It was two o’clock, on the dot.

Savich was in the back. Aaron knew he had his SIG Sauer ready, knew he wanted Tammy Tuttle so bad he could taste it. Aaron wanted her, too. Dead was what Tammy Tuttle needed to be, for the sake of human beings everywhere, particularly young teenage boys. He’d listened to every word Dillon Savich had said on the flight up here. He knew agents who’d seen the wild-eyed guy in Antigua who’d slit Virginia Cosgrove’s throat, agents who couldn’t explain what they’d seen and heard. He felt a ripple of fear in his belly, but he told himself that soon she’d be dead, all that inexplicable stuff he’d heard she’d done down in the airport in Antigua would then be gone with her.

The bell over the shop door sounded as the door opened. In walked Tammy Tuttle, wrapped up in a thick, unbelted wool coat that hung loose on her. Aaron put out his big smile with its shining gold tooth and watched her walk toward him. He could feel the utter focus of agents Possner and Lowell from where he stood, his SIG Sauer not six inches from his right hand, just beneath the counter.

She was pale, too pale, no makeup on her face, and there was something about her that jarred, something that wasn’t quite right.

Aaron was the best retail undercover agent in the Bureau, bar none, with the reputation that he could sell a terrorist a used olive green Chevy Chevette, and he turned on all his charm. He said, “Hi, may I help you, miss?”

Tammy was nearly leaning against the counter now. She wasn’t very tall. She bent toward him and his eyes never left her face as she said, “Where’s the other guy? You know, that little twerp who spells Teddi with an ‘i’?”

“Yea, ain’t that a hoot? Teddi with an ‘i.’ Well, Teddi said he had a bellyache—he’s said that before—and called me to cover for him. Me, I think he drank too much last night at the Night Cave Tavern. You ever been there? Over on Snow Street?”

“No. Get my photos, now.”

“Your name, miss?”

“Teresa Tanner.”

“No problem,” Aaron said and slowly turned to look in the built-in panels, sectioned off by letter of the alphabet. Under T, he found Teresa Tanner’s envelope third in the slot, which was exactly where he’d placed it himself an hour before. He picked up the envelope with her name on it, was slowly turning back to her, knowing Savich was ready for him to drop to the floor so he’d have a clear shot at her, when suddenly he heard a hissing sound, loud, right in his ear, and he froze. Yes, a hiss, like a snake, right next to him, too close, too close, right next to his neck, and its fangs would sink deep into his skin and…

No, his imagination was going nuts on him, but there it was again. Aaron forgot to fall to the floor so Savich could have his shot. He grabbed his SIG Sauer from beneath the counter, brought it up fast, just like he knew Possner and Lowell were doing, and whipped around. The photo envelope was suddenly in her hand; he didn’t know how she’d gotten it, but there it was, and then both Tammy Tuttle and the envelope were gone. Just gone.

He heard Savich yell, “Get out of the way, Aaron! Move!”

But he couldn’t. It was like he was nailed to the spot. Savich was trying to shove him aside, but he resisted, he simply had to resist, not let him by. He saw a harsh, bright glow of fire in the corner of the shop, smelled burning plastic, harsh and foul, and heard Agent Possner scream. Oh God, the place was on fire, no, just a part of it, but it was mainly Agent Possner. She was on fire—her hair, her eyebrows, her jacket, and she was screaming, slapping at herself. Flames filled her hair, bright and hot and orange as a summer sun.

Agent Aaron Briggs shoved Savich aside and started running, yelling as he ran toward Possner.

Agent Lowell was turning to Possner, not understanding, and when he saw the flames, he tackled her. They fell to the floor of the shop, knocking over a big frame display, and he was slapping at her burning hair with his hands. Aaron jerked off his sweater as he ran toward them, knocking frame and album displays out of the way.

Savich was around the counter, running toward the door, his gun drawn. Aaron saw him but didn’t understand. Didn’t he care that Possner was on fire? He heard a gunshot, a high, single pop, then nothing. Suddenly the flames were out. Possner was sobbing, in the fetal position on the floor, Lowell’s shirt wrapped around her head, and Aaron saw that Lowell was all right, no burns that Aaron could see. He had his cell phone out, calling for backup, calling for an ambulance. And Aaron realized that his fingers looked normal. He thought he’d seen them burned, just like he’d seen Possner burned.