As was his custom, Georges reversed the boat toward the dock. The lagoon wasn't wide enough to turn it around without a whole series of forwards and reverses, so he always backed in and docked it nose-out toward the open water. Today he'd have to secure the boat to the dock with an extra mooring line against the storm.

A waste of time going out. Too rough. He'd spent more time fighting the wind and waves than fishing. And then the snow had come. But he'd known this would be his last chance for a while, so he'd given it a try.

Well ... almost fishing was better than no fishing at all.

He'd tied the first stern line and was about to add a second when he noticed the car.

Immediately he was on alert, senses humming, muscles tensed. He reached for his pistol but his hand came away empty. Of course. He never took it fishing. The salt air was poison for a fine weapon like his SIG Sauer. He grabbed a rusty knife from his tackle box and hid it, palmed against his wrist, and assessed the situation as he approached through the thickening snowfall.

A Volvo ... the engine running ... someone slumped forward in the driver's seat ... a young woman ... blond ... something familiar -

He froze when he recognized the Pickering girl. What was she - ?

No need to ask. It could only be the baby. But how had she found them? No matter. What was she doing now?

He started forward again, but more cautiously. She made no move. Had she passed out? When he reached the driver's door he peered through the glass and saw blood on her and on the dashboard. Knife held at ready, he opened the door.

Her left arm moved toward him and he went into a defensive stance, ready to make a backhand slash. But her blood-soaked arm had been resting against the door and had merely fallen when he'd opened it. She made no further movement. He felt her throat. Still a pulse.

What had happened here? She'd been wounded - shot or stabbed, he couldn't tell.

He edged around the rear of the car and opened the passenger door. Still in gear. He put it in park and turned off the engine, taking the keys. A cell phone started to ring -

A sudden nerve-shattering shriek so startled him that, had he been holding his pistol, he was sure he would have fired it.

There, in the backseat, the monster baby, staring at him.

Blood on Dawn ... the baby here ... Gilda would not have given up without a fight.

He was starting toward the house when he caught movement to his left. One of the doors to a garage across the street was swinging in the wind and ... was that someone on the floor inside?

He couldn't make sense of this whole situation, couldn't come up with a scenario to explain it. The street and the neighborhood looked as deserted as they had every other day - the very reason the Order had offered this location for the One. Georges had a terrible premonition about the figure on the floor of the garage.

He hurried over and gaped at Gilda's corpse. He'd seen damaged human flesh before - had inflicted a good deal of damage himself - so he felt no physical repulsion. But this wasn't anything like what he'd expected. He'd seen damage inflicted by design, and damage inflicted by emotion. And this ... someone had relieved an enormous burden of rage upon Gilda.

Georges felt nothing for the woman, but he feared for himself. He had been appointed guardian of the household in the One's absence, and he had failed - miserably. When the One returned -

He heard the baby shriek. He turned.

*   *   *

Her baby's screech brought Dawn to. She opened her eyes. Her phone was ringing.

Where - ?

It all came back to her in a rush. The baby ... Gilda ...

Her door was open. So was the passenger door. She reached to start the car but the keys were gone. Someone was here. Georges? She had to keep the baby from him. Couldn't let him take the baby.

She slithered out of the door. Her legs barely supported her but somehow she managed to pull the rear door open. The baby looked at her and screeched. The sound was almost sweet over the roaring in her ears. As she reached out to undo his straps, she realized that she'd never be able to get him out with just one arm. How - ?

Someone grabbed her roughly from behind. Her left shoulder and chest screamed as she was whirled around but she hadn't enough breath for a single sound as she saw Georges's livid face. His teeth were bared and clenched.

"You killed her!"

His big hands went around her neck and his thumbs jabbed into her throat.

"You whore! You killed her and I will pay the price! But so will you!"

The pressure on her throat was unbearable, unrelenting. She couldn't breathe and didn't have the strength to fight him, not even with her good arm. She felt like a rag doll in his hands. She heard a crunch as something in her throat gave way. The roaring increased as the light faded, leaving only blackness.

And then even the roaring stopped.

*   *   *

Georges knew she'd never breathe again through her crushed larynx, but he kept squeezing her throat because it felt so good. So damn good. The little trollop had most likely ruined his life. Well, he'd just ended hers, but it wasn't enough. Not nearly.

He heard tires screech in the street. He looked up and saw a big black sedan skidding to a halt. He tossed Dawn back into the rear compartment atop her ugly baby as a man leaped from the sedan.

What now? He hadn't seen a single car on this street in over a week, and one had to pass by now?

Wait - he had a pistol in his hand. A Glock. And his expression was fierce as he raised the pistol and fired twice.

Georges's thighs - first the left, then the right - exploded in pain. The second hit spun him half around as he felt his femur shatter. The pain brought tears to his eyes, but he bit back the scream that rose to his lips. He would not scream.

What was happening? Who was this? Georges had never seen this man before. He hadn't asked what was going on, like any normal passerby. He'd simply looked at Georges and started firing.

The man stared into the car, then reached inside. Georges couldn't see his hand but imagined he was checking for a pulse. Clenching his jaw against the pain, Georges reached into his pocket and pulled out the rusty knife. Not a throwing knife, but the only weapon he had. He had to try something.

He hurled it at the stranger -

Who turned and batted it away with his pistol. But he cut his hand in the process. He switched the Glock to his left hand and sucked on the side of his index finger as he approached Georges. His expression was furious ... and frightening.

"Why'd you kill her? No reason on Earth to do that. She's just a teenager trying to get her kid back."

Georges jutted his chin toward the garage across the street. "She killed Gilda."

The man glanced over his shoulder, then back to Georges. "Yeah, well, you guys stole her baby." He looked at his wounded finger. "You trying to give me tetanus? Cause that was a piss-poor toss."

Georges spat at him. "May you die in agony."

The man waved his pistol at Georges's legs. "Doesn't look like you'll be picking up your boss tonight."

Georges felt as if he'd been slapped. How could he know that? It could only mean he wasn't here by accident. Who was he?

"No worry," the man said. "I'll sub for you. What airline?"

"Fuck you."

He looked at his finger. "Well, whatta ya know?" He thrust it toward Georges. "All better."

It was true - the cut had already stopped bleeding.

"Just like your master. We're old buddies. So tell me: What airline?"

"Fuck your mother!"

The man looked at the sky, then back to Georges.

"I haven't got time for this."

He pointed the Glock at Georges's chest.

"No!"