"It's funny, love. You never seem to have these kind of problems with ugly girls."

Tommy shifted the phone in his hand while trying to squelch a laugh. There was no disputing Rhonda's words. The woman he currently was stalking was a heart-stopping beauty. "Babe, I've got no control over how attractive this woman is. I just—you know—thought you'd want to know."

"Mm-hmm. So, this is all in the name of full disclosure?"

"Yes."

"Not you bragging on all the hot women you're macking on?"

"I haven't even met her yet, not formally. I just thought you'd want to know what I was up to." For a moment, Tommy abandoned the playful banter, which he was losing anyway. He knew Rhonda was just teasing him—her use of the pet-name "love" was a sure giveaway—but he wanted there to be not even a shadow of doubt. "Remember, full disclosure. I tell you everything. Because there are no more secrets between us."

"I know, baby," his woman replied in a husky whisper. "But don't you be doing nothing you're not supposed to." There was a moment's hesitation. "Is she like you?"

"Yeah, she is. But don't worry. I'll be careful."

Another hesitation.

"Okay. It's time for Kenny's therapy. You be good, and don't forget I love you.

"I love you too, baby. I'll give you a call when I finish up here."

After he hung up, Tommy took a few minutes to clear his head. Hearing from Rhonda always made him happy, but he'd been away from home for far too long. It had been several days, not counting his recent two-week visit to Chicago, and despite his best efforts he was feeling edgy and annoyed. The phone call was the pick-me-up he needed.

He pondered for a moment giving Sam a quick call. The idea that his friend was flying solo while going to meet Wayne Summerall and his posse left Tommy with a distinct sense of anxiety. But there were few people more capable than Sam Babington. The old man was determined to give the miscreants another chance at "following the straight and narrow," and the Chicagoan could sell most anything to almost anybody. Sam would call if he needed help. No. Tommy had to stick with the plan.

After a lengthy confab the previous day with Sam, Christy, and Philly, Tommy had bit the bullet and decided to approach one of the Chinese agents. There was a possibility things could go badly, but he didn't think so. He'd had several days to observe the original five agents, and had even identified three other Gifted members of the embassy staff, so he knew something of their habits.

As near as he could tell, the leader of the group was a gorgeous young woman a few inches shy of six feet named Bai Lin, the very same who he had spied the first evening in the city. He several times had contrived brief encounters with her and the other members of that group, in various settings, and none had recognized him—that had been his initial fear. They all appeared to be normal embassy workers, indistinguishable from thousands of others who staffed the scores of embassies located in the city. As a group, they were all strong and fit, but they otherwise were unremarkable people who led innocuous lives—a familiar pattern of home, office, and socializing.

It was Sam's suggestion that he find some opportunity to meet the leader of the small team. Not every meeting had to end in violence, Sam had reminded him several times. It was very unlikely that a short encounter would allow the woman to learn Tommy's face. And a gentle but clear reminder to the Chinese that they were being watched might put Chinese authorities on notice that their activities in the U.S. were not as clandestine as they'd imagined.

"Have a talk with her," Sam had encouraged him. "If nothing else, you might get a sense of what they're up to."

It was a good point. Perhaps the woman would tip her hand in some small way. So, Tommy had begun formulating a plan.

Of course, planning wasn't his strong suit, but this idea was simple. The woman had an apartment in a small subdivision near Rock Creek Park, close enough to the embassy that she walked on an isolated path through the park most days on her way to work. In fact, if the young woman's distinctive scent was any indication, she paused most days and relaxed on the same bench upon which Tommy now reclined, before continuing on to the office.

That certainly was what the GPS history on her phone said. On an impulse, two days earlier, Tommy had filched the device from the woman's pocket while she'd shopped at a suburban mall. Cutting purses was not a Gift, just one of the many grubby skills he'd cultivated over the ages. He liked to think he could nick a watch or pinch a wallet with the best of them.

Anyway, the gadget had been a font of information for Philly, who'd downloaded all the woman's personal information remotely before Tommy shut the thing off. It pointed to the fact that the woman, if she stuck to her schedule, would arrive along the woodland path within the next few minutes. It would be an ideal chance for Tommy to chat with the agent away from prying eyes.

He didn't have long to wait.

"You're sitting on my bench," came a sweet and playful voice from some yards down the trail.

The words were spoken in perfectly modulated and cultivated English with the faintest hint of a British accent. He caught the woman's scent just as he turned his head to see the agent approach, a friendly and innocent smile on her face.

