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Ethan shrugged.

One of the Faceless approached, said, “The building and surrounding areas are clear, sir. No sign of target.”

Quinn nodded. “Close the door and clear the street. If Couzen comes back, let’s not spook him. Meanwhile, secure and confiscate. Pack it all, every terminal, every piece of equipment, every cocktail napkin.”

“Wait, you can’t do that—”

“Dr. Park, you are really going to want to watch that tone.”

Ethan took a breath, held his palms up and out. “Sorry. I just meant, you don’t want to move the equipment yet. Some of it will lose settings if you power it down, and we need to know what they were.”

Quinn sucked air through his teeth. “Okay. You’ve just been deputized. Help the team secure everything.”

Ethan looked at Cooper. He nodded. The scientist hurried off, saying, “Wait, don’t touch that, please . . .”

Quinn removed his helmet and tucked it under one arm. “How’s Todd?”

“Awake. The doctors say no permanent damage.”

“Man, that is great news. Where are they?”

“In Tesla.”

Quinn’s face darkened. “They’re in the Holdfast? What are you doing here, then?”

“No choice. Couzen’s work is the best hope to stop a war.”

“Sir.” The soldier who interrupted had his visor up, and Cooper was reminded just how young most of them were. “Everything’s been cleared out. The server drives are gone, machine settings wiped out.”

“What about physical notes?”

“No, sir. But we were able to access the security system.” The man hesitated. “I don’t think the target will be coming back.”

Quinn paused at that, then turned and walked to the man’s terminal. Cooper followed.

In the security footage, the lab was neat, the bench still standing, equipment unbroken. The time stamp read just half an hour previous. Dr. Couzen stumbled in, stripping off his blood-soaked clothes. The man looked ragged, and he was too involved in the act of getting a sandwich from the refrigerator to notice that he wasn’t alone.

Not that it would have made much of a difference.

“Ho-lee shit.” Quinn stared. “That’s—”

John Smith stepped out of the bedroom, flanked by a man and a woman Cooper recognized. He should; he’d maintained active kill orders on both of them when he was with the DAR. Haruto Yamato and Charly Herr. Tier ones wanted on a long list of terror and assassination charges.

Abe must have heard something, because he spun. For a fraction of a second, the four stared at one another. Then Abe dropped the sandwich and sprinted toward the door. He’d made it halfway there when a muscular man stepped out to block the entryway.

“I don’t know that one.”

“Paul York,” Quinn said, eyes on the screen. “Bombed the recruiting centers in Cali.”

Three notorious terrorists, not to mention Smith himself. That’s a lot of force for one scientist.

Then, on the heels of that, Smith never does anything without calculation.

The three fighters closed in. Against them, Abe looked frail, his chest sunken and spotted with age.

Right up to the moment that he tipped one of the heavy lab benches over, the force of the move actually lifting it a few inches off the ground to slam into Herr, as in the same motion the scientist caught a scalpel out of the air, whirled, and sliced a deep gash across York’s chest. A rope of crimson splashed out across a bench, onto the floor, and up the nearest wall. The muscleman staggered back, and Abe turned to face Yamato, who had sidestepped the falling equipment and assumed a fight stance. Yamato’s eyes were closed, but his hands flew in a dizzying array of blocks and counters against the storm of blows the doctor unleashed—

John Smith raised a slender pistol and pulled the trigger. Abe’s hands snapped to his neck and touched the tiny dart protruding there.

Then he fell over.

On the video, everyone got to work without instruction. York spray-foamed his chest wound while Yamato bound Abe Couzen. After pulling her hair back, Charly Herr went to town on the computers, field-stripping them fast and yanking their storage units. John Smith stood in the center of the lab, turning in a slow circle. When he spotted the security cameras, a tiny smile bloomed on his lips. Through a distance of time but not space, he and Cooper stared at one another.

Then John Smith blew him a kiss.

For a moment, Cooper couldn’t speak, couldn’t breathe. His hands shook and he heard a roaring in his ears that seemed louder than blood. He was barely aware he’d moved when Quinn said, “Where are you—”

“There’s a bar on the next block.”

Cooper didn’t really think the bourbon would help. So far he was right, but he figured persistence was a virtue. Beside him, Quinn sipped a club soda and eyed his glass with unabashed envy. “Now what?”

“Now I’m going to have another.” Cooper slammed the drink, then gestured with the glass.

“I meant—”