"He's not going to fit in that," Paige said.

Clay shook open the bag. "Parts of him will."

"You're not-" Paige paled and I could almost see flashbacks of the "decapitated head in the bag" incident running through her mind. "Why can't you just hold him up to the security camera?"

"Because, according to Elena, we'll need to get past more security inside, and if you'd like to drag along a two-hundred-pound corpse, be my guest."

"I don't see why-"

Adam started to hum. As Paige turned to glare at him, I recognized the tune.

"'Little Miss Can't Be Wrong,'" I murmured… and tried very hard to stifle a laugh.

Adam grinned. "Clay called her that once when you were away. If she starts getting bossy, sing it. Shuts her up every time."

"Try singing it again and see what happens," Paige said.

Adam's grin broadened. "What are you going to do, turn me into a toad?"

Paige pretended not to hear him. "Elena, did you know that one of the major accusations against witches during the Inquisition was that they caused impotence?"

"Ummm, no," I said.

"Not just psychological impotence either," Paige said. "Men accused witches of literally removing their penises. They thought we collected them in little boxes where they wriggled around and ate oats and corn. There's even this story in the Malleus Maleficarum about a guy who went to a witch to ask for his penis back. She told him to climb a tree, where he'd find some in a bird's nest. He did and, of course, tried to take the biggest, but the witch said he couldn't have that one because it belonged to the parish priest."

I laughed.

"Men," Paige said. "They'll accuse women of anything." She paused and slanted a look at Adam. "Of course, it's such an outlandish charge, one can't help but wonder if there isn't a grain of truth in it."

Adam feigned a gulp. "Personally, I'd rather be a toad."

"Then give up the singing career or you'll be doing it as a soprano."

I laughed and glanced at Clay. He was holding his right arm out straight and bracing it with his left hand. Sweat dappled his forehead as the muscles beneath his forearm began to pulse.

"What are you-?" Paige began.

I motioned her to silence. Now was really not a good time to pester Clay. Since we couldn't exactly lug around a box of tools, he had to improvise a way to remove the dead man's head and hand.

Adam stared at Clay's hand as it began transforming into a claw. "That has got to be the coolest thing I've ever seen. Or the grossest."

"Come on over here," I said to Paige. "This isn't something you want to see."

We moved farther into the woods. Paige kept her gaze trained on a tree in the distance, cheek twitching, as if trying unsuccessfully not to think about what was happening behind us. There was a wet tearing sound, then a dull thud as the guard's decapitated head hit the ground.

"Nope," Adam said. "That was the grossest. Hands down."

"Heads down," Clay deadpanned. "The hand is next."

Adam hurried over to Paige and me.

"You know," Paige said, looking at Adam. "I always thought 'turning green' was only an expression. Guess not."

"Go ahead and laugh," Adam said. "That's one advantage to my powers, though. Burning flesh might smell awful, but at least it's bloodless."

"Okay," Clay said, stepping from the woods. "I'm ready. We're going in."

INFILTRATION

We headed for the exit, checking first to ensure no one else had come outside for a nicotine fix. Once there, Clay removed the head and hand from the bag. I took the hand. As he lifted the head to the camera, I poised the still-warm hand beside the door handle, ready to grab it as soon as the first light turned green. Instead, the indicator stayed red and something beeped. I turned to see a numeric keypad attached to the wall. "ID#?" flashed on the tiny screen.

"Shit!" I said. "A key code. How did I miss that?"

"Because you were breaking out, darling, not breaking in," Clay said. "I didn't notice it either. Must be added security for getting inside."

"No problem," Paige said. "Let's break this down logically. First, find the number of digits." She started pressing the "9" button.

"Don't! "Adam said, snatching her hand. "If we punch in the wrong code, we might set off an alarm."

"I know that. All I'm doing is seeing how many digits it'll accept. Looks like five. Okay. So let's go back to this guy's body and see if we can find a five-digit number."

"Maybe tattooed on his chest," Adam said.

