big deal."

As the American Dynamics CEO started for the catwalk, Quaid scrambled for a stall. He thought about needling Steed for making a prince of the kid, attending every last event. That wouldn't buy much time.

He decided to go bigger. "We just had some new info come in on the Mice. Our mole, she came through."

"No kidding? What'd she find out?"

"I'll talk you through it. Let's go sit in your office."

Steed re-gripped his briefcase. "Call me tomorrow, huh? I need to scoot, hoping to catch Janet before she beds down. Gonna be stuck in the hotel with the boys all weekend, not much privacy—if you get my drift."

He clucked his tongue suggestively. Quaid closed his brain off to the image.

"Alright, listen, they may have booby-trapped your office. I didn't want to panic you." He held up Durwood's selfie stick-looking gizmo. "I need to perform a scan."

The lines of Steed's forehead compressed. "Bastards! How'd they get inside?"

"We're not sure."

"Booby-trapped my office? I'm going to rip out someone's throat! I'll make it run brown in front and yellow out the back!"

Already Steed had taken a step toward his office.

Quaid threw an arm across his path. "You'd better stay back. Let me do my scan first, make sure the danger—"

"Hell no." Steed dropped his bags resolutely to the catwalk. "It's my office, I'm going in. I cleared dozens of camps for my CO in Laos. Hundreds." He sneered at the selfie stick. "What's that? I don't need that."

"Okey-dokey." Quaid stood aside. "Suit yourself."

The CEO stormed inside—after fighting the lock, stabbing his key in, ripping it out—and began tracing his thumb's edge along baseboards, desk corners, picture frames... Quaid joined in, making a show of dragging Durwood's gizmo along the wall studs.

Steed called from his knees, "Formal or IED, d'you hear?"

"Uh...no," Quaid said. "She didn't turn up many details."

Quaid bluffed his way through another few minutes before his phone chimed, mercifully, with a text.

D. JONES: Mice are here. Meet back at van and we take them.

Jim Steed was examining the underside of a desk drawer, tapping its bottom to see whether it might be false.

Quaid said, "Man, they disguised the heck out of this sucker."

Steed looked over from his tapping. "Or else your intel is wrong."

"Nah, the intel's good." Quaid looked queerly at the selfie stick. "Shoot, this thing's out of juice. I need to head back to the van—Durwood keeps spare batteries. Hang tight. I'll be right back."

As he left, Steed replaced the drawer and was removing the next.