Tommy couldn't help but smile back. The woman's forwardness to a total stranger was no surprise to him. He'd observed it several times during his surveillance of her. There was a great sense of assurance that came with possessing enormous physical Gifts. Such self-confidence often contributed to the development of a gregarious, almost innocent, approach to interaction with others. Tommy was that way, himself. What did he have to fear from random strangers? And he often would stop and chat with characters that the average citizen would see as sketchy, even dangerous.

Bai Lin, a broad smile on her lovely face, flopped onto the bench next to him, as if the two were old pals. It mattered not a fig to the woman that she was on an abandoned stretch of woodland park with, what was to her, a random stranger.

He found himself liking her. That might be a problem.

"Drink?" he asked, pulling a bottle of pricey Scotch whiskey from a basket on the bench between them. He happened to know from observing the young woman that it was her favorite label.

"A bit early, don't you think?" She showed no hint of surprise at his offer, but instead gave a playful wink. "Unless you are an alcoholic?"

"I prefer to think of myself as a drunkard. Alcoholics have to go to those meetings."

Her English was keen and precise, and the two shared a laugh over his distinction. But he opted to skip past the sweet flirtations and cut straight to the chase. Such a pity. At any other time in his long existence, he would have found this woman an incomparable companion.

"I have your phone," he said, reaching into his pocket and recovering the item, "if you want it."

There it was, the first hint of suspicion in her eyes. The smile remained, but she pursed her lips and regarded him with care. A flash of disappointment followed. "You're one of Morgan's creatures."

Morgan? He said nothing, but instead took a healthy pull from the delightful Scotch. He didn't drink often—alcohol had very little effect on him—but he admired the youngster's taste in whiskey. The drink was smooth and mellow.

"You seem a bit young," she continued, "but awfully pretty." A moment of calculation. "Are you Asian? Did he send you to charm me? Ah! To seduce me?"

Tommy took another pull, completely unable to suppress the smile that infected his lips. He didn't know who this Morgan was, but he logged that name for later. "I'm like you."

They so far had spoken in English. She now switched to Mandarin. "You're Chinese? No. I think maybe half. What? Chinese mother, American father?" For a moment, her boldness abandoned her, and her gaze flicked shyly away. "Whichever. They should be proud of themselves. They made a gorgeous baby."

He gave no reply—she'd completely missed the import of his words. Instead, he extended her phone toward her with his right hand. The bottle was in his left.

"I've already gotten a new one," she said in English.

"I'll compensate you for your trouble."

After the briefest of hesitation, she reached for the device, only to have Tommy move it to just a hair's breadth from her grasp. She reached again, and then again. After the third such effort, her face twisted in a smile that was one-half amusement and one-half annoyance.

It was a petty and childish game, but competitiveness was written into the character of those with great physical Gifts. And no amount of training or discipline could totally suppress it. He knew she'd take the bait. Her hands were quick, but not as quick as Tommy's, and it was after her fifth such attempt to snatch the thing away that a light went on in her eyes. She now knew she was dealing with someone like herself.

As a final taunt, Tommy pocketed the phone, but the young woman lunged for it anyway.

It was easy enough to deflect her hand, but within a flash they were both on their feet, the woman now hurling a tempest of punches and kicks at his head and body. Tommy fetched not a single blow, but instead concentrated on dodging the young woman's lightning attack and taking care not to spill a single drop of the liquid gold from the bottle that was still in his left hand.

Their silent ballet, with its punches, kicks, spins, and pirouettes, went on for nearly a minute before Tommy saw an opportunity. A poorly thrown right hook was just feeble enough for him to reach up and grab the woman's fist in his free hand. It was only then that he realized how incredibly powerful she was. Despite all his formidable strength, he was unable to bend back her wrist, not even a fraction, before she pivoted, dropped, and threw him over her head and down the trail in the direction from which she'd first arrived.

The youngster tossed him through the air with no more effort than she might use to hurl a tennis ball down the path, but he'd half anticipated her move and was able to arrest his motion after 20 yards or so. He came to a halt in midair, with his feet about a meter above the forest trail, facing toward her and grateful that he'd managed to keep his hand on the Scotch.

A wary smile darted across the face of his new playmate as he drifted back toward her, and when he again touched ground a few feet in front of her, he fished the phone from his pocket and extended it toward her with an apologetic smile.

She instead lifted her hand toward the bottle, which he passed to her. The lass took a long and vigorous pull of the amber fluid, wiped the back of her hand across her mouth in a most inelegant fashion, and then spoke.

"You're Kyle Wigand."