"No need for sarcasm," she said. "He might have a card or something with the number on it. Even if it's a secret, like a PIN, lots of people write it down and hide it in their wallet. We just look for anything with five digits."

"This is stupid," Adam muttered.

"No," I said. "It's logical, like Paige said. I'll run back-"

"We don't have time!"

"We'll make time," Clay said. "You two step into the woods and stay hidden."

Clay and I returned to the headless corpse and searched the pockets, finding neither a wallet nor anything bearing a number of any sort. When we returned, Adam was pacing just beyond the forest's edge.

"Nothing, right?" he said.

I nodded, then turned to Paige. "Okay, so we know it's a five-digit number. Can you hack into the system? Break the code?"

"Not without a laptop and a lot of time." She glanced at Adam, who'd strode out of earshot, then she lowered her voice. "He's wired. I don't think he slept much last night."

"He'll be fine," I said. "Let's check out that keypad again."

We returned to the door.

"Well?" Adam said. "Do we have a plan yet?"

"We're working on it," I said.

"What about you two?" Paige asked. "Can you turn into wolves and get us in?"

"How?" Clay said. "Whine and scratch at the door until someone opens it?"

"Is that all we've got?" Adam snapped. "What about the backup plan?"

"Cool it," Clay said. "We're working on one."

"Working on one? You mean we don't have one?"

Paige laid her hand on Adam's arm. He shook it off.

"What the hell are we standing around for?" he said. His voice tightened, taking on a shrill note of panic. "We have to hurry. Using that scanner probably set off an alarm. Even if it didn't, someone's bound to come looking for those two guards. Goddamn it! "

The whites of Adam's eyes suffused with red, as rage replaced panic. The smell of fire flared. Clay grabbed Adam by the back of the shirt just as Adam's fist connected with the door. There was a loud pop. The door shimmered. Clay hauled Adam back and threw him to the ground, then pushed Paige and me out of the way and stood over Adam.

"Control it, Adam," Clay said. "Concentrate."

Adam lay facedown on the ground. He balled his outstretched hands into fists, grabbing handfuls of grass and earth. The grass sizzled and smoked. When Adam started to stand, Clay put his foot on his back.

"Got it under control?" Clay asked. "I'm not letting you up until you do."

Adam nodded and Clay backed off, but stayed tense. Adam sat up, buried his face in his hands, and groaned like a college freshman with a killer hangover. Then he gave his head a sharp shake and looked at us.

"Sorry, guys," he said. "I didn't mean-" His head jerked up. "Did I do that?"

I followed his gaze and saw that the exit door was open. I blinked, looked again, and realized it wasn't open. It was gone. Only a pile of ash remained.

"Holy shit," Paige whispered. "You incinerated it."

"I did?" Adam stood, walked to the door, and touched the edge of it, then yelped and jerked his hand away. Red welts emblazoned his fingertips. He grinned. "Look, Ma, no door!" He punched the air and whooped. "Guess I'm not your average fire demon after all. See this door, Paige? Remember it next time you decide to bad-mouth me."

"Congratulations," Clay said. "Now get the hell inside."

Adam nodded and tried to plaster on a serious face, but his grin slipped through. Clay motioned for him to lead the way. As he stepped over the pile of ash, he stooped and raked his fingers through it, then turned to Paige and grinned, eyes shining. She smiled back, then prodded him through the doorway. We were in.

***

Our next task was to disable the alarm and radio system. From my trips to and from the infirmary, I knew the communication center was located on the second floor, around the corner from the elevator. Several guards were on duty there at all times, manning the equipment. Tucker's office adjoined the guard station. With any luck, he'd be there. Killing Tucker was another high-priority job. Of all the remaining staff, Tucker was the most dangerous, not for any personal qualities-I didn't know the man well enough to assess that-but because he commanded the troops. When someone discovered that we'd infiltrated the compound, Tucker would rally them to action. Without Tucker and without the radio system, any sense of order among the guards would break down-or so we hoped. The only other person who could possibly control the men would be Winsloe. The guards might not like or respect Winsloe, but he paid their wages, which they wouldn't receive if they cut and ran at the first sign of trouble. So Winsloe would be next on our target list.

Once Winsloe and Tucker were dead, we'd be more concerned with fighting individual guards than tracking down the remaining staff members. Oh, sure, Tess might pull a nail file on us, but I could probably take her. That left Matasumi, a guy who couldn't fight his way out of a locked bathroom. Oh, right, I was forgetting someone. The sorcerer. Paige assured me she'd know Katzen if she saw him. Witches intuitively recognized sorcerers… or so she'd heard, though she'd never met one herself. Very comforting.

We'd planned to take our time moving from the exit to the guard station, avoiding confrontations, taking side routes if necessary. The incinerated exit door kiboshed that plan. We had to get to the guard room and disable the radios before anyone saw the damage.

Fortunately, we arrived at the communication center without incident. Our luck continued when we found only two guards manning the station. One was chomping on a granola bar. The other was doing the crossword in a week-old newspaper. We could only see slivers of their profiles, but it was enough to send a cold thrill through me. I smiled. These were two guards I recognized, two I'd never forget: Ryman and Jolliffe, the men who'd helped Winsloe hunt Lake, who'd played key roles in Armen's death, who'd taken such pride and vicious pleasure in their jobs. And now this dedicated duo was so engrossed in their work that Clay and I managed to sneak up behind them without either noticing. The temptation to shout "Boo!" and watch them hit the rafters was almost too great. But we were in a hurry. So Clay grabbed Ryman in a headlock and I snapped Jolliffe's neck as he pondered a nine-letter synonym for stupidity. We needed to keep one guard alive and had chosen Ryman, hoping his mouth would be too full of granola for him to scream. It was. Unfortunately, it was so full that when Clay grabbed him by the throat, he almost choked to death, thereby necessitating a flurry of discussion over the proper way to perform the Heimlich maneuver. It was a sad state of affairs when you had to save someone's life before you killed him.

Ryman finally coughed up a soggy chunk of oats, then let loose a stream of vulgarity.

"Now that doesn't sound like 'thank you,'" Clay said, clamping his hand over Ryman's mouth.

"There's gratitude for you," I said. I leaned into Ryman's face. "Remember me?"

His face went white. I grinned, baring my teeth.

"These are the two I told you about," I said to Clay.

His eyes sparked, and he returned my grin. "Good."

Ryman made a noise that sounded suspiciously like a whimper. I flashed him one last smile, then stepped away, leaving him to Clay. As Adam disconnected the communication equipment, I snapped the lock on Tucker's office, leaned inside, looked, and sniffed.

"Seems our luck stops here," I said. "No sign of the colonel."

"That's why we have this one." Clay slammed Ryman's head and upper torso onto the desktop, knocking over a bottle of mineral water. "Let's keep this brief. Where do we find Tucker?"

Blood trickled from Ryman's nose. He blinked, orienting himself, then cleared his throat and lifted his head.

"Paul Michael Ryman," he said, voice clipped, robotic. "Former corporal with the United States Army. Currently serving under Special Operations Colonel R. J. Tucker."

"What the hell is that?" Clay said.

Paige muffled a laugh. "I-uh-think it's his version of name, rank, and serial number. Sorry, Paul, but that's really not going to help us."

Clay leaned over, stretched Ryman's hand flat against the desktop, then smashed it with his fist. There was a sickening crunch, like the snapping of bird bones. Ryman shrieked, cut off in mid-note by Clay's hand over his mouth.

"Doctors will have a hell of a time fixing that," Clay said. "I'd call it a write-off. That was the left hand. Next I do the right. Where is Tucker?"

"Paul Michael Ryman," Ryman gasped when Clay uncovered his mouth. "Former corporal with the United States Army. Currently serving under Special Operations Colonel R. J. Tucker."